T. HAMMERSON. G. UNGERMAN.
W. A. BESEMAN. SERGT. H. B. TAYLOR. J. BRIEN.
The fifth tent was called the Irish tent, headed by the Irish Sergeant Walter Kelly, a splendid soldier and officer. Wm. Flanagan, good old nine, we called him; a very active man when our daily keg of beer was on tap. He claimed descent from one of Ireland’s famous kings. W. S. McKaig, dubbed kinky on account of his curly hair, was always writing letters when there would be any work to do. W. W. Crowley, the most desperate looking character in the camp and as desperate as he looked. Johnny Gilkyson, drummer and willing worker, had no use for a drum when there was sterner work to do, and soon attached himself to a gun. Phil Bannan, always quiet and passive, a disciple of Wm. Tooker’s and quite a society man; Flanagan called him piano Irish and sneered at his social aspirations. Wm. O’Brien, always ready to volunteer for dangerous work, was the last, but not the least of this crowd. Upon the hearts of the members of this tent was emblazoned the motto, “We Love Our Sarg.”[3]
[3] Sergeant Kelly.
R. E. WILSON AL. HEETH H. C. CASEBOLT GEO. BOWNE.
J. MONAHAN W. W. WILSON E. M. STEALY
Corporal A. McCulloch was the leader of tent No. six. This was the intellectual tent. Beneath its classic folds weighty questions of state were argued and settled. The crowd in this tent claim that nightly they were lulled to rest by the voice of their learned corporal in the throes of some mighty argument; through the long stretches of the night when they would occasionally awaken they would still hear his voice; as if he were engaged in some great controversy. Morning found him awake, physically, but the restless brain had not slept, and now, with freshened physical senses, he still continued his interminable argument. But he had aids and abettors in the persons of Henry Adams and R. L. Radke (all will recall the soldierly appearance of the last-named gentleman). Radke the younger, Max and George Claussenius, F. J. Sindler and H. C. Warren were the unfortunate and paralyzed listeners.
The seventh tent was called the German tent. Sergeant Sturdivant, the leader of this crowd, is so tall and thin, that it is a surprise to him when he casts a shadow. He is quite a society man, and a favorite among the ladies. Another social favorite, Humphrey Sullivan, is also in this tent. He sings so sweetly that we enjoy it very much, more so if he were accompanied by a brass band. In this tent we have two other stars in the vocal line, Al Gehret, a basso, and William Baumgartner, a tenor, who can reach high “C” without an effort. In this crowd was Fetz the long, Zimmerman the short, also called Punch for short, and A. Heeth, Jr., with whose kindly aid we kept our rags together. This concludes the description of the tents of the enlisted men and their occupants. Only a week previous these men won the Dimond trophy, at the yearly encampment of the regiment, for being the best drilled and best disciplined company in the camp.
After our return from supper at one of the hotels, on this first evening, those who were weary sought the seclusion of their tents; the rest gathered beneath the trees and sang of love, but not of glory. Private Tooker sang “Sweet Marie” with such pathos and expression, that a tear was seen to tremble on the eyelid of Overstreet, and then silently wend its way down to the point of his nose, where it hung suspended for a while as if reluctant to part from him and then fell to the earth with a loud splash. Thus we whiled away the hours, till the bugle’s mellow notes swelling on the midnight air and thrilling the hearts of all with its sweet, solemn music, sang the call to rest, and then all was still.
Thirty minutes had passed and gone; the brave and true were dreaming of home and mother, when a wild yell rang out on the stilly air, and sounds of conflict were heard coming from tents Nos. 3 and 4, occupied by the Keeleys. Soon Corporal Townsend was seen beating a hasty retreat in great disorder from No. 3 tent, in the direction of the captain’s abode, where he reported that a well-planned effort was being made by the Keeleys to kidnap Private Hayes of tent No. 3. Meanwhile exciting scenes were being enacted in these tents. The kidnappers, headed by the Yolo Farmer and the High Priest of the Keeleys, were endeavoring to drag the person of Private Hayes into their tent, but Corporal Burtis, assisted by Privates Frech, Shula, and the married men, Paul Rupp, Jimmy Wear and George Heizman, did Trojan work. After a well-delivered blow from Hayes that connected with the head of the High Priest, who sent up a howl of pain, they were beaten off. The Yolo Farmer, however, returned to the charge, bayonet in hand, but the voice of the Captain, threatening a sojourn in the guard-tent, acted like oil upon troubled waters, and soon the warring factions were at rest.