Squads of men were constantly going and coming. And now that so many trains were getting through at all hours of the night and day, the first sergeant was busy making up squads to accompany them. The novelty of post duty had not yet worn off, the men being so much changed about, that hardly one of them went to the same post twice; and, as each squad went out, the members of it felt like men going to an undiscovered country. The men detailed to Prosser Creek, Boca, and Cuba, went there with light hearts, because the men who returned from these posts were never tired of praising the food with which they were supplied. The men, when not on guard, divided the time between eating and fishing. Degeneration had already set in—they seemed not to have a soul above their stomachs—meal time was hungrily looked forward to, and the bill of fare considered the only subject worthy of discussion. So when the squad, composed of privates George Claussenius, Bannan, King Flanagan, and Gille—Claussenius acting as corporal—arrived at Prosser Creek near noontime, on Monday, July 23d, Gille wanted immediately to locate the rotisserie that had earned such a reputation for itself. This he was not long in doing, and soon returned reporting that dinner would be ready for them at 1 o’clock. As it was near that time Bannan and Flanagan, with many misgivings, watched Claussenius and Gille depart for the eating-place. Both of these young men are long and thin, and, as is usually the case with young people so constructed, have enormous appetites. For over an hour and a half they dallied with the good things placed before them, and, after casting a last fond, lingering look at the table, reluctantly tore themselves away, and with difficulty waddled back to their companions. They were received with all kinds of reproaches by the hungry and disgruntled Flanagan and Bannan. “Why didn’t they spend the afternoon?” or “Were they at a summer resort?” were some of the sarcastic questions that greeted them. The heel and toe pace that Flanagan and Bannan set, as they departed for their dinner, would have surprised the veteran pedestrian O’Leary.
At Cuba Sergeant Taylor, musician Rupp, and private Frech opened the eyes of some of the residents with astonishment by some wonderfully accurate shooting, at 800, 400, and 200 yards. An old mountaineer, who was watching them, remarked: “Waal, they may say youse fellows ain’t much good; but, I be gol darned, if I’d like to have any of ye shooting at me.”
While at this place, Rupp, our ex-cook, assisted the cook of the eating-place to get up their meal. One of the principal features of the menu was pie. If there is one thing they can do better than another in the country, it is to make pie, and this place was no exception. It was looked forward to as a fitting climax, a delicious top-off to the meals that will ever be borne in mind with pleasant remembrance.
This guard found Frank Shula a very heavy sleeper—that beautiful and enlivening German song, entitled: “Oh! the little Augustine!” sung and danced by “the entire strength of the company,” with all the force of their lungs and power of their legs and feet, hardly aroused him. The only thing that will awaken Frank is the sound of his own snore. This sounds so blood-curdling at times that it even startles himself, and with a gasp and grunt he sits bolt upright in his blankets, and stares around, panting with affright.
Late Monday afternoon the rumor reached us that we were to be relieved, and that part of the regiment had been sent home already. This was, indeed, joyful news, uncertain as it was.
At 3 o’clock Tuesday morning July 24th, a squad consisting of privates Fetz, Gehret, and Hayes were ordered out, and together with a similar squad from Company A, formed the guard of a passenger train, that finally pulled out of Truckee between 5 and 6 A. M. While stopping at one of the stations, in the snowsheds, a train pulled in from the opposite direction laden with militia. The men soon found out that they were companies from Grass Valley, and that they had been ordered to relieve the Companies A and B stationed at Truckee. The country boys were as fresh as new mown hay, their uniforms were spotless, and even at that early hour in the morning, think of it, had on immaculate white gloves. It was with light hearts that our boys continued their journey. A sumptuous breakfast was served at Blue Cañon. Colfax was reached about 10 A. M. They found Casebolt, Crowley, Powleson, and Stealy there. They also were birds of passage, and were taking things very easy, as the new arrivals proceeded likewise to do.
It was rumored that morning in Colfax, that the night previous an armed body of strikers had captured the gatling guns from the regulars at Truckee. This made the boys smile, when they remembered that one of the last scenes their eyes rested on that morning before leaving Truckee was the peaceful camp of the regulars, the two gatling guns safely anchored on a flatcar, with the sleeping forms of soldiers on each side of them, and the alert sentinel pacing his beat by the side of the cars. So much for the rumors of war.
Captain O’Connor was the officer in command at Colfax. He is quite a martinet, and as exclusive as an “Indian king.” The captain is quite an elderly man, and for hours he would sit on the veranda of the hotel with chair tilted back, and feet elevated above his head, his chin resting on his chest and his clasped hands lying in his lap. In this position, he seemed to be thinking mighty thoughts, or gazing down the vale of untold years, contemplating his glorious military achievements. His first sergeant, a tall, red-haired, quick, intelligent fellow and thorough soldier, was his charge d’affaires, and the only man who dared approach him. Our friend Stealy had the temerity the night previous to ask him for permission to attend a dance or fandango that was to take place in the town that night. The frowns that gathered o’er his wrinkled visage portended dreadful things for the then trembling Stealy, but he was ordered back to where he belonged, and told to kick up his heels there if he must.
It was here that poor Al Gehret lost his heart forever and a day. She was not fair to look upon, this copper-colored mountain maid, who won him at first sight, neither would you care to press her cheek. Her once lissome form had long since developed and filled out until the extent of her broadness was equivalent to her height. Those ebon locks were strangers to both comb and curling tongs. Hands had she like feet, and feet like flatirons. We are not prepared to say but that she might be able to make up in affection what she lacked in appearance. Some men are won by a pair of witching eyes. A wave of golden hair has often captured the hearts of others. Some succumb to a shapely form, some go in raptures over the classic curve of some fair girl’s neck. A refined intellectuality often appeals to others. But Al loved her for her arm alone, her brawny arm, part of which was exposed to view.
During the afternoon Casebolt, Crowley, Powleson, and Stealy left on different trains for Truckee.