But before we could go home we must be mustered out, and then we must return to our State capital to be paid off and finally disbanded, and say a last good-by to our comrades in arms, the great majority of whom we should never in all probability see again. And a more hearty, rough and ready, affectionate good-by there never was in all this wide world. In the rooms of one of the hotels at the State capital we were gathered, waiting for our respective trains: knapsacks slung, Sharp's rifles at a "right-shoulder shift" or a "carry;" songs were sung, hands shaken, or rather wrung; loud, hearty "God bless you, old fellows!" resounded; and many were the toasts and the healths that were drunk before the men parted for good and all.
It was past midnight when the last camp-fire of the One Hundred and Fiftieth broke up. "Good by, boys! Good by! God bless you, old fellow!" was shouted again and again, as by companies or in little squads we were off for our several trains, some of us bound North, some East, some West,—and all bound for Home!
Of the thirteen men who had gone out from our little village (whither my father's family had meanwhile removed), but three had lived to return home together. One had already gone home the day before. Some had been discharged because of sickness or wounds, and four had been killed. As we rode along over the dusty turnpike from L—— to M—— in the rattling old stage-coach that evening in June, we could not help thinking how painful it would be for the friends of Joe Gutelius and Jimmy Lucas and Joe Ruhl and John Diehl to see us return without their brave boys, whom we had left on the field.
The Welcome Home.
Reaching the village at dusk, we found gathered at the hotel where the stage stopped, a great crowd of our school-fellows and friends, who had come to meet us. We almost feared to step down among them, lest they should quite tear us to pieces with shaking of hands. The stage had scarcely stopped when I heard a well-known voice calling:
"Harry! Are you there?"
"Yes, father! Here I am!"