Give us a song to cheer—”
“That’s too mournful!” said a neighbouring company. “Tell the Louisianians to sing the ‘Marseillaise.’”
“Many are the hearts that are weary to-night!
Wishing for the war to cease;
Many are the hearts that are looking for the right,
To see the dawn of peace.
“Tenting to-night, tenting to-night,
Tenting on the old camp-ground....”
As always, eve-of-battle, there was going on a certain redding up. Those who had haversacks plunged deep within them, gathered certain trifles together and tied them into a small bundle with a pencilled direction. Diaries were brought up very neatly and carefully to date. Entries closed with “Battle to-morrow!” or with “This time to-morrow night much will have happened”; or sometimes with such things as “Made up my quarrel with Wilson to-day”; or “Returned the book I borrowed from Selden”; or “Read a psalm and a chapter to-day”; or “Wrote home.” Eve-of-battle saw many letters written. There was a habit, too, of destroying letters received and garnered. Here and there a man sat upon a log and tore into little bits old, treasured sheets. The flecks lay like snow upon the earth of the Wilderness.
“We’re tired of war on the old camp-ground