One evening I sat on the rifle-pit, watching this. Scores of the men were doing the same, or were idling the time away as suited them best. The sun had sunk from sight; but as the shells would burst over the rebel redoubt, which was then the mark of our artillerists, they seemed balls of silver, in the rays of the sun, now invisible to us. Then they would expand, and roll away in little snowy cloudlets, almost before the sound of the explosion would reach us. Suddenly a great column of smoke shot upward from the redoubt; dark at first, but turning to a silver whiteness, as the rays of the sun touched it. A sound that seemed to shake the earth came rumbling through the air. A shell had reached and exploded the magazine. A laugh, with a cheer here and there, ran along our heavy picket-line. The rebels called out: "Stop laughing, Yanks!" "Stop that laughing!"
Whether this would have resulted in an outbreak between the pickets, is uncertain; but a moment later a shell came screaming across, about ten feet above the pits, passing a few rods to my right. Thinking this was but introductory, the men dived for the pits, and the laugh was suddenly and indefinitely postponed. Then a general "ha-ha" rose from the rebel pickets, and good nature was restored.
Some time in July I was taken sick with fever. I stayed a day or two at the surgeon's tent, but can not remember much about what occurred. I gave away every thing I had. Fortunately I gave my gun to Joe Bovard, who took care of it. I remember nothing of this, but he told me so afterward. I have also an indistinct recollection of being sent away in an ambulance, of being very sick at City Point, of the dull, dreamy indolence of convalescence. I was then sent to Davis' Island, New York. I improved rapidly during the voyage. I was here but a few days when I received a furlough, to report at Philadelphia, September 10th. The patriotic people of Pittsburg had ample and generous arrangements to care for the sick and wounded soldiers that passed through their city. Arriving there weak and dispirited, a gentleman met me at the train, and took me to a place where every convenience and comfort was provided. I had looked so long on the forbidding, bloody front of war, that it was a most pleasing revelation to discover that back here was the warm, loving heart of Peace.
Chapter X.
I arrived at Philadelphia the night of September 10th. There had been a serious riot during the evening, between the soldiers from the hospital and some of those patriotic citizens who, although painfully loyal at times, have a great antipathy to blue. I reached the Citizens' Hospital without molestation. The next morning a large crowd of rioters gathered in the vicinity of the hospital, and a murderous raid was anticipated; but they dispersed without any demonstration.
From Philadelphia I was transferred, at my own request, to Little York, Pennsylvania. Although now quite recovered, I was detained here some time, in the hospital drum corps, as a musician. We went out one night, on the occasion of a Republican meeting. We started to parade the principal streets with a transparency, the usual following of small boys, etc. A crowd of patriots cheerfully greeted us with stones, brickbats, and like tokens of sympathy. We returned to headquarters in about twenty minutes, a demoralized outfit. The bass drum was broken, one drummer's head was peeled, the transparency was smashed, and we were mad. The managers gave us a dollar apiece; we disposed of our instruments, and started up street to look for any little incident that might afford balm for our wounded feelings. Opportunities were plenty, and many a cracked head bore testimony to the zeal with which the great national issues were discussed.
About the middle of October, myself and a large number of other convalescents started to rejoin our regiments, at the front. We went by rail to Baltimore, and remained over night at Fort Federal Hill, to go on by steamer, on the morrow. The "heavies," doing garrison duty here, were accustomed to dealing with recruits, and counted on making them step around in fine military style. This crowd was composed of men to whom soldiering was no novelty, and they had no fancy for extras. Hence, when they were ordered, with much pomp and assurance, to fall in line, in front of the barracks that evening, for roll call, at nine o'clock, there was something of a scene. The anathematical display has rarely been equaled in modern times. Perhaps twenty-five men out of several hundred at last took their place in a sort of line, with much gravity and feigned decorum, playing green, standing in any thing but soldierly attitude. Behind them, perched on the railing, windows, or wherever they could best see the show, was about as unruly and uproarious a crowd as could well be found. After vainly trying to bring order out of confusion, the sergeant, in great disgust, began to call the roll. A name is called:
"Here!"