At half-past seven o’clock sick call announces to surgeons and patients that they are expected to appear at the dispensing tent—if able to go there. Then comes a general examination of tongues and pulses, and a liberal distribution of quinine and blue pills, and sometimes a little eau de vie, to wash down the bitter drugs.
Guard mounting at eight, which is an imposing affair in itself. The band marches to the usual place of dress parade and strikes up some appropriate piece, which is the signal for the regimental details to march to the place of inspection. The line is formed, arms inspected, and general appearance noted. Then the men are marched in review, and divided into three reliefs—one of which is marched to the post of each sentinel, where, after various important conferences, the old sentinel is relieved and the new one takes his place, and so on around the whole camp. The old guard is then marched to their quarters and formally dismissed, having been on duty two hours out of every six during the last twenty-four hours.
At nine o’clock the music sounds for company drill, which drill lasts an hour and a half. The bugle announces dinner at one o’clock.
At three in the afternoon battalion drill commences, which occupies an hour. At half-past four is heard the first call for evening parade, and at five o’clock comes off the great display of the day—dress parade.
Supper at six, tattoo at half past eight, and roll-call again at nine; immediately after which comes “taps” on the drum, which means “lights out.”
But between all these calls drills and parades are more interesting services and duties. Away in one corner of the camp is our canvas or log meeting-house, and besides our regular preaching, we have conference and prayer meetings, debating clubs, military lectures, and numerous musical entertainments.
Then, too, comes visiting the sick in different hospitals, distribution of reading matter and delicacies, and the blessed privilege of religious conversation. And often the solemn services in connection with burying the dead. I will here give a brief description of this service:
The burial of a soldier in camp is a most solemn scene. A suitable escort is formed in two ranks opposite the tent of the deceased, with shouldered arms and bayonets unfixed. On the appearance of the coffin the soldiers present arms. The procession then forms—on each side of the coffin are the pall-bearers without muskets—and the escort moves forward with arms reversed, viz.: musket under the left arm, barrel downward, and steadied behind the back with the right hand. The band marches in front, with slow and measured tread and muffled drum they move, pouring out their melancholy wailings for the dead—a sadder dirge than which never fell upon mortal ear.
On reaching the place of interment the coffin is lowered into the grave, the soldiers leaning upon their muskets, muzzle downward, the hands clasped upon the butt of their guns, with heads uncovered and reverently bowed upon their hands. The chaplain, who has walked in the rear of the procession, conducts the burial service, at the end of which three volleys are fired over the grave, the trench is filled up, and the soldiers return to duty.
Warrior, rest! thy toils are ended:
Life’s last fearful strife is o’er;
Clarion-calls, with death-notes blended,
Shall disturb thine ear no more!
Peaceful is thy dreamless slumber;
Peaceful, but how cold and stern!
Thou hast joined that silent number
In the land whence none return!
Warrior, rest! thy banner o’er thee
Hangs in many a drooping fold;
Many a manly cheek before thee
Stain’d with tear-drops we behold.
Thine was not a hand to falter
When thy sword should leave its sheath:
Thine was not a cheek to alter,
Though thy duty led to death!
Warrior, rest! a dirge is knelling
Solemnly from shore to shore:
’Tis a nation’s tribute, telling
That a patriot is no more!
And thy young bride weeps in sorrow
That no more she hears thy tread;
That the night which knows no morrow
Darkly veils thy laurel’d head!
Warrior, rest! we smooth thy pillow,
For thy last, long earthly sleep;
And beneath yon verdant willow
Storms unheard will o’er thee sweep!
There, ’tis done! thy couch awaits thee!
Softly down thy head we lay;
Here repose, till God translates thee
From the dust to endless day!