“What's the trouble here?” he demanded.
“This recruit threatened to strike me,” replied the corporal.
“And he threatened to put me in the guard house for saying I wouldn't sleep in that box without a bed,” said Taylor.
“Did you ever hear the articles of war read?” asked the sergeant.
“No, sir.”
“Well, then, we'll let you go this time; but you've had a mighty narrow escape. Had you struck the corporal the penalty would have been death. Never talk back to an officer.”
“Golly! that was a close call,” whispered Taylor, after he had crawled into his bunk.
We each had a blanket issued to us for that night, but the next day straw ticks were filled, and added to our comfort. Waterman and I took the upper bunk, and Giles slept downstairs alone until he paired with Theodore C. Hom of Williamstown, another new-comer.
One of the most discouraging experiences that a recruit was called upon to face before he reached the front was the drawing of his outfit—receiving his uniform and equipments. I speak of cavalry recruits. If there ever was a time when I felt homesick and regretted that I had not enlisted in the infantry it was the morning of the second day after our arrival at Camp Meigs. I recall no one event of my army life that broke me up so completely as did this experience. I had drawn a uniform in the Griswold cavalry at Troy before my father appeared on the scene with a habeas corpus, but I had not been called on to take charge of a full set of cavalry equipments. If I had been perhaps the second attack of the war fever would not have come so soon.
A few minutes after breakfast the first sergeant of Company I came out from his room near the door and shouted: