“I was just getting good and sleepy—but I'm not piggish. Take the bed.”
I stretched myself on the piece of tent, and tried to go to sleep. But it was no easy thing to settle down. The events of the day—the attack on our picket line, charging down the turnpike, exciting experiences at the rail fence, fighting on foot, charging across the plowed field, holding the enemy in check, falling back when flanked by the rebels, Sheridan's punishment of our pursuers—all crowded themselves to the front, and it seemed a year since we broke camp at Warrenton. I had never been in a pitched battle before, and I tried to remember the events in their order that I might be able to write them down as a basis for a letter to friends at home. The more I tried to straighten things out the more I got mixed. I dropped to sleep, but just as I was describing the battle to a group of villagers at Berlin, I was brought suddenly back to the front by a sergeant who was poking me with his saber scabbard.
“Private Allen, turn out for picket.”
“But I've only just turned in. There's my bunkey; can't you take him? he's already turned out after a good long nap—”
“No back talk, out with you!”
I was on my feet as soon as I awoke sufficiently to realize the situation.
“Mount your horse, and report to Sergeant Murphy out there in the road. Is your cartridge box full?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Hundred rounds extra in your saddle-bags?”
“Yes, sir.”