As he rounded the last bend of the road, Tom saw the white tents of the
Union army stretched out before him. He forgot how tired he was after his
long walk, and pressed forward eagerly, almost running. The soldiers who
were sauntering along the road eyed him curiously.
"Hey, you! You can't go by here without a pass!" The Sentry's rifle, with
its long gleaming bayonet, snapped into a menacing attitude.
Tom stopped abruptly, caught his breath, and asked: "Is this the Second
Ohio?"
"Maybe," answered the Sentry coldly. "What do you want to know for?"
"I've come to see my cousin--Herbert Brewster, of Company B."
The Sentry's position relaxed. He brought his rifle to the ground, leaned
upon it, and gazed at the young man who stood before him. "Well now!" he
said. "He'll certainly be glad to see you! We don't get many visitors down
this way. What's your name?"
"Tom Burns."
"Going to enlist?"
"Yes. How'd you guess it?"
"Oh, I dunno. I just thought so. You're pretty young, ain't you?"
"Eighteen," answered Tom. "I'm old enough to fight." He looked past the
Sentry, down at the even rows of tents which formed the company streets of
the Second Ohio. His heart beat faster at the thought that he would be part
of it after today. A soldier in the Union army!
"I'll send a messenger with you down to Company B," said the Sentry.
"You'll have to get the Captain's permission before you can see your
cousin."
It was early in April, 1862. The troops under the command of General O. M.
Mitchel were encamped between Shelbyville and Murfreesboro, Tennessee,
after a march from Nashville through a steady drizzle of rain. It had been
a dreary, tedious march, made worse by long detours to avoid burnt bridges,
detours over roads where the heavy wagons of the army sank hub-deep in the
glue-like mud. It had been a fight against the rain and mud every inch of
the way. And now, except for the details of bridge repairing, the troops
were resting, drying their water-soaked knapsacks, and gathering strength
for the march southward. Rumors of Chattanooga were in the air, and the
camp was buzzing with talk of "Mitchel's plan of campaign." Groups of
soldiers stood about exchanging views on what would happen next,
speculating upon the points where they would come into contact with the
rebs: others were playing games, or lying upon blankets spread before their
tents, sleeping, reading and writing letters. The rows of tents gave a
suggestion of military orderliness to the scene, but it was a suggestion
only, for the tents and their guy ropes were strung with blankets and
clothing put out to dry.
Although it was not quite what he had expected to see, the camp was
wonderful and thrilling to Tom Burns. He had expected more military pomp
and precision; not simply hundreds of men, half-clothed and weather-worn,
loitering and shifting between rows of tents. Even the tents were patched
and dirty. But if the scene did not compare with the picture he had in his
imagination--of officers mounted upon spirited horses, buglers sounding
calls, companies standing at attention--there was a spirit of action and
excitement in the air which made him rejoice. These men, who were
half-clothed because the only garments they had to put upon their backs
were tied to the guy ropes drying, were hardened campaigners; men,
roughened and toughened in their months of service, pausing a moment before
battle. The stains and tears of the tents were campaign badges. Tom began
to feel proud that "his" regiment was not like the new, raw troops he had
seen in the north--immaculately clean troops which had never known a night
in the open, far from the comforts of barracks.
He was speechless as the messenger who had been detailed by the Sergeant of
the Guard led him down the regimental street, where the officers' tents
faced each company street. Company F ... Company E ... Company D.... At the
head of each street was a small penciled sign telling them what company
they were passing. Tom glanced ahead to Company B. In front of the
officer's tent two men were talking.
"Is one of them the Captain?" he asked.
"Yep--the short one," answered the messenger. "The other's the doctor."
"What's the Captain's name?"
"Moffat--Captain Moffat."
They stopped a few paces from where the Captain and the doctor were
standing, and waited. Tom hazarded a glance down the street of Company B to
see if he could catch a glimpse of his cousin, but Herbert Brewster was not
in sight. Presently the Captain turned toward them. He was a short man,
heavily built, and his manner was that of a man who had spent a lifetime
commanding soldiers.
"Well, what is it?" he asked.
The messenger snapped to attention: he saluted. "This man wants to see
Herbert Brewster of your company, sir."
"I'm his cousin, sir," added Tom.
The Captain dismissed the messenger with a nod. "You're Corporal Brewster's
cousin, eh?"
"Corporal?" asked Tom.
The Captain laughed. "I thought that would surprise you. Yes, he was made
Corporal last week. You'll find him in the third tent on your left. I don't
suppose you know that he's on the sick list with a bad ankle?"
"No!"
"Yep."
"I hope it isn't serious."
"Hm-m-m"--the Captain stroked his chin--"no, the ankle isn't serious, but
being on the sick list is. Run along and cheer him up. Tell him that I'll
be down to see him in a few minutes."
"Yes, sir."
The Captain turned back to the doctor, and Tom threaded his way down the
street. At the third tent he stopped, pulled open the flap and peered in.
There was Bert, stretched out on his bedding, writing a letter. His right
ankle was a mass of bandages from which his toes peered out. He did not
look up from his writing.
"Does Corporal Herbert Brewster of Cleveland, Ohio, live here?" asked Tom.
"You, Tom! you!"
"Don't try to get up on that bad ankle." He rushed over and grabbed Bert's
hand. "How are you?"
"What in the world are you doing at Murphytown?--or whatever they call this
end of the mud-puddle. And how are all the people? When did you see mother
and father last?"
Tom held up his hands in surrender; then, as he sat down on the edge of the
bedding, Bert took him by the shoulders and shook him. "They're all fine.
I'm here to enlist, Corporal. Will you have me in your squad?"
"You bet! Tell me about home."
Bert had been among the first to enlist, and, except for one furlough of
two weeks, he had not been able to return home. Many minutes passed before
Tom reached the point of his own departure from Cleveland; how he had
gained the consent of his father and mother to his enlistment; his trip to
Murfreesboro and all his adventures and misadventures en route. "And, by
the way," he ended, "the Captain said that I was to tell you that he'd be
here to see you soon. And what did you do to your ankle?"
"The Captain's coming to see me, eh? Humph! A lot of good that'll do me.
Was he talking with the doctor?"
"Yes."
"Humph!" Bert plunged into thought.
"How about the ankle?" Tom reminded him. "What did you do to it?"
"I was on a bridge detail yesterday," answered Bert gloomily. "We were
loading some pilings to be hauled up to a bridge, and I was on the wagon,
placing them as they were shoved up to me. They were all greasy with mud,
and I--well, I was thinking about some other things, and I stepped on a
slippery hunk of mud. I went down; then one of the pilings rolled over when
my foot struck it, and went on my ankle."
"Gee, that's hard luck!"
"I'd just as soon sprain a dozen ankles," answered Bert. "That isn't the
hard luck."
"What do you mean?" asked Tom.
Bert looked at him for a moment, then shook his head. "No," he said. "I
can't tell you. It's something we were planning to do, and"--he motioned
towards his ankle--"here I am. Perhaps I'll tell you later."
The flap of the tent was pushed aside and the Captain entered. He stood for
a moment looking regretfully at Bert. "I'm sorry," he said, "but the doctor
says it can't be done. Too bad!"