to his mules. I called out to him repeatedly; but the groans and cries of the wounded, jolting in heavy army wagons, over rough broken roads, drowned out my voice. However, I was soon up with the teamster; but he could not stop his wagon owing to the train behind. He took our friend by the arm and lifted him up; I helped, and Bottsford scrambled on to the hard seat of a forage wagon. We were glad! I sat upon the ground for a moment's breath; and the heavy train went rapidly past towards Fredericksburg, with its cargo of tortured, bleeding patriots-the pride of a thousand homes. I then returned to my corps.

Years afterwards, Mr. Bottsford paid me a visit at Milwaukee; he was then practising law in the State of Missouri. I read in the New York Herald, some months ago, a report of a suit at law, in which James M. Bottsford prosecuted on behalf of the United States. And my old comrade still survives and flourishes.

After the return of peace, business called me to Boscobel, in Grant county, Wisconsin. Here I found my friend, Mr. Ham. Ames, successfully engaged in mercantile pursuits. He received me with great warmth. I went with him to his home, and was introduced to Mrs. Ames; and he sounded my praises to his handsome wife until I felt quite uncomfortable.

K

CHAPTER XV.

EVERY-DAY LIFE IN CAMP.

"God made him, and therefore let him pass for a man. SHAKESPEARE.

"Our contentment is our best having.”—Ibid.

HAVE a deep-seated reverence for Virginia, the earliest Colony, the oldest

State; the mother of Presidents; the

birthplace and home of Washington-the land that his tomb has enshrined in our hearts. It was the scene of all my army life and experience. Its climate was genial—especially so to Wisconsin men; its timber for fuel and building purposes abundant ; its streams and rivers numerous; its springs bountiful and delicious.

During the severe and impassable months of winter and spring, when active campaigning was impossible, army life became a routine of drill and duty, on guard, police, and picket. While we remained in Hancock's

command, a brigade drill was enjoyed with a keen relish by the men. The ability, originality, and splendid presence of the General were captivating. The manner in which he frightened our inexperienced Field and Staff out of their wits was most amusing. "Stop that regiment!" he cried one day, riding towards us. "Let the Sixth Maine complete its sneak movement." Upon another occasion he galloped up, and inquired: "Where is Colonel ? Where is that man?"

"Here I am, General," said that officer, in a voice which too clearly indicated his frightened condition. "No you arn't, sir; no you arn't-you arn't anywhere!"

This amiable and brave officer, who was terrified. by the mere voice of our brigade commander, died of disease contracted on the Peninsula. Many of our officers and men seriously believed that Hancock frightened him to death.

The General's staff was composed of raw, inexperienced officers: at first his patience was doubtless sorely tried by them. During a brigade drill he sent Captain Hickman, an aide-de-camp, with an order to a battalion commander. The captain dashed off in the wrong direction. Hancock cried out loud: "Come back, sir! Come back!" But the captain was beyond the reach of his voice. The commander quietly watched his aide galloping off at top speed. Just as Hickman was disappearing over a hill in the distance the General exclaimed:

"There he goes! There he goes! We shall never see him again."

Brigade drill bristled with our commander's vigorous characteristic sayings, which transformed severe exercise into a pleasant pastime.

I was on guard duty at post No. 1, during the early period of the war, when General Hancock, and his staff and escort, came suddenly upon our station. I was much frightened and bewildered, but managed, after some hesitation, to cry out timidly: "Turn out the guard for the general commanding!" In much confusion the guard presented arms. This ceremony being over, Hancock turned to the officer, and asked :—

"What are your duties as an officer of the guard ?" The lieutenant was dumb from terror. "Go on, sir! Go on!" commanded the General, "I am listening." The guard officer muttered a few unsatisfactory sentences; when, after reprimanding him soundly upon his inefficiency, Hancock rode away. Captain Strong, scholar and patriot, was the baffled officer of the guard. I saw him dying, wounded through the heart, on St. Marye's Heights. He was a brother to my friend Jim Strong-both were brave as lions and true as steel.

A few months after the time of which I have just spoken, I was again on brigade guard at post No. I. I spied Hancock, followed by his staff and escort, riding up. As soon as he was near enough to hear me, I called out with portentous grandiloquence:

"Turn out the guard for the general commanding!" Erewhile, tactics and regulations had been diligently studied. We possessed the confidence which proficiency ever inspires. Hancock's seemingly harsh treatment of our officers produced the desired results. His voice had lost its terror. "Never mind the guard!" said he, gracefully returning my salute. We had company, battalion, and brigade drill to our heart's content. It was beneficial, desirable from every point of view, though we did not always think so.

Our winter quarters were generally of a most substantial, comfortable character; equal to the best, and superior to most, in the army. We built our log cabins in terraces, representing the ten companies of the regiment. They were lofty and roomy, and often divided into several apartments. Tents, flys, and waterproof blankets formed the roofs of our dwellings. We provided close-fitting doors, and large open fire-places. One of the "vexed questions" of our war was the smoky chimney. Many were the tears shed, and "tall" the swearing, in consequence of the builder's lack of skill in this intricate branch of his handicraft. Curiously enough, the builders did the swearing, while the larzy chimney that "wouldn't draw" came in for the vituperation and abuse. The lighting of a fire for the first time in our winter's hut was a critical, anxious moment. Like the corner-stone business of tranquil society, lighting the first fire often drew together a numerous company of friends. And to see the