* * *

It was four o'clock. The road was ankle-deep in dust; the sun burnt our
faces as we marched toward the west. Up hill and down hill, up hill and
down hill, we marched for an hour, west and southwest.

We halted; from each company men were detailed to fill canteens. The
city could no longer he seen.

Willis pointed to the north. Willis was a big, red-haired sergeant--a
favourite with the men.

I looked, and saw clouds of dust rising a mile or two away.

"Miles's division," says Willis.

"What is on our left?"

"Nothing," says Willis.

"How do you know?"

"We are the left," says Willis.

The sergeant had studied war a little; he had some infallible views.

The sergeant-major, with his diamond stripes, and his short sword
saluting, spoke to a captain, who at once reported to the colonel at the
head of the regiment. The captain returned to his post:--

"_Comp-a-ny_--B ... ATTENTION!" ...

"_Shudda_ ... HOP!" ...

"LOAD!" ...

"_Shudda_ ... HOP!" ...

"_R-i-i-i-i-ght_ ... FACE!" ...

"_Fah_--_w-u-u-u-d_ ... MOTCH!" ...

"_Fi--lef_ ... MOTCH!"

Company B disappeared in the bushes on our left.

The water-detail returned; the regiment moved forward.

Passing over a rising ground, Willis pointed to the left. I could see
some black spots in a stubble-field.

"Company B; skirmishers," says Willis.

"Any rebels out that way?"

"Don't know. Right to be ready for 'em," says Willis.

Marching orders had been welcomed by the men, and the first few miles
had been marked by jollity; the jest repeated growing from four to four;
great shouts had risen, at seeing the dust made by our columns advancing
on parallel roads. The air was stagnant, the sun directly in our faces.
This little peaked infantry cap is a damnable outrage. The straps across
my shoulders seemed to cut my flesh. Great drops rolled down my face. My
canteen was soon dry. The men were no longer erect as on dress parade.
Each one bent over--head down. The officers had no heavy muskets--no
heavy cartridge-boxes; they marched erect; the second lieutenant was
using his sword for a walking-cane. "Close up!" shouted the sergeants.
My heels were sore. The dust was stifling.

Another halt; a new detail for water.

The march continued--a stumbling, staggering march, in the darkness. A
hundred yards and a halt of a minute; a quarter of a mile and a halt of
half an hour; an exasperating march. At two o'clock in the morning we
wer