tion.

In consideration of the fact that now-a-days, as you know, I refuse to
even kill a chicken, some of the above expressions may sound rather
strange. But the fact is, a soldier on the fighting line is possessed by
the demon of destruction. He wants to kill, and the more of his
adversaries he can see killed, the more intense his gratification. Gen.
Grant somewhere in his Memoirs expresses the idea (only in milder
language than mine) when he says:

"While a battle is raging one can see his enemy mowed down by the
thousand, or the ten thousand, with great composure."

The regiment bivouacked for the night on the bluff, not far from the
historic "log house." Rain set in about dark, and not wanting to lie in
the water, I hunted around and found a little brush-pile evidently made
by some man from a sapling he had cut down and trimmed up some time past
when the leaves were on the trees. I made a sort of pillow out of my
gun, cartridge box, haversack and canteen, and stretched myself out on
the brush-pile, tired to death, and rather discouraged over the events
of the day. The main body of Buell's men,--"the army of the Ohio,"--soon
after dark began ascending the bluff at a point a little above the
landing, and forming in line in the darkness a short distance beyond. I
have a shadowy impression that this lasted the greater part of the
night. Their regimental bands played continuously and it seemed to me
that they all played the tune of "The Girl I Left Behind Me." And the
rain drizzled down, while every fifteen minutes one of the big navy guns
roared and sent a ponderous shell shrieking up the ravine above in the
direction of the enemy. To this day, whenever I hear an instrumental
band playing "The Girl I Left Behind Me," there come to me the memories
of that gloomy Sunday night at Pittsburg Landing. I again hear the
ceaseless patter of the rain, the dull, heavy tread of Buell's marching
columns, the thunderous roar of the navy guns, the demoniacal scream of
the projectile, and mingled with it all is the sweet, plaintive music of
that old song. We had an army version of it I have never seen in print,
altogether different from the original ballad. The last stanza of this
army production was as follows:

"If ever I get through this war,
And a Rebel ball don't find me,
I'll shape my course by the northern star,
To the girl I left behind me."

I have said elsewhere that the regiment was not eng