ence, for the purpose of keeping the men in camp. No enlisted man
could go out except on a pass signed by his captain, and approved by the
colonel. The drilling of the men was conducted principally inside the
grounds, but on skirmish drill we went outside, in order to have room
enough. The quarters or barracks of the men were, for each company, a
rather long, low structure, crudely built of native lumber and covered
with clapboards and a top dressing of straw, containing two rows of
bunks, one above and one below. These shacks looked like a Kansas stable
of early days,--but they were abodes of comfort and luxury compared to
what we frequently had later.

Next morning, after an early breakfast, I pulled out for home, with my
two-days furlough in my pocket. I was accompanied by John Jobson, one of
Reddish's company, and who had enlisted about a month previous. He had
obtained a short furlough for some purpose or other, and had hired a
horse on which to make the trip. Prior to his enlistment he had been
working as a farm hand for Sam Dougherty, one of our nearest neighbors,
and I had become well acquainted with him. He was about twenty-five
years old, of English birth, a fine, sensible young fellow, and made a
good soldier. I well remember our high spirits on this journey home. We
were young, glowing with health and overflowing with liveliness and
animation. There was a heavy snow on the ground, but the sky was clear,
and the air was keen and bracing. Occasionally, when we would strike a
stretch of level road, we would loose all the buttons of our overcoats
save the top one, put the gad to our steeds, and waving our caps, with
our long coat tails streaming in the wind, would yell like Comanches,
and "let on" that we were making a cavalry charge. I have no doubt that
we believed we presented a most terror-striking appearance.

Happy is man that to him the future is a sealed book. In the summer of
1863, while we were stationed near Vicksburg, Jobson was taken seriously
ill, and was put on a transport to be taken to a general hospital at
Mound City, Illinois. He died en route, on the boat, and was hastily
buried in a sand bar at the mouth of White River. The changing currents
of the mighty Mississippi have long since swallowed up that sand bar,
and with it all that may have been left of the mortal remains of poor
Jobson.

I reached home sometime in the afternoon, relieved Bill of his
equipments, put him in the stable, and f