om the
ground, the "Johnny-jump-ups" were in blossom, the trees were
bursting into leaf, and the woods were full of feathered songsters.
There was a redbird that would come every morning about sunup and
perch himself in the tall black-oak tree in our company street, and
for perhaps an hour he would practice on his impatient, querulous
note, that said, as plain as a bird could say, "Boys, boys! get up!
get up! get up!" It became a standing remark among the boys that he
was a Union redbird and had enlisted in our regiment to sound the
reveille.

So the time passed pleasantly away until that eventful Sunday
morning, April 6, 1862. According to the Tribune Almanac for that
year, the sun rose that morning in Tennessee at 38 minutes past
five o'clock. I had no watch, but I have always been of the opinion
that the sun was fully an hour and a half high before the fighting
began on our part of the line. We had "turned out" about sunup,
answered to roll-call, and had cooked and eaten our breakfast. We
had then gone to work, preparing for the regular Sunday morning
inspection, which would take place at nine o'clock. The boys were
scattered around the company streets and in front of the company
parade grounds, engaged in polishing and brightening their muskets,
and brushing up and cleaning their shoes, jackets, trousers, and
clothing generally. It was a most beautiful morning. The sun was
shining brightly through the trees, and there was not a cloud in
the sky. It really seemed like Sunday in the country at home.
During week days there was a continual stream of army wagons going
to and from the landing, and the clucking of their wheels, the
yells and oaths of the drivers, the cracking of whips, mingled with
the braying of mules, the neighing of the horses, the commands of
the officers engaged in drilling the men, the incessant hum and
buzz of the camps, the blare of bugles, and the roll of drums,--all
these made up a prodigious volume of sound that lasted from the
coming-up to the going-down of the sun. But this morning was
strangely still. The wagons were silent, the mules were peacefully
munching their hay, and the army teamsters were giving us a rest. I
listened with delight to the plaintive, mournful tones of a
turtle-dove in the woods close by, while on the dead limb of a tall
tre