And now once again on terra firma our spirits rose accordingly, and there was a general feeling of hopefulness and cheer in our ranks as we marched over the bluff to a plain about two miles from the village, where we pitched our tents on a spot which was to be our home for several weeks. Our camping ground had once been occupied by the rebels for the same purpose. It was a part of the field on which the battle of the previous year had been fought. The trees in the vicinity still showed the effects of the shot and fragments of shell, the bones of animals and soldiers' graves showed that our troops had gained no bloodless victory.
Picket duty, guard duty, and the routine of drill was our life for several weeks. The battlefield with its terrors had thus far kept aloof but we were brought face to face with a chapter of army life hardly less sad.
Though Baton Rouge and the country northward is much more healthful than the fever level below, still there is no place in all that region where one can lead the exposed life of a soldier with impunity. Many of our most rugged men yielded to the fatal miasm with which the night air is laden, and those who had never known a day's sickness in their lives went daily at the surgeon's call to get their dose of quinine. Death came and mustered out many. Funerals were of daily occurrence and sometimes it seemed of almost hourly occurrence. The notes of the dead march, the sad, sad wailing of the fife, the mournful throb of the muffled drum, the march with downcast eyes and arms reversed, the parting volley above the grave, and then the return march, quick time, arms at the right shoulder, fifes warbling like birds in springtime, and drums beating merrily—these sights and sounds were far too common.
