the fifteen miles already marched, and the indefinite miles yet to go, he has no fancy for such an expedition.
Once, under Franklin, in this same soldier-trampled Teche Country, I made a leisurely march which was perfect in its management. Not only were the men kept strictly in their fours, but the cooks and the negro camp-followers moved in compact order in rear of their respective regiments. In obedience to directions from headquarters, I made up every morning a dozen or so of permits, written on slips of paper, to the following effect: "The bearer, ——— ———, of Company I, Twelfth Connecticut, has leave to be absent from the colors ten minutes." If a man wanted to fall out I gave him one of these slips, filling the blank with his name, and adding the hour of the day and my signature. On his return, he reported to me, and delivered up the paper. It was an admirable march, orderly, soldierly, and pleasing to the military soul. But that was a campaign of demonstrations, and we rarely made above twelve miles a day.
In describing the miseries of marching, I must not forget the dust. The movement of so many thousands of feet throws up such dense and prodigious clouds that one who has not witnessed the phenomenon will find it difficult to imagine it in all its vastness and nuisance. The officers dodge from side to side of the road to escape the pulverous suffocation; and the men, bound to their fours, choke desperately along in the midst of it. The faces become grimed out of all human semblance; the eyelashes are loaded, the hair discolored, and the uniform turns to the color of the earth. It frequently happens that you cannot see the length of your regiment, and it has occurred to me that I have been unable to see the length of my own company of, perhaps, twenty files. Of course, this annoyance varies greatly in magnitude, according to the nature of the earth.
Rain is good or bad, according to circumstances. In hot weather it cools the skin, invigorates the muscles, and is a positive comfort, except in so far as it spoils the footing. On the second day of this advance we had a pelting shower, which soaked everybody, including General Banks—which last circumstance was a source of unmixed satisfaction to the soldiers. Enlisted men like to see officers bear their share of the troubles of war; and, moreover, our fellows held the General responsible for the tearing speed at which we were going. But rain, although pleasant to the skin in warm weather, will reach the earth and make puddles; and to infantrjy in march a puddle in the road is a greater nuisance than people in carriages would imagine. No man, however wet he may be, wants to step into it; he crowds his next comrade, and so gets into a growling bout, or he hangs back, and so checks the succeeding files. A large puddle always produces a tailing-off of the regiment, which must be made up presently by double-quicking, much to the fatigue and wrath of the rearmost. Oh, miserable left of the column! how many times a day it has to run in order to catch up with the right! and how heartily it hates the right in consequence! Put a regiment or a brigade "left in front," and see how it will go. The men who usually march in the rear are now in the lead, and they are sure to give the fellows at the other end of the line a race. This opening out of the column of march is a constant evil, and one which officers soon learn to struggle against with incessant watchfulness. I believe that I used to shout: "Close up, men," at least a hundred times a day, in every conceivable tone of authority, impatience, and entreaty.
But are there no comforts, no pleasures, in forced marching? Just one:
