target shooting, and now and then the muffled drum helped occupy one's attention. On July 5 occurred a Sunday and a sermon — the last of the campaign. At sunset at tremulous orange haze in the west was due, followed by the twinkling lights of the camp, that were so agreeable to view from a distance, and then by the howling of wolves, the tenor chorus of the swamps, and the agonized baritone fugues of the donkeys. It was now time for singing, story-telling and, above all, gambling — perhaps Old Sledge on a blanket, perhaps Chuckleluck, perhaps monte, perhaps faro; and now and then came a fandango (dance) on the hard ground with such American and Mexican women as there Were. The camp life was "a rough furnace and. a hot fire," wrote Sergeant Miller; but the novelty of it soon wore off, and the volunteers grew discontented.[1]
They had come for glory and a good time, and were having neither. They wanted to do something, and to do it at once or go home. One at least of them believed that assignment to garrison duty would have led to general desertion. Wherever they were, they panted to be somewhere else. Having come to gamble, with their lives for a stake, they clamored to have the game begin. If there was no enemy to fight, they were ready to fight friends; and in one of the many brawls and riots Colonel Baker was shot in the neck. Four or five months of training under expert officers and strict discipline were necessary to prepare regulars for the field;[2] and naturally these volunteers, almost wholly alien to the habits, feelings and efficiency of the real soldier, often felt at liberty to thwart and even defy their commander, and were unable to cooperate with him intelligently when really disposed to do so. In spite of positive orders they wasted ammunition recklessly, and Lieutenant Meade thought a day passed in his tent no less perilous than a stilt battle.[3]
The officers were very similar. One brigadier general came with a light buggy, in which he proposed to make the campaign. Another had enlisted as a private, and, not being deemed worthy to command the company, had been elected a lieutenant; but the executive fiat provided him with qualifications. "In the name of God," wrote a soldier to Senator alien, don't let Hamer be a brigadier general; he is talented,
