Dear Mother:—

We are having really rainy weather. Till now it has rained but a few hours at most, with intervals for drying. But it rained steadily all last evening, drummed on the tight tent all night, and was still heavily at work when the bugler failed to blow his horn this morning. Watches not being at all uniform, men got themselves out of bed at their leisure. The first sergeant did not think to wake us, and then was disgusted when many of the men did not turn out at the first call. Those who were there made a crooked line around a great puddle which stood in the depression between our ridge and the head of the street.

But now, after breakfast, everyone is cussing. “What are we to wear?” asked Knudsen of the first sergeant, who answered snappily, “The usual things for a hike.” Knudsen came back grumbling: “How were we to know that we are going on a hike?” The word was passed along: “Packs,” “No packs.” “Sweaters,” “No sweaters.” Then it was said that we were to wear handkerchiefs in our hats, sure sign of a sham battle pending. So at last at the whistle we turned out with sweaters, packs, ponchos ready (for though it had stopped raining we did not feel safe) and some of us with handkerchiefs twined in our hat-bands. Once in line we were sent back—“No packs, no rifles.” Again we came out and lined up again, only to be sent back once more. “No sweaters.” By this time it was rumored that we were at last to take the oath, and this was confirmed by the sight of the captain carrying a bunch of slips, containing the oath, which in the last few days we have filled out, and yesterday had signed. The men both grumbled and joked. “We can’t take the oath with sweaters on? Why not?” “Got on woollen underwear? Get cotton. You can’t take the oath in wool.” So at last we were in line again, and then the captain began to look through the slips. “Here’s a man written his name twice differently. Make out a new slip.—Here’s a lot of men have signed with lead pencil. It’s got to be in ink or indelible pencil.” Here he was met by a lawyer, who had signed in pencil, and said, “A pencil signature is valid.” “Not here,” said the captain, sticking to the regulations, and the slips had to be changed.

When we were ready we were marched to the flag, where the company was drawn up on three sides of a square. The major then said—

—I must break this off to describe what is going on, which is too interesting to ignore. For the second time this afternoon we are shut up in the dark tent, everyone having fled before a pelting shower. We were first aligned for calisthenics, but were dismissed on account of Shower No. 1, a driving rain that lasted half an hour. Now we were just ready for parade—think what it would have been on that slimy, soggy ground!—when the approach of Shower No. 2 sent us all to cover. It is pelting furiously; Pickle and Knudsen, with the intrenching tools which luckily were served out to us this afternoon, are digging frantically to keep the water away from their suit-cases. Through the tied flaps of the doorway Clay has been yelling at Squad Nine, our opposite neighbors, and there is the greatest joy and confusion. Knudsen having finished his job, is jeering at Pickle, who had promised to be first. And now he has taken Pickle in hand, and is showing him his mistakes. It is thundering and lightening. “I don’t see,” says David with slow wonderment, “how it can rain much harder.” Now Knudsen, at the door, imitates the first sergeant’s whistle and alarms our neighbors, who peer anxiously out. “Corporals, get your men out!” cries he, laughing heartily as the others consult. “They look like a bunch of dogs,” says he, “with their heads sticking out of their kennels.” Now it slackens, I hear laughter in the street, and in comes a neighbor. “Boys, it’s a scream! There’s four inches of water in the next two tents. Their baggage is all afloat.”

(Later.) The rain slackening just then, out we all swarmed, the whole street becoming alive with men, who with shouts crowded toward the great puddle which completely filled the breadth of the street, and had flooded tents Four and Six. Looking into these, I saw the glimmer of lantern-light reflected on water, the beds moved about and piled with baggage. The sandy soil can drain an ordinary shower, but this was too heavy, and there was but one thing to try. Yelling, some fifteen men got out their intrenching tools and began to dig a ditch to lead the water off to the field below. At first I thought they could not do it, for the ridge was at least two feet above the level of the puddle. But leaving enough earth to form a dam, the men in a line so vigorously worked the strong little shovels that in scarcely more than five minutes they were ready to break down the dam. They broke it, the water came pouring through, and with cheers the men kept the channel clear. With great brooms the men of tents Four and Six swept out their domiciles, other men dug the channel deeper, still others on the further slope kept the flood from the other tents, and as we formed for supper (the two parts of the company on the two sides of the dividing puddle) the lake was more than half drained away. By the time we came back from mess the puddle was clean gone, and the captain was devising means to get the men of tents Four and Six in dry quarters for the night.

And now to take up my narrative, earlier broken off.—The major, as we were assembled for the oath, said a few words in explanation of it, then read it aloud, while we stood with hats off and right hands raised, before the flag. At the end each man said “I do!” and then one by one we acknowledged our signatures on our slips. So I am now enlisted in the army of the United States, bound to obey the President and the Secretary of War, and entirely at the mercy of our superior officers.

But they have been merciful to us today in sparing us two soakings, and I have had my own personal share. While we were standing, waiting for the major to come and give us the oath, the captain’s eye fell on me. Evidently he pondered for a moment, then he beckoned me out of the ranks. Said he, “I thought you weren’t to take the oath.” I answered, “I have always meant to take it, sir.” “Oh,” said he, “then I was misinformed. Well, that is what prevented me from making you sub-squad-leader, and I’ll do it today. Just say nothing about it beforehand.” So I saluted and stepped back. When we were lined up in the company street again (having first put our sweaters on by our own decision, and then having taken them off by order of the major, who presently took us to regimental drill on the parade ground) the lieutenant announced, “Mr. Godwin will be sub-squad-leader in Squad Eight.” So I dropped back into the rear rank, my rear-rank man took my place, Reardon gave place to me, and the other men moved to numbers two and one. In that order we drilled, and good Reardon showed me his duties. To make sure that the change is permanent, Bannister asked the captain, and here I am installed in a very minor office.

I am out of the front rank now, but the parades, which it is interesting to watch, are all over, and I shall get acquainted with still another set of our neighbors. On the hike I shall still march on the outside of the column, which gives some freedom of action, and as Knudsen contends, better air. Reardon is very nice about the change; the boys all recognize it as coming from my bluff at giving orders. Yet Reardon showed, as I drill beside him today, that he knows more of the business than I do.

Bannister shook his fist at me. “Consarn ye,” (he imitates the farmer to perfection) “yer shan’t git my job!”

“Coming strong!” I answered.

Knudsen, with the energy and tact which characterize him, has reorganized the squad on the basis of this change of mine, moving the men about so that he has David as his rear rank man, which means that they sleep in the same tent on the hike, and that Knudsen still has the boy in charge. Of course Bannister agreed to it all. He and I shall tent together.

Corder feels that he has had a narrow escape. The captain sent for him and offered him the position of equipment sergeant, or some such title, which means some minor responsibility and a seat on one of the baggage trucks. Corder, in a panic, begged permission to stay with the squad and carry his gun; and the captain, saying how disgusted the bugler was with his new job, and that two disappointed men in the company were more than he could stand, let him off. Corder, after telling us the tale, got out his mirror and studied himself. “It’s all this confounded beard of mine,” he complained. “I’m only forty-five, and my hair is still black, but the thing has turned gray and makes me seem old. It’s sickening to have the fellows so thoughtful of me. Godwin, if ever you get respectful, I’ll slay you.”

The shooting records are posted, and to our great satisfaction our company stands best. That doesn’t mean that we have the highest individual score, or even the greatest number of expert riflemen. But it does mean that we have both the most men in all three qualified grades and the highest average score per man. Practically that means that of all the six companies we should be deadliest against an infantry attack, also that as a consequence we should ourselves be safest. As Pickle says, “The captain has done one good job.”

The forehanded among us (and yet after all we are at it pretty late) are making maps for the hike in imitation of those which the officers have posted for us to study. At the Exchange can be bought contour maps of all this region, covering the whole area of the hike. These we are cutting out in squares and pasting on linen, cheese-cloth, or even mosquito netting. Then we mark on them the camps, the route, and all along the way the important crossroads within a mile of our march, which we number according to the officers’ sample. If after this we can get some shellac, we coat the map against the weather. Had I only known enough, I should have brought with me proper cloth, glue and shellac for this purpose; for of course the rush for these materials has practically used up all neighboring supplies.

Between showers today we have begun our preparations for the hike, directions concerning which were read us. We have turned in our condiment-cans and bacon-tins—so much less weight to carry. David is in secret dismay over the small equipment which is allowed us, and has spent many long minutes over the beautiful little sole leather trunk which he keeps under his cot, and which contains so many knickknacks. He has been making little piles here, and little piles there, and then, with knitted brow, changing them all about. He has not asked for advice, and none of us has offered it. Pickle, whose personal outfit is of the most meagre, has been watching him in delight.

However, David is permanently lightened of one part of his equipment. Word went round that we were to have rifle-inspection, at which there rose in the tent a great clamor for patches, of which we had none, nor the store tent either. David was absent, and Knudsen, saying “I’ll get patches,” asked Clay for his surgical scissors, and going to David’s cot, took from the great collection of conveniences which the boy still hoped to take with him, a set of his beautiful silk pajamas. The jacket Knudsen tore into strips (we all the while watching in pregnant silence) then cut them into squares, and when David returned we were all at work on our guns.

“They tell me,” he said, “that we’re to have rifle inspection. Have you fellows any patches?”

“Plenty,” said Knudsen, and handed him some made out of the gaudiest part of the pattern.

David, as he inspected these, first grew very red, then hastily demanded, “Who cut these up?”

“I did,” said Knudsen very serenely. “No pajamas on the hike, David.”

And the boy, who is still very proud of coming into his own name, laughed, asked for Clay’s scissors, and cut up the rest of his suit. Then he stuffed into his trunk the other pair which he had intended to take with him on the hike.

One last story, to show a different side of our Plattsburg activities. You know we have a cavalry camp here, and a medical department, where volunteers come exactly as to our infantry regiment. Well, Corder came back from the medicos lately, where he went to visit a friend, with a great tale of the mending of a cavalryman’s broken jaw by one of the volunteer surgeons, a Boston dentist. Corder, being professor-like in appearance, was not detected as an impostor, and stood close at hand in the ring of doctors who watched the clinic.

“It was done under field conditions,” said he, “the operator using only an alcohol lamp, a small pair of nippers, and about eight inches of ordinary electric light wire, which happened to be handy. The insulation was scraped from the cable, and its various fine wires were burned clean in the flame of the lamp. The rookie was then put on a table in the company street, and the doctor took a turn with one of the fine wires around a tooth behind the break, twisting the ends together. The same was done with a tooth in front of the break; and then in the upper jaw wires were twisted around teeth above the lower two. An assistant then held the broken jaw in place, and the doctor twisted tight together the wires from the lower back tooth and the upper front tooth, and then those from the upper back tooth and the lower front tooth. He cut off the ends, made all smooth, and the work was done, all in a very few minutes. The jaw could not move, and was bound to heal perfectly. The doctors all said they never had seen anything so simple or so clever.”

We thought the same; Clay, as a budding doctor, was envious of Corder for having seen it. “Too bad for the chap to lose the hike,” said Bannister.

“He won’t lose it!” replied Corder. “The fellow can drink, of course. He can get any liquid, or even a cereal or a stew, around behind his back teeth, so he’s simply going right along with us.”

So much for smartness, and for grit!

The showers lasting long enough to spoil conferences, and then the sky clearing, I went this evening to say good-by to Vera, which I had half promised to do. David, by the way, to whom a social duty used to be sacred, called yesterday afternoon, as Knudsen suggested, and was manfully relieved to find her out. But I found her in, and alone. She told me that her sister Frances was coming, made rather a point of it, expecting me to manage to see her, though on the hike how can I? There was a delightful old colonel there, who rather took to me, and when on the coming of Lieutenant Pendleton I naturally tried to make myself scarce, the colonel took me into his study to show me the service pistol that they used in his day. And when finally I took my leave of him, on my way out (missing the front door and blundering into the parlor) I ran into the most distressing sort of scene.

Pendleton and Kirby were both there, and the captain having his hat in his hand, I imagine he’d only just come. The lieutenant was fiery red; I think I know the look of a man when he’s been turned down, and I saw it in his face. Vera was in that cold and lofty mood of hers when nothing counts but the idea she has in mind; no one seeing her so would think she ever again could be gentle or tender—poor Vera, with all her struggles to perfect herself, and yet with so much manner, yes and so much headstrong will, hiding it all. It seemed as if she had called the captain to witness, perhaps to agree in, something she had just announced; you know it, mother, that old idea of hers that caused me such years of effort. I heard the words just as I parted the curtains, and they stopped me dead.

“A man should be able to offer a woman the best that there is.”

Pendleton with his head hanging low, Kirby gone white under his tan and looking as if he had been shot through the heart—but that was not all. Vera herself looked sick and—there is no other word than desperate. Explain it if you can. All I could do was to find my way out as quickly and silently as I could.

I went across the parade-ground and walked up and down by the lake, to still my many memories. Poor Vera! She is still groping, having a woman’s instincts but yet suppressing them. If only the right man could show her her true self, she is so honest she would recognize it. But where is he? or how could he get to know the heart which she herself does not understand?

On the way back to camp I went through the woods, and there I passed the poor lieutenant, walking with dragging step, still with his head upon his breast. But when I came to the company street, there in front of his tent stood the captain, a different picture. He was as straight as a—well, as a soldier, which he was, every inch of him, with his head up and his jaw set. I saluted, and he returned the salute, always with that searching look at me which now I’m sure of the meaning of. Yes, Vera’s got him too.

It’s time, for every reason, that we were away from here.

Dick.