If you find a foot-soldier lying beat out by the roadside, desperate as a sea-sick man, five to one his heels are too high, or his soles too narrow or too thin, or his shoe is not made straight on the inside, so that the great toe can spread into its place as he treads.

I am an old walker over Alps across the water, and over Cordilleras, Sierras, Deserts, and Prairies at home; I have done my near sixty miles a day without discomfort,—­and speaking from large experience, and with painful recollections of the suffering and death I have known for want of good feet on the march, I say to every volunteer:—­

Trust in God; BUT KEEP YOUR SHOES EASY!

THE BRIDGE.

When the frenzy of the brief tempest was over, it began to be a question, “What to do about the broken bridge?” The gap—­was narrow; but even Charles Homans could not promise to leap the “J.H.  Nicholson” over it.  Who was to be our Julius Caesar in bridge-building?  Who but Sergeant Scott, Armorer of the Regiment, with my fellow-sentry of the morning, Bonnell, as First Assistant?

Scott called for a working party.  There were plenty of handy fellows among our Engineers and in the Line.  Tools were plenty in the Engineers’ chest.  We pushed the platform car upon which howitzer No. 1 was mounted down to the gap, and began operations.

“I wish,” says the petit caporal of the Engineer Company, patting his howitzer gently on the back, “that I could get this Putty Blower pointed at the enemy, while you fellows are bridge-building.”

The inefficient destructives of Maryland had only half spoilt the bridge.  Some of the old timbers could be used,—­and for new ones, there was the forest.

Scott and his party made a good and a quick job of it.  Our friends of the Massachusetts Eighth had now come up.  They lent a ready hand, as usual.  The sun set brilliantly.  By twilight there was a practicable bridge.  The engine was despatched back to keep the road open.  The two platform cars, freighted with our howitzers, were rigged with the gun-ropes for dragging along the rail.  We passed through the files of the Massachusetts men, resting by the way, and eating by the fires of the evening the suppers we had in great part provided them; and so begins our night-march.

THE NIGHT-MARCH.

O Gottschalk! what a poetic Marche de Nuit we then began to play, with our heels and toes, on the railroad track!

It was full-moonlight and the night inexpressibly sweet and serene.  The air was cool and vivified by the gust and shower of the afternoon.  Fresh spring was in every breath.  Our fellows had forgotten that this morning they were hot and disgusted.  Every one hugged his rifle as if it were the arm of the Girl of his Heart, and stepped out gayly for the promenade.  Tired or foot-sore men, or even lazy ones, could mount upon the two freight-cars we were using for artillery-wagons.  There were stout arms enough to tow the whole.