Early in August, F. Marriott, our Company Bugler, died.  Previous to coming to America he had been for many years an English soldier, and I accepted him as a type of that stolid, doggedly brave class, which forms the bulk of the English armies, and has for centuries carried the British flag with dauntless courage into every land under the sun.  Rough, surly and unsocial, he did his duty with the unemotional steadiness of a machine.  He knew nothing but to obey orders, and obeyed them under all circumstances promptly, but with stony impassiveness.  With the command to move forward into action, he moved forward without a word, and with face as blank as a side of sole leather.  He went as far as ordered, halted at the word, and retired at command as phlegmatically as he advanced.  If he cared a straw whether he advanced or retreated, if it mattered to the extent of a pinch of salt whether we whipped the Rebels or they defeated us, he kept that feeling so deeply hidden in the recesses of his sturdy bosom that no one ever suspected it.  In the excitement of action the rest of the boys shouted, and swore, and expressed their tense feelings in various ways, but Marriott might as well have been a graven image, for all the expression that he suffered to escape.  Doubtless, if the Captain had ordered him to shoot one of the company through the heart, he would have executed the command according to the manual of arms, brought his carbine to a “recover,” and at the word marched back to his quarters without an inquiry as to the cause of the proceedings.  He made no friends, and though his surliness repelled us, he made few enemies.  Indeed, he was rather a favorite, since he was a genuine character; his gruffness had no taint of selfish greed in it; he minded his own business strictly, and wanted others to do the same.  When he first came into the company, it is true, he gained the enmity of nearly everybody in it, but an incident occurred which turned the tide in his favor.  Some annoying little depredations had been practiced on the boys, and it needed but a word of suspicion to inflame all their minds against the surly Englishman as the unknown perpetrator.  The feeling intensified, until about half of the company were in a mood to kill the Bugler outright.  As we were returning from stable duty one evening, some little occurrence fanned the smoldering anger into a fierce blaze; a couple of the smaller boys began an attack upon him; others hastened to their assistance, and soon half the company were engaged in the assault.

He succeeded in disengaging himself from his assailants, and, squaring himself off, said, defiantly: 

“Dom yer cowardly heyes; jest come hat me one hat a time, hand hI’ll wollop the ’ole gang uv ye’s.”

One of our Sergeants styled himself proudly “a Chicago rough,” and was as vain of his pugilistic abilities as a small boy is of a father who plays in the band.  We all hated him cordially—­even more than we did Marriott.