The campfire was always a solace to the soldier, whether on the tented field or on the tentless bivouac. It was not only when the north winds cut like a knife, chilling the very marrow in his bones, that he sought it with extended hand, as if seeking a welcome, or reaching for a comfort. But when the nights were warm a small blaze would draw soldiers like moths. At such a time they would not come with extended hands, neither would the circle be so near the fire. Perhaps its genial glow invited companionship, because of a fire that once burned on a hearth at home.

Just such a fire was dimly burning in front of mess No. 2 when I returned from duty one night in the swamp in front of Corinth. Instead of the jolly set of boys usually found around the fire, I found a silent and thoughtful crowd. I had entered a circle of sorrow. Word had just been received that Joseph Robinson, one of the mess, was dead. He had been left in the rear, stricken with the deadly fever.

Those messes were formed at the organization of the regiment, and became a kind of family circle, and such until the end of the service, death or discharge being the only cause of removal. Even with soldiers, when death came very near there was a shuddering and a time of serious thinking. So it was with our mess, while just below No. 4 was having a jolly time, singing and joking. George Himes, witty and vivacious, was at his best.

What a blessed thing it is that God has hid from us the future, however near it may be. The veil is impenetrable for on the following morning when I awoke there was a crowd standing around the Sibley tent No. 4. On inquiring the cause, I was told that George Himes was dying.

"What! George Himes, the wittiest boy in the company, everybody's friend; the one who did the singing last night?"

Yes, it was true.

As I drew near he breathed his last.

"Wrap him in the blanket on which he lies; dig a grave near enough to roll him in, bury him immediately, and then burn the tent and everything in it," was the order they gave.

"Black measles," they said.

The boys of the mess did not obey the order to the letter. The brave doctors still holding their noses had skipped, with no danger of a return to see that the order was obeyed. They dug a grave nearby and tenderly laid him therein, shedding tears of genuine sorrow. I have often wondered whether the burial party who removed the dead to Shiloh found him, and if they did, could they decipher the pencil writing on the piece of cracker box?

George Himes, C. 35th Ohio, Aged 19 Years

While the pall of gloom was still hanging over us because of these deaths, I was called upon to witness the saddest scene of my whole army life. I, with others, was detailed to bury the dead at the division hospital in the rear. This was a daily task, for I was told by the hospital steward that three was the least and twelve the greatest number buried in a single day while in that swamp. When we came to the hospital we found the balance of the detail awaiting orders. Soon the sergeant returned and informed the men that nine graves were to be dug. When the graves were dug we went to a small tent used as a dead house. Here we saw a horrible sight. Blue bottle flies filed the tent like swarms of bees. We were compelled to cut branches off the trees and brush them out while the dead were being wrapped in blankets.

"We dug nine graves," said the sergeant to one of the hospital crew. "There are only six dead here."

"There are three in that little wall tent, but they are not dead yet," said the man.

"What! Not dead yet, and their graves dug beforehand. This is the most inhuman thing I ever saw," said the sergeant in great wrath.

Some of us went over to the small tent and looked in.

"My God!" cried one of the men who proceeded me. "Look, look!"

Through the swarm of flies we discerned three poor boys lying there with nothing but a single blanket between them and earth. They were in the last throes of death.

Some of the men of our detail rushed out and cut boughs from the trees and drove the flies out, loudly berating the two or three hospital attendants for their neglect and hardness of heart.

"If you fellows were in our places and saw this every day, as we do, you would become callused as we." This was their only defense.

"Why," said one of the men, "this is Bill Calvin of Company K. He was on duty only four days ago.

When I looked I recognized him as one who came into camp at our organization in the uniform of a Zouave and had attracted much attention at that time as an all-around athlete.

We did not have long to wait for the poor fellow to die, for almost immediately on being relieved from the torture of the flies, they eased their struggles and passed peacefully away.

By way of explanation, and in justice to surgeons and others concerned, I will state that the hospital had been removed the day before, and those unable to be removed were left behind. But why should they be left to the care of a few unreliable roustabouts?

Even today, after the lapse of all these years, I recall this scene as a horrible nightmare, and hesitate whether or not to tell it just as it was. Fearing lest perhaps, even now, it may bring sorrow to someone who lost loved ones during that cruel war.

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