deceased having held the position of regimental hospital steward,) and sixteen men of Company B, in command of the first sergeant, accompanied by the drum corps. The officers and men of Company B followed in the rear of the procession. Arriving on the parade ground, the coffin was taken from the ambulance and placed on a stretcher, when appropriate services were performed by the chaplain, consisting of prayer, the reading of scripture, and brief remarks, after which three volleys were fired and the remains of Jacob S. Pervear, Jr., were replaced in the ambulance to be conveyed to Washington and thence to the home of the deceased in Pawtucket.

In the course of his remarks, the chaplain used the following very appropriate poetical quotation:

“Ye number it in days since he
Strode up the foot-worn aisle,
With his dark eye flashing gloriously,
And his lip wreathed with a smile;
Oh, had it been but told you then
To mark whose lamp was dim,
From out those ranks of fresh-lipped men,
Would ye have singled him?
****
“His heart, in generous deed and thought,
No rivalry might brook,
And yet, distinction claiming not,
There lies he—go and look.”

The occasion was of a very mournful character, and it was not without effect upon some of the hardest men in the regiment, for young Pervear was greatly beloved by all.

One Sunday, when instead of going to church I was doing picket duty on the line of the Norfolk and Petersburg railroad, I halted an old man who was riding along in a dilapidated two-wheeled vehicle, to which was attached a still more dilapidated horned beast which, apparently, from time immemorial had served for its owner all the requirements of a horse. In answer to my inquiry whether he was a Union man, the old fellow gave me the following reply: “Stranger, I was born in the Union; I have always lived in the Union; I have always loved the old Union, and I love her still; I have always voted for the old Union; and, stranger, when I die, whether I go to heaven or hell, I shall stick by the old Union!” All doubts as to his loyalty having been dispelled, I grasped him warmly by the hand, and, whispering in his ear, said, “Old man, stick!”

Perhaps I should have stated ere this that in addition to my duties as a soldier, I combined those of a “war correspondent.” My letters were generally written in the evening in my tent, lying prone upon my face, the light being furnished by a dripping tallow candle which was stuck into the top of a bayonet whose point was inserted in the earth. Here, under such circumstances, I criticised the conduct of the war, and directed campaigns as best I could. I mention this fact at this time because the incident just related has already appeared in print.

An incident which has not appeared in print, but which made a deep impression upon the “family men” of the regiment, occurred on a beautiful Sunday afternoon while on dress parade at Miner’s Hill. General Robert Cowdin, the brigade commander, was frequently an interested observer on these occasions. At the time to which I refer, he was accompanied by a lady friend from Washington, who held by the hand a beautiful little boy of four or five years of age. The sight of the little fellow, particularly when he let go his mother’s hand and ran about and shouted in his childish glee, so affected the men that it was almost impossible to preserve a steady line and secure prompt obedience to orders. Men whom I had seldom or never before seen exhibit any emotion were moved to tears by the sight and the remembrance of dear ones at home, and many of them were heard to say that they would willingly part with a month’s pay just to take the little fellow in their arms for a moment, while a Pawtucket man, who had a wife but no children, said he would give all his bounty money and throw the “cow” in, just to kiss the little fellow’s mother—for his wife’s sake. The order to “march off your companies” cut short other equally complimentary expressions concerning the mother and her darling boy.

One of the most ludicrous events which occurred in our regiment was on a very dark night when the “long roll” sounded for the first time. We were at once ordered under arms, it being whispered among the “knowing ones” that we were likely to have a brush with the enemy before daylight, while the officers knew it was only to “break in” the men, to see how they would behave in the time of actual service. There was a hurrying to and fro of officers of all grades; signal lights were swung here and there in response to similar signals which could be seen quite a distance away; the surgeons were overhauling and sharpening their instruments and filing their saws and getting out large quantities of lint and bandages; all orders were given in a whisper, and everything betokened speedy and decisive action, the time having come for our men to cover themselves with glory—or shame.

In Company B there was an Irishman named Mike Cassidy. He was an old man, and when he got into line it was evident that he was sleeping soundly when the order fell upon his ears to “turn out,” and that he had not been able in the darkness to find his entire wardrobe, or if he found it, that he did not have time to get properly inside of it. But he had his old and trusty musket, with which he had often declared he could alone whip the whole Southern Confederacy if they would only give him time. Time was what Mike most needed. He always had time enough, but it was “behind time,” save when the order was given to “fall in for rations.” But it happened on that particular night some member of his “mess” whose musket was without a tube or nipple upon which to put a cap, had appropriated Cassidy’s to his own use. I seem now to see Cassidy as he appeared in line on that dark night trying to put a percussion cap on that nippleless gun. Comrade, did you ever swear? Do you think you ever heard anybody swear? You should have heard Cassidy. He swore vengeance upon all of his comrades, and declared that if he was killed, his ghost would forever haunt the man who stole the nipple from his gun. “Here I am,” he exclaimed, “with no nipple on me gun, and the whole dommed Confederacy right on us!”

In the midst of all the excitement which he occasioned by his vociferous tones and profane explosives, the order came to “break ranks,” and poor Cassidy was the laughing-stock of the whole company. I believe he forgave the rank and file for what he termed the “sell,” but he said he would never forgive the officers—and I am confident that he never did.

A large number of the members of the Eleventh regiment reënlisted upon the expiration of their term of service. Cassidy was, I think, among them. But be that as it may, a very funny story is told about his trying to get a pension on account of some real or fancied injury received while in an engagement. The chief of the board of examiners asked him where he was wounded. Mike placed his hand on his left breast and said, “About here, sor.” The examiner exclaimed: “Why, man, if you had been hit there you would have been killed on the spot, for the bullet would have gone right through your heart!”

“I know it, sor,” replied Cassidy, “but, bejabers, me heart was in me mouth.”