Correspondence of the Richmond Dispatch.
camp Pickens in General and the First Regiment in particular.
Manassas Junction, June 23.
‘"A soldier's life is the life for me."’ A more light-hearted, frolicking, jolly out of fellows you could not very well find together than the boys of the First Regiment; and don't think that our duties are light, especially since four companies have left us. We do the duty for the full regiment, and many a poor fellow, who returns home in the morning after 24 hours of sentinel duty, has to trot off in the evening about four or five miles with the picket guard, to drag his drowsy limbs through another tiresome 24 hours. But don't you think that this disheartens us. We know it can't be helped, and bear under it like men. Even it the corn bread is raw or burnt, or the rice smoky — if the cook has forgotten to put enough sugar in the coffee, or if, far worse, one of the pilfering negroes has entered the quartermaster's tent and robbed us of our morning's allowance of coffee, we, like true martyr, make bonet mineral maurais jeu; or, in other words, take it as it comes.
Woe to the box from Richmond which fails in our hands on such unlucky days.
The top gets torn off without regard to the nails, which otherwise get saved as a treasure.
The hungry faces of the particular friends crowd around the happy receiver, and devour the contents of the box with their eyes.
First comes a newspaper.
Who cares for the news now!
Next a pipe, smoking tobacco, writing paper, writing materials — all things of immense value on any other day, but now looked upon with indifference.
And then a greasy paper; and, there it comes — ham, sausage, a bottle, a loaf of bread.
Boys, there is plenty of everything.
And often does the happy consignee get hardly a mouthful himself, eager as he is to share his plenty with those who shared with him yesterday.
Is the company lucky enough to have a set of officers who interest themselves in their men?--and with a few exceptions the officers do whatever is in their power for us. Many a mistake of the soldier gets over looked, many a hasty word passes unheard.
Still, the guard-house is not always empty.
But the culprit does not suffer even there, as his friends stuff him up with the best they can get, to maze him forget his 12 or 24 hours loss of liberty.
This has to be done on the sly; but the officer of the guard will not always look as sharp as he might, and recollects either the days that he was a private in ranks, or his school-days, when he was glad that one of his friends pitched him an apple or a piece of pie through the window, when he himself was confined after school hours.
While I am writing this, one of our fellows comes in with a most doubtful look, and commences his deremiad about not having been allowed to sleep last night while on guard duty.
I pity him, but I can't cry, as Johnny says.--You see, the officers of the day are sometimes awful punctual in the discharge of their duty, and come 3a4 times during the night, with the grand round, to pay their most (un) welcome visit to the guard-house.
The sentinel cries ‘"turn out, turn out;"’ and then you see the most comical scene you ever witnessed.--Here, one of the fellows tumbles out, with both eyes closed, a la Somnambula, not knowing, in his sleep, whether to turn to the right or to the left.
Another comes in a hurry, with 2d3 cartridge-boxes slung over his shoulder, while, of course, two others are looking for their accoutrements, never suspecting that their heavy-laden comrade has been obliging enough to equip himself for three. A half-suppressed oath, a hearty laugh at the expense of the blunderer, and order is restored.
The officer inspects the guard and quits; the men break ranks and turn into their respective bunks, and Morphens is once again commander-in-chief of the guard-house.
The company to which I have the honor to belong (Company I,) is not as fortunate as the other companies, as we are yet without tents, and have only exchanged our arbors for a temporary kind of shelter made of plants, just knocked together lightly enough to save us the trouble of washing our blankets, as all we have got to do after a good, rain is to wring them out in the morning and we are all right again.
All night Sergeant, I come directly.
Just let me finish this letter, please.
Well, hurry up!
(Exit Sergeant.) What is the matter?
Oh, nothing!
I have been detailed for police duty, which is nothing more nor less than to go the round of the camp and pick up pieces of paper, old shoes, empty boxes, hard crockery, and give it a general cleaning up. The officers give us happy mortals, who are blessed that day with this agreeable task, the name of polic! Our comrades give us the more plastic name of ‘"rag pickers."’ Well, it can't be helped — it has to be done.
I come Sergeant, I come!
Comp. I. 