“If I do, I shall be willing to confess to anything,” said I.

“Here, now; stand there—­so!  Now—­Right—­FACE!”

I did not budge, but stood stiff.

“When I say ‘Right—­Face,’ you do so,” said he.

“Right—­FACE!”

I imitated the surgeon.

“FRONT!—­that’s right—­Left—­FACE!  That’s good—­FRONT!—­all right; now again—­Right—­FACE!&md
ash;­FRONT!—­Left—­FACE!—­FRONT!—­About—­put your right heel so—­FACE!  Ah! you’ve lost that; well, never mind; it will all come back.  I tell you what, I’ve drilled old Company H many a day.”

I really began to believe that Surgeon Frost had an affection for me, though, of course, his affection was based on a sense of proprietorship acquired through discovery, so to speak.

After supper he said:  “You are strong enough to go with me to Company H.
Well drive over in an ambulance.”

From points on the road we saw long lines of camp-fires.  On the crest of a hill, the doctor pointed to the east, where the clouds were aglow with light.  “McClellan’s army,” said he.

“Whose army?” I asked.

“McClellan’s; the Yankee army under McClellan.”

“Oh, yes!  I read the name in the paper to-day,” said I.

“He has a hundred and fifty thousand men,” said he.

“And their camp-fires make all that light?”

“Yes—­and I suppose ours look that way to them.”

Captain Haskell’s company was without shelter, except such, as the men had improvised, as the doctor said; here and there could be seen a blanket or piece of canvas stretched on a pole, and, underneath, a bed of straw large enough for a man.  Brush arbours abounded.  The Captain himself had no tent; we found him sitting with his back to a tree near which was his little fly stretched over his sleeping-place.  Several officers were around him.  He shook the doctor’s hand, but said nothing to me.  The officers left us.

“I have brought Jones over, Captain,” said the surgeon, “that you may tell him personally of your good intentions in regard to his first service with you.  He wishes to be enrolled.”

“If Private Jones—­” began the Captain.

“My name is Berwick—­Jones Berwick,” I said.

“There’s another strange notion,” said the doctor; “you’ve got the cart before the horse.”

“No, Doctor,” I insisted earnestly; “my name is Jones Berwick.”

“We have it ‘B.  Jones,’” said the doctor; “and I am certain it is written that way in your diary.  If you are Private Berwick instead of Private Jones, no wonder that nobody claims you.”

“I know that my surname is Berwick, but I know nothing of Private Berwick,” said I.