'That lame Prouty boy' was the gamest fellow in the command
and it nearly broke his heart when we marched away in earnest in
sixty-one, and left him behind--the leader of the home-guard.
"The Rifles were armed with wooden guns, and drilled twice a week in
Bert Martin's barn--drilled with almost the same precision and attention
to the manual as we _had_ to do in later years. Ed Ross was a strict
disciplinarian even then, and awfully in earnest. Indeed, we all were
for that matter. When the notion is strong upon them, young folks beat
their elders all hollow at that sort of thing. Every Saturday afternoon
at three o'clock, weather permitting, we met at our armory, and after
some preliminary maneuvers marched down High Street. Old Cush Woodberry
and the other loafers at Horton's would come out on the platform in
front of the store and review the troops. The interest those lazy
fellows took in us was astonishing. Old Cush even volunteered one day to
give us some instructions in tactics, but our gallant captain
courteously declined. There were others, though, who did not admire us
so much. The green-eyed monster reigned supreme over on Liberty Street,
and around by the court-house lot. There the country lads in town for
Saturday market were entrenched, and they jeered at us enviously from
the line of wagons drawn up in battle array.
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