Before giving an account of our first march in the enemy's country, it may be well to state here, that with two exceptions, the enlisted men of the engineer company were native born, and all but four of them were raw recruits. Each of those four had served, with credit, during one or more terms of enlistment in the regular army. Three of them were promptly made sergeants, and the fourth was a musician (bugler). All of the recruits but one, were very carefully selected material, out of which to form, as soon as practicable, skilled engineer soldiers. The one exception was a short, fat, dumpy, Long Island Dutchman--a good cook, specially enlisted by Captain Swift to cook for the men. He was given the pay and rank of artificer of engineers. The men looked upon him more as a servant of theirs than as a fellow soldier. He was well satisfied with his position, prided himself on his special duties, rather looked down upon "soldiers"--and was impudent by nature. All went well enough with the "cook" until he was required to take his place in the ranks, at regular bi-monthly "muster, and inspection" for pay. His performance on that occasion was so grotesquely awkward that I directed he should be put through the "squad-drill" by one of the sergeants, who was a thoroughly competent, but rather severe, drill-master. The "cook" felt that his rights were invaded, in requiring him to submit to be drilled. The sergeant made no progress in teaching him. After three days' trial, he reported to me that he was mortified, and ashamed, to have to admit he could do nothing with "that cook"; and he asked to be relieved from the duty of drilling him. In reply to my question: "Can't you make him obey you?" He replied: "No--the only thing I can do is to kill him"; and added: "When that kind of thing has to be done, in this company, my understanding is, the lieutenant in command is the only one who has the right to kill". I relieved the sergeant, and told him I would take the "cook" in hand at the next drill. On the following day, I marched him off into the dense chaparral, on the bottom lands near Matamoros. After following obscure paths, about three miles in their windings through the jungle, I halted him in a small open space a few hundred yards from the company camp. He thought no doubt, we were five miles from camp--in a boundless wilderness--whilst, in fact, we were at no time five hundred yards away.