The winter rains had set in, and the skies were grey, as the command marched down to the boat. The officers and soldiers were in their campaign clothes; the latter had their blanket-rolls and haversacks slung over their shoulders, and their tin cups, which hung from the haversacks, rattled and jingled as they marched down in even columns of four, over the wet and grassy slopes of the parade ground, where so short a time before all had been glitter and sunshine. I realized then perhaps for the first time what the uniform really stood for; that every man who wore it, was going out to fight--that they held their lives as nothing. The glitter was all gone; nothing but sad reality remained. The officers' wives and the soldiers' wives followed the troops to the dock. The soldiers marched single file over the gang-plank of the boat, the officers said good-bye, the shrill whistle of the "General McPherson" sounded--and they were off. We leaned back against the coal-sheds, and soldiers' and officers' wives alike all wept together. And now a season of gloom came upon us. The skies were dull and murky and the rain poured down. Our old friend Bailey, who was left behind on account of illness, grew worse and finally his case was pronounced hopeless. His death added to the deep gloom and sadness which enveloped us all. A few of the soldiers who had staid on the Island to take care of the post, carried poor Bailey to the boat, his casket wrapped in the flag and followed by a little procession of women. I thought I had never seen anything so sad. The campaign lengthened out into months, but the California winters are never very long, and before the troops came back the hills looked their brightest green again. The campaign had ended with no very serious losses to our troops and all was joyous again, until another order took us from the sea-coast to the interior once more. CHAPTER XXIX. CHANGING STATION It was the custom to change the stations of the different companies of a regiment about every two years. So the autumn of '82 found us on the way to Fort Halleck, a post in Nevada, but differing vastly from the desolate MacDermit station. Fort Halleck was only thirteen miles south of the Overland Railroad, and lay near a spur of the Humboldt range. There were miles of sage-brush between the railroad and the post, but the mountains which rose abruptly five thousand feet on the far side, made a magnificent background for the officers' quarters, which lay nestled at the bottom of the foot-hills. "Oh! what a lovely post!" I cried, as we drove in. Major Sanford of the First Cavalry, with Captain Carr and Lieutenant Oscar Brown, received us. "Dear me," I thought, "if the First Cavalry is made up of such gallant men as these, the old Eighth Infantry will have to look out for its laurels." Mrs. Sanford and Mrs. Carr gave us a great welcome and vied with each other in providing for our comfort, and we were soon established.