CAPTAIN COLBURNE DESCRIBES CAMP AND FIELD LIFE.
A perusal of the letters of Colburne has decided me to sketch some of
the smaller incidents of his experience in field service. The masculine
hardness of the subject will perhaps be an agreeable relief to the
reader after the scenes of domestic felicity, not very comprehensible or
interesting to bachelors, which are depicted in the preceding chapter.
The many minor hardships of a soldier are, I presume, hardly suspected
by a civilian. As an instance of what an officer may be called on to
endure, even under favorable circumstances, when for instance he is not
in Libby Prison, nor in the starvation camp at Andersonville, I cite the
following passage from the Captain's correspondence:
"I think that the severest trial I ever had was on a transport. The
soldiers were on half rations; and officers, you know, must feed
themselves. We had not been paid for four months, and I commenced the
voyage, which was to last three days, with seventy-five cents in my
pocket. The boat charged a quarter of a dollar a meal. Such were the
prospects, and I considered them solemnly. I said to myself, 'Dinner
will furnish the greatest amount of nourishment, and I will eat only
dinner.' The first day I went without breakfast and supper. On the
morning of the second day I awoke fearfully hungry, and could not
resist the folly of breakfast. I had character enough to refuse dinner,
but by night I was starving again. Possibly you do not know what it is
to be ravening after food. I ate supper. That was my last possible meal
on board the steamer. I had no chance of borrowing, for every one was
about as poor as myself; and to add to my sufferings, the weather was
superb and I had a seafaring appetite. I was truly miserable with the
degrading misery of hunger, thinking like a dog of nothing but food,
when a brother officer produced a watermelon which he had saved for this
supreme moment of destitution. He was charitable enough to divide it
among four follow paupers; and on that quarter of a watermelon I lived
twenty-six hours, very wretchedly. When we landed I was in command of
the regiment, but could hardly give an order loud enough to be heard by
the shrunken battalion. Two hours afterwards Henry brought me a small
plate of stewed onions, without meat or bread, not enough to feed a
Wethersfield baby. I ate them all, too starved to ask Henry whether he
had anything for himself or not. Shameful, but natural. Ridiculous as it
may seem, I think I can point to this day as the only thoroughly unhappy
one in two years of service. It was not severe suffering; but it was so
contemptible, so animal; there was no heroic relief to it. I felt like a
starved cur, and growled at the Government, and thought I wanted to
resign. Hunger, like sickness, has a depressing effect on the morale,
and changes a young man into his grandmother."
It appears that these little starvation episodes were of frequent
recurrence. In one letter he speaks of having marched all day on a
single biscuit, and in another, written during his Virginia campaign, of
having lived for eighteen hours on green apples. He often alluded with
pride to the hardihood of soul which privations and dangers had given to
the soldiers.
"Our men are not heroes in battle alone," he writes. "Three months
without shelter, drenched by rain or scorched by the sun, tormented by
mosquitoes, tainted with fever, shaking with the ague, they appear
stoically indifferent to all hardships but their lack of tobacco. Out of
the four hundred men whom we brought to this poisonous hole [Brashear
City], forty are dead and one hundred and sixty are in hospital. We can
hear their screams a mile away as they go into the other world in their
chariots of delirium. The remainder, half sick themselves, thin and
yellow ghosts in ragged uniforms, crawl out of their diminutive shanties
and go calmly to their duties without murmuring, without a desertion.
What a scattering there would be in a New England village, in which one
tenth of the inhabitants should die in six weeks of some local disease!
Yet these men are New Englanders, only tempered to steel by hardships,
by discipline, by a profound sense of duty. How I have seen them march
with blistered and bleeding feet! march all night after having fought
all day! march when every step was a crucifixion! Oh, these noblemen of
nature, our American common soldiers! In the face of suffering and of
death they are my equals; and while I exact their obedience, I accord
them my respect."
The mud of Louisiana appears to have been as troublesome a footing, as
the famous sacred soil of Virginia.
"It is the most abominable, sticky, doughy stuff that ever was used in
any country for earth," he says. "It 'balls up' on your feet like damp
snow on a horse's hoofs. I have repeatedly seen a man stop and look
behind him, under the belief that he had lost off his shoe, when it was
merely the dropping of the immense mud-pie which had formed around his
foot. It is like travelling over a land of suet saturated with pudding
sauce.
"Just now the rain is coming down as in the days of Noah. I am under a
tent, for an unusual mercy; but the drops are driven through the rotten
canvass by the wind. The ditch outside my dwelling is not deep enough to
carry off all the water which runs into it, and a small stream is
stealing under my bedding and forming a puddle in the centre of my
floor. But I don't care for this;--I know that my rubber-blanket is a
good one: the main nuisance is that my interior will be muddy. By night
I expect to be in a new tent, enlarged and elevated by a siding of
planks, so that I shall have a promenade of eight feet in length
sheltered from the weather. I only fear that the odor will not be
agreeable; for the planks were plundered from the molasses-vats of a
sugar-mill and are saturated with treacle; not sticky, you understand,
but quite too saccharinely fragrant."
It appears that the army, even in field service, is not altogether
barren of convivialities. In the letter following the one, quoted above
he says, "My new dwelling has been warmed. I had scarcely taken
possession of it when a brother officer, half seas over, and with an
inscrutable smile on his lips, stalks in and insists upon treating the
occasion. I cannot prevent it without offending him, and there is no
strong reason why I should prevent it. He sends to the sutler for two
bottles of claret, and then for two more, and finishes them, or sees
that they are finished. It is soon evident that he is crowded full and
can't carry any more for love or politeness. At dress parade I do not
see him out, and learn that he is in his tent, with a prospect of
remaining there for the next twelve hours. Yet he is a brave, faithful
officer, this now groggiest of sleepers, and generally a very temperate
one, so that everybody is wondering, and, I am sorry to say, giggling,
over his unusual obfuscation."
In another letter he describes a "jollification by division" on the
anniversary of the little victory of Georgia Landing.
"All the officers, not only of the old brigade but of the entire
division, were invited to headquarters. Being a long way from our base,
the eatables were limited to dried beef, pickles and hard-tack, and the
only refreshments to be had in profusion were commissary whiskey and
martial music. Such a roaring time as there was by midnight in and
around the hollow square formed by the headquarter tents. By dint of
vociferations the General was driven to make the first speech of a
life-time. He confined himself chiefly to reminiscences of our battles,
and made a very pleasant, rambling kind of talk, most of it, however,
inaudible to me, who stood on the outside of the circle. When he closed,
Tom Perkins, our brave and bossy band-drummer, roared out, 'General, I
couldn't hear much of what you said, but I believe what you said was
right'."
"This soldierly profession of faith was followed by three-times-three
for our commander, everybody joining in without regard to grade of
commission. Then Captain Jones of our regiment shouted, 'Tenth
Barataria! three cheers for our old comrades at Georgia Landing and
everywhere else, the Seventy-Fifth New York!' and the cheers were given.
Then Captain Brown of the Seventy Fifth replied, 'There are not many of
us Seventy-Fifth left; but what there are, we can meet the occasion;
three cheers for the Tenth Barataria!' Then one excited officer roared
for Colonel Smith, and another howled for Colonel Robinson, and another
screamed for Colonel Jackson, in consequence of which those gentlemen
responded with speeches. Nobody seemed to care for what they said, but
all hands yelled as if it was a bayonet charge. As the fun got fast and
furious public attention settled on a gigantic, dark-complexioned
officer, stupendously drunk and volcanically uproarious; and twenty
voices united in shouting, 'Van Zandt! Van Zandt!'--The great Van Zandt,
smiling like an intoxicated hyæna, plunged uncertainly at the crowd, and
was assisted to the centre of it. There, as if he were about to make an
oration of an hour or so, he dragged off his overcoat, after a struggle
worthy of Weller Senior in his pursiest days; then, held up by two
friends, in a manner which reminded me obscurely of Aaron and Hur
sustaining Moses, he stretched out both hands, and delivered himself as
follows. 'G'way from th' front thar! G'way from the front thar! An' when
say g'way from th' front--thar----'
"He probably intended to disperse some musicians and contrabands who
were grinning at him; but before he could explain himself another
drunken gentleman reeled against him, vociferating for Colonel Robinson.
Van Zandt gave way with a gigantic lurch, like that of an overbalanced
iceberg, which carried him clean out of the circle. Somebody brought him
his overcoat and held him up while he surged into it. Then he fell over
a tent rope and lay across it for five minutes, struggling to regain his
feet and smiling in a manner incomprehensible to the beholder. He made
no effort to resume his speech, and evidently thought that he had
finished it to public satisfaction; but he subsequently addressed the
General in his tent, requesting, so far as could be understood, that the
Tenth might be mounted as cavalry. Tom Perkins also staggered into the
presence of our commander, and made him a pathetic address, weeping
plentifully over his own maudlin, and shaking hands repeatedly, with the
remark, 'General, allow me to take you by the hand.'
"It was an All Fools' evening. For once distinctions of rank were
abolished. This morning we are subordinates again, and the General is
our dignified superior officer."
One of the few amusements of field service seems to consist in listening
to the facetiæ of the common soldiers, more particularly the
irrepressible Hibernians.
"These Irishmen," he says, "are certainly a droll race when you get used
to their way of looking at things. My twenty-five Paddies have jabbered
and joked more since they entered the service than my seventy Americans
backed up by my ten Germans. To give you an idea of how they prattle I
will try to set down a conversation which I overheard while we were
bivouacking on the field of our first battle. The dead are buried; the
wounded have been carried to a temporary hospital; the pickets are out,
watchful, we may be sure, because half-frozen in the keen October wind;
the men who remain with the colors are sitting up around camp fires,
their knapsacks, blankets and overcoats three miles to the rear. This
seems hard measure for fellows who have made a twenty-mile march, and
gained a victory since morning. But my Irishmen are as jolly as ever,
blathering and chaffing each other after their usual fashion. The butt
of the company is Sweeney, a withered little animal who walks as if he
had not yet thoroughly learned to go on his hind legs, a most curious
mixture of simplicity and humor, an actual Handy Andy.
'Sweeney,' says one, 'you ought to do the biggest part of the fightin'.
You ate more'n your share of the rashins.'
'I don't ate no more rashins than I get,' retorts Sweeney, indignant at
this stale calumny. 'I'd like to see the man as did.'
'Oh, you didn't blather so much whin thim shells was a-flying about your
head.'
Here Sweeney falls back upon his old and sometimes successful dodge of
trying to turn the current of ridicule upon some one else:
'Wasn't Mickey Emmett perlite a-comin' across the lot?' he demands. 'I
see him bowin' like a monkey on horseback. He was makin' faces as 'ud
charrm the head off a whalebarry. Mickey, you dodged beautiful.'
_Mickey._ Thim shells 'ud make a wooden man dodge. Sweeney's the bye for
dodgin'. He was a runnin' about like a dry pea in a hot shovel.
_Sweeney._ That's what me legs was made for.
_Sullivan._ Are ye dead, Sweeney? (An old joke which I do not
understand.)
_Sweeney._ An I wud be if I was yer father, for thinkin' of the drrunken
son I had.
_Sullivan._ Did ye see that dead rebel with his oye out?
_Sweeney._ The leftenant ate up all his corn cake while he wasn't
noticin'.
_Sullivan._ It was lookin' at Sweeney put his oye out.
_Sweeney._ It's lucky for him he didn't see the pair av us.
_Jonathan._ Stop your yawping, you Paddies, and let a fellow sleep if he
can. You're worse than an acre of tomcats.
_Sullivan._ To the divil wid ye! It's a pity this isn't all an Oirish
company, for the credit of the Captin.
_Touhey._ Byes, it's mighty cowld slapin' with niver a blanket, nor a
wife to one's back.
_Sweeney._ I wish a man 'ud ask me to lisht for three years more.
Wouldn't I knock his head off?
_Sullivan._ Ye couldn't raich the head av a man, Sweeney. Ye hav'n't got
the hoight for it.
_Sweeney._ I'd throw him down. Thin I'd be tall enough.
"And so they go on till one or two in the morning, when I fall asleep,
leaving them still talking."
Even the characteristics of a brute afford matter of comment amid the
Sahara-like flatness of ordinary camp life.
"I have nothing more of importance to communicate," he says in one
letter, "except that I have been adopted by a tailless dog, who,
probably for the lack of other following, persists in laying claim to my
fealty. If I leave my tent door open when I go out, I find him under my
bunk when I come in. As he has nothing to wag, he is put to it to
express his approval of my ways and character. When I speak to him he
lies down on his back with a meekness of expression which I am sure has
not been rivalled since Moses. He is the most abnormally bobbed dog that
ever excited my amazement. I think I do not exaggerate when I declare
that his tail appears to have been amputated in the small of his back.
How he can draw his breath is a wonder. In fact, he seems to have lost
his voice by the operation, as though the docking had injured his
bronchial tubes, for he never barks, nor growls, nor whines. I often
lose myself in speculation over his absent appendage, questioning
whether it was shot away in battle, or left behind in a rapid march, or
bitten off, or pulled out. Perhaps it is on detached service as a
waggin-master, or has got a promotion and become a brevet lion's tail.
Perhaps it has gone to the dog heaven, and is wagging somewhere in
glory. Venturing again on a pun I observed that it is very proper that
an army dog should be detailed. I wish I could find his master;--I have
just one observation to make to that gentleman;--I would say to him,
'There is your dog.--I don't want the beast, and I don't see why he
wants me; but I can't get rid of him, any more than I can of Henry, who
is equally useless.' I sometimes try to estimate the infinitessimal loss
which the world would experience if the two should disappear together,
but always give up the problem in despair, not having any knowledge of
fractions small enough to figure it."
"In a general way," says Colburne, "we are sadly off for amusements.
Fowling is not allowed because the noise of the guns alarms the pickets.
Even alligators I have only shot at once, when I garrisoned a little
post four miles from camp, and, being left without rations, was obliged
to subsist my company for a day on boiled Saurian. The meat was eatable,
but not recommendable to persons of delicate appetite, being of an
ancient and musky flavor, as though it had been put up in its horny case
a thousand years ago. By the way, a minie ball knocks a hole in these
fellows' celebrated jackets without the slightest difficulty. As for
riding after hounds or on steeple chases, or boxing, or making up
running or rowing matches, after the gymnastic fashion of English
officers, we never think of it. Now and then there is a horse-race, but
for the most part we play euchre. Drill is no longer an amusement as at
first, but an inexpressibly wearisome monotony. Conversation is
profitless and dull, except when it is professional or larkish. With the
citizens we have no dealings at all, and I have not spoken to a lady
since I left New Orleans. Books are few because we cannot carry them
about, being limited in our baggage to a carpet-sack; and moreover I
have lost my taste for reading, and even for all kinds of thinking
except on military matters. My brother officers, you know, are brave,
sensible and useful men, but would not answer to fill the professorial
chairs of Winslow University. They represent the plain people whose
cause is being fought out in this war against an aristocracy. When I
first went into camp with the regiment they humorously recognized my
very slight fashionable elevation by styling my company, which then
numbered eighteen men, 'The Upper Ten Thousand.' Now all such
distinctions are rubbed out; it is, who can fight best, march best,
command best; each one stands on the base of his individual manhood. In
the army a man cannot remain long on a social pedestal which will enable
him to overlook the top of his own head. He can obtain no respect which
is not accorded to rank or merit; and very little merit is acknowledged
except what is of a professional character."
With true _esprit du corps_ he frequently expatiates on the excellencies
of his regiment.
"The discipline in the Tenth is good," he declares, "and consequently
there are no mutinies, no desertions and not much growling. Ask the
soldiers if they are satisfied with the service, and they might answer,
'No;' but you cannot always judge of a man by what he says, even in his
impulsive moments; you must also consider what he does. Look at an old
man-of-war's man: he growls on the forecastle, but is as meek as Moses
on the quarter-deck; and, notwithstanding all his mutterings, he is
always at his post and does his duty with a will. Just so our soldiers
frequently say that they only want to get out of the service, but never
run away and rarely manoeuvre for a discharge."
This, it will be observed, was before the days of substitutes and
bounty-jumpers, and while the regiments were still composed of the noble
fellows who enlisted during the first and second years of the war.
From all that I can learn of Captain Colburne I judge that he was a
model officer, at least so far as a volunteer knew how to be one. While
his men feared him on account of his reserve and his severe discipline,
they loved him for the gallantry and cheerful fortitude with which he
shared their dangers and hardships. The same respect which he exacted of
them he accorded, at least outwardly, to all superior officers, even
including the contemptible Gazaway. He did this from principle, for the
good of the service, believing that authority ought not to be questioned
lightly in an army. By the way, the Major did not like him: he would
have preferred to have the Captain jolly and familiar and vulgar; then
he would have felt at ease in his presence. This gentlemanly bearing,
this dignified respect, kept him, the superior, at a distance. The truth
is that, although Gazaway was, in the emphatic language of Lieutenant
Van Zandt, "an inferior cuss," he nevertheless had intelligence enough
to suspect the profound contempt which lay behind Colburne's salute.
Only in the Captain's letters to his intimate friend, Ravenel, does he
speak unbecomingly of the Major.
"He is," says one of these epistles, "a low-bred, conceited,
unreasonable, domineering ass, who by instinct detests a gentleman and a
man of education. He will issue an order contrary to the Regulations,
and fly into a rage if a captain represents its illegality. I have got
his ill-will in this way, I presume, as well perhaps as by knowing how
to spell correctly. His orders, circulars, etc., are perfect curiosities
of literature until they are corrected by his clerk, who is a private
soldier. Sometimes I am almost tired of obeying and respecting my
inferiors; and I certainly shall not continue to serve a day after the
war is over."
However, these matters are now by-gones, Gazaway being out of the
regiment. I mention them chiefly to show the manliness of character
which this intelligent and educated young officer exhibited in remaining
in the service notwithstanding moral annoyances more painful to bear
than marches and battles. He is still enthusiastic; has not by any
means had fighting enough; wants to go to Virginia in order to be in the
thickest of it. He is disappointed at not receiving promotion; but bears
it bravely and uncomplainingly, for the sake of the nation; bears it as
he does sickness, starvation, blistered feet and wounds.