SKETCHES IN PRISON CAMPS:
A CONTINUATION OF
Sketches of the War.
BY
CHARLES C. NOTT,
LATE COLONEL OF THE 176TH NEW YORK VOLS.
“On her bier,
Quiet lay the buried year;
I sat down where I could see,
Life without and sunshine free—
Death within!”
NEW YORK:
ANSON D. F. RANDOLPH,
770 BROADWAY, CORNER OF 9TH ST.
1865.
ENTERED, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1865, by
CHARLES C. NOTT,
In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States for the
Southern District of New York.
JOHN J. REED, PRINTER AND STEREOTYPER,
43 Centre Street, N. Y.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
To
CLARKSON N. POTTER,
FOR HIS GENEROSITY AND GREAT FAITHFULNESS TO ME,
AND TO EVERY SOLDIER WITH WHOM HE HAS BEEN IN ANY WAY CONNECTED
DURING THE PAST WAR,
THIS WORK IS GRATEFULLY DEDICATED.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
I.— THE TRANSPORT 7
II.— THE PAY-MASTER 25
III.— THE WILD TEXANS 37
IV.— THE MARCH 57
V.— THE PRAIRIES 71
VI.— CAMP GROCE 94
VII.— TEA 119
VIII.— CAMP FORD 132
IX.— A DINNER 150
X.— ESCAPE 171
XI.— EXCHANGE 193
PRISON CAMPS.
I.
THE TRANSPORT.
“There come the tug-boats, Colonel,” says an officer, as I stand on the
deck of the “Alice Counce,” waiting for my regiment. I am a stranger to
it, and only assume command to-day. From the East river come the boats,
laden as many other boats have been, with a dark swarm of men, who cover
the deck and hang upon the bulwarks.
The boats come alongside and throw their lines to the ship, and then
rises a concord of those sounds that generally start with a new
regiment.
“ATTENTION! Officers and men will remain on board the boats till ordered
aboard the ship. Captains of A and F will march their companies aboard
and conduct them to their quarters. The bunks of each are marked with
their Company letter.”
The hubbub ends, and the companies climb successively aboard, and
stumble down into the dark hold, where, cold and clammy from recent
scrubbings, are certain rough bunks, each so contrived as thoroughly to
make four men unhappy. Unhappy! for the bunks are three tiers thick
between decks, leaving no room wherein to sit up and be sick—and four
men in one bed never did and never will lie still. Those who have never
been to sea before, dream not of what awaits them!
Yet the men surprise me with the great good humor in which they seek out
and take possession of their dark quarters. On one side, beginning at
the sternmost bulkhead, Co. “A,” with the aid of dingy ship-lanterns,
stows away the baggage, and next to it is “F,” at the same work. This
order of the companies has a reason; for in line of battle, they are
assorted in pairs, called “divisions,” so that each division shall
contain one of the five senior and one of the five junior captains. In
camp too they occupy the same places as in line of battle, and hence
this is the proper guide for assigning quarters on ship board. Beginning
on one side at the extreme stern with “A,” we run round the ship until
at the extreme stern on the opposite side we finish with “B.” There is
some difference in the comfort of the bunks; somebody must have the
worst, and it is very desirable that this somebody shall blame for it
only his own bad luck.
“Shall we weigh anchor soon, Captain?”
“Can’t tell, sir. No wind now. Looks as though a fog were coming down.
Can’t sail till we’ve a wind.”
“Colonel,” says one of the Captains, “my first-lieutenant has not been
out of camp for six weeks. If you will let him go ashore, I shall be
much obliged.”
“I cannot, Captain; the ship is ordered to sail immediately. While this
is possible, no officer can leave.”
“Colonel,” says another, “Lieutenant A., of my company, learnt last
evening that his mother is quite ill. “Will you approve this pass?”
“I am sorry to say, Captain, that no officer can leave the ship. We are
under sailing orders—the pilot is on board—the tug within hail, and we
shall weigh anchor whenever the wind freshens.”
“It is really very hard.”
“Very!”
“Colonel,” says a third, “my first-sergeant’s wife is very ill. I told
him that he could go back and see her, and get his things this morning.
If you will approve this pass, I shall be very much obliged.”
“He must send for his things. We are under sailing orders. No one can
leave the ship.”
“The poor fellow promised her that he would certainly be back to-day. It
was the only way he could make her consent to his coming. He is a most
faithful fellow.”
“Mate, do you think we can possibly sail to-night?”
“No, sir; fog won’t rise afore midnight. Pilot’s gone ashore.”
“Then, Captain, let your sergeant take this dispatch to head-quarters,
and report on board at daylight.”
The fog grows denser and denser—the rain comes down; such dreary
refusals and disappointments have filled the day. The cabin will not
hold half the officers. Nothing is settled—all is dirt, disorder and
confusion. Oh, what a wretched, moody, miserable day!
A week of such days passes, but at last the fresh west wind blows keen
and cold. A little tug comes out from among the piers, and seizing the
great vessel, leads her towards the Narrows, and the regiment at last is
moving to New Orleans.
“I shall be glad,” says a young lieutenant, flushed with the thought of
setting forth on his first campaign, “I shall be glad when we are out of
sight of New York.”
“You’ll be gladder when you come in sight of it again.”
“Perhaps I shall,” he says, with a laugh; “but after all our working and
waiting, it’s delightful to be off at last.”
I stand on the deck watching the sinking city and the lessening shores,
as many have done before me, while gliding down the beautiful bay, until
they grow dim in the distance, and then turn away, to think of
inspections, rations, fires, and sea-sickness.
The first night has passed without incident or accident, extinguishing
the excitement of our sailing and leaving us to wake up quietly for our
first day at sea. Not “quietly,” for twenty drummer boys, without the
faintest sign of sea-sickness, rattled out a reveille that frightened
the rats from their holes, and brought the sleeping watch from the
forecastle, and disturbed every sailor and sleeper in the ship. It left
us wide awake, and ready for the routine and duties of the day.
BREAKFAST!—Breakfast is no easy thing to get in a transport ship. All
night long two gangs of cooks have been at work, and there are fears and
whispers that with all their efforts, the breakfast will run short. Very
aggravating is it to wait for breakfast in this cold sea air, with
nothing else to think of, and your thoughts quickened (if you are among
the last) by the fear that there is not enough to go round. A serious
business, too, it is to deal it out, requiring more than an hour of
hungry moments. The companies form in files, and on each side of the
ship approach the caboose. A mug and plate are thrust through a hole. In
a moment, filled with a junk of pork, three “hard-tack,” and a pint of
pale coffee, they are thrust back. The hungry owner seizes them and
hurries away to some quiet spot, where he can unclasp his knife and
fork, and cool his coffee to his liking. The long files of the unfed,
one by one, creep slowly up to the greasy dispensary. The first company
of the occasion ironically congratulates the last, the last ironically
condoles with the first. They take turn about. Company A is first at
breakfast to-day; second at lunch; third at supper; to-morrow it will be
fourth, and thus it will keep on until at length it reaches the
agonizing state of being _last_!
WATER!—The water is the next annoyance of the morning. The men are
brought up on the upper deck. On the lower one is a pump connected by a
hose, with the water casks below. The mate, on behalf of the ship, and
an officer, on behalf of the regiment, deal out the water. Two men from
every squad, each with a load of canteens hung around his neck, come
forward and fill them from the tub—a slow and mussy piece of work.
INSPECTION.—“The water is dealt out, Colonel,” says the Officer of the
Day. “Will you inspect the quarters?”
The assembly beats, and the men again crowd the upper deck. Armed with a
lantern, I grasp a slippery ladder, and go down into the dark, “between
decks.” It is very still and almost empty there, much like a gloomy
cave. The companies have been divided into four squads, and a sergeant
and two corporals have charge of the quarters of each.
I begin with the first and poke the lantern up into the upper tier, over
into the middle tier, down into the lower tier. Blankets out—knapsacks
at the head—nothing lying loose. No crumbs betraying hard-tack smuggled
in; the deck scrubbed clean. “Very good, Sergeant. Your quarters do you
credit.” The next, a blanket not out—half a hard-tack in the upper tier,
the crumbs scattered over the lower—the deck dingy with loathsome
tobacco. “Look at this, and this, and this, Sergeant. Yours are the only
dirty quarters in the ship.”
“Don’t you think the quarters pretty good on the whole, Colonel?” asks
the Officer of the Day.
“Very good, Captain. If we except that sergeant’s, there is really
nothing to find fault with.” And thus ends the first inspection.
“If the rebels hadn’t ha’ destroyed the light-house,” remarks my friend
the first mate, as he looks with his glass toward Hampton Roads, “we
could ha’ run right straight in last night, but seeing that the ship is
light in ballast, and a good many souls aboard, why, it wasn’t safe.”
“So they destroyed the Cape Henry light, did they?”
“Yes indeed, they did, and it does seem to me that of all they’ve done
that ought to ha’ set the hull civilized world against them, it’s the
worst. Just think now how many a fine vessel must ha’ gone aground
there, and never be got off again, just for want of the light; why, it
does seem to me that it’s worse than a shooting women and children; at
any rate, it’s just the same.”
“There comes the pilot-boat, and she has her signal set,” says some one.
Far up the Chesapeake the pilot-boat is seen, a small flag fluttering
from her mast head. She comes straight as an arrow, like a greyhound
rushing down upon us in his play. How beautifully she bounds along,
looking as she mounts the waves as if she would leap from the water. The
yards are backed and the ship stops and waits for the little craft. The
pilot-boat circles round her, and coming into the wind, seems to settle
down like a dog resting from his sport. A little cockle shell of a boat
puts off, pulled by two black oarsmen, who buffet and dodge the waves,
and make their way slowly against the wind toward the ship. There is
much curiosity to see this Virginian pilot, and all hands crowd forward
as he comes up the side. The Captain alone has not moved to meet him.
_He_ stands dignifiedly on the poop deck, his glass beneath his arm. The
pilot does not ask for him, or pause or look around; he evidently knows
the very spot on which the Captain stands. He bows to the crowd around
him, pushes his way through, and mounts to the deck. He walks up to the
Captain, and they shake hands. The Captain hands him his glass: the
pilot takes it: it is the emblem of authority, and the Captain no longer
commands the ship.
The pilot raises the glass and looks sharply in one direction; he takes
a turn or two up and down the deck, and looks attentively in another. I
am convinced that he knows as well where we are as I should, were I
standing on the steps of the City Hall. All this looking is evidently
done to impress beholders with the difficulty of being a pilot. “How
does she head?” says the pilot. “Due west,” says the man at the wheel.
“Keep her west by sou’ half sou’,” says the pilot. “Wes’ by sou’ half
sou’,” responds the man at the wheel. “Set your jib, sir,” says the
pilot to the Capt. “Set the jib, Mr. Small,” says the Captain to the
first mate. “Set the jib, Mr. Green,” says the first mate to the second
mate. “All hands man the jib halyards,” says the second mate. “Aye, aye,
sir,” respond the sailors, and the soldiers look quite sober at finding
themselves all of a sudden in so difficult and maybe dangerous a
channel. Meanwhile the black oarsmen pull back to where the pilot-boat
still lies at rest. The touch of the cockle shell upon her side startles
her again into life. She shakes her white wings, and turning, bounds off
toward another ship, whose sails are slowly rising from the waves far
off toward the east.
What we have come to Fortress Monroe for no one can tell. In spite of a
decisive order to sail forthwith for New Orleans, the wind refuses to
blow. Another weary week of calm and fog intervenes. The Captain laments
and growls, and says if we had kept on with _that_ breeze, we could have
been at the Hole-in-the-wall, and maybe at Abicum-light; but now there’s
no telling when the wind will set in from the west—he’s known it set
this way at this season for three weeks. The officers and men repeat the
growls and lamentations, and fail not to ask me five hundred times a day
what we have come to Fortress Monroe for.
The week of waiting ends, and a westerly wind assures us that we may
start. “We must have a tug to tow us down,” says the Captain. “And we
must have the water-boat along side,” says the mate. A boat load of
officers and soldiers go ashore to make their last purchases. I wait on
the dock and watch the water-boat as it puts off, and listen to the “yo
he yo” on the “Alice Counce” and “Emily Sturges,” which tells me that
their anchors are coming up.
The tug took us down—the pilot left us much as before, and we are now
out at sea. The “Emily” led us by half an hour, and all day long was in
sight, sailing closer to the wind and standing closer on the coast. As
the evening closed in, we cast many jealous glances toward her, and
asked each other which ship would be ahead in the morning.
The second day was a gloomy, wintry day, with a rising wind, and
constantly increasing sea; and the second night out I felt the motion
grow and grow, but thought it rather pleasant, and had no fears of evil
consequences. I rose with the reveille, which seemed fainter than usual,
steadied myself out of the cabin, and still knew no fear. I reached the
deck and found that but four drummer boys rub-a-dubbed, and but few men
had come up from below. I mounted to the poop deck, and there I found
three lieutenants. There was something unusual about them. Two sat very
still braced against a spar, while the third staggered violently up and
down with a pale, in fact a ghastly face, and kept saying in a jolly
manner to himself, “How are _you_, ship? how are _you_, o—oh—shun?”
“This is very strange,” thought I. “But perhaps they’re ill. I’ll ask
them.”
“Gentlemen, are you sick—sea-sick?”
“Sick? oh no!”
Nobody was sick, so I turned and looked down on the main deck. The
reveille had ended, yet the number on deck had not increased. A sergeant
with five or six men in line was calling his roll in a loud voice, at
which he and half his men repeatedly laughed, as though absence from
roll-call was a capital joke.
It is usual for an officer from each company to come up to me
immediately after the morning roll-call, and report the state of his
company, “all present or accounted for,” or so many present and so many
absent and not accounted for. I am somewhat strict about it, yet on this
morning only one or two reported. I thought this negligence
strange—unaccountable—yet for some reason or other, I did not go down
and ascertain the cause of it. I turned toward the east. The sun was
near his rising, and the crimson light filled the sky and tinged the
white foam of the tossing waves. It was a splendid sight, and brought to
mind one of the finest sea pieces of the Dusseldorf. I stood watching
the wide expanse of heaving billows—the cloud-spotted sky under-lit with
rays of the coming sun—the unnumbered waves breaking in long rolls of
foam, silvered and gilded by the glowing east. I was lost in admiration,
when I suddenly felt—sick! I made brave attempts to keep myself up—to
weather it out—to stay on my legs—to stay on deck—to do something—to do
anything. In vain!
That day the wind increased and blew a gale. Through the long hours of
the afternoon the vessel plunged and tossed. Furniture broke loose and
slid backward and forward across the cabin. The steward looked in,
seized the vagrant pieces, and lashed them fast. Stragglers steadied
themselves from door to table and from table to sofa, to say that all
the others were down—that they began to feel a little qualmish, and that
affairs were growing serious. Toward midnight there was a tremendous
shock—the ship staggered and stood still, as though she had struck upon
a rock; in an instant more the door of the forward cabin was burst open
with a crash, and in another the water broke through the sky-light over
my head, and poured, a torrent, on the cabin floor. To the men between
decks it seemed a shipwreck. Yet there were not wanting a few heartless
wretches, who, neither sea-sick nor frightened, made sport of all the
others. “The ship’s struck a breaker,” roared one of these from his
bunk. “All frightened men roll out and put on their boots to sink in.”
“Struck,” “breakers,” “sinking,” sounded around, and several hundred men
rolled out in the darkness, and frantically tried to put on their boots.
With the next roll, away all hands went. Some caught at the bunks—some
clutched each other—the penitent prayed—the wicked swore—the frightened
blubbered—the sick and philosophical lay still. In the midst of the
sliding, the scramble and the din, a voice rose from another bunk,
“Captains”—it thundered in the style of a Colonel on drill—“rectify the
alignment.” And the jokers added to the din their loud laughs of
derision.
A little later the mate came in—a large, stalwart sailor, seeming a
giant in his oilskins and sou’wester. He carefully closed the door,
stepped lightly across the cabin floor, ceremoniously removed his hat,
and looking into the darkness of the captain’s state-room, said in the
most apologetic of tones, “Captain Singer, I’m really afraid the mast
will go, if we don’t ease her a point. It works very bad, and the wind’s
rising.”
The Captain considered slowly and said, “Ease her.”
The mate said politely, “Yes, sir,” and then backed across the cabin
lightly on tip toe, hat in hand, opened the door slowly and noiselessly,
and then, without replacing his hat, slipped out into the storm.
The long night wore away and was followed by a longer day. The ship
tossed and plunged, rising as though she were mounting from the water to
the sky, and then sinking as though she would never stop. At last the
gale blew itself out, and then came a calm, when the ship lay like a log
on the water, rolling ceaselessly from side to side, and creaked and
groaned with every toss and roll. But now there is a cry of land, and
the sick drag themselves to the deck and look toward a rocky island of
the Bahama group, which is the “land.” How beautiful it seems, hung
there on the horizon between the shifting clouds and tossing sea! The
breeze is fair, the sea not rough, and we soon draw nearer to this land.
On the farther end rises the snowy tower of the light-house, and beside
it stands the house of the keeper. No other house, nor field, nor tree,
nor blade of grass adorns this huge bare rock. The waves have worn
grooves on the steep sides, and up these the water dashes, and runs down
in white moving columns. Abreast of us is a strange opening in the
wall-like rock, which has given to the island its name of
“Hole-in-the-wall.” The spy-glasses disclose a man, a woman, and some
children, looking toward the ship. Once in three months the supply ship
will visit them, bringing their food, their clothing, their water and
the oil: once or twice a year, when the sea is calm and the wind has
fallen, the keeper may row out to some ship to beg for newspapers; more
often they may gaze, as they are gazing now, at passing vessels; and
thus, with such rare intervals, they pass their lonely life, cut off and
isolated from all mankind.
The warm temperature and rich blue color of the water tell us that we
are in the Gulf Stream. As I lie upon the deck looking upon the
mysterious current, a slender bird, eight or ten inches long, shining
like silver, flits through the air. “Did you see that bird?” asks more
than one voice. “Was it a bird?” “Yes, it flew like one.” “No, it came
out of the water and went back there.”
“It’s a flying-fish, gentlemen,” says the mate; “you’ll see plenty of
them soon.”
A more beautiful, fairy-like sight than these flying-fish present, I
have seldom seen. A delicate creature, bright and silvery, and often
beautifully tinged with blue, emerges from the water, and soars just
above the waves in a long, graceful, bird-like flight, until striking
against the summit of some wave that lifts its white cap higher than the
rest, it disappears.
This is called a pleasant voyage from Hole-in-the-wall. We watch the
flying-fish, catch Portuguese men-of-war, and bathe in the warm water of
the stream, until there appears before us what some at first thought a
mud bank, but which now proves to be another ocean of muddy water.
“It is the Mississippi,” says the Captain. “The river must be up, for
we’re a hundred miles good from the Sou’west Pass. There’ll be trouble
in crossing the bar; when the river’s up the water’s down.”
As we draw nearer, the contrast between the two oceans grows more plain.
The line is as distinct as that between land and water on a map. Now the
bow of the vessel reaches it—now the line is a midship—now I look down
upon it, and now the ship floats wholly in the water of the Mississippi.
The muddy sea has raised a ferment of excitement, and many, who have all
faith in the ship’s reckoning, still look forward as though they could
look through the hundred miles before us, and see the wished-for land.
Night closes, however, leaving us surrounded by the same muddy waves;
but we turn in, with the strong assurance that to-morrow we shall make
the Pass.
Land! But hidden under low fogs, that, I am told, brood over this delta
of the Mississippi. From the crosstrees can be seen one or two
steam-tugs, vessels at anchor, and distant salt marshes; but from the
deck we peer about in all directions, and see nothing in the fog. A
pilot moves the ship up to her anchorage. We are to wait perhaps only
the moving of the tugs—perhaps the falling of the river; the river is
up, and as was foretold by the Captain, the water is down.
The explanation of this paradox is simple. The water on the bar is ocean
water, though discolored by the river. Its height is always a tidal
height, that is, it rises with the tide, not with the river. The
freshets, while they do not add to the height of the water, nevertheless
bring down large quantities of mud, which settles on the bar, and thus
builds up the bottom without raising the surface of the water. The
pilots measure from the bottom, and finding it nearer the surface than
it was, say that the water has fallen, when in fact it is the bottom
that has risen. Then come the tides and wash away the loose mud upon the
bar, and thus the water deepens while the river falls.
We are again at anchor; a tug is heard in the fog, and all turn
anxiously toward it. The Captain of the tug hails the Captain of the
ship, and demands what water she draws.
“Sixteen feet and a half,” is the answer. “Will that do?”
The Captain of the tug says it is doubtful—they are going down to tug
another ship that draws fifteen and a half, and if they get her over,
they will tug us at the next flood-tide.
That ship is the transport “William Woodbury.” She comes down gallantly,
the soldiers crowding her bulwarks, two powerful tugs puffing at her
sides, and every sail set. We watch her with anxiety. She passes a buoy
that we think marks the bar, and all seems well. The mate says he “don’t
know but akind of believes she’s over.” As he speaks, she swings round,
stops, and sticks fast. The steam-tugs pull her backward and forward and
sidewise, and at last over the bar; she disappears in the fog beyond,
and we await with fresh anxiety the flood-tide of the afternoon.
These tugs have one strange appendage in the form of a ladder as high as
the smoke-pipe; on the top of this is a chair, and in this chair is a
man. It is the pilot who thus looks over the low fogs of the Pass. From
this high place we hear the voice of one, toward evening, and soon two
tugs come down to try their strength in dragging our ship through two
feet of mud. The heaviest hawser is out on deck and an end run over
either side to the stubborn little tug that lies there. The anchor is
tripped, a sail or two set, and with good headway, we approach the bar.
Suddenly every one who is on his legs takes an unexpected step
forward—the hawser parts—the tugs break loose—and we are hard aground.
But the tugs do not give it up. They reattach themselves and drag us,
after many efforts, out of the mud and back to where we started.
We approach the bar again cautiously; but again we feel the vessel
grounding, and again she stands still. The tugs tug away as though
striving to drag us through by main strength, and many declare that we
are moving slowly. A neighboring buoy, however, stays close beside us,
and after half an hour’s hard work, shows that we have not moved a foot.
Still the tugs tug as obstinately as ever. They drag us back and try
afresh—now to the right—now to the left—panting, puffing and blowing.
The pilots sit enveloped in clouds of black coal smoke, and shout, and
scream. At last, with the last rays of daylight, and the last swelling
of the tide, and the last strands of the hawser, and at the moment when
all efforts must cease, we are dragged across the bar, and enter the
Mississippi.
II.
THE PAY-MASTER.
Westward from New Orleans stretches the Opelousas railroad, and along
this road we are now doing guard duty. Guarding a railroad is the most
unwelcome task that can be thrust on the Colonel of a new
regiment—scattering the companies, demoralizing the men, destroying the
regiment, and therefore a Colonel, under such circumstances, has a right
to be a little discontented, and very cross.
I _am_ a little discontented, and have wished a hundred times that I
were back, writing on the sunny hill-side of Camp Lowe, enduring all the
hardships of Tennessee. From an unsoldierly point of view, there is
nothing to complain of here. For the leaky tent, the muddy floor, the
pork and “hard-tack” of the West, my large new tent has a double-fly and
plank floor; and it is filled with tables, chairs, and other luxuries.
Up the neighboring bayou of La Fourche, too, come miniature canal-boats,
tugged along by little creole ponies, and laden with fish and oysters,
which the swarthy French fishermen catch in the not distant Gulf. The
surrounding woods are filled with game that finds its way constantly to
camp, and from every one of the large plantations that abound here, are
brought vegetables, eggs and poultry. Yet I do not relish this ease and
indolence—the rough cavalry service suits me better, and I wish a
hundred times a day that I were back in Tennessee.
It is the spring-time of the year, yet there is but little of the
reality of spring to us. The grass has long been green, the flowers are
plentiful, the sun is hot and burning, but the leaves come leisurely
along, and for a fortnight have only moved. These flowers, too, have
generally no fragrance, though now and then there is one that overpowers
us with its sweet, sickening odor, and the birds that fill the trees are
songless, save the “merry mocking-bird,” who, like the perfume giving
flowers, has more than his share of noise and song. There is, therefore,
none of the glad bursting forth that makes so brief and beautiful our
northern spring.
This is a muster-day in the army, and it is the forerunner of the
Pay-Master. I have been busy since daybreak calling the rolls of the
companies along the railroad, and I have now to ride twelve miles and
muster one that is doing Provost guard duty in the village of Houma. It
is not a pleasant ride to Houma; the road runs along a bayou, as
straight and stagnant as a canal. Occasionally there comes a boat,
freighted with a dozen barrels of molasses or a few hogsheads of sugar,
furrowing its way through the green scum that covers the water, and
breaking down the rank-growing weeds that choke the channel. The
vagabond-looking ponies that drag it along, travel on the “levee,” which
has the appearance of a tow-path, and makes the bayou look more than
ever like a canal. This bayou is a hideous frog-pond, long drawn out,
filled with black, slimy mud, and teeming with hideous reptiles. My
horse starts as I ride beside it, and snuffs the tainted air nervously,
for two turkey-buzzards fly up from the huge carcass of an alligator,
and alight close beside me on the fence. Two more remain on the
alligator, gorged so that they cannot rise. Their rough, dirty feathers
remind one of the uncombed locks of a city scavenger. No one ever shoots
them, but draws back and says, with unconcealed disgust, “What a foul
bird that is.”
Yet on the other side of the road, spreading back to the poisonous
swamps in the rear, lie some of the rich plantations of Louisiana. There
are the sugar-houses, with their heavy brick chimneys, as large and
clumsy as those of a foundry; and near by stand the planter’s house, the
overseer’s house, the engineer’s house, and a little village of
contraband cabins. The vast fields are cut up into square blocks by
ditches, sometimes ten feet deep, reminding one of the graded lots in
the outskirts of a city. On one side of each range of these blocks is a
raised plantation road, which crosses the ditches on substantial
bridges, and runs, perhaps for miles, arrow-like, as a railroad. It is
probable that the plantation is surrounded by a levee, to keep the water
out. The large ditches then empty into a canal, and at the end of this
canal will be found a “pumping machine,” driven by a steam engine, which
pumps the plantation dry and keeps it above water. Such wealthful
agriculture we have nowhere in the North.
The broad, dull thoroughfare on which I ride is an unpleasant contrast
to the shaded bridle-roads of Tennessee. Yet it furnishes our only ride,
and for twelve miles there is but one turn-off, or intersecting road,
and not one hill or hollow. So far as the eye can reach in all
directions—so far as one can ride on any road he may choose to take, is
one weary, continuing, unbroken flatness. I feel a constant longing to
mount a hill, and often have to repress an impulse to climb a tree,
where I can look around and breathe a little freer air.
Houma looks somewhat like a deserted village. The shops are shut, many
of the houses empty, and the scowling people wear an idle, listless air.
There is no love lost between them and the troops. Some months ago a few
sick soldiers of the twenty-first Indiana were massacred not far from
the village, and it was done by some of the most “respectable” planters.
I believe all of the guilty parties escaped to the enemy’s lines, except
one, and he, poor wretch, lived for months in the gloomy swamps near us,
a frightened maniac. His body was lately found, showing that he had lain
down, worn out and sick, and died alone in the dreary solitude.
In one of these deserted houses I find my officers established, and
after finishing the muster of their company, I spend with them a
pleasant evening and quiet night. Another dull and solitary ride carries
me back to my head-quarters, to await the wished-for coming of the
Pay-Master. A regiment which has never been paid looks eagerly for that
admired and much respected functionary. It understands not why there
should be delays, and coins a rumor at least once a day, that he is on
his way to camp. After many disappointments, one of these rumors assumes
a substantial shape. A special train comes rushing up the railroad,
consisting of an engine and a single car. The train shrieks that it will
stop and does so: it bears only two passengers, and a heavy, mysterious,
iron-bound box. They are the Pay-Master, his clerk, and his money chest.
The Pay-Master is smiling, and happy as a man who travels with a trunk
full of smiles should be. He walks through the excited throng to my
tent, and the mysterious box is borne by two soldiers in a reverent
manner behind him. He takes it from them at the tent in a careless sort
of way, and pulls and tumbles it about as if it were a common piece of
vulgar wood—he does not even glance at it as he twists and turns the
mysterious lock. From its depths he brings out our pay-rolls, and says
in a complimentary manner that they are correct—that indeed he never
paid a new regiment where they were more correct. He shakes his head
despondingly, and adds that there are some regiments in this department
that have never been paid—that have never got their rolls right, and he
fears never will. Our men are immensely relieved as these facts are
whispered around, and acquire fresh confidence in their
officers,—perhaps rather more than they ever had before.
The rolls are sent back to the different companies, and the men assemble
round each Captain’s tent and sign them. The Pay-Master fortifies
himself against the coming excitement with a little luncheon. Meanwhile
a table has been placed at the opening of a tent, within which are the
mysterious box and clerk.
“Now, Colonel,” says the Pay-Master, “if you will be so good as to give
the necessary orders, we will begin.”
The Pay-Master takes his place behind the table which bars the entrance
to the tent and box; the first company falls in “by one rank,” faces
“without doubling,” and in single file approaches the Pay-Master. The
Pay-Master takes a pay-roll and calls a name; the clerk takes its
“duplicate” and checks the name; the owner steps forward and answers to
the name. The Pay-Master seizes a bundle of the precious paper and tears
off the wrapper. The notes dance through his flying fingers, and flutter
down before the owner of the first name. The Pay-Master carelessly
seizes them, says “sixty-three dollars, forty-five cents,” and tosses
them toward the owner, as though he wishes to be rid of the vulgar
trash. The owner, much discomposed, carefully picks them up and
hurriedly retires to the nearest bench, whereon he seats himself, and
slowly counts and recounts the notes, at least five times. It is labor
in vain; he cannot make them a dollar more, or a dime less than did the
Pay-Master. Those practised hands, though they count the money only
once, and move with the swiftness of a magician’s wand, never make
mistakes.
There is another day’s work before the Pay-Master, and a somewhat
unusual one for him. Four companies remain to be paid, and the special
train has gone back to New Orleans. We must travel, therefore, by a
hand-car. The mysterious box is carried to the car, the clerk sits on
it, keeping a bright look-out toward the rear, lest any pursuing
locomotive should rush upon us ere we know it; the Pay-Master and I seat
ourselves in front upon the floor, and half a dozen soldiers, who are
both guard and engine, stow themselves away as best they can, and then
seizing the crank, put our little vehicle slowly in motion.
It is very pleasant skimming along swiftly so close to the ground, with
so little noise or jarring, with such an absence of smoke and dust, and
with such a free, unrestrained view of everything around us. By far the
pleasantest ride upon the rail that any of us have ever had, is this. We
fly quickly across the wide plantation that adjoins the camp, and then
enter the wood or swamp, whichever you prefer to call it.
“There will be no train coming along I hope,” said the Pay-Master, as he
glanced at the narrow roadway and black, slimy water that came close to
us on either side. “What should we do _now_, for instance?”
“Tumble the hand-car into the swamp, and slide ourselves down the sides
of the road, and lie quiet till the train has passed.”
“Ugh!” said the Pay-Master. “I do not like the idea of sliding myself
into that water. Look how black and slimy it is, and then that unhealthy
green scum upon it. I should not wonder if it were full of snakes and
alligators.”
“Alligators! You may say that; look there!”
An immense alligator is seen stretched on a fallen tree, and dozing in
the warmth of the April sun.
“May I give him a shot?” asks the sergeant of our guard, drawing his
revolver.
“Yes, if you can hit him.”
The sergeant slowly raises his pistol—the hand-car stops—bang! and the
bullet strikes against the scaly side and glances off. The alligator
slides from the log, and disappears in the inky water.
“I don’t care about making that gentleman’s acquaintance,” says the
Pay-Master. “Mr. Clerk, please keep a sharp look-out behind for any
stray locomotive that may be coming along, and the Colonel and I will
look out ahead. Seven miles you say it is to the next station? Well, I
shall feel a little easier when we get there.”
The hand-car resumes its former speed, and we fly along through the deep
shades and deeper stillness of the swamp. The rumbling of the car that
we hardly heard in the open fields now echoes distinctly, and our voices
almost startle us, they sound so very clear and loud. There are no
fields or openings on either side, no firm ground to stand upon, and the
trees rise out of the green-coated water.
“Stop! what’s that? There’s something ahead,” calls the Pay-Master; “is
it an engine?”
“No, sir,” replies the sergeant, “it is the picket at Moccason bayou.”
A mile or two ahead can be dimly seen something moving where the
railroad track is lost among the over-hanging trees. Then, as the car
lessens the distance, can be distinguished the figures of three or four
men, the gleam of their muskets and the blue uniform of the United
States. The picket has turned out and is watching us. Our engineer puts
on a full head of steam, and our little special train rushes along
faster than ever, until it is “braked-down” on the very bank of Moccason
bayou.
“These are your men, are they?” asks the Pay-Master.
“Yes, they are here guarding the bridge.”
“Then I will take an order from them authorizing me to pay the money to
their Captain.”
The Pay-Master writes the order, and looks around with curiosity at the
picket station. We peer into the bayou, which is supposed to swarm with
deadly moccason snakes, and then climbing on the car, resume our jaunt.
We pay the two companies stationed at Tigerville; we hearken to the
commanding officer’s advice to stay and dine with him, and then, with a
new hand-car and a fresh guard, we run twelve miles further up the road
and pay the last company. An hour or two after dark this is
accomplished, and we prepare to return. As we approach the car, one of
the men meets us with a rumor that a division of the army is coming up
the single track, and that doubtless we shall meet several trains where
the swamp is darkest and the roadway narrowest. We investigate the
rumor, and find that it is based on the fact that the trains _ought_ to
come, but no one really knows that they are coming. “What do you think,
Pay-Master? You and the money chest must be taken great care of.” The
Pay-Master thinks that if we had a lantern it would be safe. We procure
a lantern, and hold a consultation. One of our guard is an experienced
railroad builder; he knows the ways of hand-cars, and can tell afar off
the sound of advancing trains. He promises to “brake-down” the hand-car
in an instant, and to forewarn us of impending engines long before they
can run into us.
We start, and the experienced man stands with his hand upon the brake,
and an officer who has joined us takes his place in front, holding the
lantern plainly in sight. Away we go into the darkness of the swamp—a
darkness so thick that you cannot see the man who sits beside you. For
several miles the road runs straight as an arrow, and I sit behind with
the Pay-Master, trusting those in front to keep a look-out. At length we
come out of the swamp and enter an open plantation country, through
which the road makes many turns. “Ease off and then brake-down,” and the
car lessens its speed and in a few moments stops. The experienced man
goes forward, puts one ear close to the track, and announces that there
is no train on the road within ten miles. We start again, and this time
I stand up and post myself where I can have a clear view of the front.
“Oh, Colonel, sit down,” says the experienced man; “no use in your
standing up. I’ll tell you the moment any train comes in sight.”
“I’m much obliged to you, but as the way is somewhat crooked from here
to Tigerville, I think I shall be quite as comfortable keeping a little
look-out of my own, as sitting down and trusting it all to you.”
The hand-car runs merrily forward; the men, refreshed with our brief
halt, are sending it along with increased speed, when through the trees
and bushes, across a sharp curve of the road—a flash—a light, and the
thunder of a coming train. “An engine.” “The cars.” “Brake-down’ quick.”
“They’re at full speed.” “They’ll be on us if you don’t hurry.” The
experienced man tugs at the brake, the others start up and frantically
endeavor to extricate their legs and arms (which everybody else seems to
be sitting upon), the hand-car runs on as if it will never stop; the
heavy engine glares on us with its great, glowing eye, and comes rushing
forward in unabated haste. There is no time to waste in trifles; the
officer in front springs from the car and runs down the road, waving the
lantern with all his might; a couple of soldiers tumble themselves off,
and one adroitly falls across the track, and lies there stunned; the
experienced man strains away on his brake; the Pay-Master and I drop off
behind, and seizing hold of the car, succeed in stopping it. The train
seems but a few yards distant, crashing and thundering, and shaking the
very ground we stand on. The Pay-Master, who has been the most cautious
of the party, is now the most cool and decided. While two men push
against each other and the experienced man gives contradictory
directions, the Pay-Master seizes the car, capsizes it off the track,
and hurls it down the bank. The precious box and the stunned soldier are
dragged out of the way, and the train goes roaring past. When all is
over, we first berate the experienced man roundly, then haul the car
with much trouble up the bank and on to the track, and then feel our way
cautiously down to Tigerville. There we refresh ourselves with a cold
supper, tell over the tale of our escape, and abuse the engineer to our
heart’s content for not seeing our lantern, and stopping his train. The
Pay-Master announces his intention of writing the history of the last
twenty-four hours, and publishing it as the “Adventures of a
Pay-Master.” I am sorry to say he does not keep this promise.
III.
THE WILD TEXANS.
Some weeks after the pay-day, I found myself stretched upon a bed, in a
little shanty, at Tigerville. I had some hazy recollections of having
moved my quarters to Tigerville—of having left my tent one evening,
after dress-parade, for a ride—of having ridden to the hospital and
dismounted, with a dizzy head and aching frame—of the surgeon telling
me, that I was very ill and must not go back—and then of horrible
fever-visions.
The long days travelled slowly, and the sultry nights wore away wearily,
but they rolled into weeks ere anything was gained. Then I was carried
to Brashear, and placed in a house which had been the mansion of an old
Louisiana family. In front was a strip of lawn shaded by large oaks
moss-hung and spreading. Beneath them the view opened on the waters of
the Atchafalaya, which here had widened into Berwick Bay, and beyond, on
the little village of Berwick. Around were the remains of the finest
garden of western Louisiana. There still lingered thickets of the fig
and orange, of lemon and banana; and there still flowered oleanders, and
catalpas, and jasmin, with many other specimens of tropical fruits and
flowers. As I sat observing these remnants of other times, an old New
York friend and his wife came in. The lady looked around on the
grass-grown walks, broken and effaced; on the long rows of fruit trees
to which horses were picketed; on the rare flowerbeds trampled out by
droves of mules; on the smooth grass-plots covered with heaps of
rubbish.
“You have been here before,” I said, as I marked the careful looks that
travelled so closely over every part of the sad, disordered scene.
“I have passed the most of my life here,” she replied. “This is my
mother’s house.”
It was the story of another divided family. All of her own relations
were in the Confederate lines, and she had remained with her husband to
await the coming of the Union army.
The enemy were gathering above us on the Teche. Those oath-taking
patriots, whose sons were in the enemy’s army and crops within our
lines; who, heretofore, had stood aloof and scowled sullenly at us when
we passed, now came into camp, and for once were communicative. They
asked us if we knew what was coming, and hinted at Southern
conscription, and the damage the Wild Texans would do the growing crop.
They feared the rough riders from the prairies, and told many tales of
their lawless cruelty. There came in, too, refugees and contrabands, all
speaking of the enemy’s increasing strength; of boats collecting for
some night attack, and of the reckless fierceness of those Wild Texans.
On the opposite side of the river, the Wild Texans began to move in open
day. They came down in little scouting parties, hiding behind houses and
bushes, but constantly on the alert. We must have presented tempting
marks for a long-range Enfield, yet they never fired, but flitted
silently about, always observing us, yet never responding to our many
shots.
I watched these indications of the gathering storm, with the nervous
irritability inseparable from convalescence. But every slight exertion
brought on a slight relapse, and I was soon forced, so far as I could do
so, to abstract myself from these excitements, and try to gather back my
strength in time to be of service in the coming trouble. To this end, I
took up the contents of some captured mails. There were a few of the
ridiculous letters, that once found their way freely into our
newspapers, with bad spelling, and false syntax, and bombastic rhetoric,
but the most of them were sad. More woeful letters were never read than
these Wild Texans wrote. There were such mournful yearnings for home—for
peace—for those they had left behind, that, insensibly, the mind changed
from exultation into pity. There was a slight compunction, too, in
running the eye over the secrets of our enemies; a more than reluctance
to look upon these hidden words, which love and duty had written for
loving eyes, and coldly appropriate them as our own. There were tales of
want and tales of love—tidings of weddings and of deaths. Here was a
letter from a father in Port Hudson, to his “dear little daughters;” and
here one from a mother to her “own beloved son.” This is a family
letter, written by the parents and sisters, to their “two dear boys,”
who now are watching us from the other shore. And this one is the
reverse, for it is addressed to “father, mother, wife, and sisters.” The
rebel soldier has filled his “last sheet” with sad forebodings, with few
hopes, much love, and many prayers. A widow’s letter tells me, that her
only child fell at Iuka; and a father’s, that his eldest son died before
Dalton. “What wonder,” each letter asks, “that I wish to die and be at
rest?” Among so many, of course a love-letter can be found, breathing a
first avowal. It is written to some village beauty, and hints at rivals,
and her sometime smiles and sometime frowns. The village beauty is, I
judge, a slight coquette, who has led her lover along with little
encouragements and little rebuffs. His letter is written in a manly
strain, and tells her that he had hoped to gain an honorable name, and
come back to win her in an early peace. But the peace has not come. He
can bear this suspense no longer. He begs her to deal frankly and truly
with him, and, if she loves him, _to answer this letter_. The letter
will never be answered! I laid it away, and thought that I would send
it, by some flag of truce, to the unknown belle. But my papers were
captured, and this letter, on which so many hopes hung, was lost.