mounted on wild-looking Texan horses, drew up around it. The old guard,
like good fellows, helped us quite cordially in carrying out our
baggage; and they shook hands and bade us good bye, with a warmth that
savored much less of rebel enemies than of countrymen and friends. Some
newly arrived prisoners were brought from the Court House, and we
started. As we moved off, one of them seized me by the hand with many
expressions of surprise. At first I did not recognize him, but, after a
moment, discovered that he was Captain Frederick Van Tine, of my former
regiment, and learnt that he, with two Massachusetts officers, was
captured on the Mississippi, and, for the last week, had been confined
in the jail at Thiboudeau.
Up the main street of Franklin we marched two by two, the guard strung
along on each side, their rifles unslung and their eyes watching us, as
if they somewhat feared an immediate escape. The loafers of Franklin of
course turned out to stare at us, and made remarks rarely complimentary;
the women looked at us from the door-steps as we passed, some
triumphantly, and a few in pity. At the head of this inglorious
procession it was my place to walk; but the new prisoners revealed the
hitherto concealed news, and I felt proud and happy over the long
delayed result of Vicksburg and Port Hudson.
Beside our own party, and the three officers from the Mississippi, were
a number of “citizen prisoners,” and an unfortunate deserter whom they
had caught at Brashear. Of these civilians, a dozen were Irishmen and
they immediately placed themselves at the head of the column, and
proceeded to walk and talk with a zeal that nobody attempted to equal. A
move is always animating, even when it is toward captivity; but our
excitement was short-lived. Hardly had we passed from the shadow of the
town, when the convalescents felt the effect of the burning,
fever-kindling sun. It was a serious business for some of us. One
hundred and eighty miles distant flowed the Sabine, and we were to march
there, over open prairies and in the middle of the Southern summer.
Before a mile was travelled over, I could see the effect of the fearful
heat in others, and feel it on myself. Faces grew flushed; coats were
stripped off, and the perspiration poured in streams. Yet it was a
matter of honor not to give up. For my own part, I was smarting with
mortification at the disgrace of Brashear, and resolved, and
re-resolved, to walk till I fell dead, before one of these Southern
soldiers should say that a Yankee Colonel had given out.
At the head of the guard rode a good-looking young fellow, tall and
sinewy, and with the merriest face I have ever seen in a Southerner. I
had some doubts, at first, whether he was a private or a Captain, but
found that he was a corporal. He was mounted on a compact little bay,
called, in Texas, a pony; a long revolver was stuck in his belt; a
lariat rope loosely coiled hung on the saddle-bow; his bright
Springfield rifle was balanced across the pommel, and with his broad hat
and heavy, jangling Spanish spurs, he formed a brilliant picture of a
Wild Texan. As some little changes and arrangements were wanting and the
lieutenant was not in sight, I addressed myself to the corporal, and
asked if he would order a halt for a moment. “Why to be sure I will,”
was his very ready reply, followed up with the order, “Now, halt here,
men, and let these prisoners put their little tricks on the wagon; there
is no need of their packing them.”
“We took advantage of the halt to lash some sticks to the sides of the
wagon and to spread upon them our blankets, so as to form an awning over
Lieutenant Stevenson. But the sun beat down hotter and hotter. At the
next halt, one of us took a canteen from the end of the wagon—the water
was hot, so incredibly hot that the others were called up to feel it,
and all agreed that its heat was painful. My first impression was, that
this intense burning heat would blister us. But the damp Louisiana
atmosphere caused floods of perspiration, pouring over the exposed face
and hands, and soaking quickly through every garment. Faces grew more
and more flushed; conversation flagged and soon ceased. Those who, at
the beginning, rattled away cheerfully, walked in moody silence near
each other, occasionally exchanging distressed looks, but rarely, if
ever, speaking a word.”
About mid-day the expected shower of the rainy season came down on us
furiously. We drew up under some trees, and stood close against the
leeward side of their trunks, until it blew over. The different
characteristics of the three parties who were gathered there immediately
developed. The Irishmen laughed, hullabaloed, pushed each other out in
the rain, and treated the affair as a capital joke. The Northerners
shifted their positions, and attempted improvements, while the rain was
at the worst—grumbled a great deal, and hurled fierce denunciations at,
what they called, their “luck.” The Southerners silently unrolled their
blankets, folded them around their shoulders, looked upward at the storm
with their usual sad indifference of expression, made no attempts to
better their condition, and waited apathetically till it was over.
A prairie spread out for several miles immediately beyond our sheltering
trees, and the road curved around its outskirts. It was a prairie, but a
tame one; interspersed with fields; pastured by cattle; surrounded by
houses, and looking like any dull, uninteresting plain. Its grass,
however, was thick and wet, and its sticky black mud soon loaded our
boots and almost glued us fast. The coolness of the air quickly
vanished, and the sun, more burning than ever, re-appeared. We dragged
on wearily, very wearily, casting wistful glances at the grove on the
other side, which rose very slowly, and, for a long time, seemed as
distant as when we started. At last, however, we manifestly drew nearer;
the chimneys of a house could be distinguished in the foliage, and the
guard cheered us with the assurance that it was the house at which we
were to halt. Every one made a last effort, and after half an hour’s
exertion, we dragged ourselves out of the muddy prairie and into a
plantation yard, bordering on the Teche.
We sat there waiting for the wagon, and watching a small drove of hogs
that had come down the bank of the bayou, and, half immersed, were
greedily eating the green scum that covered the water. The lieutenant
had bought provisions at the house, and hired the contrabands to cook
for us. The dinner finally appeared, consisting of a large kettle of
boiled beef, and a quantity of corn bread in the shape of little rolls.
It did not impress us favorably; but the guard seemed to think it
excellent—perhaps because _boiled_ beef was a rarity—perhaps because the
corn bread was a superior article, (I was not a judge of it then); and
one, with charming simplicity, said, “If we do as well as _this_, it
_will_ do!” To which rhapsody one of my disgusted friends was obliged to
respond, with a faint and sickly smile, “Yes, yes; it is very nice.”
The place of bivouac that night was in the grass-covered yard, or rather
field, of one of the finest plantations on the Teche. The owner soon
appeared, accompanied by his son, his son-in-law, and a friend. He was
an old gentleman, dressed with the scrupulous taste and neatness of a
Frenchman, and treated us with as much politeness and as little kindness
as could very well be united. The son-in-law regaled us with a
description of the manner in which some of our troops had plundered his
house, and burnt his furniture; and the friend sat himself down, and
opened with the invariable remark, “We consider this a _most_ unnatural
war, sir;” which he followed up with the invariable question, “When do
you think there will be peace, sir?” To these I gave my invariable
replies, that we also thought it a most unnatural war, and that there
would be peace whenever the Southern soldiers chose to go home and take
care of their own affairs. The gentleman seemed very much disgusted at
the idea of having peace on such simple and easy terms, and said
solemnly, that he couldn’t allow himself to believe it.
There was a large open shed beside us, but the ground was covered with
fleas, and we preferred the wet grass and heavy dew of a Louisiana
night, to these pests of a tropical climate. But few slept well. For a
long time I felt too tired to close my eyes, and awoke repeatedly,
aching in every part. When daylight dawned we rose so stiff and sore
that we could hardly move, and with renewed apprehensions made ready for
another day. Lieutenant Stevenson showed such increased exhaustion that
the Confederate officer took me aside and said, that he would not be
guilty of carrying him beyond New Iberia.
We started, not at daylight, as was intended, but a long time after the
sun was up. With all such parties there are many petty causes of delay,
and it requires an iron-handed commander to bear them down, and carry
his party off at the appointed hour. Lieutenant Duncan was too
good-natured for this, and instead of coercing us, he, on the contrary,
told us to choose our own time, and not to start till we were ready. The
delay brought down the burning sun again upon us, and the pain and
weariness of this second day much exceeded those of the first.
As we thus toiled along, the road, which was running between un-inclosed
fields, approached a tall rail fence. Three or four of us were walking a
few yards in advance of the guard, when we heard the corporal shout from
behind, “Take care of the bull! Take care of the bull!” I looked ahead
and saw nothing very alarming: a large red bull was drawing himself up,
and lashing his sides with his tail. After a moment or two, however, he
started toward us, shaking his head and breaking into a low, deep
bellow. He was a magnificent animal, with long, low, spreading horns,
and moved in a full, square trot that many a horse might envy. There was
a scramble at once for the fence which stood very nearly midway between
us and the bull. What the result might have been I think somewhat
doubtful, had not the gallant corporal, on his bright little bay, rushed
past us on a gallop. The pony was a herding pony and understood his
business. Like a spirited dog, he flew straight at the bull until they
nearly touched, then wheeling he kept alongside, watching him closely
and sheering off whenever the long horns made a lunge toward himself.
The pony did this of his own accord, for, as he wheeled, his rider held
the rifle in his left hand and was drawing the long revolver with his
right, and these Texan horses are rarely taught to wheel from the
pressure of the leg. A finer picture of intelligent instinct than this
pony presented could hardly be painted: his ears erect, his eyes
flashing, and his whole soul in the chase. The corporal was not slower
than his horse. He brought the long revolver up; a shot flashed, and the
poor beast received a heavy wound. This diverted his attention from us,
for, with a loud bellow, he wheeled toward the corporal. But the pony’s
eye was on him, and, quicker than spur or rein could make him, he also
wheeled, and scoured off, across the plain faster than any bull could
go. The corporal brought up the rifle, and there was a second flash—a
second wound, for the bull staggered, and then walked slowly and proudly
away. Occasionally he stopped, turned defiantly round, uttered deep
bellowings, and shook at us his splendid horns.
The incident afforded us a little excitement, and led me into a
conversation with the corporal, who narrated anecdotes of the wonderful
intelligence of herding ponies. The heat, the dust, the glaring sun, and
increasing pain and weariness at length stopped even a conversation on
so interesting a topic as horses are and ever will be, and I was fain to
drag myself along without expending an ounce of strength on any object
beyond the dusty road. We entered upon the last two miles, and saw
Iberia in the distance. The road ran between hedges twenty feet high—it
was filled with a long column of dust—not a breath of outer air
disturbed it, and the sun shone directly down from his noon-day height.
I felt myself grow weaker and weaker as we advanced through this green
boiler. The perspiration poured into my eyes and blinded me—my head
whirled round—my feet stumbled and dragged, so that every step seemed
almost the last. While in this critical state, a couple of pretty
Louisiana “young ladies” stopped their carriage, and greatly refreshed
me by expressing the hope that we should be hung at the end of the lane,
and the opinion that hanging was quite as good treatment as
nigger-thieves deserved. Such was the power of this well-timed stimulus,
that I kept on for more than a mile, and at last found that I was in the
midst of the little town of New Iberia.
We halted in the shade of some large trees. There seemed to be an
unusual number of vagabonds in New Iberia, who congregated closely round
us, and asked impudent questions (generally as to how we liked the war
_now_), until it occurred to our guards that this might be annoying to
us, and then they very promptly drove the Iberian loafers back. One
cowardly-looking, black-eyed little rascal, however, was very desirous
of finding an officer of the Twenty-first Indiana amongst us that he
might kill him, and repeatedly hinted that he had a great mind to kill
one of us anyhow. But one of the guard quieted him by the suggestion
that if he wanted to kill a Yank, he’d find plenty of them over on the
Mississippi, and that he’d better go there instead of skulking round in
the rear—anyhow, he’d better stop insulting prisoners, or he’d have a
right smart chance to kill a _Texan_—dog-goned if he wouldn’t.
Soon after this, an officer of the Provost Guard appeared. The roll of
the “citizen prisoners” was called over, and all but six marched off to
the jail. We were put in motion, and marched to the outskirts of the
town, where we halted beside a saw-mill standing on the bank of the
Teche. The lieutenant then brought a surgeon, who speedily pronounced in
favor of receiving Lieutenant Stevenson, and directed that he should be
taken at once to his hospital.
During the afternoon, our kind and courteous French friend, Lieutenant
Solomon, appeared, to take us to the hospital, and thence to his own
house. I asked Lieutenant Duncan for a guard, and he politely sent one
of his men with us. One of my officers walked with me to the hospital.
It was in a church, and at its extreme end we found Lieutenant
Stevenson. He looked wretched, and my hopes sank as I saw him. The
church was crowded with Confederate sick, and he was the only prisoner
there. Yet there was no alternative. We knew that if he were carried
along, a sadder parting would soon ensue. Faintly hoping that we should
again see him, and inwardly praying that he might find the friends he
sorely needed, we bade him farewell.
The French lieutenant rejoined us in the street, and led the way to his
own house. He wished, he said, to present us to Madame, and offer us
some slight refreshment, which was not good, but was better than we
might enjoy again. We soon reached his house, and were presented to
Madame, who received us with the grace and politeness of a French lady.
The slight refreshment, doubtless, was preparing, and we were
comfortably waiting to enjoy it, when a patriot soldier of the
Confederacy, with the villainous look peculiar to those of Louisiana,
stuck his gun and then his head in the room, and said sulkily, that the
Provost Marshal wanted us. Our worthy lieutenant accompanied us, saying,
“Oh, surely it must be a mistake; somebody has told him you are making
an escape. He will let you return to my house, and you shall stay all
the afternoon.” Arrived at the Provost Marshal’s, the Louisiana patriot
left us on the sidewalk, and stepped in to inform the august official
that we were in waiting. That magnate immediately came forth—a youthful,
swarthy, small-sized, unwashed Louisianian, with a consequential air,
and a vagabond face. “Take these fellows back to your camp,” he said,
addressing our Texan guard. “I won’t have prisoners running about my
town.” As he said this, he honored us with a vicious stare, and then
banged back into his office.
There was no resisting this eloquence, so back we went. Our guard, who
had been very silent, became very talkative. He swore pardonable oaths
at the Louisianians in general, and the Provost Marshal in particular.
As to the former, he said they were all a disgrace to the South; and as
to the latter, that if ever he got a chance, he’d scalp _him_—dog-gone
if he wouldn’t. In camp, his excitement extended to the rest. Our
gallant friend, the corporal, was especially indignant.
“What,” he said, “he spoke so right before you, without your having
insulted him. The dog-gone little puppy. If I’d been there, I’d have
slapped his face, and then run for Texas. There’s just such ducks
everywhere, and most of all in Louisiana. Dog-gone them—I’d like to
shoot the whole of them.”
Our wounded honor being soothed by these chivalric sentiments, and a
shower of rain coming up about the same time, we retired to the
saw-mill, where we selected soft planks, swept away the saw-dust, and
made ready for the night. About dark, Lieutenant Duncan returned, with
anger and mortification glowing in his face. He had not been able to get
fresh mules or a good wagon, or full rations, or even a wagon cover,
_for prisoners_, and he was vexed and wrathful at the refusals he had
met. “I tell you what it is, though, gentlemen,” he said, “you shall be
taken care of, and have the best this country can give you, if I take it
out of their houses with my revolver. It’s not so in Texas, gentlemen.
There our people haven’t got much, but they will give you what they
have.” In fact, the good lieutenant was so chagrined and mortified, that
I had to assure him that we were not children, and would rather undergo
a little extra hardship, than put him to further trouble. But while
affairs were gliding in this harmonious and humane channel within the
saw-mill, some wicked imp suggested to our friend, the Provost Marshal,
the feasibility of his bestowing on us another kick. Hardly had the
lieutenant wiped the perspiration from his brow, and looked around for a
dry plank on which to sleep, when a second Louisiana patriot, dirtier
even than the first, appeared. He delivered an order to the lieutenant.
It was to pack up and be off instantly—he, the Provost Marshal, wouldn’t
have prisoners camping in his town over night.
We accordingly packed up and went off, not more than a hundred yards
(for the saw-mill was on the boundary of the town), and stopped at an
abandoned barn, just beyond the Provost Marshal’s jurisdiction. The barn
was dirty—the ground around it muddy—the fleas were hale and hearty—and
these little circumstances added a great deal of force to the thanks
which the guard lavished on the Provost Marshal. Yet we looked forward
with hopefulness to the morrow, for then we were to turn off from the
Teche, and leaving civilization and the hateful Louisianians behind us,
strike off, undisturbed, on the free prairies.
V.
THE PRAIRIES.
The road ran, for several miles, between hedges and among plantations,
and close to gardens and houses, with their fields and fences, until it
suddenly emerged on a broad, unbounded prairie. Our guards’ eyes
sparkled when they saw it, and they declared that this began to look
like Texas. We all felt better at the sight, and the fresh breeze that
swept over it almost swept away the weary weakness of the previous days.
There is a profound sense of loneliness and littleness on these great
seas of green far exceeding that which men feel in forests. There is
such an absence of _objects_—such long distances appearing to the eye,
and before which the feet grow feeble—such a want of all shelter and
protection, that one wishes for the woods, and acknowledges a
companionship in hills and trees beyond all that he has ever known
before.
A long noon-day halt was made at a Frenchman’s, whose wretched shanty
stood environed by a beautiful grove of the deep-shading China tree;
and, during the afternoon, we found the prairie interspersed with small
plantations. These took away the sense of loneliness, and, in some
respects, added to the interest of the march. There was a good stiff
breeze, too, blowing directly from the west, (to which we travelled) and
all moved cheerfully along, shaking off fatigue and forgetting, for the
time, that we were prisoners. As the sun approached his setting, we
descended by a gently sloping plain toward a wood that marks and hides
Vermillion Bayou. While it was still a mile or two distant, we turned
from the wagon-trail and made our way across the prairie to a
plantation, whose large white house and numerous out-buildings peered
forth from a grove of over-hanging trees.
The plantation was owned by a lady, who kindly allowed her servants to
cook our supper, and gave us her lawn to bivouac upon. She also invited
Mr. and Mrs. Stratford to occupy a room in her house, and showed the
rare good taste and delicacy of not coming out to stare at us. We found
ourselves still connected with civilized life; for supper was spread out
handsomely in the dining-room, and was accompanied by the luxury of real
French coffee, served in delicate china.
We started earlier than usual the next morning, and soon crossed the
strip of prairie between us and the Vermillion. The belt of wood was not
more than half a mile in breadth, and near its farther edge we found a
narrow, sluggish stream, almost bridged by the ferry-scow, yet deep in
mud, and with miry banks that made it difficult to cross. As we waited
for the wagon that was slowly rumbling along, we discovered below the
ferry, closely drawn up against the bank and almost hidden by the trees,
a full rigged schooner, that had eluded the watchfulness of our
blockaders, and escaped the eyes of our cavalry, and now lay snugly
waiting for the proper time to glide down the bayou and escape on the
open sea.
The wagon rolled up while we were scanning and discussing the little
blockade runner, and we began our crossing. It was not a labor of very
great importance, for when one end of the scow had been pushed a few
feet from the eastern bank, the other end ran into the western. We found
the latter much higher than the former, being, in Southern phrase,
“something of a bluff.” On mounting it, we saw a rolling prairie
spreading out like a lake of green, and enclosed by distant woods which
seemed its shore. The “timber,” (as forests in the West are called,) was
four or five miles distant on either side, and, to the front of us, sank
down behind the far-off horizon. Numerous herds were in sight; and
troops of young cattle would draw up and stare at us. They were not the
“fine stock” of our good breeders; yet, still were beautiful
creatures—straight-backed, fine-boned, and with heads gracefully carried
and erect. “When our shouts startled them into motion, they carried
themselves off with the same high horse-like trot I had been struck with
in our bull on the Teche, and then, breaking into an easy gallop,
bounded away like deer. The guards repeatedly warned us to keep near the
horsemen, and said, that these cattle of the prairies did not know what
a man a-foot was, and were so wild that they would attack us if we
ventured near them.”
The guard had been improving daily since we left Franklin. No formal
parole was given by us, yet there was an informal one which we
respected, and in which they placed implicit confidence. They behaved,
too, with great kindness, constantly dismounting and making first one
and then another of us ride. Our column broke up into little parties of
twos and threes, the faster walkers opening gaps on those who took it
more leisurely, and each one travelling at whatever rate he best liked.
After five or six miles of this, three of us, with a like number of the
guard, reached a little house that stood alone in the prairie. The
guards showed their appreciation of our honor, by handing us their
horses and rifles to take care of while they went into the house. After
a while they returned, and showed their appreciation of our appetites by
bringing us a pail full of milk for a drink.