two behind us, until they severally came up, wiping the perspiration
from their faces and throwing themselves on the grass beside us. The
wagon overtook us last, and then we rose and resumed the march. The
prairie continued to present the same rich picture of beautiful
seclusion. Occasionally its timber-shores approached each other, and
sometimes they opened into successive lakes. Yet, with all this beauty,
we found ourselves becoming hot and weary. There were no way-side trees
to cast an occasional shade, and no brooks or springs at which to halt
and re-fill canteens. The usual morning breeze that sweeps across the
prairies, as across the sea, went down, and wistful eyes were thrown at
a distant plantation which we saw embowered in trees. Where the road to
this cool retreat branched off, Lieutenant Duncan ordered a halt, and
then, with his usual kindness, asked us to decide whether we would go to
the plantation and rest till evening, or push on and finish our day’s
work before we halted. There was some little difference of opinion.
Certain thirsty individuals, who kept up a constant sucking at their
canteens, declared that they were nearly choked, notwithstanding the
three pints of water each had swallowed; others, who had drunk nothing
since we started, were in favor of pushing on. It ended in the
lieutenant sending one of his men, laden with canteens, to the
plantation, and in our resuming the march.
The Texan put his “pony” on the easy amble, which is the leading trait
of a Southern horse, and struck off in a straight line toward the
distant house. We could see the horse and rider gradually sinking in the
prairie as they receded from us, until not much could be discerned
beside the wide-brimmed Texan hat. There was a little interval, and then
horse and rider re-appeared, striking off at an angle which would
intercept our line of march, and travelling on the same easy amble. The
horses of the Texans, I must confess, had greatly disappointed me. Half
of them were miserable, ill-shaped ponies, which could never have made
or withstood a charge, and were unworthy of the name of cavalry horses.
And yet these mounted troops of the Confederates have shown a wonderful
readiness and swiftness of movement, which have often outwitted our
generals and eluded our strategy, and that too, in a country where our
horses would have starved. This great “mobility” I ascribe, in part, to
the ambling gait (forbidden in our service) which carries them along
some five miles an hour, without strain to the horse or fatigue to the
rider; and, in part, to the free use of the lariat, which enables the
horse to graze at every momentary halt. Man and horse understood this
latter principle, for the former never dismounted without twitching off
the bridle, and the latter never stopped without industriously picking
up his living. In one respect the Texans are careless of their horses,
tearing off the saddles the moment they halt, and never dreaming of cold
water either as a preventive or a cure of the sore back that tortures
nearly every horse.
“While I was making these reflections, our column had stretched out in
its usual manner, and then broken into small groups: these separated
more and more as we advanced. The guards told us that Turtle-Tail Bayou
was to be our camping ground, and they pointed to the timber, which
looked like a low cloud along the horizon. How long this cloud was in
changing into trees, and how slowly these trees rose in view, no one can
imagine who has not travelled _a-foot_ upon the prairies. The sun sent
down his usual burning rays as he approached the meridian, and a damp
stifling heat rose from the grass. Yet it is a great thing to be first
in camp, and able thereby to choose your own tree, and label it “TAKEN,”
by pitching your haversack at its foot, and to lie down and rest ere the
slow walkers arrive. So the two or three of us who led pushed on. The
trees came slowly more and more into view; the branches imperceptibly
rose; the grass beneath them appeared. Then the corporal and his men
left us and rode on to select the camping ground. We followed slowlier
on their trail, keeping our eyes upon them until we saw them dismount
where timber and prairie met—unsaddle and turn loose their horses, the
welcome signs of our coming rest. The sight gave vigor to our halting
feet—on, on, without a stop, though it was two miles, as the bird flies,
to the nearest tree. On, on, until panting and streaming, I tear off my
hat and haversack and drop them, with myself, at the foot of a spreading
oak.”
There is no rest like that which comes after such, exercise. I see again
the little groups drawing nearer across the prairie; coming in with
sun-tinted faces and dripping brows; speaking no words, unless a few
tired monosyllables; casting quick glances round for some smooth, shaded
spot of turf, then walking there and dropping down. And last of all, the
heavy, lumbering wagon rumbling up; its tired passengers jolted, and
jaded, and cross, and broiled, yet still willing to find, with
particular care, a spot that pleases them, whilst the teamster pulls the
clattering harness from the mules, turns them loose upon the prairie,
and, like the others, drops down to silence and repose.
Hour upon hour thus passed, partly in sleep and partly in a dreamy
languor of delicious rest. Then came a little restlessness and glances
at the sun—then the blue smoke of a fresh-kindled camp-fire, and
assertions that A. and B. had risen, and were preparing (for themselves)
the one important meal. When such assertions had been repeated twice or
thrice around me, the ground, which at first was softer than down, began
to grow hard, and withal somewhat knobby. I arose, and went with
Lieutenant Sherman to find the bayou. It was a stagnant bed of
pollywogs, not ten feet wide nor ten inches deep. Crawling out on a log,
nevertheless, and skimming off the green, slimy scum, we dipped up the
water and enjoyed, as we had seldom enjoyed before, the luxury of a
bath. Returning to the camp-fire, we found that the guards, mindful of
their prisoners’ more tired condition, were baking “dodgers” for all
hands, and that the “dodgers” were nearly done.
One of us quickly clambered into the wagon, and cut from the side of
bacon a couple of slices, while the other sharpened two slender sticks.
The bacon, skewered on these, was speedily toasted over the fire. A
slice of “dodger” took the place of plates and dishes; our pocket-knives
were also spoons and forks; and yet this Texan supper in the open air,
cooked by oneself, and eaten after a twenty mile march and a twelve hour
fast, is as delicious a meal as was ever served. The blankets were
spread ere the dew fell. We lay gazing on the stars, smoked lazily, and
talked of to-morrow’s march, till it grew dark. To me this camp brought
back all the interest of an old cavalry bivouac with some of its most
unpleasant parts left out. The sense of responsibility was now gone. I
had no anxiety or duty beyond that of taking care of myself. There were
no guards for me to post; no pickets to visit; no rounds to make, and no
prisoners to watch.
Again the blankets were rolled—the bacon toasted—the dodger divided, and
a cup of tea made. Of tired nature’s sweet restorer, English breakfast
tea—so much perverted and abused in civilized life—we had a little
canister, and wondrous were the works which that little canister
performed. Its few ounces of simple-looking herb—so light—so portable—so
bulk-less, seemed to contain strength sufficient for an army. Those who
sipped it, though weary and faint, grew strong and cheerful: those who
disliked it at home, confessed that it tasted like nectar on the march.
Ere the last sip was taken, the corporal mounted the wagon and said,
“Now, gentlemen, please to pack along your little tricks.” The “little
tricks” were safely stowed by the gallant corporal, on top of the
rations; the sick and lame were stowed on top of them; Mrs. Stratford
took the seat reserved for her; the well “fell in,” and again we
started.
The road crossed the timber-belt, and emerged on a lake-like prairie. It
was that hour when the soft light of the morning heightened the peculiar
beauty which this march revealed. The rising sun gilded the tree-tops
beside us, and tinged the soft expanse before. The herds were moving
slowly; some so near that we could hear the sullen bellow of the bulls;
and some so distant that we could see only their long horns moving above
the green, looking like wild fowl floating on the surface of the grassy
sea. The prairie rose and fell in occasional swells, the distant timber
swept around it in the graceful windings of a serpentine shore, and
islets of trees waved upon the bosom of this green and wood-bound lake.
Before the morning passed, I had an illustration of a folly which
pervades our army. The guards had warned us that it was sixteen miles
across this prairie, and until it should be crossed, we should find no
water. Every canteen was therefore filled, as was a two-gallon keg that
had followed me through the lines. Several years ago, Lieutenant-Colonel
Frederick Townsend, of the Eighteenth United States Infantry, in
recounting to me his sufferings while crossing the Gila desert, had laid
great stress upon the fact, that during the journey he had made it a
rule to go without drinking till he halted for the night. Remembering
this when I entered the army, I subjected myself to like discipline,
drinking only when I ate. A single week made this a habit, and left me
comparatively comfortable and independent. On this morning, I
accordingly loaned my canteen to some one foolish enough to need it, and
walked along without the slightest feeling of thirst. It was not eleven
o’clock, and we had not marched six hours, when we came to a puddle of
water, filling the wagon-track. The water was apparently the result of
some local shower; it was clear, but the road was dirty, and on one
side, lying in the water, were the putrid remains of an ox. I was
turning out to go around the puddle, when I heard my friends behind
shout to me to stop.
“What for?” I asked, in much amazement at the idea of halting in the
wettest spot we could find.
“Why, for a drink.”
“A drink! What, drink that filthy water?”
Yes, they were thirsty enough to drink anything. They must drink
something; the canteens and keg had been empty two hours. With
accelerated speed, they hurried to the margin of the puddle. Some knelt
down and drank, others ladled it up in their mugs, and several actually
filled their canteens with the decoction. Thus had the little period of
six hours swept away the niceties of men who, in their own homes, would
have sickened at the thought of this loathsome draught; and thus did a
childish habit destroy the whole pleasure of their walk, hide all the
beauties of the landscape, divert their attention from objects of
interest, and subject them to a needless annoyance, sometimes little
less than torture.
The following day passed much like the others—our road still leading us
across several wood-encircled prairies, separated from each other by
narrow timber-belts and trivial, dried-up bayous. Early in the
afternoon, after a march of twenty-three miles, we reached a bayou
possessed of two or three names. From these, I selected as the one
easiest to be remembered, “Indian,” and after crossing the place where
the water of Indian Bayou ought to have been, I found that we were to
encamp beyond the “timber,” and in a little grove. This word “grove” is
in constant use through western Louisiana and Texas, and when first
heard, it strikes the educated ear as a specimen of the fine talk so
common in all parts of our country. But when these natural _groves_ are
seen, the purest taste acknowledges that the word is not misapplied. The
one in which we now encamped was an oval clump of the live-oak, so clear
and clean below, so exact and regular in form, that one could hardly
believe nature had not been aided by the gardener’s art.
The next morning our breakfast disclosed the fact, that the Confederate
bacon ration is not so large as the military appetite. The lieutenant
informed me that he had no intention of starving in the midst of plenty,
and had sent forward two men to shoot a yearling, near a certain bayou,
and there we would halt and “barbecue” the meat. From the time of
leaving the Teche, the prairies had been steadily growing drier. The
atmosphere, too, was clearer, the sky brighter, the air more bracing and
elastic, and though the sun was intensely hot, yet there was not the
damp, vaporous heat that is so oppressive in the lower prairies of
Louisiana. This day we were to cross a “dry-prairie,” and as we had at
last succeeded in an early start (4–45), we reached it before the heat
of the day had begun. A very dreary waste it was, unenlivened by the
usual herds, its scanty herbage dried and withered up, and its wide
expanse barren and desolate. It was, if I remember aright, nine miles
across, but seemed much farther, for the road was soft and sandy, and
with every breeze, a cloud of dust travelled down upon us. As the nine
miles lessened into one, and the stunted trees that bordered the
dry-prairie came in view, our two beef-hunters also could be seen
driving down their half-wild game toward the road. Being somewhat in
advance, I struck off to join them. Ere I accomplished this, a young
heifer broke from the herd and bounded away. Instantly one of the rifles
flashed and the heifer fell. The shot attracted the corporal, and in a
moment his little bay was coming pell-mell across the broken ground,
leaping some gullies and scrambling in and out of others, until he threw
himself back on his haunches beside us. The corporal looked with great
interest at what they called the “yuhlin,” inquired how far they had
driven it (some eight miles), and enlarged on our great luck in getting
so fat a “beef” on so poor a “range.”
It was somewhat of a mystery to me how the “yuhlin” would be carried to
camp. When I asked whether the wagon, or perhaps the leading pair of
mules, would be brought round to tow it in, the corporal laughed, and
said in his merry way, that he would show us how they carried their game
home in Texas. Forthwith he took his ever-useful lariat, and making fast
one end to the “yuhlin’s” horns, wound the other round the horn of his
Mexican saddle. One of the men attached another in like manner, and thus
harnessed, the two horses dragged the heifer as they would a log. The
saddles, girthed for “roping” cattle, did not yield, and the horses
tugged away with as much unconcern as though they were pulling by the
ordinary collar and traces.
The mile between us and the halting-place was soon passed over, and all
hands seemed to feel a deep, immediate interest in the “yuhlin.”
Although we had marched eighteen miles that morning, it was not eleven
o’clock; nevertheless there were suggestions of _fresh_ steaks, and the
deserter (who really seemed to try to eat all he could, so as to be in
some measure even with men who had less ripened chances of being shot)
proceeded to bake a dodger. The corporal had unsaddled his horse in a
trice, and was now elbow deep in breaking up the “yuhlin.” Another
corporal—a quiet, hardworking, unassuming German—prepared the frame for
barbecuing the meat. This consisted of poles placed horizontally, about
three feet from the ground. Beneath it a slow fire was made, and the
meat, cut up in thin slices, was spread on the poles. In three or four
hours it was partly dried and partly cooked into a half-hard state, and
was then said to be barbecued. Meanwhile an army of hogs came out of the
woods, lean and savage, and grunted impatiently for their share of the
“yuhlin.” A smaller but not less impatient party waited, with drawn
knives and sharpened sticks, till the steaks could be cut, and then
hurried with them to their several fires. A steak thus cooked upon
hard-wood embers retains a flavor that the best French _chef_, with
charcoal range, only approaches. And when this flavor is intensified by
the fresh breezes of the prairie, and the long miles of a day’s march,
it is not wonderful that men affirm that steaks cut from buffalo or
stag, or even from a poor little half-tamed “yuhlin,” are better than
the best butcher’s meat that can be bought at home.
“When the meat was all barbecued, we pushed forward for the Calcasieu.
The river formed a dividing line between a forest and a prairie country.
At the foot of a slight bluff was a flat-boat and rope-ferry. I learnt
from the ferryman, with much surprise, that our “gun-boat boats” had
been up there, and captured a steamer and several schooners. I wished
most ardently as we stepped aboard the flat, that they might re-appear
at that particular moment, and enable us to return the good treatment of
our guards, by providing for their wants in New Orleans. The wish was
not realized, and the scow, like a gentler craft, wafted us to the other
shore. There an unexpected individual hailed our approach, in the person
of a bright-looking mule, who, solitary and sad, was travelling briskly
toward the ferry. The corporal, who, as usual, led, answered the mule in
his way, and quickly uncoiled the lariat. The mule tried a dodge, but
the lariat flew straight over his head and tight around his neck. The
mule was fairly “roped.” The corporal gave an inspiriting yell, and
examined the brand. It was an unknown brand—a Louisianian brand—and the
mule was therefore adjudged a lawful prize.”
Our road now wound through the green woods and along the bank of the
winding river. The sun, which at first was behind us, moved round upon
our left, then swung in front, then passed beside us on our right, then
speedily changed back, and shone again before us. The foliage screened
the river, but frequent openings uncovered views of these river-bends,
and of the clear, dark water flowing beside us. Could a section of the
Calcasieu be cut out and transplanted to the environs of some great
city, the rich luxuriance of its banks, clad with verdure from the vines
that trail upon the water to the tops of the tall firs and deep-green
magnolias that overhang the stream—its constant windings and its
graceful curves, would be deemed a marvel of picturesque beauty. Yet
here the traveller finds in it only a dull monotony of never-ceasing
turnings, and sees in the beautiful foliage of its banks, only a dreary
loneliness. I listened to a Texan’s description, and doubted whether it
had ever received an admiring glance before my own. This wood, too,
through which we marched, was not the foul swamp of eastern Louisiana.
There was the cool, deep shade, the dreamy stillness, the sweet, wild
perfume of our northern forests. The trees aided, too, in the brief
delusion. We knew the rough branches of the oak and the needles of the
“fadeless pine.” Large gum-trees deceived us into the belief that they
were the maples of a “sugar-bush;” and dwarfed magnolias, at the first
glance, took the semblance of the hickory. There was also a delightful
refreshingness in the cool, shadeful river-bank, and our long march
through prairies, exposed and shelterless, helped us to realize “the
sweet retirement” of the woods.
For four miles we marched with spirit and pleasure, although they made
up the sum of twenty-five for that day’s work. Then halting, on a sandy
bluff covered with pines, we encountered a legion of troubles. The gnats
were terrible—the mosquitoes fearful—the pine smoke spoilt our
steaks—the fresh breeze of the prairie did not reach us—and our longest
march was followed by a restless night. All the next day our road
continued in the “piny-woods.” There were occasional openings, and the
ground was clear of underbrush, yet most of the party wished themselves
back on the prairie, and thought the light shade of the pines a poor
return for the prairie breeze. As it was Sunday, we halted early, and
the lieutenant told us that one day more would bring us to Niblett’s
Bluff.
For two days we lay idle at the Bluff, with no better recreation than
yawning and cooking. On the third, the Beaumont boat arrived. Some
Vicksburg paroled prisoners had, meanwhile, come in, and they spoke of
our soldiers in terms which were most cheering to us. They were as brave
as men could be—they had treated them like brothers—they had given them
all the rations they could carry with them, and they had behaved “a heap
better every way” than it was supposed Yankees could. They said this not
only to us, but to other soldiers and citizens, and spoke up boldly on
our behalf. The effect was agreeable, not in any material change, but in
good feeling and in the greater kindliness with which we were treated.
The boat started the next morning at daybreak. We descended the Sabine
and ascended the Neches, reaching Beaumont in the evening. At this place
there was a railway eating-house, that gave us a greasy breakfast, for a
dollar and a half; we also bought sugar for a dollar a pound, and
watermelons for a dollar apiece. These prices seemed enormous at the
time, but subsequent experience makes them appear quite reasonable.
We left the little town of Beaumont on an open platform car of the
Houston train. Lieutenant Duncan made an effort to have us placed in the
passenger cars, but they were full. The news of Vicksburg had reached
here some time before us, and the coming of the Vicksburg prisoners was
expected. At every station were anxious faces, sometimes made glad and
sometimes going away more anxious than they came. At one of these, there
were two women, evidently a mother and her daughter. The train had
hardly stopped, when I heard a shriek, which sounded like one of agony,
but was instantly followed by the words, “O my son, I’m so glad, I’m so
glad, I’m so glad!” I looked and saw a fine young fellow, who had told
us many tales of the sufferings of the siege, running toward the woman,
and the next moment folded in her arms. Unconscious of the many eyes
upon them, the mother hung upon his neck, and the sister held his hand.
Some friends tossed him his roll of blankets, but it fell unnoticed. The
train started, but they did not look around, and when we were far out
upon the prairie, they still stood there exchanging their eager words,
and seemingly unconscious that we had left them.
It was twilight when the train ran into Houston. A crowd was on the
platform, made up of families and friends, who had come there to welcome
their sons and brothers from the dreadful siege. There was a line of
young girls upon the edge of the platform, and as our car was the first
of the train, they of course saw us while looking for their friends. It
was interesting to observe the different expressions that passed over
the line of pretty faces as their eyes scanned us. At first a look of
anxious interest—a shade of disappointment—a start of surprise—a slight
shrinking back with side glances at each other and the whispered-word,
“_prisoners_”—and then, in most cases, a little glance of pity. But our
car ran past them, and the next moment were heard the usual sounds that
welcome long-absent soldiers to their homes—loud congratulations, eager
inquiries, laughter and kisses. A little shade of sorrow, and perhaps of
envy, fell on us. We stood apart, a small group unnoticed, as unknown. I
tried to repress the dangerous feeling, but insensibly my thoughts flew
far away to those who would thus have welcomed us.