great faith in medicine and less in herbs—but this with the dread of
another bilious attack aroused me so far that I walked round the
barracks and asked after the livers of all the patients who had been
treated with his wild peach bark. These livers were found to be in a
highly improved condition, and thinking it fair that mine should have a
share in all the medical advantages afforded by a residence in Texas, I
determined to treat it also to wild peach bark.
The “norther” broke on the second day, and in the after noon the weather
was much like the last part of one of our cold nor’-easters. The rain
had ceased, but the clouds floated gloomily overhead and the wind blew
coldly from the north.
“Come, Stratford,” I said, “I am a convert to the Fowler treatment, and
shall feel the better for a little exercise. Let us go out and get some
bark.”
“Oh, it’s too cold and the ground will be muddy; you had better wait
till to-morrow; it will be fine weather then.”
“No, no, to-morrow you will be at work on the chimney, and this is a
broken day; let us go now.”
“Well, if you will get the patrol we will go.”
I walked down to the guard-house and represented to the sergeant of the
guard the importance of having wild peach bark and the necessity of
going out to get it.
The sergeant first raised the usual difficulties and then gave the usual
order. A stout gentleman, who helped himself to a double-barrelled gun,
informed us that he would go as Pat Roll. He sketched briefly his life
for us by stating that he was born in South Carolina, raised in Alabama,
druv stage in Florida, and sogered it in Texas. He also expressed the
opinion that Texas was an easy country to live in, “because the hogs run
in the woods and the horses run out,” and he intimated that he looked
with great contempt on those parts of the world where the hogs eat corn,
and the horses live in the stable.
As I was still weak I handed my axe over to one of the others. We
crossed the brook and near by found a wild peach. It was soon cut down,
and we proceeded as usual to shave off the bark from the trunk of the
tree, and then pull up such roots as would come. When this was done each
of my companions loaded himself with an unpeeled log, while I took the
axe and basket of bark. Thus laden, we started to return.
“Since we are working for the Herb Department,” said I, “let us take up
some yapon and try the tea. I wonder if I can cut off this branch with
one hand?”
A well-leaved branch of the yapon hung over the road, bright with red
berries, and against it I raised the axe. A couple of blows brought it
down. Mr. Stratford added it to his load, and with it we went back to
our quarters.
A day or two passed, during which the weather moderated. It was Saturday
afternoon, and I was sitting in the sun, still languid, while Mr.
Stratford was trying to heat red-hot an old shovel he had found, in
order that he might cut off its rivets and fit in it a new handle, when
the thought of the yapon came into my head, I took up the branch and
began to pluck off the leaves.
“Are you going to try the yapon?” said Lieutenant Sherman, who casually
came in.
“Yes, and I want you to go up to the galley and dry the leaves.”
“Oh, why don’t you take them green? That’s the way the sailors do.”
“True! but the sailors are not remarkable for skill in scientific
cookery, and I think a decoction of any green plant must differ a good
deal from that of a dry one.”
“Then why don’t you take some of the leaves from the arbor?”
“They are all bleached and washed to pieces. A horse would not eat hay
that had been hung up in the rain and dew as they have. Go into the
doctor’s office and get his Dispensatory, and we will prepare them as
the Chinese do. The book must give the process for tea, for I was
looking at ‘sweet potatoes’ the other day, and found accidentally that
it is very full on the making of sugar.”
The lieutenant brought the book, turned to the article, and read:
“‘TEA.—The plant which furnishes tea. _Thea Chinensis_ is an evergreen
shrub, belonging to’”——
“Never mind the botany, we do not mean to grow tea, but cure it. Go over
to the manufacture.”
He skipped over a page or two and proceeded:
“‘It is propagated from the seeds. In three years the plant yields
leaves for collection, and in six attains the height of a man. When from
seven to ten years old, it is cut down, in order that the numerous
shoots which issue from the stumps may afford a large product of leaves.
These are picked separately by the hand. Three harvests, according to
Koempfer, are made during the year. As the youngest leaves are the best,
the product of the first collection is most valuable, while that of the
third, consisting of the oldest leaves, is comparatively little
esteemed. After having been gathered, the leaves are dried by artificial
heat in a shallow iron pan.’”
“That’s a shovel,” said Mr. Stratford, who generally manufactured the
most of our small-wit, and who had just come in to take his shovel from
the fire. “That’s a shovel—a shovel is a shallow iron pan.”
“‘From which,’” pursued Lieutenant Sherman, reading, “‘they are removed
while still hot, and rolled with the fingers on the palm of the hands,
to be brought into the form in which they are found in commerce.’”
“All right,” said Mr. Stratford. “You have picked the leaves separately
by the hand. I’ll dry them artificially by heat in a shallow iron pan,
and Sherman can roll them with the finger or in the palm of his hand, to
bring them into the right shape.”
He drew his shovel from the fire as he spoke, and after knocking off the
loose ashes, threw a handful of the yapon leaves upon it.
“These leaves won’t roll up,” said Lieutenant Sherman, after they had
been drying a few minutes on the shovel. “They crack and unroll
themselves.”
“Yes, but they are old leaves, see how thick they are, and the berries
are red and ripe. Here by chance is a young one; the book says, you
know, that they value the young leaves most. What better shape could you
have than that—just the roll of a tea-leaf.”
“And now,” said Mr. Stratford, “that they are artificially dried in a
shallow iron pan, Sherman, put the coffee-pot on, and let’s all take
tea.”
The turn affairs had taken roused in me rather more than usual
curiosity, and as my mug was filled, I examined the tea with rather more
than customary care. The aroma was that of poor tea, and the resemblance
was quite striking, making me more curious as to the taste. I cooled it
down as rapidly as possible and took a sip. There was a woody taste, but
through this came the unmistakable flavor of the tea. “Who knows but
this is a discovery?” I thought, and so I said emphatically:
“_This is_ TEA.”
“It is amazingly like it, though not very good.”
“It is the tea-plant itself. Sherman, turn back to the article and read
the botany.”
The lieutenant re-opened the book and again read.
“‘The plant which furnishes tea, _Thea Chinensis_, is an evergreen
shrub.’”
“This is an evergreen shrub. See how bright the leaves are, though we
are near November.”
“‘Belonging to the class and order _Monadelphia Polyandria_, of the
sexual system, and to the natural order _Ternstromiaceæ_.’”
“I think this is Poly—what do you call it?” said Mr. Stratford,
encouragingly; “and I’m sure it belongs to the natural order.”
“‘It is usually from four to eight feet high, though capable, in a
favorable situation, of attaining the height of thirty feet.’”
“Texas is a favorable situation,” said Lieutenant Sherman. “I can find
one that comes up to thirty feet.”
“‘It has numerous alternate branches.’”
“So has the yapon, alternate and plenty of them.”
“‘Furnished with elliptical-oblong or lanceolate pointed leaves.’”
“These are elliptical, oblong and pointed leaves.”
“‘Which are serrate, except at the base.’”
“These are serrate; and let me see, yes, ‘except at the base.’ Not a saw
tooth there.”
“‘Smooth on both sides, green, shining, marked with one rib and many
transverse veins.’”
“‘_Smooth on both sides, green, shining, marked with one rib and many
transverse veins_’—the exact description. Do look at them.”
“‘And supported alternately upon short foot-stalks.’”
“‘Supported alternately upon short foot-stalks’—so they are.”
“‘They are two or three inches long and from half an inch to an inch in
breadth.’”
“These are little more than half the size. But then the book is
describing the cultivated plant, and this is the wild one.”
“‘The flowers are either solitary or supported two or three together at
the axils of the leaves.’”
“What a pity we have not seen the flower!”
“The berries, though, will help us to place them. Here they are
‘solitary,’ yes, and ‘two or three together,’ and at ‘the axils of the
leaves.’”
“‘The fruit is a three-celled, three-seeded capsule.’”
“This has four, but I think that is not material. The persimmons, for
instance, have seven seeds here and only two or three in New Jersey.”
“That,” said Mr. Stratford, still encouragingly, “is because Texas is
such a seedy place. I’ve grown somewhat seedy myself since I’ve been
here.”
“‘It is stated that the odor of the tea-leaves themselves is very
slight.’”
“The odor of these is _very_ slight,” remarked Mr. Stratford, “so
slight, that I sometimes imagine I don’t smell it at all.”
“‘And that it is customary to mix with them the leaves of certain
aromatic plants, such as _Olea Fragrans_.’”
“When the war is over,” said Mr. Stratford, in conclusion, “we will get
some olea to mix with it, and then it will be all complete. And now let
us hurrah for the great American tea. You can stay here and take care of
the plant, and I will go home (so soon as I can) and get up a great
Texan Tea Company.”
VIII.
CAMP FORD.
Autumn was drawing to a close, the leaves had fallen from the trees, the
grass was no longer green, and prairie and timber seemed alike bare and
cold. Still no exchange had come. We knew of the thirty-seven thousand
prisoners taken at Vicksburg, and the six thousand taken at Port Hudson,
and therefore we listened hopefully to rumors of exchange, and coined a
few of our own, and remained prisoners of war.
Within the prison-camp, affairs had not grown brighter. There was
increased sickness with despondency and (for so small a party) many
deaths. Two Massachusetts officers had died early. Then the consumptive
lieutenant’s light had flickered, and with fitful changes grown more and
more dim, until it softly expired. A week later, as some of us were
awaiting impatiently the breakfast-whistle of our cook, an officer ran
hurriedly past to the guard-line, and calling to the surgeon, said,
“Come quickly, Doctor, Lieutenant Hayes is dead!” The merry-hearted
Irishman lay in his hammock in the composure of an easy sleep. His light
had gone out in a single instant. Later, our friend, Mr. Parce, grew
weaker. An order came to send the “citizen prisoners” to Mexico; it did
not revive him. His strength waned, but his placid cheerfulness was
still undisturbed. “It is a bad sign,” said one of his friends, “if he
were only cross and fretful, we might hope.” The sign did not pass away;
and with the prospect of home and liberty held before him he died. We
knew that at this rate, another year would leave very few survivors to
be carried from the camp.
One gloomy evening, as we sat pondering and talking over our affairs,
rumor came in and told us a new tale. It said that the prisoners were to
be _paroled_ and sent forthwith to the Federal lines. The rumor was
confirmed within a day or two by Major Barnes; but when the paroling
officer came, it appeared that it was not altogether true; the seamen
and privates were to be paroled; the officers were to be sent to Camp
Ford.
It behooved us now to find ways and means for carrying our remaining
effects to their new abode. By the aid of Major Barnes we succeeded in
chartering two wagons for fifteen hundred dollars. We also secured an
old hack to carry Mrs. Stratford and four sick officers at fifty dollars
apiece. Some of us strove hard to purchase a poor horse or cheap pony
that would carry us at any gait. In this race honor compels me to
confess that the effrontery of the navy completely distanced the army.
Early one morning the camp rang with cries of “Here’s yer mule.” Through
the admiring throng appeared an animal of that description towed in by
Captain Dillingham. It was a peculiar animal—small, old, ugly, vicious,
and one-eyed. The Captain had bought him on our joint account, and had
paid for him one hundred and fifty dollars in the currency of the
Confederate States of North America. This alarmingly low price was due
to the recent loss of his left optic, causing a dangerous sore, which,
the vendor thought, would not prove fatal before we reached Camp Ford.
The example was speedily followed by Captain Crocker of the “Clifton,”
who bought another mule, and by Captain Johnson of the “Sachem,” who
bought a third, and by Surgeon Sherfy of the “Morning Light,” who bought
an old “calico” horse that the sailors immediately named “Quinine.” The
army, either from excess of modesty or excess of poverty, did not
succeed, I regret to say, in buying anything.
“Can we ride there on a mule bare-back?” was the question. “Decidedly
not,” was the answer.
Yet a good saddle in Texas would cost as much as a good horse. In this
state of doubt we were relieved by purchasing of a contraband an old
wooden “tree” with a strap or two and a piece of raw-hide hanging to it.
It bore about the same relation to a saddle that a pair of old wheels do
to a cart. But we went to work. And here again the army was eclipsed by
the navy. I had been a cavalry officer, and thought I knew a thing or
two about broken saddles, and accounted myself fertile in such
expedients, but the Captain borrowed a sailor’s needle and palm-thimble;
brought out an old marlin-spike and some rope, and stitched and spliced
with a neatness and rapidity that threw me in the shade. Trunk straps
were speedily transferred and changed into girths, some rope was spliced
and lashed around a wooden shoe till it became a stirrup, and pieces of
raw-hide were bound to the “tree” till it fairly grew to be a saddle.
As the time of departure approached another subject engrossed our
attention. Eating continued to be the chief thought and passion of our
lives. Whatever could be bought to eat we bought. Our stoves ran
literally night and day in baking hard-tack; and we, duly instructed by
a professional cracker-baker, pounded dough till our arms ached.
There was still another subject of interest to many. A large part of the
officers belonged either to the navy or to new regiments. They were
entirely innocent of having slept out a night in their lives, and knew
nothing of marches and bivouacs. The fuss which they made about this
expected movement was in the highest degree amusing to those who, by
virtue of a year or two’s service, dubbed themselves veterans. _They_
looked on with smiles as they saw the others making good blankets into
poor shelter-tents, and winked to each other when they heard the new men
confidently assure one another that they could stand it now, even if
there should be a wet night upon the march.
After some delay there came in five or six impressed wagons and a
squadron of stalwart men mounted on large, well-fed horses. They were
chiefly stock breeders from the prairies, and boasted of being the best
mounted troop in Texas. All of these men owned the horses they rode, and
many brought with them a led horse and servant. They were supposed to be
men of unquestionable secession sentiments, and were employed chiefly in
hunting down conscripts and guarding prisoners.
On the ninth of December our seamen and privates left us, and we were
notified to be ready on the eleventh. Our two wagons came down—a
quantity of yapon was gathered and dried—a last baking of biscuit was
made, and our stoves were duly incased in open boxes with beckets so as
to be readily loaded and unloaded.
A move is always interesting; after months of dreary idleness it is
exciting. Happy did we seem, and happy did we feel as on the cold, foggy
morning we marched down the “wood road,” crossed the little brook, and
left Camp Groce at last behind us. The new Captain—a tall, powerful
Texan, with a determined eye and stern, compressed lips—evidently
understood his business. He kept us well together, managed his own men
with few words and great judgment, and watched the column with close
vigilance. The one-eyed mule behaved with gravity and decorum, never
showing any unnecessary signs of life or unseemly gayety, except once
when he slipped his bridle and ran away like a deer.
Before three o’clock we went into camp on a little brook called “Kane’s
Creek.” Thanks to the autumn rains, there was some water in the “creek,”
and thanks to the December frosts, it was clear and cold. The
proceedings of our naval friends were a new chapter in my experience of
bivouacs. Notwithstanding the clear sky and roaring camp-fires, edifices
called shelter-tents were erected, with an immense amount of
consultation and anxiety. Heavy mattresses were unpacked from the wagons
and lugged to the tents. Stoves were unloaded and put up under trees,
where they soon smoked and steamed as did the excited cooks who hovered
around them. So elaborate, indeed, was the dinner of our mess, that the
short winter day closed ere Lieutenant Dane doffed his apron, and
summoned us to our seats around the camp-fire. By its light I saw a
sirloin of roast beef, a large piece of corned, sweet potatoes, corn
bread and butter, flap-jacks and sauce, tea, coffee and cake.
“What are you doing?” asked somebody, as I drew out my pencil and
note-book. “I thought you never took notes; it was only an hour ago you
were telling me that a note-book spoils a good traveller.”
“I am noting down this bill of fare. After my rough experience in our
army of the West, this dinner seems too ridiculous to be believed.”
“I suppose you will publish it in the newspapers when you get out?”
“Yes, I rather think I shall.”
“Well, it’s the last of the pepper,” said the caterer, “so mind and put
it down.”
“Yes, by all means.”
“And they say we can buy no sugar at Tyler,” said another; “so mind and
put _it_ down.”
“Certainly; anything else?”
“There’s some salt, and there’s a hard-tack. Perhaps you think they are
luxuries. And here’s a candle, moulded in the neck of a bottle—hadn’t
you better mention it?”
“I think I had—the mould was so ingenious. You remember I invented it
myself.”
“You haven’t exposed the fact that it’s our last pound of coffee,
treasured up for this journey?”
“Certainly not.”
“Nor that the tea grew in Texas?”
“No.”
“Don’t—a few such secrets exposed will destroy the whole effect of the
bill. And now, if the dinner isn’t too much for you, let us box up the
stove, while those delicate young gentlemen wash the dishes.”
So we boxed up the stove, and washed the dishes, and lit our pipes, and
sat looking in the glowing camp-fire. And then our three naval Captains
crawled into a tight little shelter-tent, where they suffocated and
perspired, and caught cold. The army part of the mess spread their
blankets and lay down, with their feet against a smoking log, their
heads resting on their knapsacks, and their eyes watching the stars,
which twinkled them asleep.
The bugle called us long before daylight to prepare our breakfast and
re-load the wagons. I cannot pay Captain Davis a better compliment, than
by saying that for five successive mornings we moved off at precisely
6–45, and then for six successive mornings at precisely seven. This day
the road ran over some fine rolling country, occasionally clean and
park-like, with stately trees sprinkled here and there, and entirely
free from young wood and underbrush. The weather was delightful, but we
went into camp before two o’clock, after a march of only fourteen miles.
The next morning as we started, a cold gust of north wind struck us. It
was not a “norther,” but a sudden change of weather from warm to cold.
All the morning we breasted it, and it blew keener and keener as the day
advanced. Early in the afternoon we encamped in an open wood, which gave
but poor shelter from the piercing gale. The little stream that formed
our watering place was coated with ice, and the ice grew thicker with
each hour. We set ourselves at the work of unloading the wagons and the
heavier work of chopping wood for the large camp-fire that must burn all
night. The stove went up and puffed and steamed as usual, and all
endeavored to impress upon the mind of our amateur _chef_ that this
extreme cold was only an additional reason that we should eat.
“While we were fresh from a sharp walk, with the blood stirred by the
active labors of the camp, we were comfortable enough. When we first
threw ourselves down before the fire all aglow, saying we were thankful
that the work was done, we still felt indifferent to the cold north
wind. But presently it crept in, and sent a shivering chill over the
frame. Then the nervous energy relaxed, and one felt great need of a
warm room where he could hide himself from the blast, and fall asleep if
only for an hour. The dinner and the hot tea that accompanied it braced
us up somewhat, and fitted us for bed. Our three naval friends again
crawled into their shelter-tent, where (inasmuch as it was at a prudent
distance from the fire) they nearly froze to death. The remainder of the
mess used the shelter-tent, a large tree and the stove box as a
wind-break, and put their feet almost in the fire. For some hours we all
slept soundly, as men must who have marched and worked since long before
day. But although the blankets were drawn over our heads and the
wind-break seemed to afford ample protection, the cutting air pushed its
way in. It crawled through the hair and curled itself round the neck,
and sent the same shivery chills over the body. I rose and warmed myself
by rolling a couple of large logs on the fire, and prizing them into
their places. The scene around me was wild in the extreme, for every
mess had built a large fire, and the flames of these leaped and roared
in the blast, and sent large sparks flying through the tree-tops; while
in the fiery light, picturesque figures could be seen crouching over the
embers or throwing fresh wood into the flames.”
The bugle again called us up, while the stars were yet shining, to find
the dodger we had baked over night, and the cold beef we had put by for
breakfast, frozen harder than paving stones. Close seated by the fire,
we ate a moody breakfast, each one declaring that he had not slept one
hour during the night, and that he wanted to turn in again. Instead of
doing so, we took the road, now solid as a rock. The horses had to stamp
through the ice to drink, and the “Sunny South” seemed frozen hard as
the hills of the Adirondack.
Passing through Huntsville, we found ourselves upon a sandy road, and
travelling through dull woods, whose weary sameness lasted with hardly
an interruption for one hundred and fifty miles. Toward evening we
encamped beside a deep ravine. The clouds gathered darkly overhead, and
the rain began to fall. It bore all the appearances of one of our cold
November storms, and we anticipated a tempestuous night. But then came
one of the phenomena of the Texan climate. With darkness the rain
stopped; and the stars seemed to disperse the clouds. But with daylight
the clouds returned, and as we re-commenced the march, the rain came
down heavily. The matter was made worse by our immediately descending to
the “Trinity bottom,” a rich, alluvial plain, three miles in width,
composed of the greasiest of mud. When we had dragged ourselves across
this, we were suddenly stopped by the Trinity, a narrow stream, deep
channelled between precipitous clay banks. A road was cut down each
bank, and the usual scow and rope-ferry appeared at the bottom. The
prisoners who first arrived on foot were immediately carried over. They
scrambled up the opposite bank and instantly made a fire, around which
they closely huddled. As the wagons arrived, they were hurried aboard of
the scow, for every moment made matters worse. A crowd of men surrounded
each wagon as it landed, pushing, pulling, yelling, and in various ways
“encouraging the mules.” Those extraordinary animals pulled and strained
and slipped; now down, now up again, exhausted, and then renewing their
efforts, until slowly and inch by inch every wagon was carried to the
top of the bank. The scow covered with mules and white-topped wagons,
the struggling teams, the shouting men, the howling of the wind, the
beating of the rain, all made up a romantic picture. But the toil we
paid for it was extreme, and the crossing of this narrow river cost us
two hours of time.