BRIGHT SPOTS.
Lieut. Walter S. Johnson, of Company I, my regiment, now of Lincoln,
Neb., was captured with me, and was one of our number on the march from
Mark's Mills, Arkansas, the scene of our undoing, to Tyler, Texas. He
was afterwards one of my comrades in an attempt to escape. A couple of
his experiences are well worthy of record here, and, while one of them
occurred during our absence without leave from the stockade, it is
related in this chapter because neither incident came to my knowledge
until a recent date, and, both being illustrative of kind treatment
received, it seems right to place them in a chapter which may be said to
be Lieutenant Johnson's, especially as neither of them otherwise needs
particular location in my narrative.
The balance of this chapter is to be understood, without quotation
marks, as coming from my comrade:
After we had been on our weary march for a number of days, a man came
among the prisoners for the purpose of buying up all greenbacks that
were for sale. He did not need much help to carry off his purchases, as
we had been previously interviewed by others on the same subject, but
without the offer to give an equivalent or even the courtesy to ask
whether we had a superfluous quantity. This man, therefore, made a
favorable impression, and we became curious to learn his object. He was
a genteel, unassuming fellow, and spent two or three days with us,
talking to individuals as the opportunity offered. At last I asked him
why he was giving $5 of Confederate money for one of ours, when he told
me frankly that he expected to go to Vicksburg--then within our
lines--to buy medicine for the use of their army.
"Do you think it possible to do this?" I asked.
"Oh, yes," he responded; "I have done so several times already, and
there is no trouble about it."
In a moment it flashed across my mind that here was a chance to get a
letter through to my loved ones at home, and I said to him:
"Would you have the kindness to take a letter through for me and mail it
to my wife when you get to Vicksburg?"
"Oh, certainly," he said; "I can do that just as well as not."
With bounding heart I tore a leaf out of my pocket diary and wrote a few
lines to my wife, saying that I was all right, telling her to keep up
her courage and that all would yet be well.
I gave the precious scrap of paper to the gentleman--without an
envelope, as a matter of necessity--_and my wife received it all right_
from Vicksburg, where it had been enclosed in an envelope and mailed.
I remember this kind-hearted gentleman with much gratitude, and, as the
receipt of the letter would indicate that he got through as expected,
the fact has always been to me a source of satisfaction beyond that of
personal benefit.
This experience, as well as the one to follow, is recorded all the more
readily because the kindnesses received during our sojourn in Rebeldom
were not expected, at least by me.
On our return to the stockade, after an escape elsewhere described, an
incident occurred which gave me greater faith in human nature than I had
possessed up to that time.
We were pretty well used up by our constant traveling, were having
little to eat, and I was not feeling very well; perhaps looking even
worse than I felt.
Thinking that a cup of milk would be at once a benefit and a positive
luxury to me, one morning, just after daylight and before we had broken
camp for the day's march under our guards, I made up my mind to visit a
house near our resting place and ask for the drink to which my palate
had been a stranger for about two years. I was scarcely a presentable
object, being barefooted, my pants frayed out up to my knees and hanging
in shreds below, my coat-tails cut off at the waist, my feet wrapped in
the detached fragments of my coat, and I wore a white wool hat, given me
by the "Johnnies," as the best they had, that drooped so much as to
necessitate doubling it up like a "turnover" pie. In this plight I
mustered up the courage to present myself at the house, after having
secured permission from the guards. Knocking at the door, with some
misgivings, I was answered by a sad-looking, yet sweet-faced,
middle-aged lady, whose appearance so confused me that I could only
stammer my request.
She, with a calm, gentle demeanor, so mother-like that the tears almost
started from my eyes, invited me to a seat in a neat and tidy, yet
comparatively bare room. This courtesy I acknowledged and declined as
respectfully as I knew how, thinking I would only be there a moment. She
retired at once to an adjoining room.
The minutes kept slipping away, until I feared that our kind guards
would have their patience tried and their suspicions aroused to an
extent which would invite an investigation of my whereabouts, especially
as we were to move before long. Just as I was beginning to think myself
forsaken by the old lady, and was trying to forget the imaginary taste
of that expected milk, she reappeared, when, to my surprise and almost
consternation, she invited me _to breakfast_ with the family in the next
room, where the table was ready and bountifully loaded with a
substantial meal.
Oh, that breakfast! The sight fairly took my breath for a moment, and I
no longer regretted the delay as I feasted my eyes upon the clean and
inviting table, with its plentiful supply of creamy biscuit, golden
yellow butter, ham and eggs, baked potatoes and steaming coffee; but, as
I gazed, even though hungry, worn out and reduced in flesh, a full sense
of the kindness exhibited almost caused me to break down utterly and my
appetite failed me for the moment. However, my kind hostess, in her
gentle, unassuming manner, quietly motioned me to a seat and bade me
make myself at home. With the family of four persons I sat at the table
throughout the meal. Very few words were spoken. My eyes kept filling
with tears and my heart was too full to permit my saying more than
"Thank you, and may heaven bless you."
Even at this late day the remembrance of the unpretentious kindness of
that dear old lady brings the tears to my eyes.
Such acts in this world of selfishness and coldness are the shade and
water in the desert of life, and the longer I live the more I am
convinced that nothing short of love for Him in the heart will produce
such works.