THE BACK TRACK.
The location of our recapture was about ten miles from Boston, Texas,
and our captors were taking us to that place.
On the way we stopped at a farmhouse to get a drink, and I begged the
woman for some thread with which to mend my clothes. She searched around
and found a ball, giving me several lengths of thread from it. I then
asked her for some patches, and she hunted up a pair of old pants of
very small size, evidently a boy's pair. They were corduroy, and it
seemed a shame to cut them up, but she said it was all she could do.
While she had been gone for the pants I had stolen a ball of thread,
which had been left within reach, and I felt some qualms of conscience
over it, but necessity had urged me to do it, and I left the matter for
necessity to settle with conscience. The pants were carefully stowed
away for future use.
Proceeding on our way, we killed time and enlivened our weary tramp by
telling stories. One of our captors developed a capacity for lying which
was simply astounding. He was not a graceful, elegant liar, telling
stories that you might doubt, but could not dispute, but was one of the
class of liars who distort facts that are well known and calmly make
statements which you know are false. His stories were all upon the
subject of eating and big eaters. We stood it until he told a story in
which he claimed that he knew a man who had cooked and eaten, at one
meal, a rock fish weighing thirty-six pounds, clinching the matter by
asserting that he knew it to be a fact, inasmuch as he had seen it done.
Then we concluded to shut the mouth of such an egregious and palpable
liar.
Burnbaum asked me about my friend down in Baltimore, who was such an
enormous eater, and, after some persuasion, I told the following story:
A colored man, called Eating Tom, stopped at a dining stall kept by a
widow in Marsh Market one fine morning, and asked the charge for
breakfast. The woman kept a table set for twelve, and had provisions
cooked and ready for a like number. Being told that twenty-five cents
was the price, Tom paid the quarter and took his seat, calling for
everything in sight, until he had eaten all the cooked victuals the poor
woman had, when he demanded more food or the return of his money, saying
that he had paid for his breakfast and had not had enough. At this, the
widow began to cry, which attracted the attention of a fat, burly
policeman, who ordered the gluttonous brute to leave. Tom and the
policeman soon got into a dispute as to what constituted a meal, and
the negro offered to bet his opponent a guinea that he was yet
sufficiently hungry to be able to eat a bundle of hay as large around as
the fat policeman's body. The money was put up in my hands, the
policeman procured the hay--the nastiest salt marsh hay that he could
find--and compressed it to the required size by means of a strap. By
this time quite a crowd had gathered. The strap was cut and the hay
expanded so that it looked like a wagon-load, but the negro, with a
broad grin and without hesitation, commenced his task with apparent
relish, and soon ate up every particle of the hay. Being the
stakeholder, and an eye-witness, I was compelled to pay over the money
to Tom.
[Illustration: CAPT. CHARLES BURNBAUM.]
Our other two guards saw the point of this story and fairly roared with
laughter, but the liar did not seem to appreciate it. However, it
accomplished its object, and we heard no more fish or other stories from
guard number three while we were together.
We reached Boston about dark and were lodged in a room of the
courthouse, on the ground floor, the jail having been recently burned.
The town was soon all excitement over our capture, and we had many
callers, who were admitted to see and talk with us, while very many more
wanted to see us, but could not. We enjoyed a sumptuous meal of bacon
and white bread, which was brought to us by citizens, and during our
repast we were holding a genuine reception, the citizens taking us in
turn and asking many questions about ourselves, the war, our opinions of
the situation and future, and, in short, acting as if we were a bureau
of information about the outside world. Our guards introduced us, and I
heard one of them telling a small crowd about the fish and hay stories.
We could not have been treated better if we had been guests instead of
prisoners.
Seeing a boy standing near the door and watching us, with his eyes and
mouth wide open, I went up to him and asked if he could not go out and
get us some buttermilk. He grinned and disappeared like a shot,
returning shortly with a quantity of the desired article, and it was
keenly relished. Having full stomachs and comfortable quarters, we were
all in good humor and laughed and joked with our friends until late at
night.
The town was a hard place, and shooting scrapes and rows were numerous,
but they were regarded as a matter of course, while our coming was a
novelty; so our stay was a source of interest and entertainment to the
people, while a matter of good living and comfort to ourselves. Boston
was then the county-seat of Union county, but the name did not suit the
people, and the title of the county was changed to Davis.
Late at night we retired, making our beds on the soft sides of several
bundles of sole leather which were stored in the room, and slept soundly
until we were called for breakfast by the guards. This was the first
decent sleep we had had since our escape, and we could not have put in
our time to better advantage had our resting places been feather beds.
Our breakfast was plentiful and substantial, although plain. The
citizens began to gather around before we got started with our meal,
and, when we sat down to eat, the room was filled with a curious crowd.
Just as we began to eat, the enrolling officer, Captain Payne, came in
to see us. He was a typical Southerner, of the long, lean, affable and
insincere species, and he approached us with great dignity, rubbing his
hands and smiling blandly, exclaiming in an unctuous tone:
"Good morning, gentlemen. I hope your breakfast is satisfactory. What!
dry bread! Really, gentlemen, if I had known this before I left my house
I would have brought you some molasses. Sorry; very sorry."
Now, molasses was a rare luxury in those days in that section of the
country, and I sized the man up in an instant as a smooth liar, who said
what he did partly to aggravate us and partly for effect; so I promptly
arose and replied, with a bow:
"Captain, your courtesy is overwhelming. This breakfast stands
adjourned until you can send one of these niggers to your house for that
molasses."
He turned all colors of the rainbow, and several smothered laughs were
heard in the crowd, but he could not well back down, and so we had
molasses for breakfast.
The molasses incident seemed to make me popular with many of the rebels,
and I was the recipient of many attentions. During the day one of them
asked permission to take me out, and our guards permitted me to go in
his charge. He took me all over the town, introduced me to many people,
insisted upon my getting shaved at his expense, and in every way treated
me right royally. Everyone I met seemed curious to learn all he could of
the Yankees, and I was questioned and cross-questioned as to all
imaginable views of the situation and prospects of the Confederacy. My
replies were very frank, and I made no attempt to conceal my thoughts,
but they were clothed in good-natured raillery, and my hearers seemed to
like my plain speaking. I have very pleasant recollections of that day
in Boston, and I scarcely realized that I was a prisoner until it became
time for me to return to our quarters.
We had another jolly evening, and it may as well be said here that
during our stay of several days in the town we duly entertained scores
of callers, from the most aristocratic citizens to the lowest, and were
kept in almost constant conversation from early morning until late at
night.
The guards were compelled to move the crowd away at times, and then,
after having talked to us for hours, we could hear them on the outside
of the building, discussing the Yankees and their views, all crediting
us with being honest in speaking our sentiments.
The next day it developed that we were likely to be delayed several
days, on account of the fact that there was no competent person
available to take charge of us and the necessary guard.
During the day we were much entertained by the appearance of an outfit
in which we became much interested. An old wagon was driven up and
stopped before our quarters, and before long everybody knew all that was
to be known about it. The owner was a young man in a Confederate
uniform, and he claimed to be a captain on leave of absence because of a
wound. One of his feet was bandaged and he limped badly. He said that he
belonged to a Georgia company, and had been shot through the ankle in a
skirmish. His wagon was loaded with Confederate hats, which he had
brought to Boston for sale, and he had a carpet-sack full of Confederate
money, while his principal companion was a five-gallon demijohn full of
"pine-top" whiskey. A second companion was a negro boy, named Joe, who
was evidently very much afraid of his master. The officer and the
demijohn were seen to be inseparable, as he kept up a continuous drain
upon its capacity for entertainment, the result being that he was as
near drunk all the time as a man can be who seems to have no limit to
his capacity for stowing away liquor. The efforts of the man to seem
entirely sober and business-like, and his evident dependence upon Joe,
caused much amusement to all.
In the course of four or five days, during which time our confinement
was uncertain as to duration, this young man disposed of his hats, and,
professing a desire for such service as he could perform, he volunteered
to take charge of the guard which might be detailed to take us back to
our prison.
We were not over-anxious to go on, as our stay in Boston had been as
pleasant as it could be for prisoners, but this offer was accepted, and
the time was fixed for our departure.
After necessary preparation, we made a start for the first station,
about thirty miles distant.
On the day following our farewell to Boston we stopped for dinner in an
open spot adjoining a farmhouse.
Our friend, the captain, was, as usual, on the verge of being blind
drunk, and yet so far from actually being so as to be able to know, in a
general sort of way, about what he was doing. While eating our meal our
leader learned that I was a Marylander. He swore that I ought to be shot
for being a Yankee, and that my comrades were deserving of a like
treatment, saying that he would do the job himself if he had not
promised to treat us as prisoners of war. I ridiculed the idea of his
shooting anybody, especially as several of his prisoners were Masons
like himself, and told him that he did not dare to shoot one of them. He
swore that they were not Masons whom he would recognize, but that there
was his carpet-sack, out of which we could help ourselves to what money
we needed.
The negro servant had been sent for a pail of water, and he now returned
with it from the nearest farmhouse. The water was not cool enough to
suit the captain, and he made the boy throw it out and go for some more.
When Joe brought the second supply he received an artistic cursing
because he could not bring it quickly enough to avoid a rise in its
temperature. Between the bibulous officer and Joe, who was a
good-natured fellow, we were provided with considerable amusement during
the lunch hour.
During the next afternoon we reached a combined church and schoolhouse,
called "Kasseder" by the natives, where was kept a courier station.
The corn which had been wasted in feeding the horses had attracted the
hogs owned by the proprietor of the neighboring farmhouse, and they came
within a short distance of us, when the captain called for a gun, which
was handed to him by one of the guards. The aim of the half-drunken man
was very uncertain, and, as the gun was pointed by him in the direction
of the hogs, its muzzle swept over a space occupied by several guards
and the prisoners, who scattered in a hurry as the threatening
instrument swayed to and fro in a hesitating way, at which the officer
dropped the gun and laughed boisterously, calling for Joe and his
demijohn. Sitting in the door of the church, our inebriated leader
interviewed his friend the demijohn, and then ordered Joe to "round up
them d----d hogs and shoo them" in his direction, threatening to shoot
the first hog that attempted to bite his wounded ankle. Joe laughingly
obeyed.
Again partaking of some liquid refreshments, the captain took up the
gun, following the hogs in their movements, with an uncertain aim, which
again and again caused a scattering among us and much amusement to him.
Finally the gun went off in an apparently accidental way, but the finest
hog in the lot was killed, and we had roast pork for supper. The farmer
did not learn of his loss until one of the guards was sent up to the
house to report the death of the hog and ask for some salt. The guards
being fearful of punishment for such foraging, the slayer of the animal
sent word that we would pay for the hog, but Mr. Floyd, the owner,
refused to receive pay, and he furnished the salt to make the pork
palatable.