THE RETURN TO THE STOCKADE.
Our leader had been half sick when he left Boston, and he now became
quite ill, soon becoming so much worse that we thought he would die. The
drinks which had preceded the killing of the hog had been about the last
left in the demijohn, and he had emptied it before the pig was dressed.
The march in the intense heat, with the bad whiskey, seemed to have a
bad effect, and the next morning we halted to see what the result would
be. Seeing that the man would surely die if not relieved, I got
permission to hunt up a wagon and take the captain to a doctor, who, as
I learned by inquiry, lived a few miles away.
Most of the men were "down upon" their commander, and all were
indifferent to his sufferings, simply doing what he asked of them, and
that, for the most part, with reluctance.
I got him in the wagon, and, with a guard to accompany me, took him to
the doctor, who gave him medicine and got a neighboring farmer to take
him into his house.
The sick man stuck to his carpet-sack throughout the trip, and, when he
was taken to the house, he had his money with him. After he was put to
bed, he pointed to his bank and told me to help myself, seeming to be
very grateful for what I had done. Of course, I could not take money for
any such service, and he would not have offered it had I not been a
prisoner and in a position where the possession of money might avoid
much hardship. He told the doctor that he would have died if it had not
been for that d----d Yankee, and that he was very glad he had kept his
promise by not killing us. He dwelt on the idea that, being a
Marylander, I should not have forgotten myself so far as to be found on
the wrong side.
We saw no more of the captain, but learned from the doctor that he was
improving and would be all right as soon as the effects of the
"pine-top" whiskey had been neutralized.
We were delayed for several days, and I got permission to go where I
pleased, on the promise that I would not run away.
There was something inviting about the house near our camp, the home of
the man named Floyd, whose hog our leader had killed, and one day
Captain Fee and I went up to see if we could get some buttermilk. Our
personal appearance was not prepossessing, as the entire apparel of each
consisted of an old hat, a shirt which was much the worse for wear, a
ragged pair of trousers and a well-worn pair of shoes. We had dressed up
as well as we could, by washing our faces and hands, before starting
for the house, but a modern tramp would have disdained our society, and
the young girl who came to the door of the house in response to my knock
was inclined to shut the door in our faces. We soon convinced her that
we were harmless, and she then invited us to take our seats on the back
porch in company with a crippled Confederate soldier, Mrs. Floyd and
herself. We spent about half an hour in pleasant conversation, when we
made known our errand.
Mrs. Floyd promptly offered to fill our canteens with buttermilk,
requesting us to enter the parlor in the meantime and talk to her
husband, who was confined to the room by sickness. This we did gladly,
and found that Mr. Floyd had been a very sick man, but was now
convalescent.
The sick man was quite glad to see us and hear what we had to say. The
visit was being enjoyed very much when, looking through the open window,
he saw the doctor coming, and advised us to leave the room and not let
it be known that we had talked together, the doctor being a very strong
Southerner and he a Union man. Accordingly, we slipped out of the back
door as the doctor approached the front entrance.
The next day the wounded Confederate soldier came down to our camp with
a bundle and a note from the young lady. The bundle contained a couple
of shirts, and the note read as follows:
"These two shirts are from a friend, and are to be worn by the two who
are the most destitute."
It is perhaps superfluous to add that I appropriated one of the
garments, but the shirt was not superfluous.
The next day one of our guards, a boy about fifteen years of age,
entered into conversation with me. After talking some time, he invited
me to go with him to his father's house for dinner. Securing permission,
I went.
His father's name was McMichael, and again I found a Union man, who was
forced to be a Confederate or lose all he had in the world. We had a
good dinner and an enjoyable chat. I learned that he had three boys in
the Confederate service, the youngest, who had given me the invitation
to dine, being in the home guard. His daughter was a school-teacher. The
wife and this girl ate with us, and all seemed very anxious and joyous
to learn of the successes of the Union forces, although the mother's
eyes frequently filled with tears as something was said which recalled
to her mind the risk run by her boys at the front. I cannot recall the
memory of a meal which I enjoyed any better than the one I ate in that
old farmhouse with those agreeable people.
While at dinner the parents seemed disturbed by thoughts of the
possibility that their last boy would also be sent to the front, and it
was then and there agreed between us that if such should be the case he
would desert at the first opportunity and go to my home at Blakesburg,
Iowa, where he should attend school until the war was ended. The
proposal affected the parents and sister strongly when I made it, and in
agreeing to it they united in thanking and blessing me for the happy
thought and accompanying offer.
When the time came for me to leave it seemed like a parting with dear
friends, and I often recall and see again that dear old lady's face, as,
with tears in her eyes, she bade me "Godspeed."
By the time our march was resumed we had become very familiar with our
guards, and, in fact, it was more of a picnic excursion than a march of
guards with their prisoners.
Each of us slept at night with one of the soldiers, and we went on
several midnight expeditions in company. One night we raided a farmhouse
and stole a sack of sweet potatoes, sitting up half the night to roast
them. Another night we confiscated a beehive and secured some delicious
honey. We were continually playing jokes upon each other, and all hands
were sorry when the time came to separate.
We fooled along, taking things very easily, and finally reached Camp
Ford about thirty days after leaving Boston.
Our reception by the boys in the stockade was characteristic of men
continually seeking to find something to do which would serve to kill
time and prevent despondency.
When we were marched up to the gates we were recognized by many in the
enclosure, and were hailed by shouts, jeers, sarcastic questionings and
all sorts of welcomes.
"How are things up North? How did you leave the folks? Got any mail?
Can't you stay awhile?" and many other similar queries were fairly
showered upon us.
When we finally entered the enclosure the crowd was drawn up in line,
like a lot of hackmen in front of a railroad station in a large city,
and, amid much laughter and many jokes, we were hailed with:
"This way to the Palace Hotel!" "Have a cab?" "Cab or carriage, gents?"
"_This_ way, gents, to the Ebbitt House, the best in the city!"
Our own men gathered about us, and soon dragged us off to our old
quarters, where we were plied with question after question, and had to
relate all our experiences in detail.
We now took up the stockade life once more, and there was but little
variation in its routine.