I Am Rudely Awakened from Dreams of Home--I Go on Picket--
The Foe Advances--A Desperate Conflict--The Union--
Confederate Breakfast on the Alabama Race-Track--A Friendly
Partin
The careful readers of this history have no doubt been worried about the
manner in which the first chapter closed, leaving me hanging to a limb
of a tree, like Absalom weeping for her children, my horse having gone
out from under me. But I have not been hanging there all this time. The
soldiers took me down, and caught my horse, and the regiment dismounted
and a council of war was held. I suppose it was a council of war, as I
noticed the officers were all in a group under a tree, with a candle,
examining a map, and drinking out of a canteen. I had read of councils
of war, but I had never seen one, and so I walked over to the crowd
of officers and asked the colonel if there was anything particular the
matter. I never saw a crowd of men who seemed so astonished as those
officers were, and suddenly I felt myself going away from where they
were consulting, with somebody's strong hand on my collar, and an
unmistakable cavalry boot, with a man in it, in the vicinity of my
pantaloons. I do not know to this day, which officer it was that kicked
me, but I went away and sat under a tree in the dark, so hungry that I
was near dead, and I wished I _was_ dead. I guess the officers wished
that I was, too. The soldiers tried to console me by telling me I was
too fresh, but I couldn't see why a private soldier, right from home,
who knew all about the public sentiment at the north in regard to the
way the war was conducted, should not have a voice in the consultations
of officers. I had written many editorials before I left home,
criticising the manner in which many generals had handled their
commands, and pointed out to my readers how defeat could have been
turned into victory, if the generals had done as I would have done in
their places. It seemed to me the officers of my regiment were taking a
suicidal course in barring me out of their consultations. A soldier had
told me that we were lost in the woods, and as I had studied geography
when at school, and was well posted about Alabama, it seemed as though a
little advice from me would be worth a good deal. But I concluded to let
them stay lost forever before I would volunteer any information. It was
crawling along towards midnight, of my first day in the army, and I
had eaten nothing since morning. As I sat there under the tree I fell
asleep, and was dreaming of home, and warm biscuit, with honey, and a
feather bed, when I was rudely awakened by a corporal who told me to
mount. I asked him what for, and told him that I didn t want to ride any
more that night. What I wanted was to be let alone, to sleep. He said to
get on the horse too quick, and I found there was no use arguing with a
common corporal, so the boys hoisted me on to the horse, and about nine
of us started off through the woods in the moonlight, looking for a main
road. The corporal was kind enough to say that as soon as we found a
road we would put out a picket, and send a courier back to the regiment
to inform the colonel that we had got out of the woods, and the rest of
us would lay down and sleep till morning. I don't think I was ever so
anxious to see a road in all my life, because I _did_ want to lay down
and sleep, and die. O, if I could have telegraphed home, how I would
have warned the youth of the land to beware of the allurements held out
by recruiting officers, and to let war alone. In an hour or so we came
to a clearing, and presently to a road, and we stopped. The corporal
detailed me to go up the road a short distance and stand picket on my
horse. That was not what I had expected of the corporal. I used to know
him before the war when he worked in a paint shop in a wagon factory,
and I had always treated him well, and it seemed as though he ought
to favor me by letting somebody else go on picket. I told him that the
other boys were more accustomed to such work than I was, and that I
would resign in their favor, because what I wanted was rest, but he
said I would have to go, and he called me “Camp and Garrison Equipage,”
because I carried so much luggage on my horse, a name that held to
me for months. I found that there was no use kicking against going on
picket duty that night, though I tried to argue with the corporal that
it would be just as well to all lay down and sleep till morning, and
put out a picket when it got light enough to see. I was willing to work
during the day time for the government, but it seemed as though it was
rushing things a little to make a man work day and night for thirteen
dollars a month. So the corporal went out on the road with me about
a quarter of a mile, and placed me in position and gave me my
instructions. The instructions were to keep a sharp lookout up and down
the road for Confederate cavalry, and if I saw anybody approaching to
sing out “halt!” and if the party did not halt to shoot him, and then
call for the corporal of the guard, who would come out to see what was
the matter. I asked him what I should do if anybody came along and shot
me, and he said that would be all right, that the boys would come out
and bury me. He said I must keep awake, for if I got to sleep on my post
I would be court-martialed and shot, and then he rode away and left
me alone, on a horse that kept whinnying, and calling the attention of
possible Confederates to my position.
I do not think any reader of these papers will envy me the position I
was in at that time. If I remained awake, I was liable to be killed by
the enemy, and if I fell asleep on my post I would be shot anyway.
And if I was not killed, it was probable I would be a murderer before
morning. Hunger was gnawing at my stomach, and the horse was gnawing
at my legs, and I was gnawing at a hard tack which I had found in the
saddle-bag. Every little while I would hear a noise, and my hair would
raise my hat up, and it would seem to me as though the next minute a
volley would be fired at me, and I shrunk down between the piles of
baggage on my saddle to be protected from bullets. Suddenly the moon
came out from behind a cloud and around a turn in the road a solitary
horseman might have been seen coming towards me. I never have seen a
horse that looked as high as that horse did. He seemed at least eighteen
feet high, and the man on him was certainly twelve feet high. My heart
pounded against a tin canteen that I had strung around my shoulder, so
I could hear the beating perfectly plain. The man was approaching, and I
was trying to think whether I had been instructed to shoot and then call
for the corporal of the guard, or call for the corporal and then ask him
to halt. I knew there was a halt in my instructions, and wondered if
it would not conciliate the enemy to a certain extent if I would say
“Please Halt.” The fact was, I didn t want to have any fuss. If I could
have backed my horse up into the woods, and let the man go by, it seemed
as though it would save precipitating a conflict. It is probable that
no military man was ever in so tight a place as I was that minute. The
enemy was advancing, and I wondered if, when he got near enough, I could
say “halt,” in a commanding tone of voice. I knew enough, then, to feel
that to ask the stranger to halt in a trembling and husky voice would
give the whole thing away, that I was a recruit and a coward. Ye gods,
how I suffered! I wondered if I could hit a man with a bullet. Before
the war I was quite a good shot with a shotgun, shooting into flocks of
pigeons and ducks, and I thought what a good idea it would be if I could
get that approaching rebel into a flock. The idea seemed so ridiculous
that I laughed right out loud. It was not a hearty, happy laugh, but it
was a laugh all the same, and I was proud that I could laugh in the face
of danger, when I might be a corpse any minute. The man on the horse
stopped. Whether he heard me laugh it is impossible to say, but he
stopped. That relieved me a great deal. As he had stopped it was
unnecessary for me to invite him to halt. He was welcome to stay there
if he wanted to. I argued that it was not my place to go howling around
the Southern Confederacy, ordering people to halt, when they had already
halted. If he would let me alone and stay where he was, what sense was
there in picking a quarrel with him?
Why should I want to shoot a total stranger, who might have a family
at home, somewhere in the South, who would mourn for him. He might be
a dead shot, as many Southern gentlemen were, and if I went to advising
him about halting, it would, very likely cause his hot Southern blood to
boil, and he would say he had just as much right to that road as I had.
If it come right down to the justice of the thing, I should have to
admit that Alabama was not my state. Wisconsin was my home, and if I
was up there, and a man should trespass on my property, it would be
reasonable enough for me to ask him to go away from there, and enforce
my request by calling a constable and having him put off the premises.
But how did I know but he owned property there, and was a tax-payer. I
had it all figured out that I was right in not disturbing that rebel,
and I knew that I could argue with my colonel for a week, if necessary,
on the law points in the case, and the courtesy that I deemed proper
between gentlemen, if any complaint was made for not doing my duty. But,
lordy, how I _did_ sweat while I was deciding to let him alone if he
would let me alone. The war might have been going on now, and that rebel
and myself might have been standing there today, looking at each other,
if it hadn't been for the action of the fool horse that I rode. My
horse had been evidently asleep for some time, but suddenly he woke up,
pricked up his ears, and began to prance, and jump sideways like a race
horse that is on the track, and wants to run. The horse reared up and
plunged, and kept working up nearer to my Southern friend, and I tried
to hold him, and keep him still, but suddenly he got the best of me and
started towards the other man and horse, and the other horse started, as
though some one had said “go”.{*}
* [Before I get any further on this history of the war, it
is necessary to explain. The facts proved to be that my
regiment had got lost in the woods, and the scouting party,
under the corporal, who had been sent out to find a road,
had come upon the three-quarter stretch of an old private
race track on a deserted southern plantation, instead of a
main road, and I had been placed on picket near the last
turn before striking the quarter stretch. A small party of
Confederates, who had been out on a scout, and got lost, had
come on the track further down, near the judges' stand, and
they had put a man, on picket up near where I was, supposing
they had struck the road, and intending to wait until
morning so as to find out where they were. My horse was an
old race horse, and as soon as he saw the other horse, he
was in for a race and the other horse was willing. This will
show the situation as well as though I had a race track
engraved, showing the positions of the two armies. The
Confederates, except the man on picket, were asleep beside
the track near the quarter stretch, and our fellows, except
myself, were asleep over by the three-quarter pole.]
I do not suppose any man on this earth, or any other earth, ever tried
to stop a fool horse quite as hard as I did that one. I pulled until my
arms ached, but he went for all that was out, and the horse ahead of
me was buckling in as fast as he could. I could not help wondering what
would happen if I should overtake that Southern man. I was gaining on
him, when suddenly eight or nine men who were sleeping beside the road,
got up and began to shoot at us. They were the friends of the rebel, who
believed that the whole Union army was making a charge on them. We got
by the shooters alive, and then, as we passed the rickety old judge's
stand, I realized that we were on a race track, and for a moment I
forgot that I was a soldier, and only thought of myself as a rider of
a race horse, and I gave the horse his head, and kicked him, and yelled
like a Comanche Indian, and I had the satisfaction of seeing my horse
go by the rebel, and I yelled some more. I got a glimpse of my rebel's,
face as I went by him, and he didn't look much more like a fighting man
than I did, but he was, for as soon as I had got ahead of him he drew
a revolver and began firing at me on the run. I thought that was a mean
trick, and spoke to him about it afterwards, but he said he only wanted
me to stop so he could get acquainted with me.
[Illustration: On went the two night riders 039]
Well, I never could find any bullets in any of the clothes strapped on
the back of my saddle, but it _did_ seem to me as though every bullet
from his revolver hit very near my vital parts. But a new danger
presented itself. We were rapidly approaching the corporal and his men,
with whose command I belonged, and they would wake up and think the
whole Confederate army was charging them, and if I was not killed by the
confounded rebel behind me, I should probably be shot all to pieces by
our own men. As we passed our men they fired a few sleepy shots towards
us, and took to the woods. On went the two night riders, and when the
rebel had exhausted his revolver he began to urge his horse, and passed
me, and I drew my revolver and began to fire at him. As we passed the
judge's stand the second time a couple of shots from quite a distance in
the woods showed that his rebel friends had taken alarm at the frequent
charges of cavalry, and had skipped to the woods and were getting away
as fast as possible. We went around the track once more, and when near
the judge's stand I was right behind him, and his horse fell down and
my horse stumbled over him, and I guess we were both stunned. Finally I
crawled out from under my horse, and the rebel was trying to raise up,
when I said, “What in thunder you want to chase a man all around the
Southern Confederacy for, on a dark night, trying to shoot him?” He asked
me to help him up, which I did, when he said, “Who commenced this here
chasing? If you had kept whar you was, I wouldn't a had no truck with
you.” Then I said, “You are my prisoner,” and he said, “No, you are my
prisoner.” I told him I was no hand to argue, but it seemed to me it was
about a stand off, as to which was 'tother's prisoner. I told him that
was my first day's service as a soldier, and I was not posted as to the
customs of civilized warfare, but I was willing to wait till daylight,
leaving matters just as they were, each of us on the defensive, giving
up none of our rights, and after daylight we would play a game of
seven-up to see which was the prisoner. That seemed fair to him, and he
accepted the situation, remarking that he had only been conscripted a
few days and didn't know any more about war than a cow. He said he was
a newspaper man from Georgia, and had been taken right from the case in
his office before his paper could be got out. I told him I was only a
few days out of a country printing office my-self, the sheriff having
closed out my business on an old paper bill. A bond of sympathy was
inaugurated at once between us, and when he limped along the track to
the fence, and found that his ankle was hurt by the fall, I brought a
bottle of horse liniment out of my saddle-bags, and a rag, and bound
some liniment on his ankle. He said he had never seen a Yankee soldier
before, and he was glad he had met me. I told him he was the first rebel
I had ever met, and I hoped he would be the last, until the war was
over. By this time our horses had gone to nibbling grass, as though
there were no such thing as war. We could hear occasional bugle calls
off in the woods in two directions, and knew that our respective
commands had gone off and got lost again, so we concluded to camp there
till morning. After the excitement was over I began to get hungry, and I
asked him if he had anything to eat. He said he had some corn bread and
bacon, and he could get some sweet potatoes over in a field. So I built
a fire there on the track, and he hobbled off after potatoes. Just about
daylight breakfast was served, consisting of coffee, which I carried
in a sack, made in a pot he carried, bacon fried in a half of a tin
canteen, sweet potatoes roasted in the ashes, and Confederate corn
bread, warmed by holding it over the fire on a sharp stick. My friend,
the rebel, sat on my saddle, which I had removed from my horse, after he
had promised me on his honor to help me to put it on when it was time to
mount. He knew how to put on saddles, and I didn t, and as his ankle
was lame I gave him the best seat, he being my guest, that is, he was
my guest if I beat him in the coming game of seven-up, which we were to
play to see if he was my prisoner, or I was his. It being daylight, I
could see him, and study his character, and honestly he was a mighty
fine-looking fellow. As we eat our early breakfast I began to think
that the recruiting officer was more than half right about war being a
picnic. He talked about the newspaper business in the South, and before
breakfast was over we had formed a partnership to publish a paper at
Montgomery, Ala., after the war should be over. I have eaten a great
many first-class meals in my time, have feasted at Delmonico's, and
lived at the best hotels in the land, besides partaking pretty fair food
camping out, where an appetite was worked up by exercise and sporting,
but in all my life I have never had anything taste as good as that
combination Union-Confederate breakfast on the Alabama race track,
beside the judges stand. After the last potato peeling, and the last
crumb of corn bread had been “sopped” in the bacon gravy and eaten, we
whittled some tobacco off a plug, filled our pipes and leaned up against
the fence and smoked the most enjoyable smoke that ever was smoked.
After smoking in silence a few minutes my rebel friend said, as he blew
the smoke from his handsome mouth, “War is not so unpleasant, after
all.” Then we fell to talking about the manner in which the different
generals on each side had conducted things. He went on to show that if
Lee had taken his advice, the Yankees would then be on the run for the
North, and I showed him, by a few well-chosen remarks that if I
could have been close to Grant, and given him some pointers, that the
Confederates would be hunting their holes. We were both convinced that
it was a great mistake that we were nothing but private soldiers, but
felt that it would not be long before we were called to occupy high
places. It seemed to stand to reason that true merit would find its
reward. Then he knocked the ashes out of his pipe and said if I had a
pack of cards we would go up in the judges stand and play seven-up
to see whether I was his prisoner, or he was mine. I wanted to take a
prisoner back to the regiment, at I thought it would make me solid with
the colonel, and I played a strong game of seven-up, but before we got
started to playing he suggested that we call it a stand-off, and agree
that neither of us should be a prisoner, but that when we got ready to
part each should go hunt up his own command, and tell the biggest lie we
could think of as to the fight we had had. That was right into my hand,
and I agreed, and then my friend suggested that we play poker for money.
I consented and he put up Confederate money, against my greenbacks, ten
to one. We played about an hour, and at the close he had won the balance
of my bounty, except what I had given to the chaplain for safe keeping,
and a pair of pants, and a blouse, and a flannel shirt, and a pair of
shoes, which I had on my saddle. I was rather glad to get rid of some
of my extra baggage, and when he put on the clothes he had won from me,
blessed if I wasn t rather proud of him. A man could wear any kind of
clothes in the Confederate army, and my rebel looked real comfortable in
my clothes, and I felt that it was a real kind act to allow him to win
a blue suit that I did not need. If the men of both the armies, and the
people of both sections of the distracted country could have seen us two
soldiers together, there in the judges stand, peacefully playing poker,
while the battles were raging in the East and in the West, that would
have felt that an era of good feeling was about to dawn on the country.
After we had played enough poker, and I had lost everything I had that
was loose, I suggested that he sing a song, so he sung the “Bonnie Blue
Flag.” I did not think it was right for him to work in a rebel song on
me, but it did sound splendid, and I forgot that there was any war, in
listening to the rich voice of my new friend. When he got through he
asked me to sing something. I never _could_ sing, anyway. My folks had
always told me that my voice sounded like a corn sheller, but he urged
me at his own peril, and I sung, or tried to, “We'll Hang Jeff Davis
to a Sour Apple Tree.” I had no designs on Mr. Davis, honestly I hadn't,
and it was the farthest thing from my thoughts to hurt the feelings of
that young man, but before I had finished the first verse he took his
handkerchief out and placed it to his eyes. I stopped and apologized,
but he said not to mind him, as he was better now. He told me,
afterwards, in the strictest confidence, that my singing was the worst
he ever heard, and gave it as his opinion that if Jeff Davis could hear
me sing he would be willing, even anxious, to be hung. If I had been
sensitive about my musical talents, probably there would have been hard
feelings, and possibly bloodshed, right there, but I told him I always
knew I couldn't sing, and he said that I was in luck. Well, we fooled
around there till about ten o'clock in the morning, and decided that we
would part, and each seek our respective commands, so I put some more
horse liniment on his sprained ankle, and he saddled my horse for me,
and after expressions of mutual pleasure at meeting each other, and
promises that after the war we would seek each other out, we mounted,
he gave three cheers for the Yanks, and I gave three cheers for the
Johnnies, he divided his plug of tobacco with me, and I gave him the
bottle of horse liniment, he turned his horse towards the direction his
gray coats had taken the night before, while I turned my horse towards
the hole in the woods our fellows had made, and we left the race track
where we had fought so gamely, eat so heartily, and played poker so
disastrously, to me. As we were each about going into the woods, half
a mile apart, he waved his handkerchief at me, and I waved mine at him,
and we plunged into the forest.
After riding for an hour or so, alone in the woods, thinking up a good
lie to tell about where I had been, and what I had been doing, I heard
horses neighing, and presently I came upon my regiment, just starting
out to hunt me up. The colonel looked at me and said, “Kill the fat
prodigal, the calf has got back.”