I Describe a Deadly Encounter--Am Congratulated as a Warrior
With a Big “W”--The Chaplain Gives Good Advice--I Attend
Surgeon's Call--Castor Oil out of a Dirty Bottle--Back to
the Chaplain's Tent--I am Wounded in the Canteen.
The last chapter of this history left me facing my regiment, which
had started out to hunt me up, after my terrible fight with that
Confederate. The colonel rode up to me and shook me by the hand,
and congratulated me, and the major and adjutant said they had never
expected to see me alive, and the soldiers looked at me as one returned
from the grave, and from what I could gather by the looks of the boys,
I was something of a hero, even before I had told my story. The colonel
asked me what had become of all the baggage I had on my saddle when I
went away, and I told him that I had thrown ballast over-board all over
the Southern Confederacy, when I was charging the enemy, because I found
my horse drew too much water for a long run. He said something about my
being a Horse-Marine, and sent me back to my company, telling me that
when we got into camp that night he would send for me and I could tell
the story of my capture and escape. I rode back into my company, and you
never saw such a change of sentiment towards a raw recruit, as there
was towards me, and they asked me questions about my first fight. The
corporal who had placed me on picket, and stampeded at the first fire,
was unusually gracious to me, and said when he saw a hundred and fifty
rebels come charging down the road, yelling and firing, he knew it was
no place for his small command, so he lit out. He said he supposed of
course I was shot all to pieces. I didn't tell him that it was me that
did all the yelling, and that there was only one rebel, and that he was
perfectly harmless, but I told him that he miscalculated the number of
the enemy, as there were, all told, at least five hundred, and that I
had killed fourteen that I knew of, besides a number had been taken away
in ambulances, wounded. The boys opened their eyes, and nothing was too
good for me during that march. We went into camp in the pine woods late
in the afternoon, and after supper the colonel sent for me, and I went
to his tent. All the officers were there, and as many soldiers as dared
crowd around. The colonel said the corporal had reported where he left
me, and how the enemy had charged in force, and he supposed that I had
been promptly killed. That he felt that he could not hold his position
against such immense odds, so he had fallen back slowly, firing as he
did so, until the place was too hot for him, and now he wanted to hear
my story. I told the colonel that I was new at the business, and may
be I did not use the best judgment in the world, by remaining to fight
against such odds, but I meant well. I told him I did not wish to
complain of the corporal, who no doubt was an able fighter, but it did
seem to me that he ought at least to have waited till the battle had
actually commenced. I said that the first charge, which stampeded the
corporal and his men, was not a marker to what took place afterwards. I
said when the enemy first appeared, I dismounted, got behind a tree, and
poured a murderous fire into the ranks of the rebels, and that they fell
all around. I could not tell how many were killed, but probably ten,
as I fired eleven shots from, my carbine, and I usually calculated on
missing one out of ten, when shooting at a mark. Then they fell back and
I mounted my horse and rode to their right flank and poured it into them
red hot from my revolver, and that I saw several fall from their horses,
when they stampeded, and I drew my saber and charged them, and after
cutting down several, I was surrounded by the whole rebel army and
captured. They tied me to the wheel of a gun carriage, and after trying
to pump me as to the number of men I had fighting against them, they
left me to hold a council of war, when I untied myself, mounted my
horse, and cut my way out, and took to the woods. I apologized to the
colonel for running away from the enemy, but told him it seemed to me,
after the number I had killed, and the length of time I had held them at
bay, it was no more than right to save my own life, as I had use for it
in my business. During my recital of the lie I had made up, the officers
and soldiers stood around with mouths open, and when I had concluded my
story, there was silence for a moment, when the colonel stepped forward
and took me by the hand, and in a few well chosen remarks congratulated
me on my escape, and thanked me for so valiantly standing my ground
against such fearful odds, and he said I had reflected credit upon my
regiment, and that hereafter I would be classed as a veteran instead of
a recruit. He said he had never known a man to come right from the paths
of peace, and develop into a warrior with a big “W” so short a time. The
other officers congratulated me, and the soldiers said I was a bully boy.
The colonel treated to some commissary whisky, and then the business of
the evening commenced, which I found to be draw poker. I sat around for
some time watching the officers play poker, when the chaplain, who was
a nice little pious man, asked me to step outside the tent, as he wished
to converse with me. I went out into the moonlight with him, and he
took me away from the tents, under a tree, and told me he had been much
interested in my story. I thanked him, and said I had been as brief as
possible. He said, “I was interested, because I used to be something
of a liar myself, before I reformed, and studied for the ministry.” It
occurred to me that possibly the chaplain did not believe my simple
tale, and I asked him if he doubted my story. “That is about the size of
it,” says he. I told him I was sorry I had not told the story in such
a manner that he would believe it, because I valued the opinion of the
chaplain above all others. He said he had known a good many star liars
in his time, some that had national reputations, but he had never
seen one that could hold a candle to me in telling a colossal lie, or
aggregation of lies, and tell them so easy. I thanked him for his good
opinion, and told him that I flattered myself that for a recruit, right
fresh from the people, who had never had any experience as a military
liar, I had done pretty well. He said I certainly had, and he was glad
to make my acquaintance. I asked him to promise not to give it away to
the other officers, which he did, and then I told him the whole story,
as it was, and that I was probably the biggest coward that ever
lived, and that I was only afraid that my story of blood-letting would
encourage the officers to be constantly putting me into places of
danger, which I did not want to be in. I told him I believed this war
could be ended without killing any more men, and cited the fact that I
had been a soldier nearly forty-eight hours, and nobody had been killed,
and the enemy was on the run. I told the chaplain that if there was
one thing I didn't want to see, it was blood. Others might have an
insatiable appetite for gore, but I didn't want any at all. I was
willing to do anything for this government but fight; and if he could
recommend to me any line of action by which I could pull through without
being sent out to do battle with strangers who could shoot well, I
should consider it a favor. What I wanted was a soft job, where there
was no danger. The chaplain looked thoughtful a moment, and then took me
over to his tent, where he opened a bottle of blackberry brandy. He
took a small dose, after placing his hand on his stomach and groaning a
little. He asked me if I did not sometimes have a pain under my vest. I
told him I never had a pain anywhere. Then he said I couldn't have any
brandy. He said the brandy came from the sanitary commsssion, and was
controlled entirely by the chaplains of the different regiments, and the
instructions were to only use it in case of sickness. He said a great
many of the boys had pains regularly, and came to him for relief. He
smacked his lips and said if I felt any pain coming on, to help myself
to the brandy. It is singular how a pain will sometimes come on when
you least expect it. It was not a minute before I began to feel a small
pain, not bigger than a man's hand, and as I looked at the bottle the
pain increased, and I had to tell the chaplain that I must have relief
before it was everlastingly too late, so he poured out a dose of brandy
for me. I could see that I was becoming a veteran very fast, as I could
work the chaplain for sanitary stores pretty early in the game. Well,
the chaplain and me had pains off and on, for an hour or two, and became
good friends. He told me of quite a number of methods of shirking active
duty, such as being detailed to take care of baggage, acting as orderly,
and going to surgeon's call. He said if a man went to surgeon's call,
the doctor would report him sick, and he could not be sent out on duty.
The next day we went back to our post, where the regiment was stationed,
and where they had barracks, that they wintered in, and remained there
several weeks, drilling. I was drilled in mounting and dismounting,
and soon got so I could mount a horse without climbing on to him from a
fence. But the drill became irksome, and I decided to try the chaplain's
suggestion about going to surgeon's call. I got in line with about
twenty other soldiers, and we marched over to the surgeon's quarters. I
supposed the doctor would take each soldier into a private room, feel of
his pulse, look at his tongue, and say that what he needed was rest, and
give him some powders to be taken in wafers, or in sugar. But all he did
was to say “What's the matter?” and the sick man would tell him, when
the doctor would tell his assistant to give the man something, and pass
on to the next. I was the last one to be served, and the interview was
about as follows:
Doc.--What's the matter?
Me--Bilious.
Doc.--Run out your tongue. Take a swallow out of the black bottle.
That seems very simple, indeed, but it nearly killed me. When he told me
to run out my tongue, I run out perhaps six inches of the lower end of
it, the doctor glanced at it as though it was nothing to him anyway, and
then he told me to take a swallow out of the bottle. In all my life I
had never taken four doses of medicine, and when I did the medicine was
disguised in preserves or something. The hospital steward handed me the
bottle that a dozen other sick soldiers had drank out of, and it was
sticky all around the top, and contained something that looked like
castor oil, for greasing a buggy. He told me to take a good big swallow,
and I tried to do so. Talk about the suffering brought on by the war, it
seems to me nobody ever suffered as I did, trying to drink a swallow
of that castor oil out of a two quart bottle, that was dirty. It run so
slow that it seemed, an age before I got enough to swallow, and then it
seemed another age before the oil could pass a given point in my neck.
And great Caesar's ghost how it _did_ taste. I think it went down my
neck, and I just had strength enough to ask the steward to give me
something to take the taste out of my mouth. He handed me a blue pill.
O, I could have killed him. I rushed to the chaplain's tent and took a
drink of blackberry brandy, and my life was saved, but for three years
after that I was never sick enough to get farther than the chaplain's
quarters.
[Illustration: Great Caesar's ghost how it did taste 049]
I suppose the meanest trick that was ever played on a raw recruit, was
played on me while we were in camp at that place. It seemed to me
that some of the boys got jealous of me, because I had become a hero,
accidentally. May be some of them did not believe I had killed as many
of the enemy as I had owned up to having killed. Anyway every little
while some soldier would say that he thought it was a mean man that
would go out and kill a lot of rebels and not bury them. He said a man
that would do that was a regular pot-hunter, who killed game and left it
on the ground to spoil. They made lots of such uncharitable remarks, but
I did not pay much attention to to them. I had a tent-mate who took a
great interest in me, and he said no soldier's life was safe who did not
wear a breast-plate, and he asked me if I did not bring any breast-plate
with me. I told him I never heard of a breastplate, and asked him what
it was. He said it was a vest made of the finest spring steel, that
could be worn under the clothes, which was so strong that a bullet could
not penetrate it. He supposed of course I had one, when he heard of the
fight I had, and said none of the old boys would go into a fight without
one, as it covered the vital parts, and saved many a life. I bit like
a bass. If there was anything I wanted more than a discharge, it was a
breast-plate. If the chaplain should succeed in getting me a soft job,
where there was no danger, I could get along without my breast-plate,
but there was no sure thing about the chaplain, so I asked the soldier
where I could get a breastplate. He said the quartermaster used to issue
them, but he didn't have any on hand now, but he said he knew where
there was one that once belonged to a soldier who was killed, and he
thought he could get it for me. I asked him how it happened that the
soldier was killed, when he had a breast-plate, and he told me the
man was killed by eating green peaches. Of course I couldn't expect a
breastplate to save me from the effects of eating unripe fruit, and
I felt that if it would save me from bullets it would be worth all it
cost, so I told the soldier to get it for me. That evening he brought it
around, and he helped me put it on. I learned afterwards that it was an
old breast-plate that an officer had brought to the regiment when the
war broke out, and that it had been played on raw recruits for two
years. After I had got it on, the soldier suggested that we go out with
several other dare devils, and run the guard and go down town and play
billiards, and have a jolly time. I asked him if the guard would not
shoot at us, and he said the guards would be all right, and if they did
shoot they would shoot at the breast-plates, as all the boys had them
on. So about six of us sneaked through the guards, went to town and had
a big time, and came back along towards morning, each with a canteen of
whisky. It was not easy getting back inside the lines, as the moon was
shining, but we got by the guards, and then my friends suggested that we
take our breast-plates off and put them on behind us, as the guards, if
they shot at all, would be firing in our rear. I took mine off and put
it on behind my pants, and just then somebody fired a gun, and the boys
said “run,” and I started ahead, and the firing continued, and about
every jump I could hear and feel something striking my breast-plate
behind, which seemed to me to be bullets, and I was glad I had the
breast-plate on, though afterwards I found that the boys behind me were
firing off their revolvers in the air, and throwing small stones at my
breast-plate. Presently a bullet, as I supposed, struck me in the back
above the breast-plate, and I could feel blood trickling down my back,
and I knew I was wounded. O, I hankered for gore, before enlisting, and
while editing a paper, and now I had got it, got gore till I couldn't
rest. The blood run down my side, down my leg, into my boot, and I could
feel I was wading in my own blood. And great heaven's, how it did smell.
I had never smelled blood before, that I knew of, and I thought it had
the most peculiar, pungent, intoxicating odor. I ran towards my quarters
as fast as possible, fainting almost, from imaginary loss of blood, and
finally rushed into my tent, threw myself on my bunk and called loudly
for the doctor and chaplain, and then I fainted. When I came to I was
surrounded by the doctor, and a lot of the boys, all laughing, and
the chaplain was trying to say something pious, while trying to keep
a straight face. “Have you succeeded in staunching the blood, doc?” I
asked, in a trembling voice. He said the blood was quite staunch, but
the whisky could never be saved. I did not know what he meant, and I
turned to the chaplain and asked him if he wouldn't be kind enough to
say something appropriate to the occasion. I told him I had been a bad
man, had lied some, as he well knew, and had been guilty of things that
would bar me out of the angel choir, but that if he had any influence at
the throne of grace, and could manage to sneak me in under the canvass
anyway, he could have the balance of my bounty, and all the pay that
might be coming to me. The chaplain held up the breast-plate that had
been removed by kind hands, from the back portion of my person, and said
I had better take that along with me, as it would be handy to wear
when I wanted to stand with my back to the fire in hades. I could not
understand why the good man should joke me, on my death bed, and I
rolled over with my back to the wall, to weep, unobserved, and I felt
the blood sticking to my clothes and person, and I asked the doctor why
he did not dress my wound. He said he should have to send the wound
to the tin-shop to be dressed, and then they all laughed. This made me
indignant, and I turned over and faced the crowd, and asked them if they
had no hearts, that they could thus mock at a dying man. The doctor held
up my canteen with a hole in it, made by a stone thrown by one of my
companions, and said, “You d----d fool, you are not wounded. Somebody
busted your canteen, and the whiskey run down your leg and into your
boot, and you, like an idiot, thought it was your life blood ebbing
away. Couldn't you tell that it was whiskey by the smell?” I felt of
myself, where I thought I was wounded, and couldn't find any hole, and
then I took off my boot, and emptied the whisky out, and felt stronger,
and finally I got up, and the boys went away laughing at me, leaving the
chaplain, who was kind enough to tell me that of all the raw recruits
that had ever come to the regiment, he thought I was the biggest idiot
of the lot, to let the boys play that ancient breast-plate and canteen
joke on me. I asked him if the boys didn't all wear breast-plates, and
he said “naw!” He told me that was the only breast-plate in the whole
Department of the Gulf, and it was kept to play on recruits, and that I
must keep it until a new recruit came that was green enough to allow the
boys to do him up. So I hid the breast-plate under my bunk, and went
to bed and tried to dream out some method of getting even with my
persecutors, while the chaplain went out, after offering to hold himself
in readiness, day or night, to come and pray for me, if I was wounded in
the canteen any more.