I Yearn for a Furlough--I Interview the General--I am
Detailed to Carry a Rail--I Make a Horse-trade With the
Chaplain--I am Put in Charge of a Funeral.
I had now been fighting the battles of my country for two weeks, and
felt that I needed rest, and one day I became so homesick that it _did_
seem as though it would kill me. Including the week it had taken me
to get from home to my regiment, three weeks had elapsed since I bid
good-bye to my friends, and I wanted to go home. I would lay awake
nights and think of people at home and wonder what they were doing, and
if they were laying awake nights thinking of me, or caring whether I was
alive, or buried in the swamps of the South. It was about the time of
year when at home we always went off shooting, and I thought how much
better it was to go off shooting ducks and geese, and chickens, that
could not shoot back, than to be hunting bloodthirsty Confederates that
were just as liable to hunt us, and who could kill, with great ease. I
thought of a pup I had at home that was just the right age to train, and
that he would be spoiled if he was not trained that season. O, how I
did want to train that pup. The news that one of my comrades had been
granted a furlough, after three years' service, and that he was going
home, made me desperate, and I dreamed that I had waylaid and murdered
the fortunate soldier, and gone home on his furlough. The idea of
getting a furlough was the one idea in my mind, and the next morning as
I took my horse to the veterinary surgeon for treatment,{*} I had a talk
with the horse doctor about the possibilities of getting a furlough.
I had known him before the war, when he kept a livery stable, and as I
owed him a small livery bill, I thought he would give it to me straight.
The horse doctor had his sleeves rolled up, and was holding a horse's
tongue in one hand while he poured some medicine down the animal's
throat out of a bottle with the other hand, which made me sorry for the
horse, as I remembered my experience at surgeon's call, in drinking a
dose of castor oil out of a bottle, and I was mean-enough to be glad
they played it on horses as well as the soldiers. The horse doctor
returned the horse's tongue to it's mouth, kicked the animal in the
ribs, turned and wiped his hands on a bale of hay, and said:
“Well, George, to get a furlough a man has got to have plenty of gall,
especially a man who has only been to the front a couple of weeks. There
is no use making an application in the regular way, to your captain,
have him endorse it and send it to regimental headquarters, and so on to
brigade headquarters, because you would never hear of it again. My idea
would be for you to go right to the general commanding the division, and
tell him you have got to go home. But you mustn't go crawling to him,
and whining. He is a quick-tempered man, and he hates a coward. Go
to him and talk familiar with him, and act as though you had always
associated with him, and slap him on the shoulder, and make yourself at
home. Just make up a good, plausible story, and give it to him, and if
he seems irritated, give him to understand that he can t frighten you,
and just as likely as not he will give you a furlough. I don't say he
will, mind you, but it would be just like him. But he does like to be
treated familiar like, by the boys.”
* I neglected to say, in my account of the battle at the
race-track, that when firing with my revolver, at my friend
the rebel, I put one bullet-hole through the right ear of my
horse. I was so excited at the time that I did not know it,
and only discovered it a week later when currying off my
horse, which I made a practice of doing once a week, with a
piece of barrel-stave, when I noticed the horse's ear was
swelled up about as big as a canvas ham. I took him to the
horse doctor, who reduced the swelling so we could find the
hole through the horse's ear, and the horse doctor tied a
blue ribbon in the hole. He said the blue ribbon would help
heal the sore, but later I found that he had put the ribbon
in the ear to call attention to my poor marksmanship, and
the boys got so they made comments and laughed at me every
time I appeared with the horse.
I thanked the horse doctor and went away with my horse, resolved to have
a furlough or know the reason why. The general's headquarters were about
half a mile from our camp, and after drill that morning I went to see
him. I had seen him several times, at the colonel's headquarters, and
he always seemed mad about something, and I had thought he was about the
crossest looking man I ever saw, but if there was any truth in what the
horse doctor had told me, he was easily reached if a man went at him
right, and I resolved that if pure, unadulterated cheek and monumental
gall would accomplish anything, I would have a furlough before night,
for a homesicker man never lived than I was. I went up to the general's
tent and a guard halted me and asked me what I wanted, and I said I
wanted to see “his nibs,” and I walked right by the guard, who seemed
stunned by my cheek. I saw the general in his tent, with his coat
off, writing, and he _did_ look savage. Without taking off my hat, or
saluting him, I went right up to him and sat down on the end of a trunk
that was in the tent, and with a tremendous effort to look familiar, I
said:
“Hello, Boss, writing to your girl?”
I have seen a good many men in my time who were pretty mad, but I have
never seen a man who appeared to be as mad as the general did. He was
a regular army officer, I found afterwards, and hated a volunteer as he
did poison. He turned red in the face and pale, and I thought he frothed
at the mouth, but may be he didn't. He seemed to try to control himself,
and said through his clenched teeth, in a sarcastic manner, I thought,
in imitation of a ring master in a circus:
“What will the little lady have next?”
I had been in circuses myself, and when the general said that I answered
the same as a clown always does, and I said:
“The banners, my lord.”
I thought he would be pleased at my joking with him, but he looked
around as though he was seeking a revolver or a saber with which to kill
me finnally he said:
“What do you want, man?”
It was a little tough to be called plain “man,” but I swallowed it. I
made up my mind it was time to act, so I stood up, put my hand on the
shoulder of the general familiarly, and said:
“The fact is, old man, I want a furlough to go home. I have got business
that demands my attention; I am sick of this inactivity in camp, and
besides the shooting season is just coming on at home, and I have got a
setter pup that will be spoiled if he is not trained this season. I came
down here two weeks ago, to help put down the rebellion; but all we
have done since I got here is to monkey around drilling and cleaning off
horses, while the officers play poker for red chips. Let me go home
till the poker season is over, and I will be back in time for the fall
fighting. What do you say, old apoplexy. Can I go?”
[Illustration: Never did know, how I got out of the general's tent 059]
I do not now, and never did know, how I got out of the general's tent,
whether he kicked me out, or threw his trunk at me, or whether there was
an explosion, but when I got outside there were two soldiers trying to
untangle me from the guy ropes of the general's tent, his wash basin and
pail of water were tipped over, and a cord that was strung outside
with a lot of uniforms, shirts, sabers, etc., had fallen down, and the
general was walking up and down his tent in an excited manner, calling
me an escaped lunatic, and telling the guards to tie me up by
the thumbs, and buck and gag me. They led me away, and from their
conversation I concluded I had committed an unpardonable offense, and
would probably be hung, though I couldn't see as I had done much more
than the horse doctor told me to. Finally the officer of the day came
along and told the guards to get a rail and make me carry it. So they
got a rail and put it on my shoulder, and I carried it up and down the
camp, as a punishment for insulting the general. I thought they picked
out a pretty heavy rail, but I carried it the best I could for an hour,
when I threw it down and told the guards I didn't enlist to carry rails.
If the putting down of this rebellion depended on carrying fence rails
around the Southern Confederacy, and I had to carry the rails, the
aforesaid rebellion never would be put down. I said I would fight if I
had to, and be a hostler, and cook my own food, and sleep on the ground,
and try to earn my thirteen dollars a month, but there must be a line
drawn somewhere, and I drew it at transporting fences around the sunny
South. The guards were inclined to laugh at my determination, but they
said I could carry the rail or be tied up by the thumbs; and I said
they could go ahead, but if they hurt me I would bring suit against
the government. They were fixing to tie me up when the colonel of my
regiment rode up to see the general, and he got the guards to let up
on me till he could see the general. The general sent for me after the
colonel had talked with him, and they called me in and asked me how
I happened to be so fresh with the general; and I told them about the
horse doctors' advice as to how to get a furlough; and then they both
laughed, and said I owed the horse doctor one, and I must get even with
him. The colonel told the general who I was, that he had known me before
the war, and that I was all right only a little green, and that the boys
were having fun with me. The colonel told the general about my first
fight the first day of my service, and how I had, single-handed, put to
flight a large number of rebels, and the general got up and shook hands
with me, and said he forgave me for my impertinence, and gave me some
advice about letting the boys play it on me, and said I might go back
to my company. He was all smiles, and insisted on my taking a drink with
himself and the colonel. When I was about leaving his tent, I turned
to him and said: “Then I don't get any furlough?” “Not till the cruel
war is over,” said the general, with a laugh, and I went away.
The guards treated me like a gentleman when they saw me taking a drink
with the general, and I went back to my regiment, resolved not to go
home, and to get even with the horse doctor for causing me to make a
fool of myself. However, I was glad I visited the general, for, after
getting acquainted with him, he seemed a real nice man, and he kept a
better article of liquor than the chaplain.
For several days nothing occurred that was worthy of note, except that
the chaplain took a liking to my horse, and wanted to trade a mule for
him. I never did like a mule, and didn't really want to trade, but the
chaplain argued his case so eloquently that I was half persuaded. He
said the horse I rode, from its friskiness, and natural desire to “get
there, Eli!” would eventually get me killed, for if I ever got in sight
of the enemy the horse would rush to the front, and I couldn't hold him.
He said he didn't want to have me killed, and with the mule there would
be no danger, as the mule knew enough to keep away from a fight. The
chaplain said he had always rode a mule, because he thought the natural
solemnity of a mule was in better keeping with a pious man, but lately
he had begun to go into society some, in the town near where we were
camped, and sometimes had to preach to different regiments, so he
thought he ought to have a horse that put on a little more style, and
as he knew I wanted an animal that would keep as far from the foe as
possible, and not lose its head and go chasing around after rebels, and
running me into danger, as my spiritual adviser he would recommend the
mule to me. He warranted the mule sound in every particular, and as a
mule was worth more than a horse he would trade with me for ten dollars
to boot. He said there was not another man in the regiment he would
trade with on such terms, but he had taken a liking to me, and would
part with his mule to me, though it broke his heart. At home there was
a sentiment against trading horses with a minister, as men who did so
always got beat, but I thought it would be an insult to the chaplain
to refuse to trade, when he seemed to be working for my interests, to
prevent me from being killed in a fight by the actions of my horse, so I
concluded to trade, though it seemed to me that if I couldn't shoot off
a horse without hitting its ears, I would fill a mule's ears full of
bullets. I spoke to the chaplain about that, and he said there was no
danger, because whenever fighting commenced the mule always wore his
ears lopped down below the line of fire. He said the mule had been
trained to that, and I would find him a great comfort in time of trial,
and a sympathizing companion always, one that I would become attached
to. I told him there was one thing I wanted to know, and that was if the
mule would kick. I had always been prejudiced against mules because
they kicked. He said he knew mules had been traduced, and that their
reputations were not good, but he believed this mule was as free from
the habit of kicking as any mule he had ever met. He said he would not
deny that this mule could kick, and in fact he had kicked a little, but
he would warrant the mule not to kick unless something unusual happened.
He said I wouldn't want a mule that had no individuality at all, one
that hadn't sand enough to protect itself. What I wanted, the chaplain
said, was a mule that would treat everybody right, but that would, if
imposed upon, stand up for its rights and kick. I told the chaplain that
was about the kind of mule I wanted, if I had any mule at all, and we
traded. The chaplain rode off to town on my horse, on a canter, as proud
as a peacock, while I climbed on to the solemn, lop-eared mule and went
out to drill with my company. I do not know what it was that went wrong
with the mule while we were drilling, but as we were wheeling in company
front, the mule began to “assert his individuality,” as the chaplain
said he probably would, and he whirled around sideways and kicked three
soldiers off their horses; then he backed up the other way and broke
up the second platoon, kicked four horses in the ribs, stampeded the
company, and stood there alone kicking at the air. The major rode down
to where I was and began to swear at me, but I told him I couldn't
help it. He told me to dismount and lead the mule away, but I couldn't
dismount until the mule stopped kicking, and he seemed to be wound up
for all day. The major got too near and the mule kicked him on the
shin, and then started for the company again, which had got into ranks,
kicking all the way, and the company broke ranks and started for camp,
the mule following, kicking and braying all the way. I never was so
helpless in all my life. The more I spurred the mule, the more it
kicked, and if I stopped spurring it, it kicked worse. When we got to
camp, I fell off some way, and rushed into the chaplain's tent, and the
mule kicked the tent down, and some boys drove the mule away, and while
I was fixing up the tent the chaplain came back looking happy, and asked
me how I liked the mule. I never was a hypocrite, anyway, and I was mad,
so I said: “Oh, dam that mule!”
Of course it is wrong to use such language, especially in the presence
of a minister, but I couldn't help it. I could see it hurt the chaplain,
for he sighed and said he was sorry to hear such words from me, inasmuch
as he had just got me detailed as his clerk, where I would have a soft
thing, and no drilling or fighting. He said he had wanted a clerk, one
who was a good-hearted, true man, and he had picked me out, but if I
used such language, that settled it. He said he didn't expect to find a
private soldier that was as pious as he was, but he did think I would
be the best man he could find. I wanted a soft job, with no fighting, as
bad as any man ever did, and I told the chaplain that he need not fear
as to my swearing again, as it was foreign to my nature, but I told him
if he had been on the hurricane deck of a kicking mule for an hour, and
seen comrades fall one by one, and bite the dust, and be carried on with
marks of mule shoes all over their persons, he would swear, and I would
bet on it. So it was arranged that I was to be the chaplain's clerk, and
I moved my outfit over to his tent, and for the first time since I had
been a soldier, I was perfectly happy. There was no danger of being
detached for guard duty, police duty, drilling, or fighting, and the
only boss I had was the chaplain. The chaplain and myself sat that
evening in his tent, and ate sanitary stores, drank wine for sickess,
and smoked pipes, and didn't care whether school kept or not, and that
night I slept on a cot, and had the first good night's rest, and in the
morning I awoke refreshed, and with no fear of orderly sergeants, or
anybody. I had a soft snap.
The next morning I asked the chaplain what my duties were to be, and
he said I was to take care of the tent, write letters for him, issue
sanitary stores to deserving soldiers who might need them, ride with him
sometimes when he went to town, or to preach, go to funerals with him
occasionally, set a good example to the other soldiers, and make myself
generally useful. He said I would have to attend to the burial of the
colored people who died, and any such little simple details. He went out
and left me pondering over my duties. I liked it all except the nigger
funerals. I had always been a Democrat, at home, and not very much
mashed on our colored brothers, and one thing that prevented me from
enlisting before I did was the idea of making the colored men free. I
had nothing against a colored man, and got to think a great deal of them
afterwards, but the idea of acting as an undertaker for the colored
race never occurred to me. I made up my mind to kick on that part of the
duties, when the chaplain came in and said the colored cook of one of
the companies was dead, and would be buried that afternoon, and as he
had to go to a meeting of chaplains down town, I would have to go and
conduct the services, and I better prepare myself with a little speech.
I was in a fix. I told the chaplain that it might not have occurred
to him, but honestly, I couldn't pray. He said that didn't make any
difference. I told him I couldn't preach hardly at all. He said I didn't
need to. All I had to do was to go and find out something about the life
of the deceased, what kind of a man he was, and say a few words at the
grave complimentary of him, console the mourners, if there were any, and
counsel them to try to lead a different life, that they might eventually
enter into the glory of the New Jerusalem, or words to that effect.
Well, this made me perspire. This was a tighter place than I was in when
I met the rebel. The idea of my conducting the funeral exercises of
such a black-burying party, made me tired. The chaplain said a good deal
depended on how I got through this first case, as if I succeeded well,
it would be a great feather in my cap. His idea, he said, was to try me
first on a nigger, and if I was up to snuff, and carried myself like a
thoroughbred, there would be nothing too good for me in that regiment.
I went to the orderly sergeant of the company where the man died, to
get some points as to his career, in order to work in a few remarks
appropriate to the occasion, and I said to the orderly:
“I understand your company cook has gone to that bourne from whence no
traveler returns. I thought that was pretty good for a green hand, for a
starter.”
“Yes,” said the orderly, as he looked solemn, “The old son-of-a-gun has
passed in his chips, and is now walking in green pastures, beside still
waters, but he will not drink any of the aforesaid still waters, if he
can steal any whisky to drink.”
“You astonish, me,” said I to the orderly. “The fact is, the chaplain
has sawed off on to me the duty of seeing to the burial of our deceased
friend, and I called to gather some few facts as to his characteristics
as a man and a brother. Can you tell me of anything that would interest
those who may attend?”
“O, I don't know,” said the orderly. “The deceased was a liar, a thief,
and a drunkard. He would steal anything that was not chained down. He
would murder a man for a dollar. He was the worst nigger that ever was.
If there was a medical college here that wanted bodies, it would be a
waste of money to bury him. But when he was sober he could bake beans
for all that was out, and there was no man that could boil corned mule
so as to take the taste of the saltpetre out, as he could.”
This was not a very good send off for my first funeral, but I clung to
the good qualities possessed by the late lamented. Though he might have
been a bad man, all was not lost if he could bake beans well, and boil
the salt horse or corned mule that soldiers had to eat, so they were
appetizing. Many truly good men of national reputation, could not have
excelled him in his chosen specialties, and I made a memorandum of that
for future use. I made further inquiries in the company, and found that
the deceased had a bad reputation, owed everybody, had five wives living
that he had deserted, and was suspected of having murdered two or three
colored men for their money. His death was caused by delirium tremens.
He had stole a jug of whisky from the major's tent, laid drunk a week,
and when the whisky was gone he had tremens, and had gone to the horse
doctor for something to quiet his nerves, and the horse doctor had given
him a condition powder to take, to be followed with a swallow of mustang
liniment, and the man died.
This was the information I got to use in my remarks at the grave of the
deceased, and I went back to my tent to think it over. I thought perhaps
I had better work in the horse doctor for mal-practice, in my discourse,
and thus get even with him for sending me to the general after a
furlough. While I was thinking over the things I would say, and trying
to forget the bad things about the man, the orderly sent word that the
funeral cortege was ready to proceed to the bone yard. I looked down the
company street and saw the remains being lifted into a cart, and I went
out and put the saddle on my mule, and with a mental prayer that the
confounded mule wouldn't get to kicking till the funeral was over,
started to do the honors at the grave of the late company cook.