Bacon and Hard-tack--In Danger of Ague--In Search of Whisky
and Quinine--I Am Appointed Corporal--I Make a Speech--I Am
the Leader of Ten Picked Men--I Am Willing to Resign.
The next day we arrived at a post where rations were plenty, and where
it was announced we should remain for a week or two, so we drew tents
and made ourselves as comfortable as possible. It did seem good to again
be where we did not have to depend on our own resources, of stealing,
for what we wanted to eat. To be able to draw from the commissary
regular rations of meat, tea, coffee, sugar, baker's bread, and beans,
was joy indeed, after what we had gone through, and we almost made hogs
of ourselves. There was one thing--those few days of starvation taught
us a lesson, and that was, when ordered on a trip with two days'
rations, to take at least enough for six days, especially of coffee and
salt pork or bacon. With coffee and a piece of old smoked bacon, a man
can exist a long time. I remember after that trip, wherever I went,
there was a chunk of bacon in one of my saddle-bags that nobody knew
anything about, and many a time, on long marches, when hunger would have
been experienced almost as severe as the time written about last week,
I would take out my chunk of bacon, cut off a piece and spread it on
a hard-tack, and eat a meal that was more strengthening than any meal
Delmonico ever spread. It was at this post that the boys in the regiment
played a trick that caused much fun throughout all the army. There
were a few men in each company who had the chills and fever, or ague,
and the surgeon gave them each morning, a dose of whisky and quinine. It
was interesting to see a dozen soldiers go to surgeon's call, take
their “bitters,” and return to their quarters. The boys would go to the
surgeon's tent sort of languid, and drag along, and after swallowing a
good swig of whisky and quinine they would walk back to their quarters
swinging their arms like Pat Rooney on the stage, and act as though they
could whip their weight in wild cats. I got acquainted with the hospital
steward, and he said if the boys were not careful they would all be down
with the ague, and that an ounce of prevention was worth more than a
pound of cure. I thought I would take advantage of his advice, so I fell
in with the sick fellows the next morning, and when the doctor asked,
“What's the matter?” I said “chills,” and he said, “Take a swallow out
of the red bottle.” I took a swallow, and it _was_ bitter, but it had
whisky in it, more than quinine, and the idea of beating the government
out of a drink of whisky was pleasure enough to overcome the bitter
taste. I took a big swallow, and before I got back to my quarters I had
had a fight with a mule-driver, and when the quartermaster interfered I
had insulted him by telling him I knew him when he carried a hod, before
the war, and I shouted, “Mort, more mort!” until he was going to lather
me with a mule whip, but he couldn't catch me. As I run by the surgeon's
tent, somebody remarked that I had experienced a remarkably sudden
cure for chills. The whisky was not real good, but as I had heard the
hospital steward say they had just put in a requisition for two barrels
of it, to be prepared for an epidemic of chills, I thought the boys
ought to know it, so that day I went around to the different companies
and told the boys how to play it for a drink. There are very few
soldiers, in the best regiment, that will not take a drink of whisky
when far away from home, discouraged, and worn out by marching, and
our fellows looked favorably upon the proposition to all turn out to
surgeon's call the next morning. I shall never forget the look on the
face of the good old surgeon, as the boys formed in line in front of his
tent the next morning. The last time I saw him, he was in his coffin,
about five years ago, at the soldier's home, and a few of the survivors
of the regiment that lived here had gone out to the home to take a last
look at him, and act as mourners at the funeral. He looked much older
than when he used to ask us fellows the conumdrum, “What's the matter?”
but there was that same look on his white, cold face that there was the
morning that nearly the whole regiment reported for “bitters.”
There must have been four hundred men in line, and it happened that I
was the first to be called. When he asked me about my condition, and
I told him of the chills, he studied a minute, then looked at me, and
said, You are bilious, David, give him a dose of castor oil. I know I
turned pale, for it was a great come down from quinine and whisky to
castor oil, for a healthy man, and I kicked. I told him I had the shakes
awfully, and all I wanted was a quinine powder. I knew they had put all
their quinine into a barrel of whisky, so I was safe in asking for dry
quinine. The good old gentleman finally relented on the castor oil, and
told David to give me a swallow of the quinine bitters, but there was a
twinkle in his eye, as he noticed what a big swallow I took, and then he
said, “You will be well tomorrow; you needn't come again.” I dropped out
of the ranks, with my skin full of quinine and whisky, and watched the
other fellows.
There were men in the line who had never been sick a day since they
enlisted, big fellows that would fight all day, and stand picket all
night, and who never knew what it was to have an ache. And it was
amusing to see them appear to shake, and to act as though they had
chills. Some of them could not keep from laughing, and it was evident
that the doctor had his doubts about there being so many cases of
chills, but he dosed out the quinine and whisky as long as there was a
man who shook. As each man took his dose, he would show two expressions
on his face. One was an expression of hilarity at putting himself
outside of a good swig of whisky, and the other was an expression of
contempt for the bitter quinine, and an evident wish that the drug
might be left out. When all had been served, they lingered around the
surgeon's quarters, talking with each other and laughing, others formed
on for a stag quadrille, and danced, while a nigger fiddled. Some
seemed to feel as though they wanted some one to knock a chip off
their shoulders, old grudges were talked over, and several fights were
prevented by the interference of friends who were jolly and happy, and
who did not believe in fighting for fun, when there was so much fighting
to be done in the way of business. The old doctor walked up and down in
front of his tent in a deep study. He was evidently thinking over
the epidemic of ague that had broken out in a healthy regiment, and
speculating as to its cause. Suddenly an idea seemed to strike him, and
he walked up to a crowd of his patients, who were watching a couple of
athletes, who had just taken their quinine, and who had put on boxing
gloves and were pasting each other in the nose. “One moment,” said the
old doctor. The boys stopped boxing, and every last “sick” man listened
respectfully to what the old doctor said; “Boys,” said he, “you have got
it on me this time. I don't believe a confounded one of you have got
ague at all. You 'shook me' for the whisky. After this, quinine will
be dealt out raw, without any whisky, and now you can shake all you
please.” Some one proposed three cheers for the boys that had made Uncle
Sam stand treat, and the cheers were given, and the boys separated to
talk over the event. The next morning only the usual number of sick were
in attendance at surgeon's call. The healthy fellows didn't want to take
quinine raw.
About this time an incident occurred that was fraught with great
importance to the country and to me, though the historians of the war
have been silent about it in their histories, whether through jealousy
or something else I do not know, and modesty has prevented me from
making any inquiries as to the cause. The incident alluded to was my
appointment as corporal of my company. I say the incident was “fraught”
with importance. I do not know the meaning of the word fraught, but it
is frequently used in history in that connection, and I throw it in,
believing that it is a pretty good word. The appointment came to me like
a stroke of paralysis. I was not conscious that my career as a soldier
had been such as to merit promotion, I could not recall my particularly
brilliant military achievement that would warrant my government
selecting me from the ranks and conferring honors upon me, unless it
was my lasooing that ram and dragging him into camp, when we were out of
meat. But it was not my place to inquire into the cause that had led to
my sudden promotion over the rank and file. I thought if I made too many
inquiries it would be discovered that I was not such an all-fired great
soldier after all. If the government had somehow got the impression that
I was well calculated to lead hosts to victory, and it was an erroneous
impression, it was the governments' place to find it out without any
help on my part. I would accept the position with a certain dignity, as
though I knew that it was inevitable that I must sooner or later come
to the front. So when the captain informed me that he should appoint me
Corporal, I told him that I thanked him, and through him, the Nation,
and would try and perform the duties of the exacting and important
position to the best of my ability, and hoped that I might not do
anything that would bring discredit upon our distracted country. He said
that would be all right, that he had no doubt the country would pull
through. That evening at dress parade the appointment was read, and I
felt elated. I thought it singular that the regiment did not break out
into cheers, and make the welkin ring, though they may not have had
any welkin to ring. However, I thought it was my duty to make a little
speech, acknowledging the honor conferred upon me, as I had read that
generals and colonels did when promoted. I took off my hat and said,
“Fellow soldiers.” That was the end of my speech, for the captain turned
around and said to the orderly sergeant, “Stop that red-headed cusses
mouth some way,” and the orderly told me to dry up. Everybody was
laughing, I supposed, at the captain. Anyway, I felt hurt, and when we
got back to camp the boys of all the companies surrounded me to offer
congratulations, and I was called on for a speech. Not being in the
ranks, nobody could prevent me from speaking, so I got up on a
barrel, and said:
“Fellow Soldiers:--As I was about to remark, when interrupted by the
captain, on dress parade, this office has come to me entirely unsought.
It has not been my wish to wear the gilded trappings of office and
command men, but rather to fight in the ranks, a private soldier. I
enlisted as a private, and my ambition has been to remain in the ranks
to the end of the war. But circumstances over which I have no control
has taken me and placed me on the high pinnacle of Corporal, and I must
bow to the decree of fate. Of course, in my new position there must
necessarily be a certain gulf between us. I have noticed that there has
been a gulf between me and the officers, and I have thought it wrong. I
have thought that privates and officers should mingle together freely,
and share each others secrets, privations and rations. But since being
promoted I can readily see that such things cannot be. The private has
his position and the officer has his, and each must be separate. It is
not my intention to make any radical changes in the conduct of military
affairs at present, allowing things to go along about as they have, but
as soon as I have a chance to look about me, certain changes will be
made. All I ask is that you, my fellow soldiers, shall stand by me,
follow where I shall lead and--”
At this point in my address the head of the barrel on which I stood fell
in with a dull thud, and I found myself up to the neck in corned-beef
brine. The boys set up a shout, some fellow kicked over the barrel, and
they began to roll it around the camp with me in it.
[Illustration: Just promoted to the proud position of Corporal 141]
This was a pretty position for a man just promoted to the proud position
of Corporal. As they rolled me about and yelled like Indians, I could
see that an official position in that regiment was to be no sinecure.
All official positions have more or less care and responsibility, but
this one seemed to me to have too much. Finally they spilled me out of
the barrel, and I was a sight to behold. My first idea was to order the
whole two hundred fellows under arrest, and have them court-martialed
for conduct unbecoming soldiers; but on second thought I concluded that
would seem an arbitrary use of power, so I concluded to laugh it off.
One fellow said they begged pardon for any seeming disrespect to an
official; but it had always been customary in the regiment to initiate a
corporal who was new and too fresh with salt brine. I said that was all
right, and I invited them all up to the chaplain's tent to join me in a
glass of wine. The chaplain was away, and I knew he had received a keg
of wine from the sanitary commission that day, so we went up to his tent
and drank it, and everything passed off pleasantly until the chaplain
happened in. The boys dispersed as soon as he came, and left me to fight
it out with the good man. He was the maddest truly good man I have ever
seen. I tried to explain about my promotion, and that it was customary
to set em up for the boys, and that there was no saloon near, and
that he had always told me to help myself to anything I wanted; but
he wouldn't be calm at all. I tried to quote from Paul's epistle about
taking a little wine for the stomach-ache; but he just raved around and
called me names, until I had to tell him that if he kept on I would, in
my official capacity as corporal, place him under arrest. That seemed
to calm him a little, for he laughed, and finally he said I smelled of
stale corned-beef, and he kicked me out of his tent, and I retired to
my quarters to study over the mutability of human affairs, and the
unpleasant features of holding official position.
That night I dreamed that General Grant and myself were running the
army in splendid shape, and that we were in-receipt of constant
congratulations from a grateful country, for victories. He and I seemed
to be great chums. I dreamed of engagements with the enemy, in which I
led men against fearful odds, and always came out victorious. I woke
up before daylight and was wondering what dangerous duty I would be
detailed to lead men upon, when the orderly poked his head in my tent
and told me I was detailed to take ten picked men, at daylight, for hard
service, and to report at once. I felt that my time had come to achieve
renown, and I dressed myself with unusual care, putting on the blouse
with two rows of buttons, which I had brought from home. I borrowed a
pair of Corporal's chevrons and sewed them to the sleeves of my blouse,
and was ready to die, if need be. I placed a Testament I had brought
from home, inside my blouse, in a breast pocket, as I had read of
many cases where a Testament had been struck with a bullet and saved a
soldier's life. I placed all my keepsakes in a package, and told my tent
mate that I was going out with ten picked men, and it was possible I
might never show up again, and if I fell he was to send the articles
to my family. I wondered that I did not feel afraid to die. I was no
professor of religion, though I had always tried to do the square thing
all around, but with no consolation of religion at all, I felt a sweet
peace that was indescribable. If it was my fate to fall in defence of my
country, at the head of ten picked men, so be it. Somebody must die, and
why not me. I was no better than thousands of others, and while life was
sweet to me, and I had anticipated much pleasure in life, after the war,
in shooting ducks and holding office, I was willing to give up all hope
of pleasure in the future, and die like a thoroughbred. I was glad that
I had been promoted, and wondered if they would put “Corporal” on my
tombstone. I wondered, if I fell that day at the head of my mem, if
the papers at the North, and particularly in Wisconsin, would say “The
deceased had just been promoted, for gallant conduct, to the position of
Corporal, and it will be hard to fill his place.” With these thoughts
I sadly reported to the orderly. The ten picked men were in line. They
were four of them Irishmen, two Yankees, two Germans, a Welshman and a
Scotchman. The orderly gave me a paper, sealed in an envelope. I turned
to my men, and said, “Boys, whatever happens today, I don't want to see
any man show the white feather. The world will read the accounts of this
day's work with feelings of awe, and the country will care for those
we leave behind.” We started off, and it occurred to me to read my
instructions. I opened the envelope with the air of a general who was
accustomed to receive important messages. I read it, and almost fainted,
It read “Report to the quartermaster, at the steamboat landing, to
unload quartermaster's stores from steamer Gazelle.” Ye gods! And this
was the hard service that I was to lead ten picked men into. They had
picked out ten stevedores, to carry sacks of corn, and hard-tack boxes,
and barrels of pork, and that was the action I was to engage in as my
first duty as corporal.
I almost cried. We rode down to the landing, where a dozen teams were
waiting to be loaded. It was all I could do to break the news to my
picked men that they were expected to lug sacks of corn instead of fight,
and when I did they kicked at once. One of the Irishmen said he would be
teetotally d----d if he enlisted to carry corn for mules, and he would
lay in the guard-house till the war was over before he would lift a
sack. There was a strike on my hands to start on. I was sorry that I had
permitted myself to be promoted to Corporal. Trouble from the outset.
One of the Yankees suggested that we hold an indignation meeting, so we
rode up in front of a cotton warehouse and dismounted. The Scotchman was
appointed chairman, and for half an hour the ten picked men discussed
the indignity that was attempted to be heaped upon them, by compelling
them to do the work of niggers.
They argued that a cavalry soldier's duty was exclusively to ride on
horseback, and that there was no power on earth to compel them to carry
sacks of corn. One of the Dutchmen said he could never look a soldier in
the face again after doing such menial duty, and he would not submit to
it. The Scotch chairman said if he had read the articles of war right
there was no clause that said that the cavalry man should leave his
horse and carry corn. I was called upon for my opinion, and said that I
was a little green as to the duties of a soldier, but supposed we had to
do anything we were ordered to do, but it seemed a little tough. I told
them I didn't want any mutiny, and it would be a plain case of mutiny
if they refused to work. One of the Irishmen asked if I would help carry
sacks of corn, and I told him that as commander of the expedition it
would be plainly improper for me to descend to a common day laborer.
I held it to be the duty of a corporal to stand around and see the men
work. They all said that was too thin, and I would have to peel on my
coat and work if they did. I told them I couldn't lift a sack of corn
to save me, but they said if that was the case I ought not to have come.
The quartermaster was looking around for the detail that was to unload
the boat, and he asked me if I had charge of the men detailed to unload.
I told him that I _did_ have charge of them when we left camp, but
that they had charge of me now, and said they wouldn't lift a pound. He
thought a minute, and said, “I don't like to see you boys carrying corn
sacks, and rolling pork barrels. Why don't you chip in and hire some
niggers.” The idea seemed inspired. There were plenty of niggers around
that would work for a little money. One of the Irishmen moved that the
Corporal hire ten niggers to unload the quartermasters stores, and the
motion was carried unanimously. I would have voted against it, but the
Scotchman, who was chairman, ruled that I had no right to vote. So I
went and found ten niggers that agreed to work for fifty cents each, and
they were set to work, the quartermaster promising not to tell in camp
about my hiring the work done. One of my Dutchmen moved that, inasmuch
as we had nothing to do all day, that we take in the town, and play
billiards, and whoop it up until the boat was unloaded. That seemed a
reasonable proposition, and the motion carried, after an amendment had
been added to the effect that the Corporal stay on the boat and watch
the niggers, and see that they didn't shirk. So my first command, my ten
picked men, rode off up town, and I set on a wagon and watched my hired
men. It was four o clock in the afternoon before the stuff was all
loaded, and after paying the niggers five dollars out of my own pocket,
some of my bounty money, I went up to town to round up my picked men to
take them to camp. I found the Scotchman pretty full of Scotch whisky.
He had found a countryman who kept a tailor shop, who had a bag pipe,
and they were having a high old time playing on the instrument, and
singing Scotch songs. I got him on his horse, and we looked for the
rest. The two Germans were in a saloon playing pee-nuckel, and singing
German songs, and their skins were pretty full of beer and cheese. They
were got into the ranks, and we found the Irishmen playing forty-five
in a saloon kept by a countryman of theirs, and they had evidently had
a shindig, as one of them had a black eye and a scratch on his nose, and
they were full of fighting whisky. The Yankees had swelled up on some
kind of benzine and had hired a hack and taken two women out riding, and
when we rounded them up each one had his feet out of the window of the
hack, and they were enjoying themselves immensely. The Welchman was the
only one that was sober, but the boys said there was not enough liquor
in the South to get him drunk. When I got them all mounted they looked
as though they had been to a banquet. We started for camp, but I did not
want to take them in until after dark, so we rode around the suburbs of
the town until night drew her sable mantle over the scene. They insisted
on singing until within half a mile of camp, and it would no doubt have
been good music, only the Scotchman insisted on singing “The March of
the Cameron Men,” while the Irishmen sung “Lots of fun at Finnegan's
Wake,” and the German's sung “Wacht am Rhine.” The Yankees sung the
“Star Spangled Banner,” and the Welchman sung something in the Welch
language which was worse than all. All the songs being sung together,
of course I couldn't enjoy either of them as well as a Corporal ought
to enjoy the music of his command. Arriving near camp, the music was
hushed, and we rode in, and up to the captain's tent, where I reported
that the corn was unloaded, all right. He said that was all right.
Everything would have passed off splendidly, only one of the Irishmen
proposed “three cheers” for the dandy Corporal of the regiment, and
those inebriated, picked men, gave three cheers that raised the roof of
the colonel's tent near by, because I had hired niggers to do the work,
and let the men have a holiday. I dismissed them as quick as I could,
but the colonel sent for me, and I had to tell him the whole story. He
said I would demoralize the whole regiment in a week more, and I
better let up or he would have to discipline me. I offered to resign my
commission as Corporal, but he said I better hold on till we could have
a fight, and may be I would get killed.