Thanksgiving Dinner with the “Rebel Angel”--She Gives Me a
World of Good Advice--Can an Officer be Detailed To Go And
Shovel Dirt?--My First Day As A Commissioned Officer.
The last chapter of this history wound up in my interview with the
colonel, in which he told me that what the boys had said was true, and
that I had a right to to be called “Lieutenant.” He said there was a
vacancy in the commissioned officers of my company, caused, by some
discrepancy in regard to the ownership of a horse which an officer had
sold as belonging to him, when investigation showed that there was
“U. S.” branded on the horse. The colonel said he had looked over the
company pretty thoroughly, and while I was not all that he could desire
in an officer, there were less objections to me than to many others, and
he had recommended the governor of our state to commission me. He said
he didn't want me to run away with the idea that my promotion from
private to a commissioned office was for any particular gallantry, or
that I was particularly entitled to promotion, but I seemed the most
available. It was true, he said, that I had done everything I had been
told to do, in a cheerful manner, and had not displayed any cowardice,
that he knew of, though I had often admitted to him that I was a coward.
He said he thought few men knew whether they were cowards or not, until
they got in a tight place, and that most men honestly believed they were
cowards, but they didn't want others to know it, and they took pains to
conceal the fact. He said he had rather be considered a coward than a
dare-devil of bravery, for if he flunked when a chance come to show his
metal, it wouldn't be thought much of, and if he pulled through, and
made a decent record for bravery, he would get a heap of credit. He
said he believed it took a man with more nerve to do some things he
had ordered me to do, than it did to get behind a tree and shoot at the
enemy, and he was willing to take his chances on me. He congratulated
me, and some of the other officers did the same.
I was invited to sit into a game of draw poker with some of the
officers. I pleaded that I was not sufficiently recovered from my
sickness to play poker, and I went back to my tent to talk with Jim. I
was thinking over the new responsibilities that were about to come to
me, and figuring on the salary. A hundred and fifty dollars a month!
It is cruel to raise the salary of a poor devil from thirteen dollars a
month to a hundred and fifty. I wondered how in the world the government
was ever going to get that much out of me. Certainly I couldn't do any
more than I had been doing towards crushing the rebellion for thirteen
dollars. And what would I do with so much money? In my wildest dreams of
promotion I had never hoped to be a commissioned officer. I had thought
sometimes, a week or two after I enlisted, that if I was a general I
could put down the rebellion so quick the government would have lots of
nations left on its hands to spoil, but a few months active service had
taken all that sort of nonsense out of me, and I had been contented as
a private. But here I was jumped over everybody, and made an officer
unbeknown to me, It made me dizzy. I was not very strong anyway, and
this thing had come upon me suddenly I was thinking of the magnificent
uniform I would have, and the fancy saddle and bridle, and the regular
officer's tent, with bottles of whiskey and glasses, when Jim asked me
if I wouldn't just hold that frying-pan of bacon over the fire, while
he cooked some coffee. He said we would just eat a little to settle our
stomachs, and then go out to Thanksgiving dinner.
“Thanksgiving dinner,” I said. “What are you talking about?”
“Don't you know,” said Jim, “to-day is Thanksgiving? The 'angel' told
me last night to bring you out to the plantation to-day, and I was going
after you at the hospital if you hadn't showed up. She has received a
letter from her brother, who is a rebel prisoner at Madison, and he says
a Yankee hotel-keeper at Madison, that you had written to, had called
at the pen where they were kept, and had brought him a lot of turkey and
fixings, and offered to send him a lot for Thanksgiving, so the rebel
boys could have a big feed, and he says he is well and happy, and going
to be exchanged soon. And she wants us to come out and eat turkey and
'possum. I had rather eat gray tom-cat than possum, but I told her we
would come. So we will eat a little bacon and bread, and ride out.”
“Well, all right Jim,” I said. “We will go, but in my weak state I can't
be expected to eat possum. If there is anything of that kind to be eat,
Jim, you will have to eat it. However, I will do anything the rebel
angel asks me to do,” I added, remembering her kindness to me when I was
sick.
The ride to the plantation, after several weeks confinement, was better
than medicine, and I enjoyed every step my proud horse took. The animal
acted as though he had been told of my promotion, but it was plain to me
that he acted proud, because he had been resting during my sickness. It
was all I could do to keep Jim alongside of me. He would fall back every
little while and try to act like an orderly riding behind an officer.
I had to discipline him before he would come up alongside like a
“partner.” I mention this Thanksgiving dinner in the army, in order to
bring in a little advice the rebel girl gave me, which I shall always
remember. We arrived at the old plantation house where the girl and her
mother and some servants were living, waiting for the war to close, so
the men folks could come back. The old lady welcomed us cordially, the
girl warmly and the servants effusively. The dinner was good, though
not elaborate, except the possum. That was elaborate, and next to gumbo
soup, the finest dish I ever tasted. After we had got seated at the
table, the old lady asked a blessing, and it was more like a prayer.
She asked for a blessing upon all of the men in both armies, and made us
feel as though there was no bitterness in her heart towards the enemies
of her people. During the dinner Jim told of my promotion, and the
circumstance was commented on by all, and after dinner the rebel angel
took me one side, and said she had got a few words of advice to give me.
She commenced by saying:
“Now that you are to be a commissioned officer, don't get the big head.
During this war, we have had soldiers near us all the time, and I have
seen some splendid soldiers spoiled by being commsssioned. Nine out
of ten men that have received commissions in this locality, have been
spoiled. I am a few years older than you, and have seen much of the
world. You are a kind hearted man, and desire to treat everybody well,
whether rich or poor, yankee or confederate. If you let this commission
spoil you, you are not worthy of it. You will naturally feel as though
you should associate with officers entirely, but you will find in them
no better companions than you have found in the private soldiers, and I
doubt if you will find as true friends. Do not, under any circumstances,
draw away from your old friends, and let a barrier raise up between you
and them. My observation teaches me that the only difference between the
officers and men in the Union army, is that officers get more pay for
doing less duty; they become dissipated and fast because they can better
afford it, they drink more, put on style, play cards for money, and
think the world revolves around them, and that they are indispensible
to success, and yet when they die, or are discharged for cause, private
soldiers take their place and become better officers than they did,
until they in turn become spoiled. I can think of no position better
calculated to ruin a young man than to commission him in a cavalry
regiment. Now take my advice. Do not run in debt for a new uniform and
a silver mounted sword, and don't put a stock of whisky and cigars into
your tent, and keep open house, because when your whisky and cigars are
gone, those who drank and smoked them will not think as much of you as
before, and you will have formed habits that will illy prepare you for
your work. You will not make any friends among good officers, and you
will lose the respect of the men who have known you when you were one of
them, but who will laugh at you for getting the big head and going back
on those who are just as good as you are, but who have not yet attained
the dignity of wearing shoulder straps. I meet officers every day, who
were good soldiers before they were raised from privates, and they show
signs of dissipation, and have a hard look, leering at women, and trying
to look _blasé_. They try to act as near like foreign noblemen who are
officers, as they can, from reading of their antics, but Americans
just from farms, workshops, commercial pursuits, and the back woods
and country villages of the north, are not of the material that foreign
officials are made of, and in trying to imitate them they only show
their shallowness. Do not, I beg of you, change one particle from what
you have been as a private soldier, unless it is to have your pants fit
better, and wear a collar. Of course, you will be thrown among officers
more than you have before. Imitate their better qualities, and do not
compete with them in vices. Always remember that when a volunteer army
is mustered out, all are alike. The private, who has business ability,
will become rich and respected, after the war, while the officer, who
has been promoted through favoritism, and who acquires bad habits, will
keep going down hill, and will be glad to drive a delivery wagon for the
successful private, whom he commanded and snubbed when he held a proud
position and got the big head. Now, my convalescent red-headed yankee,
you have the best advice, I know how to give a young man who has struck
a streak of luck. Go back to your friends, and may God bless you.”
Well, I had never had any such advice as that before, and as Jim and me
rode back to camp that Thanksgiving evening, her words seemed to burn
into my alleged brain. I could see how easy it would be for a fellow to
make a spectacle of himself. What did a commission amount to, anyway,
that a fellow should feel above anybody. When we arrived in camp, and
went into our tent to have a smoke, the chaplain came in. I had not
seen much of him lately. When I was sick I felt the need of a chaplain
considerably. Not that I cared particularly to have him come and set
up a howl over me, as though I was going to die, and he was expected
to steer me the right way. But I felt as though it was his duty to look
after the boys when they were sick, and talk to them about something
cheerful. But he did not show up when I needed him, and when he called
at our tent after I was well, there wasn't that cordiality on my part
that there ought to have been. He had a package which he unrolled, after
congratulating me on my recovery, and it proved to be a new saber, with
silver mounted scabbard and gold sword handle. The chaplain said he had
heard that I was to be commissioned, and he had found that saber at a
store down town, and thought I might want to buy it. He said of course
I would not want to wear a common government saber, as it would look too
rude..He said he could get that saber for forty dollars, dirt cheap, and
I could pay for it when I got my first pay as an officer. I could see
through the chaplain in a minute. He had thought I would jump at the
chance to put on style, and that he could make ten or fifteen dollars
selling me a gilt-edged saber. I thanked him warmly, and a little
sarcastically, for his great interest in the welfare of my soul, in
sickness and in health, but told him that I was going to try and pull
through with a common private's saber. I told him that the few people I
should kill with a saber, would enjoy it just as well to be run through
with a common saber. My only object was to help put down the rebellion,
and I could do it with ordinary plain cutlery, as well as silver-mounted
trappings. I said that to smear a silver-mounted saber all over with
gore, would spoil the looks of it. The chaplain went out, when a drummer
for a tailor shop came in with some samples, and wanted to make up a new
uniform for me, regardless of expense. I stood him off, and went to bed,
tired, and thought I had rather be a private than a general. The next
morning it was my turn to cook our breakfast, and I turned out and built
a fire, cut off some salt pork, and was frying it, when the orderly
sergeant came along and detailed Jim and me, with ten or a dozen others
to go to work on the fortifications. The rebels-were preparing to attack
our position, and the commanding officer had deemed it advisable to
throw up some earthworks. I told the orderly that he couldn't detail me
to work with a shovel, digging trenches, when I was an officer, but he
said he could, until I received my commission and was mustered in. I
left my cooking and went to the colonel's tent. He was just rolling out
of his bunk, and I said:
“How is it, Colonel? Can an officer be detailed to go and shovel dirt? I
have been detailed by the orderly, with a lot of privates, to report
to the engineer, to throw up fortifications. That does not strike me as
proper work for a commissioned officer.”
“You will have to go,” said the colonel, as he stood on one leg while he
tried to lasso his other foot with a pants leg. “It may be three months
before your commission will arrive, and then you will have to go to New
Orleans to be mustered out as a private and mustered in as an officer.
Until that time you will have to do duty as a private.”
“Then what the devil did you say anything about my being commissioned
for, until the commission got here,” said I, and I went back and
finished cooking breakfast for myself and Jim.
Our detail went down to the river, at the left of the line, and reported
to the engineer, and were set to work cutting down trees, throwing up
dirt, and doing about the dirtiest and hardest work that I had ever
done. As a private I could have done anything that was asked of me,
but the thought of doing such work, while all the boys were calling me
“Lieutenant,” was too much. I never was so crushed in my life. How glad
I was that I did not buy that gilt-edged saber of the chaplain. We had
to wear our side arms while at work, fearing an attack at any
minute, and I thought how ridiculous I would have looked with that
silver-mounted saber hanging to me, while I was handling a shovel like a
railroad laborer. If that detail was made to humiliate me, and reduce my
proud flesh, that had appeared on me by my sudden promotion, it had the
desired effect, for before night I was as humble an amateur officer as
ever lived. I had chopped down trees until my hands were blistered, and
had shoveled dirt until my back was broke, and at night returned to my
tent too tired to eat supper, and went to bed too weary and disgusted to
sleep. And that was my first day as a commissioned officer.