A Short Story About a Pair of Boots, Showing the Monumental
Gall of their Owner.
When I enlisted in the cavalry I bought a pair of top boots, of the
Wellington pattern, stitched with silk up and down the legs, which were
of shiny morocco. They came clear above my knees, and from the pictures
I had seen of cavalry soldiers, it struck me those boots would be
a pass-port to any society in the army. The first few months of my
service, it seemed to me, the boots gave me more tone than any one
thing. I learned afterwards that all new recruits came to the regiment
with such boots, and that they were the laughing stock of all the old
veterans. I did not know that I was being guyed by the boys, and I
loved those boots above all things I had. To be sure, when we struck an
unusually muddy country, some idiot of an officer seemed to be inspired
to order us to dismount. The boys who had common army boots would
dismount anywhere, in mud or water, but it seemed to me cruel for
officers to order a dismount, when they knew I would have to step in the
mud half way up to my knees, with those morocco boots on. Several times
when ordered to dismount in the mud, I have ridden out of the road,
where it was not muddy, to dismount, but the boys would laugh so loud,
and the officers would swear so wickedly, that I got so I would dismount
wherever they told me, suppress my emotions, as I felt my beautiful,
shiny boots sink into the red clay, and when we got into camp I would
spend half the night cleaning my boots. The captain said if I would
spend half the time cleaning my carbine and saber that I did cleaning my
boots, I would have been a model soldier.
I think that for the first year of my service I had as elegant a pair of
boots as could be found in the army. But it was the hardest work to keep
track of them. The first three months it was all I could do to keep
the chaplain from trading me a pair of old army shoes for my boots. The
arguments he used to convince me that mo-. rocco boots were far above my
station, and that they were intended for a chaplain, were labored. If he
had used the same number of words in the right direction, he could have
converted the whole army. I had to sleep with my boots under my head
every night, to prevent them from being stolen and twice they were
stolen from my tent, but in each case recovered at the sutler's, where
they had been pawned for a bottle of brandy peaches, which I had to pay
for to redeem the boots. The boots had become almost a burden to me,
in keeping them, but I enjoyed them so much that money could not have
bought them. When we were in a town for a few days, and I rode around,
it did not make any difference whether I had any other clothes on, of
any account, the morocco boots captured the town. The natives could
not see how a man who wore such boots could be anything but a high-up
thoroughbred. The last time I lost my boots will always be remembered by
those who were in the same command. We were on the march with a Michigan
and a New Jersey regiment, through the dustiest country that ever was.
The dust was eight inches deep in the road, and just like fine ashes.
Every time a horse put his foot down the dust would raise above the
trees, and as there were two thousand horses, with four feet apiece, and
each foot in constant motion, it can be imagined that the troops were
dusty. And it was so hot that the perspiration oozed out of us, but the
dust covered it.
The three regiments took turns in acting as rear guard, to pick up
stragglers, and on this hot and dusty day the New Jersey regiment was in
the rear. It was composed of Germans entirely, with a German colonel,
a man who had seen service in Europe, and he looked upon a soldier as a
machine, with no soul, fit only to obey orders. That was not the kind of
a soldier I was. During the day's march the boys stripped off
everything they could. I know all I had on was a shirt and pants, and
a handkerchief around my head. I took off my boots and coat and let the
colored cook of the company strap them on to his saddle with the camp
kettles. He usually rode right behind the company, and I thought I could
get my things any time if I wanted to dress up. It was the hardest day's
march that I ever experienced, lungs full of dust, and every man so
covered with dust that you could not recognize your nearest neighbor.
Afternoon the command halted beside a stream, and it was announced that
we would go into camp for the night. The colored cook came along soon
after, and he was perfectly pale, whether from dust or fright I could
not tell, but he announced to me, in a manner that showed that he
appreciated the calamity which had befallen the command, that he had
lost my boots. I was going to kill him, but my carbine was full of dust,
and I made it a point never to kill a man with a dirty gun, so I let him
explain. He said:
“I fell back to de rear, by dat plantation where de cotton gin was
burning, to see if I couldn't get a canteen of buttermilk to wash de
dust outen my froat, when dat Dutch Noo Jersey gang come along, and de
boss he said, 'nicker, you got back ahead fere you pelong, or I gick you
in de pack mit a saber, aind't it,' and when I get on my mule to come
along he grab de boots and he say, 'nicker, dot boots is better for me,'
and when I was going to take dem away from him he stick me in de pants
wid a saber. Den I come away.”
I could have stood up under having an arm shot off, but to lose my boots
was more than I could bear. It never did take me long to decide on any
important matter, and in a moment I decided to invade the camp of
that New Jersey regiment, recapture my boots or annihilate every last
foreigner on our soil, so I started off, barefooted, without a coat, and
covered with dust, for the headquarters of the New Jersey fellows. They
had been in camp but a few minutes, but every last one of them had taken
a bath in the river, brushed the dust off his clothes, and looked ready
for dress parade. That was one fault of those foreigners, they were
always clean, if they had half a chance. I went right to the colonel's
tent, and he was surrounded with officers, and they were opening bottles
of beer, and how cool it looked. There was something peculiar about
those foreigners, no matter if they were doing duty in the most
inaccessible place in the south, and were short of transportation, you
could always find beer at their headquarters. I walked right in, and the
colonel was just blowing the foam off a glass of beer. He looked at me
in astonishment, and I said in a voice husky from dust down my neck:
“Colonel this is an important epoch in the history of our beloved
country. Events have transpired within the past hour, which leaves it an
open question whether, as a nation, we are afoot or on horseback.”
“Great hefens,” said the colonel, stopping with his glass of beer half
drank, “you vrighten me. Vot has habbened. But vait, und dake a glass of
beer, as you seem exhausted, und proke up. Captain Ouskaspiel, hand the
shendleman some peer. Mine Gott, bud you look hard, strancher.”
I do not believe that I ever drank anything that seemed to go right to
the spot, the way that beer did. It seemed to start a freshet of dust
down my neck, clear my throat, and brace me up. While I was drinking it
I noticed that the German colonel and his officers eyed me closely, my
bare feet, my flannel shirt full of dust, and my hair that looked
as though I had stood on my head in the road. They waited for me to
continue, and after draining the last drop in the glass, I said:
“Colonel, it was no ordinary circumstance that induced you brave
foreigners, holding allegiance to European sovereigns, to fly to arms to
defend this new nation from an internecine foe. While we natives, and
to the manor born, left our plows in the furrow, to spring to-arms, you
left your shoemaker shops, the spigots of your beer saloons, the marts
of commerce in which you were engaged, and stood shoulder to shoulder.
Where the bullets of the enemy whistled, there could be found the brave
Dutchmen of New Jersey. It brings tears to eyes unused to weeping, to
think of the German fathers and mothers of our land, who are waiting and
watching for the return of sons who will never come back, and this is,
indeed, harder for them to bear, when we reflect that these boys were
not obliged to fight for our country, holding allegiance, as I said
before to----”
“Waid a minute, of you blease,” said the colonel. “Dake von more drink,
and dell me, of you please, vot de hell you vos drying to get at. Capt.
Hemrech, gif der shendleman a glass of beer.”
A second glass of beer was given me, and I drank it. There was evidently
a suspicion on the part of the New Jersey officers that the importance
of my visit had been over-rated by them, and they seemed anxious to have
me come to the point.
“On the march today,” said I, wiping the foam off my moustache on my
shirt-sleeve, “one of your thieving soldiers stole my boots from our
nigger cook, who was conveying them for me. A cavalry soldier without
boots, is no good. I came after my boots, and I will have them or blood.
Return my boots, or by the eternal, the Wisconsin cavalry regiment
will come over here and everlastingly gallop over your fellows. The
constitution of the United States and the Declaration of Independence,
are on my side. In civil life a man's house is his castle. In the army
a man's boots is his castle. Give me my boots, sir, or the blood of the
slain will rest on your heads.”
The colonel was half mad and half pleased. He tapped his forehead with
his fore-finger, and looked at his officers in a manner that showed he
believed my head was wrong, but he said kindly:
“My man, you go oud and sit under a tree, in the shade, and I vill hafe
your poots found if they are in my rechiment,” and I went out. I heard
the colonel say to one of his officers, “It vas too pad dot two good
glasses of beer should be spoiled, giving them to dot grazy solcher. Ve
must be more careful mit de beer.”
Pretty soon an officer came out and asked me how the boots were taken,
and I gave him all the information I had, and he sent men all around the
regiment, and in an hour or so the boots were brought to me, the man who
stole them was arrested, the officers apologized to me, and I went back
to my regiment in triumph, with my boots under my arms. The incident got
noised around among the other regiments, and for months after that, when
the colonel of the New Jersey cavalry rode by another regiment, the boys
would yell out, “Boots, boots,” or when a company or squad of the New
Jersey fellows would pass along, it was “Look out for your boots! The
shoemakers are coming.” For stealing that one pair of boots, by one man,
a whole regiment got a reputation for stealing that hung to it a long
time. Ten years afterward I was connected with a New York daily paper,
and one evening I was detailed to go to a New Jersey city to report the
commencement exercises of a college. In the programme of exercises I
noticed that a man of the same name of that of the New Jersey colonel,
was one of the college professors, and I wondered if he was the same
man. During the evening he put in an appearance on the stage, and I
could see that he was the colonel who had given me the beer, and caused
my boots to be returned to me. After the exercises of the evening, the
New York newspaper men were invited to partake of a collation in the
apartments of the college officials, and the professors were introduced
to the newspaper men. When my turn came to be introduced, and the old
colonel stood before me, I said:
“General, you were in the army, were you not?”
“Yezzer!” said the old man. “I am broud to say dot I fought for my
adopted country. But vy do you ask?”
“We have met before. I, too, was a soldier. I was at your headquarters
once, on a very important mission. I was entertained, sir, in your tent,
permitted, to partake of the good, things you had, and sent away happy.
“Vell, you dond't say so,” said the old man, as he pressed my hand
warmly. “Vere vas dis dat you were my guest, and vot vas de important
message?” and he smiled all over his face at the prospect of hearing
something about old times.
“It was in Mississippi, between Montgomery, Ala., and Vicksburg. Do you
remember the hottest and dustiest day that ever was, when we camped on a
little stream?” said I.
“O, yah!” said the colonel; “very well. It vas an awful time.”
“I went to your headquarters with information of vital importance. One
of your soldiers _had stolen my boots_.”
“Gott in himmel!” said the old colonel, now a college professor, as he
looked at me to see if there was any resemblance between the New York
reporter and the dusty, bare-footed soldier of ten years before. “Vill
I never hear de last of dem dam boots? And you are de same veller, eh. I
have often thought, since dat day, vot an awful gall you had. But it
is all ofer now. You vatch your poots vile you are in New Chersey, for
plenty of dose cavalry-men are all around here. But do me a favor now,
and don't ever again say poots to me, dot's a good fellow,” and then we
all sat down to lunch, and the old colonel told the newspaper boys from
New York about how I called at his tent on the march, looking for a pair
of boots that had eloped with one of his New Chersey dutchmen.