TRANSFERRED TO THE COAST.
Our enlistment as artillery had so far proven a delusion and a snare.
The Confederacy had no guns with which to equip us and we had found no
opportunity to capture any. During our stay at Jacksboro Capt. Allen
succeeded in securing from the War Department the transfer of the
Oglethorpes to the 2nd South Carolina Artillery, then in service at
Charleston. Oct. 9, '62, at 6 p. m. we fell into line, gave three cheers
for our late companions in arms and as the setting sun crimsoned with
its last rays the lofty summit of the Cumberland, we filed out of the
village to the tune of
"We are sons of old Aunt Dinah,
And we go where we've amind to
And we stay where we're inclined to,
And we don't care a----cent."
and our sojourn in Jacksonboro was a thing of the past.
Reaching Augusta Oct. 13, we were dismissed until the 23rd, when we went
into camp at the Bush Ground, near the city. Why we did not proceed at
once to our command in Charleston has always been to the writer an
unsolved problem. We remained in Augusta until Dec. 9, when orders were
received to report to Gen. H. W. Mercer, at Savannah. Col. Geo. A.
Gordon, in command of the 13th Ga. Battalion was endeavoring to raise it
to a regiment. As he lacked two companies and as the Oglethorpes had 120
men on its roll an effort was made to divide the company. On Dec. 11 a
vote was taken, the result showing a majority against division. Dec. 15
we were formally attached to the 63rd Ga. Regiment, ranking as Co. A.
Our quarters were located just in the rear of Thunderbolt Battery and
here we remained for more than twelve months in the discharge of
semi-garrison duty.
A STUDY IN INSECT LIFE.
The period covered by our service on the coast formed a sort of oasis in
our military life. The Federal gunboats were kind enough to extend
social courtesies to us only at long range and longer intervals. We
fought and bled, it is true, but not on the firing line. The foes that
troubled us most, were the fleas and sand fleas and mosquitoes that
infested that sections. They never failed to open the spring campaign
promptly and from their attacks by night and day no vigilance on the
picket line could furnish even slight immunity. If the old time practice
of venesection as a therapeutic agent was correct in theory our hygienic
condition ought to have been comparatively perfect. During the "flea
season" it was not an unusual occurrence for the boys after fruitless
efforts to reach the land of dreams, to rise from their couches, divest
themselves of their hickory shirts and break the silence of the midnight
air by vigorously threshing them against a convenient tree in the hope
of finding temporary "surcease of sorrow" from this ever-present
affliction. It was said that if a handful of sand were picked up half
of it would jump away. I can not vouch for the absolute correctness of
this statement, but I do know that I killed, by actual count, one
hundred and twenty fleas in a single blanket on which I had slept the
preceding night and I can not recall that the morning was specially
favorable for that species of game either. I remember further that as we
had in camp no "Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals," I
corked up an average specimen of these insects to see how long he would
live without his daily rations. At the end of two weeks he had grown a
trifle thin, but was still a very lively corpse. But these were not the
only "ills, that made calamity of so long a life," for as Moore might
have said, if his environment had been different,
"Oft in the stilly night,
Ere slumber's chain had bound me,
I felt the awful bite
Of 'skeeters buzzing 'round me."
Their bills were presented on the first day of the day of the month and,
unfortunately, on every other day. At our picket stations on Wilmington
and White marsh Islands and at the "Spindles" on the river where the
young alligators amused themselves by crawling up on the bank and
stealing our rations, there was a larger variety known as gallinippers,
from whose attacks the folds of a blanket thrown over our faces was not
full protection.
But there were still others. On dress parade in the afternoons, while
the regiment was standing at "parade rest" and no soldier was allowed to
move hand or foot until Richter's band, playing Capt. Sheppards Quick
step, had completed its daily tramp to the left of the line and back to
its position on the right, the sandflies seemed to be aware of our
helplessness and "in prejudice of good order and military discipline"
were especially vicious in their attack upon every exposed part of our
anatomy. Capt. C. W. Howard, I remember, was accustomed to fill his ears
with cotton as a partial protection. I have seen Charlie Goetchius,
while on the officers' line in front of the regiment, squirm and shiver
in such apparent agony that the veins in his neck seemed ready to burst.
Neither whistling minies, nor shrieking shells, nor forced marches with
no meal in the barrel nor oil in the cruse ever seemed to disturb his
equanimity in the slightest degree. Quietly and modestly and bravely he
met them all. But the sandfly brigade was a little too much for him.
In addition to these discomforts, the salt water marsh, near which we
were camped, never failed to produce a full crop of chills and fever as
well as of that peculiar species of crabs known as "fiddlers." Gen.
Early was once advised by one of his couriers that the Yankees were in
his rear. "Rear the d--l," said old Jubal, "I've got no rear. I'm front
all round." These fiddlers seemed to be in the same happy condition.
Their physical conformation was such that no matter from what side they
were approached, they retired in an exactly opposite direction without
the necessity of changing front. But of the chills. Of the one hundred
and fifteen men in our ranks only three escaped an attack of this
disease. The writer was fortunately one of the three. One man had
fifty-three chills before a furlough was allowed him. Quinine was scarce
and boneset tea and flannel bandages saturated with turpentine were used
as substitutes. Whiskey was sometimes issued as a preventative. In
pursuance of a resolution formed on entering the service I never tasted
the whiskey and as soon as my habit on this line became known, I was not
subjected to the trouble of looking up applicants for the extra ration.
The dearth in medical supplies recalls other facts showing the straits
to which the Confederacy was reduced on other lines by the blockade of
its ports. Letters written in '63, and now in my possession, show that
my brother, then Assistant Surgeon at Tallahassee, Fla., could not
purchase in that place a pair of suspenders nor a shirt collar--that my
mess could not buy an oven in Savannah, though willing to pay $30 for it
and that I ordered shoes for Capt. Picquet, and other members of the
company from a Mr. Campbell at Richmond Factory, as no suitable ones
could be had in Savannah.
Our service at Thunderbolt was entirely devoid of any exciting incident
or episode in a martial way. If the company fired a single shot at a
Yankee during our stay I can not recall it. On one occasion 8 or 10
volunteers from each regiment stationed there were wanted for "a secret
and dangerous expedition," as it was termed in the order. There was a
ready response from the Oglethorpes for the entire number wanted from
the regiment. Among those volunteers I recall the names of W. J. Steed,
J. E. Wilson, R. B. Morris, J. C. Kirkpatrick and F. I. Stone. We never
knew whether it was a contemplated attack on Fort Pulaski or the capture
of a Federal gunboat, as the expedition failed to materialize.
April 18, '63, Henry Wombke of the Oglethorpes, was drowned while
bathing in Warsaw Sound, and on July 12, '63, John Quincy Adams, while
returning from picket at the Spindles was accidentally shot by George
Mosher, who had gone up on the boat to kill alligators.
Some official changes took place in the company during our stay at this
camp. To fill the vacancy occasioned by the resignation of Lieut. W. G.
Johnson, Charles T. Goetchius was elected, but I have no record of the
date. On July 5, '63, the death of Major John R. Giles resulted in the
promotion on July 12, of Capt. J. V. H. Allen to that field office in the
regiment. Louis Picquet became captain of the company, and on July 14,
Geo. W. McLaughlin was elected Jr. 2nd. Lieut.
As a part of the "res gestae" of our soldier life at Thunderbolt, the
following incident may be of some interest:
SOAP AND WATER.
My earliest recollections of Thunderbolt is associated with a fruitless
effort to mix turpentine soap and salt water. We had reached the place
tired and dusty and dirty. As soon as the ranks were broken, the boys
divested themselves of their clothing and soaping their bodies
thoroughly plunged into the salt water for a bath. The result may be
imagined. The dirt and dust accumulated in streaks, which no amount of
scrubbing could dislodge for it stuck closer than a postage stamp.
A SUGARED TONGUE.
Col. Geo. A. Gordon was a pleasant, persuasive speaker and in his
address to the company urging its division so as to complete the quota
necessary for a regimental organization he held out to us a tempting
array of promises as to our treatment if his wishes were complied with.
An Irish member of his old company heard the speech and in commenting on
it said, "Faith, the sugar on his tongue is an inch thick."
The Oglethorpes, though serving as infantry, had retained their
artillery organization and Gordon in his plea for a division, said that
the incorporation of such an organization into an infantry regiment
would be an anomaly--that we would be "nyther fish, flesh nor fowl,"
giving the English pronunciation to the word "neither." Some time
afterward the Colonel was making his Sunday morning inspection of
quarters and had reached Elmore Dunbar's tent. As some of Dunbar's mess
were sick, he had hoisted a yellow handkerchief over the tent and with a
piece of charcoal had placed on its front the sign, "Wayside Home."
Gordon saluted as he came up, and then noticing the sign said,
"Sergeant, what is your bill of fare today," "Nyther fish, flesh nor
fowl," said Dunbar, and the Colonel smiled and went his way.
FIRE AND FALL BACK
The monotony of garrison duty and our comparative exemption from danger
during our stay at Thunderbolt, developed the spirit of mischief in the
boys to an inordinate degree and no opportunity for its exercise was
allowed to go unimproved. Bob Lassiter, while off duty one day, was
taking a nap on a "bunk" in his cabin. His unhosed feet protruded from
the window, probably with a view to fumigation by the salt sea breeze.
Jim McLaughlin passed by and taking in the situation called Jim Thomas.
Twisting and greasing a strip of paper they placed it gently between
Bob's unsuspecting toes, fired the ends and then made themselves scarce
in that locality. As the lambent flame "lipped the Southern strand" of
Bob's pedal extremities, he, doubtless, felt in the language of Henry
Timrod, "Strange tropic warmth and hints of summer seas" and probably
dreamed of "A Hot Time in the Old Town" that day. But if so his dreams
were short-lived. With a yell of pain he fell back on the floor of his
cabin, and then,
He hotly hurried to and fro,
To find the author of his woe;
The search was vain for chance was slim
To fasten guilt on either Jim.
SKIRMISHING FOR PIE
Dessert was not a standing item on our army bill of fare, and when, by
chance or otherwise, our menu culminated in such a course, moderation in
our indulgence was one of the lost arts. One day in '63, W. J. Steed and
I, with several other comrades chanced to be in Savannah at the dinner
hour. Our rations for a long time had known no change from the daily
round of corn bread and fat bacon, and we decided to vary this monotony
by a meal at the Screven House. The first course was disposed of and
dessert was laid before us. Steed finished his but his appetite for pie
was still unsatisfied. Calling a waiter he said, "Bring me some more
pie." "We furnish only one piece," said the waiter.
The first course plates had not been removed from the table, but simply
shoved aside. The waiter passed on and Steed pushed the dessert plate
from him and gently drawing the other back in his front, awaited
results. Another waiter passed and thinking Steed had not been served,
brought him another piece of pie. This being disposed of the program was
again repeated and still another waiter supplied dessert. The shifting
process was continued until his commissary department could hold no more
and he was forced to retire upon the laurels he had won in the field of
gastronomic diplomacy.
STEED AND THE SUGAR
My friend's penchant for pie may have had its influence in the origin of
a problem in the company, which like the squaring of the circle has
never received a satisfactory solution. He held during his term of
service the office of commissary sergeant for the company, a position in
which it was difficult at any time and impossible when rations were
scarce, to give entire satisfaction. These difficulties in his case
were, perhaps, enhanced by the peculiarities of his poetic temperament,
which caused him to live among the stars and gave him a distaste for the
bread and meat side of life, except possibly as to pie. Try as
faithfully as he would to show strict impartiality in the distribution,
there was sometimes a dim suspicion that the bone in the beef fell
oftener to other messes than his own and that the scanty rations of
sugar issued weekly were heaped a little higher when his mess had in
contemplation a pie or pudding on the following day. These suspicions
finally culminated in an inquiry, which became a proverb of daily use;
an inquiry, which formed the concluding argument in every camp
discussion, whether on a disputed point in military tactics or on the
reconciliation of geological revelation with the Mosaic cosmogony; an
inquiry with which Jim McLaughlin and Jim Fleming still salute their
former commissary: "What has that to do with Steed and the sugar?"
Of course there was never any foundation for such a feeling and probably
never any real suspicion of favoritism in the matter. These things
formed the minor key of our soldier life and served as they were
intended, to enliven its sometimes dull monotony. My friend, and I am
glad to have been honored so long by his friendship, will pardon, I
know, in the gentleness of his heart a revival of these memories. Aside
from the faithful discharge of the difficult duties of his position, it
gives me pleasure to add my willing testimony to the silent witness of
his armless sleeve, that on the firing line and in all the sphere of
duty, to which the service called him, he was every inch a soldier.
"BUTTER ON MY GREENS."
For the convenience and comfort of the soldiers going to and returning
from their commands, "Wayside Homes" were established at different
points in the Confederacy where free lunches were served by the fair and
willing hands of patriotic young ladies living in the vicinity. A
uniform of grey was the only passport needed. One of these "Homes" was
located at Millen, Ga. Detained there on one occasion, en route to my
command at Thunderbolt I was glad to accept their hospitality. Seated
at the table enjoying the spread they had prepared one of these fair
waiting maids approached me and asked if I would take some butter on my
"greens." My gastronomic record as a soldier had been like Joseph's
coat, "of many colors." I had eaten almost everything from "cush" and
"slapjacks" to raw corn and uncooked bacon. I had made up dough on the
top of a stump for a tray and cooked it on a piece of split hickory for
an oven. I had eaten salt meat to which the government had good title,
and fresh meat to which neither I nor the government had any title, good
or bad. But butter on "greens" was a combination new to my experience
and as my digestive outfit had, during my school days, been troubled
with a dyspeptic trend, I felt compelled to decline such an addition to
a dish that had been boiled with fat bacon.
Notwithstanding the absence of my friend Steed the supply of pie that
day was short, and with a degree of self-denial, for which I can not now
account, I asked for none. A soldier next me at the table, however,
filed his application and when our winsome waitress returned, she handed
the desert to me and left my neighbor pieless. I could not recall her
fair young face as one I had ever seen before, and I had always been
noted for my lack of personal comeliness. I was at a loss therefore to
understand why the unsolicited discrimination in my favor had been made.
A few minutes later the problem was solved. Standing on the porch after
the meal had ended, this self-same maiden approached me a little timidly
and asked, "When did you hear from your brother Sammie?" She and my
younger brother, it seemed, had been schoolmates, and, as I learned
afterwards, "sweethearts" as well, and the pie business was no longer a
mystery.
If she still lives as maid or matron and this sketch should meet her
eye, it gives me pleasure to assure her that the fragrance of her kindly
deed though based upon no merit of my own, still lingers lovingly in my
memory, like the echo of "faint, fairy footfalls down blossoming ways."
OUR CAMP POET.
"Dropping into poetry" has not been a peculiarity confined to that
singular creation of Dickens' fancy, "Silag Wegg." While not a
contagious disease, it is said that a majority of men suffer from it at
some period in life. Like measles and whooping cough it usually comes
early, is rarely fatal and complete recovery, as a rule, furnishes
exemption from further attacks, without vaccination. Under these
conditions it is but natural that the Oglethorpes should have had a poet
in their ranks. In fact we had two, James E. Wilson and W. J. Steed, who
has already figured somewhat in these memories, and who was called
Phunie, for short. The latter was, however, only an ex-poet, not
ex-officio, nor ex-cathedra, but ex-post facto. His attack had been
light, very light, a sort of poetical varioloid. He had recovered and so
far as the record shows, there had been no relapse. On the first
appearance of the symptoms he had mounted his "Pegasus," which consisted
of a stack of barrels in rear of his father's barn, and after an hour's
mental labor, he rose and reported progress, but did not ask leave to
sit again. The results are summed up in the following poetic gem:
"Here sits Phunie on a barrel,
With his feet on another barrel."
He has always claimed that while the superficial reader might find in
these lines an apparent lack of artistic finish, with some possible
defects as to metre and an unfortunate blending of anapestic and iambic
verse, the rhyme was absolutely perfect. I have been unable to discover
in them the rhythmic and liquid cadence that marks Buchannan Reade's
"Drifting," or the perfection in measure attributed by Poe to Byron's
"Ode" to his sister, yet my tender regard for my old comrade disinclines
me to take issue with him as to the merits of this, the sole offspring
of his poetic genius. My inability to find it in any collection of
poetical quotations has induced me to insert it here with the hope of
rescuing it from a fate of possibly undeserved oblivion.
Jim Wilson's case was different. His was a chronic attack. "He lisped in
numbers for the numbers came." As a poet he was not only a daisy, but,
as Tom Pilcher would say, he was a regular geranium. I regret that my
memory has retained, with a single exception, only fragments of his many
wooings of the muse.
A young lady friend, Miss Eve, of Nashville, asked from Jim a
christening contribution to an album she had just purchased. He was
equal to the occasion. The man and the hour had met. He was in it from
start to finish. He filled every page in the book with original verse. I
recall now only the following stanza:
"Newton, the man of meditation,
The searcher after hidden cause,
Who first discovered gravitation
And ciphered out attractions laws,
Could not, with all his cogitation,
Find rules to govern woman's jaws."
But his special forte was parody. A competitive examination was ordered
at Thunderbolt in '63 to fill the position of second sergeant in the
company. After studying Hardee's Tactics for a week Jim relieved his
feelings in the following impromptu effort:
Tell me not the mournful numbers
From a "shoulder" to a "prime,"
For I murmur in my slumbers
Make two "motions in one time."
The Oglethorpes, though serving as infantry had clung tenaciously to
their artillery organization and to the red stripes and chevrons which
marked the heavier arm of the service. On our assignment to Gordon's
regiment, the Colonel had made a very strong appeal to us to divide the
company and to discard our artillery trimmings. At the next Sunday
morning inspection Jim's tent bore a placard with this inscription,
intended for the Colonel's eye:
"You may cheat or bamboozle us as much as you will,
But the sign of artillery will hang round us still."
Probably his masterpiece was a parody on "Maryland," written at
Jacksonboro, Tenn., on the eve of our transfer from the 12th Ga.
Battalion. That the reader may understand the personal allusion in the
verses it is necessary to say that Edgar Derry, Jim Russell, Ed Clayton
and Alph Rogers had been detailed by Col. Capers to fill certain staff
positions with the battalion; that Miles Turpin was company drummer and
Stowe--whose camp sobriquet was "Calline," was fifer; that in the
skirmish at Huntsville, Tenn., W. W. Bussey, who was known in camp as
"Busky," had been shot in the temple; that before the final charge on
the fort, Col. Capers in crossing a ditch had mired in its bottom and
had found some difficulty in extricating himself; that the war horse of
the male persuasion ridden by Col. Gracie had been killed in the
skirmish and that Randolph was Secretary of War. When the transfer had
been effected it was uncertain whether the detailed men would retain
their position or would return to the company, and the following verses
were written by Jim as an appeal to them to go with us:
Come 'tis the red dawn of the day,
Here's your mule,
Come, details, join our proud array,
Here's your mule.
With Clayton panting for the fray,
With Rogers urging on that bay,
With Derry bold and Russell gay,
Here's your mule. Oh! Here's your mule.
Come for your limbs are stout and strong,
Here's your mule,
Come for your loafing does you wrong,
Here's your mule,
Come with your muskets light and long,
Rejoin the crowd where you belong,
And help us sing this merry song,
Here's your mule, Oh! Here's your mule.
Dear fellows break your office chains,
Here's your mule,
The "Web-feet" should not call in vain,
Here's your mule,
But if it goes against the grain,
"Sick furlough" is the proud refrain,
By which you may get off again,
Here's your mule. Oh! Here's your mule.
We trust you will not from us scud,
Here's your mule,
And nip your glory in the bud,
Here's your mule,
Remember "Busky" bathed in blood,
Remember Capers stuck in mud,
And gallant Gracie's dying stud,
Here's your mule, Oh! Here's your mule.
Ah, though you may awhile stay mum,
Here's your mule,
To "Calline's" fife and Turpin's drum,
Here's your mule,
When orders come from Randolph grum,
You will not then be deaf nor dumb,
Ah, then we know you'll come, you'll come,
Here's your mule, Oh! Here's your mule.
And now in conclusion, I am unwilling that my friend, Jim Wilson should
be judged solely by these rhymes. If any allusion in them sounds harshly
to ears polite, it must be remembered that they were intended, only for
soldiers eyes and ears. The son of a Presbyterian missionary to India,
he was an educated Christian gentleman, one of the brightest and
wittiest men I have ever known, as brave as Julius Caesar and as true to
the flag for which he fought as any man who wore the grey.