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[Illustration: CHAPLAIN ROBERT T. KERLIN.]
DEDICATION
To the brave, true, and generous-hearted boys, my comrades and friends,
of the Third Missouri Volunteers, who offered their lives for country in
the cause of humanity.
THE CAMP-LIFE OF THE THIRD REGIMENT.
BY CHAPLAIN ROBERT T. KERLIN.
1898.
HUDSON-KIMBERLY PUB. CO.
KANSAS CITY, MO.
PREFACE.
What is camp-life like? What did we do? How did we fare? What scenes,
incidents, and episodes occurred? These are questions everyone wishes
answered by somebody who "saw it all." If one cannot paint, one should
have the dramatic skill of a Schiller to render all this picturesque
manner of life worthily vivid to the reader. How rich it is in its free
manifestations of human nature! No restraint here upon one's being and
seeming to be what he is. The qualities, good and bad, of our common
humanity, therefore, appear unrestrained by the conventionalities,
undisguised by the false glosses of civil society. All here has reverted
to primitive conditions.
Enter the camp with me, if you will, and we shall watch together this
moving panorama of soldier life; we shall see and hear and feel what as
visions and impressions will remain with us forever--and not painfully
so altogether, either on account of the evils or the hardships, for
everywhere the good is more than the evil and the hardships are endured
as by brave soldiers. If your heart be sound and good, as the examining
surgeon assured me mine was; if you appreciate the immense significance
of this national uprising in arms in the cause of humanity; and if you
assume, as you rightly should, that this high motive has mainly
influenced these men to enlist and offer their lives--then the scenes of
the army shall be to you unforgettable evidences of the life energies
awakened and the ideals vivified of a people hitherto supposed to be
hopelessly materialistic in their thoughts and mercenary in their ways.
The contents of this little book, with the exception of two brief
chapters, are letters that were written in camp from time to time and
published in different newspapers. It is thought best to present them
just as they originally appeared, believing they will thereby most
faithfully and vividly bring the characteristics of camp-life before the
reader.
ROBERT T. KERLIN, _Chaplain_.
CONTENTS.
Page
Dedication 3
Preface 7
Valedictory 9
Letters from Camp:
I. Panoramic View 11
II. Ole Virginny; Fun in Camp 20
III. A Little More Fun; Some Trouble 25
IV. Various Things--All Interesting 31
V. Joy and Sorrow; A Little Sermon 39
VI. The Thoroughfare March and Encampment in the Slough
of Despond 47
Significance of the War 53
Chronology 57
List of the Dead 58
VALEDICTORY.
Much more remains for the historian, whoever he shall be, of the Third
Regiment yet to relate, which things, some pleasant and forever
memorable, some unpleasant and perhaps unforgettable, shall here not be
so much as suggested. The writer's inclinations are all toward quietude
and harmony; his limitations, besides, are imperative in forbidding. At
Thoroughfare Gap he fell sick of a fever and was _hors de combat_ during
the subsequent encampment there and at Middletown, Pa. He has,
therefore, been unable to detail from first-hand knowledge the later and
less pleasing experiences of the regiment. The facts, by all concerned,
are too well known to require a further _exposé_. When he believed that
his pen could be of genuine service to the regiment, he wrote without
thought of fear or favor; he would again so write did the circumstances
seem to him to require it; that is, if justice to any demanded it and
good should be accomplished by it. By these principles let us ever be
guided.
The war is over; so let the sweet-smelling incense of comradeship and
fraternity rise on a common altar of Peace.
* * * * *
And now the Chaplain, in bidding his comrades farewell, would make his
final words to them worthy of their remembrance, safe for their
guidance, and strong for their support to the very end of life. For six
months in camp he sought to be their moral guide, their spiritual
pastor, and their faithful ministrant in every need of body, mind, and
heart. He would still be their counsellor, their friend and helper. As
when in camp opportunity could be found he talked to them of the Way of
Life, warned them against vice as destructive, encouraged and exhorted
them to virtue as only safe and wise, and tried to bring high and pure
influences into their lives, so now at parting he would seek to give
them a message of friendship, a token of perpetual comradeship in
spirit, and would make known to them his great solicitude for their
individual welfare, temporal and eternal. Again, and for the last time
probably, he would entreat them to be courageous in the days of peace
and in civic duties as they were in times of war and in the exactions of
a military camp. Having faith in the boys, believing them to be his
friends and prizing their friendship as his abundant reward for all he
sought to do for them, he would now say, out of a heart of anxiety that
each one of them may prosper in peaceful life and as a brave soldier
come to the end of his earthly career victorious in all manner of
virtue: Be strong and of good courage; be fearless champions of all that
is right, true, and good; espouse and maintain the cause of the just, of
the weak, and of the oppressed; resist the proud and the cruel; be an
uncompromising foe of evil in all its forms; cherish for yourselves high
and worthy ideals; strengthen your wills and gather moral force by manly
resistance of wrong and by high achievement of good; strive against bad
habits--conquer them if you are brave and wise, else they will conquer
you; be loyal to what you have known from childhood to be the wise
teachings of all good men. Finally, soldiers, follow Him who dared to
die, alone, forsaken, upon the Cross of Calvary, that He might bring
truth, love, mercy, righteousness, redemption to mankind. Follow Him!
FOLLOW HIM!
I.
PANORAMIC VIEW.
For a week, in Camp Alger, the boys of the Third have been clearing a
forest, digging wells, building kitchen arbors and adobe furnaces,
spading and raking about the tents and making themselves beds and other
household conveniences out of the materials afforded by the forest
primeval. From where I am now sitting, underneath the tall pines, in
front of my tent, which a squad are putting in order, you can see a
string of boys moving in this way or that, bearing logs from the
clearing, or carrying a long pole toward the companies' quarters; while
in the valley beyond the tents the Third New York is drilling to the
music of bugle and drum, and a forest of oak trees rises beyond. Camp
Alger occupies an old Virginia plantation of 1500 acres, about ten miles
from Washington. But it is not under garden-like cultivation, as the
name and location might suggest. It is a wilderness, with here and there
a narrow winding road and a small open field. The various
regiments--some twenty odd--are located in this vast, uncared-for
estate, just where open space can be found or made. Ours was placed to
the west of those already in the ground when we came, and assigned a
little field of about 10 acres in extent. The Third New York is encamped
along the north side of this field, while we are along the west, and
both regiments use it for exercise. The old manor house lies south of us
about half a mile. The newer part of the house was built early in this
century of brick brought from England, while the older part belongs to
the last century, and is built of wood. It is, of course, a historic
place, and the lady of the manor told me many interesting things
concerning the country around. One of the smooth, sandy roads winding
through the estate was made by Washington; another is called "Gallows'
Lane," because, during the civil war, so many Union pickets met their
fate there at the hands of Col. Mosby's men.
The Third does not have so many visitors at Camp Alger as it had at
Jefferson Barracks, and the "producer," that is, the young lady who
brings a box of dainties to her soldier laddie, is conspicuously absent.
Still, we have not been wholly neglected. Several Missourians living in
Washington, among them some congressmen, have visited us. They speak of
our regiment in the highest terms of praise, and promise to use their
influence to get us early to the front. As for ourselves, having a good
opinion of our rank, we expect to be among the first on Cuban soil.
I do not know what impression the newspaper accounts of the Third have
made upon your minds, but the impression everywhere made by the boys
themselves has been extremely favorable. Every one I talked with in St.
Louis, spoke in highest praise of the gentlemanly behavior of the
Third--in contrast, I am sorry to say, to some other regiments. And it
was so all along our journey eastward. Wherever we stopped any length of
time, as at Louisville, Cincinnati and Parkersburg, the papers spoke in
the most commendatory terms of our men. We were at Parkersburg nearly a
whole day, and "took in" the town. The dailies of that place each gave
us a column write-up that made us feel proud of the standard of conduct
maintained by our regiment.
If a spectacular, dramatic representation of the Third Regiment in Camp
Alger could be put upon the stage it would be more than the success of
the season. I suggest this as an opportunity for any Missourian whose
aspirations tend toward the dramatic in literature. The writer would
have only to be a faithful copyist with enough of the artist's sense and
imaginative faculty to select the characteristic and telling features,
and present them on a thread of romance. Let me just go about with him a
day and show him what he could work into a fine spectacular performance.
First, the general scene shall be a vast wilderness of pines, cedars,
oaks and chestnuts, and other forest trees, with a tangled undergrowth
of vines, ferns, mosses, blackberry bushes, shrub honeysuckle, laurel
and other flowering plants; narrow, sandy roads, worn deep into the red
soil by a century of travel, wind through this wilderness; and here and
there as they lead, in their windings, over hill and vale, through deep
shades, crossing now and then a clear, rippling stream to which
thrushes sing and where mosses and ferns cluster thickly to the water's
edge, there should appear in the great forest a little open field, whose
yellow soil lies broken into furrows only in strips, indicating to what
extent farming had been carried when the government laid hold upon the
vast old estate for an army camp.
The Third Regiment shall be placed at the western edge of a small field
that opens in the midst of a wilderness and slopes gently southward and
eastward toward spring-fed streams that are hidden by shrubbery and
fringed by many ferns. The time shall be a day in June, and the action
shall open with the rising of the sun. From the higher ground, where the
staff officers' tents are situated at the extreme west side under the
towering oaks and pines, we shall watch the sun appear above the wooded
hill to the east and drive away the white mist in the vale below, while
the wild birds, the robins and thrushes, are greeting the dawn with
happy lays. The mess fires beyond the tents are started, and in the
still air of morning their columns of smoke rise and outspread tall and
graceful.
Hark! The bugle sounds the first call. How it thrills the very soul and
makes you feel all the grand opportunity of the new day, awakening the
old hope never dead, and kindling enthusiasm for life's enterprises ever
new! Who would not waken to hear it, however sweet his morning slumbers
might be to him? waken to hear, though he should turn over upon his
canvas cot and float away into dreamland again with the inspiring notes
still echoing through his soul. But if he lies awake he will hear from
one quarter "Dixie," it may be, played by the band of some other
regiment; shortly afterward, "The Star-Spangled Banner" by another, and
then the drum corps of our New York neighbors will make sleep utterly
impossible. Then follows our full bugle corps, with revéille proper:
I can't get 'em up, I can't get 'em up,
I can't get 'em up this morning;
I can't get 'em up, I can't get 'em up,
I can't get 'em up at all.
The corporal's worse than the private,
The sergeant's worse than the corporal,
The lieutenant's worse than the sergeant,
But the captain's worst of all.
Oh, I can't get 'em up, I can't get 'em up,
I can't get 'em up in the morning;
I can't get 'em up, I can't get 'em up,
I can't get 'em up at all.
Then the camp is as alive as a swarm of bees, with a similar hum and
buzz of mingled noises. A thousand soldiers in a half-hour's time have
dressed, performed their simple toilet--a close-shorn head in many
instances enabling a towel to render adequate service as comb and brush,
and formed into company lines to respond with a lusty "Here!" to the
call of their names--soon after to be swinging their guns or clapping
their hands in calisthenic drills.
The bugle-call to mess is not so musical, and, put into words, is not so
poetical, as some of the others, but it serves the intended purpose. It
goes as follows:
Porkee, porkee, porkee without any lean;
Soupee, soupee, soupee without any bean;
Coffee, coffee, coffee the worst ever seen!
After morning mess you may see a variety of scenes characteristic of
camp life. You will see a "fatigue" squad lined up before the Sergeant
Major's tent to receive orders for duty around headquarters. They will
rake the yard and roll up the side-curtains of the tents, clear away
some brush, or make some improvement in our sylvan settlement. Here and
there in officers' tents you will see the various school
assembled--schools for every rank from major of battalion to the
non-commissioned officers. And they will study their little blue-backed
"Drill Regulations" as diligently as in days gone by they studied their
blue-backed spellers.
At 9 o'clock, say, a battalion marches out of camp to take exercise in
the field. While it is performing its evolutions you may perhaps see a
skirmishing squad break from the edge of the forest somewhere about,
and, with a terrifying yell, make a sudden attack upon the enemy. Across
that young peach orchard yonder to our south you will see another
company advance by repeated short swift runs and sudden stops, falling
each time flat upon the ground to fire, thus driving the foe from the
field and winning the day against fearful odds. At 11:30, thirsty,
perspiring and dust-begrimed, they come hastily into camp, clash their
guns down and look for all the world as though they had just come back
from the war. They have met the Spaniards in the field and "routed them
and scouted them, nor lost a single man."
When distinguished visitors come to our camp our regimental band comes
up to do them honor, and they play, as only this band can, to the
delight of all who cover the hillslopes of Camp Alger within hearing.
"Ben Bolt," "Margery," "The Merry American," "The Stars and Stripes
Forever," and other favorites are finely rendered, but most beautiful of
all is their hunting song, with its bugle echo and imitation of the
chase resounding through the woods:
A hunting we will go,
A hunting we will go,
A hunting we will go,
Tantivy, tantivy, tantivy,
And then the barking of the dogs and noise of the pursuers and the
capture of the quarry.
At 6:30 we have dress parade. Our stage manager may not be able to
present this effectively. He would require the services of an entire
university corps of students as "supes." The three battalions of four
companies each, preceded by the band and bugle corps, march, after some
field movements, before the mounted staff. This is the most imposing
warlike spectacle to be exhibited.
After this the boys are free. Soon their tents, viewed from
headquarters, will present a diversified and interesting scene. Three
hundred white canvas houses, dimly lit within by tallow candles, the
mess fires glowing underneath their arbors beyond, white-aproned cooks
moving about them, and everywhere groups of boys engaged in all manner
of amusement in the several company lanes--this is the picture--a sort
of Midway Plaisance.
We shall place some of these scenes before you upon the stage. There
will be no order or formality, but a jolly, free-for-all. Everybody
knows, however, who can entertain and what everybody can do, though the
amount and variety of artistic talent among these thousand boys is
something surprising. We shall first have a mandolin and guitar duet,
and this will bring a small group together. B---- B---- will then be
called for, and he will increase the crowd. Taking the guitar in hand he
will sing some comic darky songs in his inimitable way. "The Warmest
Baby in the Bunch" will be called for, then a half dozen others all at
once. The medley of titles of popular songs will take the crowd best.
C---- will then do some whistling. You will think a mocking bird is in
camp. Such chirping, warbling and piping you will say you never heard,
except, possibly, from thrushes, robins and mocking birds. Then D----
will be called for. D---- is an Irishman, a true son of Erin. He has
been with Barnum as a clown, and now has chosen the army for its freer
life. D---- is a splendid fellow. I count him as one of my best friends.
Our acquaintance came about in this way:
One evening at Jefferson Barracks, before many of the boys in his
company came to recognize me, dressed as I was in citizen's clothes, I
joined a promiscuous crowd in their lane where they were having an
impromptu entertainment. "The Girl I Left Behind Me," "The Old Oaken
Bucket," and other songs that appeal tenderly to the universal heart,
had been sung, and that, too, remarkably well. D---- was called for. He
placed one foot upon a pine box lying in the center of the circle and
started out upon a song that for its pathos touched each heart. In fact,
D---- was in a pathetic way that evening. What was our astonishment and
chagrin when D---- turned about fierce as a jungle cat, and began
swearing like a mule driver. What had happened to evoke such wrath and
malediction? A half mile away some boys were greeting the 4th, just then
arriving, with vociferous cheering; near by some boys of a neighboring
company were thrumming quietly upon a guitar and a mandolin.
D---- explained, mainly in words which not even Kipling was ever
realistic enough to string together, that he never could begin doing
anything without those "curs" in the neighboring company starting up
some noise. D---- was not in the rest of the evening's performance. No
amount of persuasion could induce him to proceed. D---- was really not
in a happy mood. And though you could not consider his resentment as at
all just, anybody would have sympathized with him and have tried to
reason away his delusion. But in vain. A few days after I saw D---- by
daylight; he recognized me and we had a pleasant little chat. He was all
right. Again I saw him, and he had a patch on his face. The "farm
house," just outside the reservation, had got the best of D----. Still
he and the chaplain are good friends, for D---- has a good heart.
So D---- comes upon the stage and sings, making some fine local hits.
Now his song will make you weep, because you can't laugh any more, then
another will make you cry for the world of pathos in it, and, as you
must think, in his heart, too. If you have a heart yourself to
appreciate and sympathize with every brother man you will feel, deep
down in it like saying, "God bless you, D----, and give you joy."
Then H----, tall, gaunt, sallow and dry, will recite "St. Peter at the
Gate;" S---- will render "The Picture on the Barroom Floor;" N---- will
perform on the flute; a half-dozen couples will give a cake-walk, the
ladies being distinguished by a handkerchief tied over the head and a
poncho around the waist, and better walking you must admit you never
saw. Then regretfully we hear the bugle sound tattoo; in fifteen minutes
"quarters" will sound, and, in yet another quarter of an hour, "taps."
Some sacred songs are now called for. The chaplain has been present at
all the performance, and his interest and delight have been unfeigned.
It may be some boy has let slip a word he wouldn't have spoken if the
light had been bright, revealing the chaplain.
It may be a hot drop of tallow has fallen upon the hand of some fellow
and burnt it while he was intently listening to a song; then he may have
spoken hastily. He afterward comes and asks the chaplain's pardon. The
whole affair--the various performances and the conduct of the boys,
courteous, free and jolly, has been gratifying to the chaplain, and he
tells them so, adding a word of encouragement and of counsel. All the
boys now want to sing the favorite song of the camp. We, perhaps, have
sung "Rock of Ages," "Yield Not to Temptation," and other old familiar
hymns, for they like these best. But now they want to sing, "Nearer My
God to Thee," which, because it is best of all, we have put off to the
last. Then, with a brief prayer, it may be, for God's blessing upon the
soldier boys, and for His protection and guidance, the chaplain
dismisses them, while, with heads bowed in reverence, under the stars,
heaven's solemn peace seems to have descended upon them.
Then the most beautiful of all the bugle calls sounds out into the
stillness of the night. It is "taps." How melodiously it invites to
sweet and peaceful rest. The words but feebly suggest the mellow notes
of the bugle:
Love, good night; must thou go,
When the day and the night need thee so?
All is well, hasten all to their rest.
Many things that would be interesting features in a spectacular
performance would have to be left out, I fear. You could not, for
example, present upon the stage our last Sunday morning's 8 o'clock
service. But what pertaining to the whole camp could be more important
from any point of view? The marching of the company squads in almost
full, though voluntary attendance, to the grove, and taking an easy
position on the grass about the improvised pulpit beneath the tall
forest trees, the inspiring music, the respectful, unbroken and solemn
attention given to the sermon, the profound impression, deepened by the
response given by some who came forward to witness before all to their
acceptance of the Savior Christ and their purpose to follow Him, then
the evening service of song, at which still others, with the like
courageous and noble decision make choice of the true way of life--this,
taken along with the fact that the boys of this regiment are manly,
high-spirited and well-behaved, would be impressive, though only
suggested by words.
A true presentation of the Third would, I think, give assurance to many
a mother, sister and sweetheart, anxious and prayerful for the welfare
of her soldier boy. She would see, for the most part, a sturdy,
generous-hearted, gentlemanly, though sun-embrowned and rollicking body
of young men--respectful to citizens and officers, kind, though
sometimes rough to one another, eager for "fun or trouble," which means
a campaign anywhere against the Spaniards, and stirred generally by a
noble motive that enables them to endure hardships like a good soldier.
If the friends of these boys care to know how their present pastor feels
about the whole matter he can put it in one sentence, which he hopes
will give assurance to anxious hearts. Well, then, he takes a hopeful
view of every situation, he has faith in the better and nobler qualities
of human nature, and to these, by one means and another, always makes
his appeal. He enjoys camp life, though fully aware of all the evils he
has to oppose. He enjoys his pastoral work--call it not work--his
friendly comradeship, with the boys. He is hopeful, he is encouraged by
results, and always encouraging. He is thankful to Almighty God for the
true and generous responses these noble-hearted soldier boys make to the
good influences he seeks to bring into their lives. May their loved and
loving ones at home write them letters of good cheer and good counsel,
and encourage them to be as brave in championing the cross of Christ as
they certainly will be in fighting for the flag of their country.
II.
OLD VIRGINY.
It is reported in camp that the New Yorkers, the first night after our
arrival and encampment near them, slept on their guns, with bayonets
ready for defense. They supposed that of course we were cowboys and
toughs, coming as we did from the Indian village at the mouth of the
Kaw. As a matter of fact, however, the West, in the rural districts
especially, is further removed from primitive condition than the East,
whether that be New England or Virginia. These Virginia homesteads
indeed are old; but they have reverted, as it were, to nature's
dominion, and are covered with a second growth of timber and a tangle of
blackberry vines. Here and there you will see a little meadow white with
daisies and fringed with wild roses, or a cultivated field with
potatoes, corn or wheat growing in it; but how different does the
yellow, stony soil, and the scanty growth thereon, appear from what one
sees in Missouri. And you will see them plowing with a single horse or
mule and the old single-shovel plow. Eastern Virginia is like another
world to one of us Westerners. To-day a party of us explored the country
hereabouts. First we went to an old homestead about two miles south of
our camp to see some old Canton chinaware and colonial furniture which I
discovered some days ago. It was the possession of the family of
Masons--one of the F. F. Vs. They showed us a gold-hilted sword that was
used by Gen. John Mason in the war of 1812. They had old mirrors,
sideboards and tables; old hand-made blue china, over a century old;
candelabra that in their day cost from $50 to $75, and now, by age, are
much enhanced in value; a grandfather's clock that stood on the floor
and reached the ceiling, and kept time for the first generation of the
republic; and old high-post bedsteads, in which the great-grandparents
of many a Missouri boy now at Camp Alger, may have slept. A picture of
this old homestead would be interesting to Westerners if it could be
faithfully rendered. The old, deep-cut, yellow road winds around the
north slope of the hill southward of the house a few hundred yards. From
this the road leading to the house goes down across a small, sparkling
stream well fed by springs which you can see here and there in the green
slopes of the hills. The house stands under a deep shade of lofty and
wide-spreading chestnuts. It is painted white, of course. All of these
Virginia houses are so painted or whitewashed. The outhouses are
numerous, and likewise exhibit a liberal use of whitewash and white
paint. The spring house--that's never wanting on one of these
homesteads--the smoke house, the lumber house--which is usually built of
logs and was once doubtless a negro cabin--hen house, barns, etc., all
looking clean and bright and beautiful in their green setting.
From the Mason homestead we went to an old mill which I had found out
when some days ago I visited the outposts. The old mill has not ground
any corn, I presume, for a generation. Its mossy roof threatens to
tumble in; the old wooden water wheel is falling to ruin, its wooden
cogs are fast disappearing. It is a century and a half old. The lady in
whose family the mill has always been, and who now lives near it, where
her parents, grandparents and great-grandparents before her lived,
related to us to-day that Washington, when a young man, came along while
they were building the stone foundation and said: "Boys, what are you
building here? An Indian fort?" When told that it was a mill, he said it
would serve them also as a fort and refuge against the Indians. The
nails that now but feebly hold the decaying boards to the massive
timbers of the frame were hand-made. Visitors esteem these, or a wooden
cog, or some other old iron or piece of wood, as a valuable souvenir.
The dwelling house of the owner stands on the steep hillside a few steps
away. As you climb up to it you pass the whitewashed spring house, the
old ash hopper, the old-fashioned bee hives, all in the midst of
blossoming shrubbery, and come to a door under the large-timbered but
cozy old veranda, and look into a low ceilinged room of which the
whitewashed joists are unhewn logs. While we enjoy the fresh milk and
strawberry pies they set before us, we use our eyes, looking with
delight about us upon the old-time things.
It can rain as hard here as at Jefferson Barracks. The night after our
arrival, and before the tents were ditched, it rained cats and dogs. The
quarters of several companies were inundated--it was easy to get a bath,
plunge or shower. One boy sat in his tent perched up on a box with his
shoes by the side of him, while the waters swirled around. A shoe was
accidentally knocked off and was being hurried away--he makes a run and
a splash for it, and returns successful--to find the box with the other
shoe swept away into the darkness. He took it philosophically, telling
his friends next day that he "went to sleep in the army and woke in the
navy."
To-night we were given a free entertainment in Company G lane. It
consisted mostly of dancing. First we had the old Virginia reel, and it
was given in grand style. The fiddling brought back the scenes of the
country picnic and Fourth of July of our boyhood. There was one musical
feature, however, that was new. One of the boys, with a lead pencil in
each hand, sat by the fiddler and thumped on the strings and produced
all the effects of a banjo perfectly. Then they gave us a cake-walk.
There were some half-dozen couples that entered the contest. The ladies
wore blue-checked handkerchiefs on their heads and poncho skirts. Do not
believe any report saying that the boys of the Third are discontented
and unhappy. Go down through the company lanes any evening and see what
they are doing. You will see a great many writing, some reading, some
playing cards, but most of them will be engaged in some out-door
amusement. Their amusements are continually varying. At St. Louis it was
"leap-frog;" now it is "tug-of-war." "Cock fighting" and "bull fighting"
are also amusements, and are said to be very entertaining. We are
invited to see some of this to-morrow evening. Of course, the fighting
is all between the boys, and when they represent the chickens--as the
thing has been described to me--they are so fixed that they tumble all
over themselves at the lightest touch. You will hear a great many funny
things said, it doesn't matter what the boys are doing. A circus is not
more delightful.
Mascots of every imaginable sort--pigs, chickens, cats, dogs, rabbits,
terrapins, goats, small boys--are a special feature of camp life. Odd
characters, too, are quite as common. I will tell you of one--a
"character"--that belongs to Company E. He must have been picked up, I
think, as a sort of mascot. He imitates a pig in all its swinish habits
of grunting, squealing, and being unclean.
At Jefferson Barracks a dozen times a day I looked up to see where that
pig was. You could not help thinking one was in camp and was very hungry
at that. His face, when you saw him, confirmed the deception. A hungry
pig following a pail of buttermilk after one taste is not more piggish
than this poor boy. On a recent evening, when I was present at a mixed
entertainment, consisting of mandolin and guitar music, singing,
reciting, etc., "Piggy," as he calls himself, attempted to play his
rôle, coming out and getting down in the center of the circle, but he
didn't take. The boys were plainly tired of him and called him down. He
strongly suggested the court fool of the middle ages. This is the best
that could be said of him, an object of extreme pity. What now, after
this boy has so long aspired only to amuse people by playing so abject a
rôle, at which he has learned to succeed so perfectly--what yet are his
human possibilities? Well, that night after singing, his captain invited
me in to sit with him awhile, and I referred to this boy, whereupon he
related this incident of him. He said that a few days before the "pig"
had sent for him to come to the guard house, where, for some
misdemeanor, he had been incarcerated, and shoot him. The captain found
him all broken up--the human was asserting itself in tears--for man is
not only the animal that laughs, but the animal that weeps also; and
this particular one was proving himself by his tears a man. The boy
said: "Captain, I want you to take me out and shoot me. I would rather
you would just kill me than to treat me the way you do." The captain was
astonished and asked what he meant. He replied: "Why, you didn't speak
to me this morning when I spoke; you just ignored me as if I was nobody.
I would rather you'd take me out and shoot me." His captain then
explained to him that it was an army rule not to speak to any one in
disgrace, and so gave the poor boy relief. The human sense of
self-respect was not extinct, but when awakened, was even very strong in
this deluded, ignorant boy; which is another confirmation of my
fundamental doctrine and principal of action. There are two things I
have supreme faith in: The first is human nature, and the second is
Christ's method of dealing with it. These two faiths must not be
separated, if they are to remain true and practicable. Only Christ's way
of approaching and appealing to men calls forth the good that is in
them. To have faith in Christ, that is, in His way and His doctrine,
implies, on the other hand, faith in humanity. Whoever will follow
Christ's method and show His spirit, His tact, faith and love will find
human nature nine parts good to one part evil and responsive in kind to
every appeal. To awaken the good that is in every man, is the true work
of salvation, and that is done in but one way--that is Christ's. Lowell
expressed it all in these words:
"Be noble and the nobleness that lies
In others, sleeping but not dead, will rise
In majesty to meet thine own."
The kind of treatment we receive at the hands of others is, in the main,
the reflection of our own deeds and thoughts.
III.
FUN AND TROUBLE.
"Guard mounting" is the most ceremonious feature of the daily routine of
the camp. It occurs at 1 o'clock each day, and occupies almost an hour.
The entire band and bugle corps make the ceremony beautiful and
impressive, for all the time that the inspection is in process the band
plays its patriotic airs and the bugles sound their calls and marches.
The old guard, which has been on duty for twenty-four hours, is
relieved, and a new guard assembled upon the parade, and after each has
undergone thorough inspection, and the officers in command have made
report in formal military manner, the new guard, preceded by the blaring
bugles, goes to the guard house to be instructed in general and special
orders, and thence detailed to their several posts. The guard is
composed of details from each of the twelve companies, in numbers
according to the requirements of the camp. Our camp at present, with
twenty odd posts, requires above seventy men and officers. There is a
captain in general command as officer of the day, a lieutenant who is
officer of the guard, a sergeant, and a corporal for each of the three
reliefs, for the entire sentry force is divided into three parties, each
serving in turn two hours and resting four. While, therefore, there is a
circuit of outposts extending around all Camp Alger, yet each particular
regiment thus has its own circuit of sentinels, who by day and by night
pace their beat and challenge those who pass the lines either way,
determining whether, according to orders, the passers-by have a right to
proceed. A few nights since, in company with the officers of the guard,
I made the circuit of our own posts, in order to learn by actual
experience how they performed their duties. It may be asked, Why is
guard mounting attended with so much of "the pomp and circumstance of
war?" So I asked, and the answer from a "regular" army officer was
this: "Why, there is no more serious responsibility laid upon any one
than upon the sentinels. The safety of the entire camp depends upon
their faithfulness. This ceremony is designed to impress them with a
sense of the immense responsibility resting upon them."
A funny thing happened in the Third New York shortly after our arrival
here. The officer of the guard, on his round giving instructions, passed
by a raw guard and told him that the countersign would now be
discontinued. After awhile the officer on his way back was challenged by
this guard and asked for the countersign. You can imagine that the
officer was somewhat surprised at this. But the guard was firm, and
insisted that he should give the countersign or stay outside the lines.
"Why," protested the officer, "I just now told you there was no
countersign." "You told me," rejoined the innocent and faithful-minded
guard, "you told me the countersign would be 'discontinued.'"
These boys joke at every situation. While cutting cedar boughs to make
himself a bed the next morning after arriving here, a boy returned my
greeting with the proverb: "Yes, a gambler's life; one day the turkey,
the next day the feathers." It sounded like a proverb, but for all I
know it was original and new.
The guard house suggests some good stories I heard two evenings ago,
when I stopped in to see who was there. I found about twenty boys, the
most of whom were in for over-staying their leave in the city or for
going without leave. But one who called himself a Dutchman was in, as he
related, on the following score: The officers of the day and of the
guard were on a round of inspection. When they approached his post he
called, "Halt, who goes there?" The answer came, "Officers." He sends
off straightway for the corporal of the guard. Of course he should have
said, "Advance and be recognized." They told him this, and his reply
cost him a few dollars and a few days in the guard house. It was, "All
officers look alike in the dark to me. I wouldn't advance the Lord
Cromwell unless I could see him."
The relation of his experience started the boys to telling stories, and
for an hour we had a pleasant time. One story was of a sentinel, who,
having halted a man and received to his query, "Who goes there?" the
answer, "A friend with a bottle," commanded, "Advance, uncork the
bottle, and let it be recognized!" It was said that the guard was unable
to more than half-way recognize the bottle and so sent for the corporal
who satisfied himself entirely as to the other half. The "moonshine"
about here, it may be remarked, is called "two-step"--presumably because
after taking a dram of it a fellow doesn't take more than two steps
without tumbling. Another story equally well represents phases of camp
life. The sentry posts of Camp Alger are usually in pretty stumpy
places. One night one of the officers, just about the time a sentinel
called out, "Who goes there?" having stumped his toe, exclaimed, "Jesus
Christ!" The guard, according to one version, said, "Advance and be
recognized!" According to another version, he called for the corporal to
turn out the chaplain! That seemed to him to be the appropriate thing to
do. On another occasion when an officer exclaimed, "the devil," a
similar call was made for the chaplain to turn out and meet his satanic
majesty, who had arrived in camp.
If you would find out what is going on in camp, go some time to the
guard house when a large crowd has been "run in," not for any very
heinous offense, but for something which they try to justify themselves
in, and say they would do again. The crowd will be lively and good
hearted, and will have nothing to do but to tell and hear stories. One
story on any particular phase of camp life will be a starter; then they
follow fast. And the boys will be glad you came if you have chatted with
them in a free and sociable way, and will give you a hearty invitation
back again.[A]
Last night I accompanied Capt. C----, the commanding officer of the
guard, around the sentry circuit of the camp. In the evening I was at
the guard house, where two prisoners were immured for a little
difficulty they had had, and the captain asked me if I would not like
to make this round with him. Wishing to know all about it, I met him at
10:30 and we went out through the dark. We were halted by every one of
the fifteen sentinels. "Halt! Who goes there?" "Friends," I would
answer, or, "Officers of the camp." "Advance one and be recognized,"
would be the sentry's response. Then I would advance, and at the
bayonet's point stand till he recognized me or said he could not, and I
told him who I was. Then I told my companion to advance, while the guard
held his gun at port. The sentries made a great many mistakes, as might
be expected. Sometimes they said simply, "Advance," instead of "Advance
one;" then we both advanced. The captain thereupon showed him the danger
of that. Sometimes I was permitted, when ordered to advance, to go right
up to the sentry without his drawing down his gun upon me. The captain
would then show him how he exposed himself by that error. Thus he
instructed each of the sentinels on duty. One of the "rookies" the other
day made a funny blunder. A general instruction to the sentinel is "to
walk his post in a military manner, and to salute all commissioned
officers and all standards and colors uncased." Wishing to get it fixed
firmly in his mind, this guard kept repeating it over and over to
himself. The result was that at last he got the word "millinery"
hopelessly substituted for "military" and in spite of himself would say
"colored officers" instead of "commissioned officers." The officer of
the guard found him in this confusion of words--and left him so.
The army is a good school. The average American youth, to render him a
good citizen, needs just the lessons of obedience and respect for
authority he gets here. My chief study is human nature under the
conditions of camp life and under the diverse manifestations inevitably
presented in military life. The guard house and the court room afford an
opportunity to become acquainted with some classes and specimens of
humanity. One evening last week I was retained as advocate for the
defense of two accused of cursing their officers. The trial is not
conducted as in a civil court, but according to the following manner in
the "field court." The lieutenant colonel constitutes the court, and,
having summoned the accused before him, reads the charges and proceeds
to the investigation. The advocate for the accused has but a limited
opportunity of displaying either his ability or smartness. He can ask
only such questions as his client requests shall be asked, and he
addresses them not to the witness directly, but to the judge, who puts
them to the witness.
In the first case in which I was advocate for the accused, the charge
was drawn up in the following prescribed and regular manner:
_Charge_--Disrespect toward his commanding officer, in violation of the
twentieth article of war.
_Specification_--In that A---- B----, Company ----, United States
Infantry, did use vile, abusive and threatening language toward his
captain. (Place and date.)
One of the boys was fined $1 and the other $2. The fines go to the
Soldiers' Home fund. Two days later I was called on to save one of these
boys from being tried on a charge of violating the twenty-second article
of war, which reads as follows:
"Any officer or soldier who begins, excites, causes or joins in any
meeting or sedition in any troop, etc., shall suffer death or such other
punishment as a court-martial may direct."
The colonel read the offender this article and gave him a warning he
will perhaps remember.
The lieutenant colonel's tent and mine are side by side, and the
proceedings of his court are, therefore, under my observation. The
cases, since pay-day especially, have been frequent, "two-step
moonshine" having been boot-legged into camp. Some of the boys on
outpost duty, thought it would be fun to have some fine spring chickens
they found at a farm house. The chickens cost them about $5 apiece. A
number of boys over-stayed their leave of absence in the city. They,
too, pay for their fun.
Human frailty and freakish love of liberty, more than wilful meanness,
appear in the conduct of those brought to trial. And, in most cases, the
ancient proverb is illustrated: "He that sinneth against me (says
wisdom) wrongeth his own soul."
Our first funeral occurred last Sunday. The circumstances of the case
rendered it pathetic in the extreme to whoever paused to reflect. The
contrast between the man's mournful career and his honored burial could
not have been greater. He died a drunkard's death. He was laid to rest
in the National Cemetery of Arlington, by nature one of the grandest, by
associations one of the most famous spots in our whole country. But
three days an enlisted man, he was buried with military honors. He was a
wrecked and ruined man; he had no relative, not a close friend near him
in the hour of his death, but the entire company of which he had so
lately become a member, marched ten miles through dust and extreme heat
to escort his body to his grave among the great of earth. The bugler,
who sounded "taps" for the battleship _Maine_ and for Gen. Grant, and
other illustrious dead, sounded the sweet and mellow notes above his
mournful tomb, bidding peace and repose to his spirit. What words could
be spoken for one of so sad a fate? How much of pathos in it all! How
much call for human sympathy, and what warning!
The feeling of comradeship and fraternity is more nobly and powerfully
manifested among soldiers than among any other class of men I know of.
Their spirit of generosity toward one another is not less strong than is
their sense of justice. These, I would say, are the most marked
characteristics of the soldier: Feeling of comradeship, spirit of
generosity and sense of justice. As for the last, being a fighter by
profession, he comes to entertain a high sense of honor, and is called
upon to maintain his rights and stand up for his cause. Of course, there
is code of laws for army life, which, although unwritten, are none the
less strict. There is, therefore, no school of character better than the
camp. It, indeed, ruins many. So does every occupation and every
environment. But those who set themselves strongly against the evils of
this way of life acquire a strength and nobleness which are not possible
under less strenuous and trying conditions. It is, therefore, a school
for character excelling any other. But greater tact and wisdom and
stronger personal influence are required here than elsewhere to direct
the sentiments and determine the character of those under training. Good
music, good literature, good addresses and entertainments, and good,
thoughtful treatment in general are influences that go far toward making
good soldiers and good men.
FOOTNOTE:
[A] The boys made merry over every situation and joked and jollied one
another under all circumstances. A lady visiting the camp at Fairmount
Park happened, in passing, to see a nice-looking boy in the guard house,
and with surprise stopped and asked, "Why, what have they put _you_ in
here for?" The poor boy blushed and began to stammer; a comrade standing
by took in the situation and promptly replied, "For playing baseball on
Sunday, madame!"
IV.
VARIOUS THINGS--ALL INTERESTING.