boys from Missouri are getting their first taste of the berry
immortalized in the name of Tom Sawyer's adventurous friend. Dewberries
also find many a nook in the woods and the fallow fields, where of
mornings they gleam fresh and black on their low running vines. But most
abundant of all are the blackberries. The vines were in blossom when we
were at Jefferson Barracks, and we thought we should like to be
there--if not at Porto Rico or Manila--when the berries should be ripe;
but we find them more abundant around our present camp and of a fine,
large growth. Joaquin Miller advised the Virginians to "plow up their
dogs and plant vineyards." Were I a Virginian I should present to view
such a field as Solomon said belonged to the sluggard, "Lo, it was all
grown over with thorns."
There can hardly be a better berry-growing region anywhere than among
these old, yellow hills, in sight of the nation's capital. All kinds of
berries of a fine quality grow well here by nature, which proves that
soil and season are congenial. Under cultivation, as here and there you
may see them, the yield is large and the quality excellent. The boys on
their visits to the "ole swimmin' hole" usually get not only plenty of
good fresh country milk, but scatter through the woods and get a taste
of some kind of berries, or quickly buy out any vender they may chance
to meet.
The "ole swimmin' hole" is in Accotink Creek, above Tobin's mill. It is
just such a place as every one of us was familiar with in boyhood. At
the bend of the creek the water deepens, and the old sycamores, leaning
half-way across the stream, cast a cooling shade. One aged trunk, with
broad limbs, slants up from the water's edge to the deepest place, as
if it had at some time said to itself, "Now, I'll make this an ideal
swimming hole by furnishing the boys a place to plunge from." And so
here is where the "immortal boy," since before George Washington
surveyed the estate of Lord Fairfax, has spent such happy hours as live
in the memory of the man forever.
The most prolonged and thorough bath the boys have taken was when they
were out last week on their three days' march. Having pitched their
flies--small tents just large enough for two men to creep under and
sleep with their feet sticking out--officers and men make for the little
stream like thirsty oxen on the plains. After a long and dusty march
could they desire anything more delightful than what was offered by the
cool depths of "Difficult Run?" The bountiful heavens, doubtless with
the best intentions, sent them also a shower-bath. And such an one as it
was! We thought it could rain at Jefferson Barracks. It doesn't rain so
frequently here, but when it does rain it leaves nothing more to be
asked for in that line.
The little stream was lashed into a fury, and the boys had to dive to
keep from getting wet through. It rains on and on, and pours ever
harder. It doesn't matter if the bathers do think they have enough--they
get more. And where, meanwhile, are their clothes they would fain put on
dry? They are taking a swim, too, and the dust of the hills far away is
being thoroughly beaten out of them. Imagine the scene. The features of
the picture, if you were to sketch it with Hogarth lines, would be high
green hills rising steeply on either side; a narrow, winding valley,
through which wanders the little stream; on the west bank of this
rivulet, occupying the whole width of the vale and sloping up to meet
the low pines on the western hills, some 2,000 toy-like tents, known in
soldiers' parlance as "dog-tents" and "flies;" torrents of rain; in the
spray and mist of mingling waters an indefinite number of indistinct
forms appearing somewhat like the interminable line of royal ghosts in
Macbeth. There was no complaint in camp of dry weather for twenty-four
hours. D----, of Company C, had the opportunity of his life presented
him, for he is an expert with the pencil, his talent amounting almost to
genius.
Skirmishing in the woods and out-marches to the Potomac occupied the
following day. For discipline the troops behaved with such caution and
vigilance as they would observe in the enemy's country. And in the
enemy's country, indeed, they were. That night, just after call to
quarters had sounded and quiet had settled down upon the populous
village of nomads, the order was passed through camp for every man to be
ready to repel a sudden night attack, as a regiment of cavalry had been
discovered in the neighborhood by the scouts. You might then have heard
a hum of excitement and bustle of preparation, while a thousand bayonets
clanked in their sockets and the boys placed their guns by their sides.
As for the chaplain, he lay awake straining to catch every challenge and
response in the most distant sentry lines, and expecting every moment to
hear the blood-chilling yell of the on-rushing enemy as their horses
should dash into our camp. The first thing he realized was a quick jerk
given to his booted foot sticking from under his "fly," and then the
words, "Up, Chaplain, the cavalry's coming." A red streak lay along the
eastern sky above the hills; there was a low hum in camp, which was
gradually increasing. Lieut.-Col. W----'s good-natured laugh said that
it was all a joke, and the chaplain, without having to wait to dress,
went off grumbling to the creek to wash his face and get ready for 4
o'clock breakfast. The enemy, for reasons sufficient to themselves,
failed to carry out their programme.
Before sunrise the entire Third Regiment, leading the Third Brigade,
having broken camp, was formed along the winding road that trails up the
hillsides from the little valley, and was ready for the command
"Forward." Before the dew had yet wholly vanished from the clover, and
before the ripening blackberries had lost their morning coolness, we
marched into the old camp led by the band playing "Dixie." We had
marched about twelve miles in three hours and forty-five minutes, and
only three men had to be brought in in the ambulances. It was remarked
by some one that we went so fast we could not read the signs in Dunn
Loring. Capt. S----'s funny man said it was because the chaplain was in
front and he was leading them in "the straight and narrow way." Most of
the officers marched with the men, and all enjoyed their morning walk.
There is no monotony in camp life. There is routine, of course, but many
diversions and incidents, and something is continually happening. Last
night in the small hours an order came from corps headquarters for a
check-roll to be taken in every regiment instantly. For a few minutes
just before midnight the whole camp was in a stir. "What was it for?"
everybody was asking of everybody else. "Chesapeake Bay is full of
Spanish gunboats, and they want us at once," said one of the sergeants
to his men in hurrying them up. It became known this morning that a few
hundred soldiers had been raising Cain at Falls Church, and Gen. Graham
wanted to find out who they were. Hence this order for a check-roll. Two
cavalry regiments were sent out to run in the hilarious lads, but they
were only partially successful. The rest of the stampeders are reported
to be in Baltimore and Philadelphia, and no one knows where else. The
explanation is that the entire Sixth Pennsylvania took French leave for
the Fourth.
The other evening, while I was singing with Company E, where my friend
D---- belongs (whom, by the way, I wronged by intimating that the patch
on his face was there as the sign of a good time passed at the "farm
house," it being there, as he informs me, only to cover a boil), while
we were singing some sacred songs after D---- had executed a fine jig on
a foot-square board and the company's quartette has sung, "The bull-dog
on the bank and the bullfrog in the pool," etc., a quick command was
given for the company to "fall in" with their guns. They didn't wait for
the benediction, and I fell in with them to go "where duty or danger
called them." They were rushed in double-quick time into the officers'
lane and halted. Then the cause of it all was whispered about. An
obnoxious "shack" had been smashed into and the regiment was called out
to capture those committing the deed. What happened? We met a crowd,
surrounded by an armed posse, coming from that quarter and going rapidly
toward the guard house. An investigation there revealed the startling
fact that every one of the forty-odd boys surrounded and put under
arrest at the canteen was utterly innocent. Every wrong-doer, of course,
is innocent till proved guilty; but in the case of this crowd it soon
became evident that innocence was indeed injured. They were nearly all
"rookies"--that's the word for recruits. How could "rookies" be mixed up
so largely in such an affair? A mistake has been made, that is plain.
When the uproar occurred there had been a rush of the "rookies" to the
spot to see what was going on; the raiders had fled and escaped, of
course, and the "rookies" were hustled in. They learned a lesson early.
A picture of them lined up two-deep and frightened by the menacing
interrogatories of Col. Gross, while a flickering candle was thrust in
the face of each one to discover who he was, and bristling bayonets
stood around them; the disappointment of the officers as their mistake
and failure became more and more apparent, the fright of the "rookies"
as they stood there in the uncertain light and their old clothes, the
glad expression of relief when they were ordered to be dismissed--this,
too, would be a picture.
Evenings in camp, both among officers and men, are delightfully spent in
such amusements as I have already described, in various kinds of
farcical entertainments and in story-telling. The Irish element in the
regiment is sufficiently prominent to keep everybody happy. A lady
friend of our of Celtic stock visits us occasionally from Washington,
and makes her visits memorable by the good Irish stories she tells. The
other evening when she was here, and there was a lull in the
conversation, she suddenly exclaimed, "Oh, do you remember the last time
I was out here?" "Why, of course, we do," everybody replied. "Well,"
said she, "forget that and remember the _Maine_!" Whereupon the laughing
and the story-telling began anew.
If a number of first-class romances do not grow out of the exchange of
compliments between the soldier boys and the girls who crowded to the
trains to see them on their way here, the postmaster of the Third will
be much disappointed. Half of the mail sometimes is addressed to or
comes from the numerous places where buttons were traded for bouquets,
and sigh was given for sigh, and names were hastily exchanged, as the
train sped away. All sorts of souvenirs are sent to Parkersburg, Athens,
Cincinnati, and other places, where the senders knew not a soul before
their journey through them. Unique methods of meeting the emergencies of
army life are sometimes devised. One lad, having no paper, but a clean,
white collar, for which he no longer has any use, fills it with a tender
message, folds it in an envelope, and so gratifies his wish to
communicate with the girl he left behind, while he gives her a souvenir
she will cherish long and tell the story of many years after the war is
over, and their grandchildren, perhaps, are gathered about their knees.
Another boy has neither paper nor envelope, so he writes upon his cuff,
links it together, stamps it, and so sends a message of romantic love to
one, it may be, whose fond eyes and fascinating face he saw in some
crowd in a strange place. If the chaplain does not have some work to do
growing out of all this romance, the postmaster is no prophet, and both
of them will be disappointed.
Rhymers and song-makers are not wanting. A letter left camp yesterday
directed in the following poetical style:
"Hurry me away at a furious rate
To Kansas City, Missouri State,
For Miss A---- R---- wants me there--
And I'm no humbug, here's my fare."
Another letter was addressed by means of the same jingle--the name only
being different. In this I regret to discover evidence that some young
man is richer in sweethearts than in poetic devices.
A hardtack was addressed and sent without any envelope, bearing this
rhymed message:
"I am a hard-tack that none can chew
Except a very brave boy in blue;
No time nor season can alter me,
I've been hard'ning since sixty-three;
Coffee made of clay and rain
Have tried to soften me in vain,
And salt-horse grease has sought to melt
Or touch my heart--it was not felt!"
The most difficult problem in camp, as the situation appears to one
concerned in the perpetual welfare of the men as citizen-soldiers, is to
provide for their mental needs. Let me make ample provision for them in
this respect and I will guarantee a good morality. Much of the time of
the soldier in camp is necessarily unemployed--how shall he occupy
himself? Idleness is the devil's great opportunity. The men of the Third
have generally been accustomed to books, magazines and papers--only one
man in the entire regiment could not sign his name and he is now dead.
The desire for mental employment is, therefore, strong. If it can be met
with good literature--as it must be met by some means--it will be far
less likely to go out in unprofitable and perilous ways. We have made a
good beginning in the way of ministering to the mental and moral needs
of the men, having erected a tent 40 feet square and furnished it with
tables and seats, and organ and song books, writing material, and
magazines and papers. Its capacity, however, is altogether inadequate;
it is not an uncommon thing to see it filled, and as many more sitting
on the logs around it. We had a dedicatory service last Sunday morning,
at which I spoke of the manifold and liberal uses to which it would be
put and led the minds of the attentive audience from the meaning of the
ceremony and of the ancient tabernacle in the wilderness to thoughts of
the dedication and high uses of the true temple of God, which is man
himself. Five enlisted men came forward to enlist under the banner of
the cross and dedicate themselves to the cause of Christ.
I know these soldiers, and I know that their action is the result of
sober thought and manly decision.
I have employed three or four details in building what they termed a
"meetin' house." The first time I used a guard-house gang--about twenty
boys in for over-staying their leave in Washington after pay-day. They
kept up their waggery while bearing logs and building seats and sang,
"There'll come a time, we pray, when we'll not have to build a church
each day."
There are a half-dozen fellows in the guard house to-day. I just now
promised them, to their delight, to take them out to-morrow and work
them. They were glad to get out of the "cooler" on any terms. Yesterday
I had a volunteer squad--not convicts--helping me "snake" logs with mule
teams to our new meeting grounds by the tabernacle. Many provocations,
of course, arose--mules, stumpy roads, contrary logs, pestiferous knots,
etc. But when I saw some fellow getting wrathy over a justly provoking
situation and struggling with his righteous indignation, I spoke a
timely word--sometimes too late--just to refresh his mind with the fact
that he was working on a "meetin' house," and with and for the parson.
Then we all had a laugh and worked on without cussin'.
These boys are now reading my letters. Half of them will read, or,
gathered about in their company lanes, will hear read, this letter. As
their friend who would not have them let this evil habit fix itself upon
them, I would entreat them to guard themselves against profanity.
V.
JOY AND SORROW.
Last Saturday I received an interesting packet of letters from someone
in St. Louis, who signed herself simply "R. S. M." The idea was so
unique and feminine, and the letters gave so much amusement to the boys
that I will tell you something about it. There were ten sealed envelopes
in the packet accompanied by a note to myself, explaining the object to
be to give a little amusement to the boys, and to help fill up a few
minutes with "something unusual." Each letter bore a different address,
some common name being selected, such as "Mr. Smith," "Mr. Jones," and
so on. The inscriptions on the backs of the envelopes were the
interesting exterior feature. One was addressed in this manner:
"When this you see, remember me."
"A valentine for a dyspeptic member of Company C."
Then on the back was the following:
"It is not a cent,
Yet it is sent;
It costs not a cent,
Yet it gives a scent."
"There's a conundrum
Sent to you;
The answer's SCENT with it--
'Tis 'lavender blue.'"
Another was addressed, "For a good boy who may open this July 26, '98."
On the back of this was written:
"From Illinois and California--A spray of the giant redwood tree, and a
spray of the old fashioned 'yarb' our grandmothers used."
Another said on the back: "Just to let you know that some one thinks of
the Missouri boys and wants to help them pass a minute away opening a
curious envelope."
So they ran. The merriment occasioned by the distribution of these
envelopes, as that addressed "to one who feels himself to be very
young," was delivered to a bald-headed fellow, and the one addressed "to
a good child," was delivered to one whom common acclamation pronounced
to be worse than Peck's Bad Boy, would have gratified the sender with a
vision such as she could hardly have expected.
A rhyme contained in the one addressed "to a dyspeptic," ran as follows:
"It is better to laugh than be sighing,
And sighing's no sign that you're sad,
'Tis often a _sine qua non_, sir,
That proves your digestion is bad.
"So smile at your previous groaning,
And rejoice that you're grown past that stage;
Help others to laugh and be happy
And you'll live to a jolly old age."
Thanks to this thoughtful, gracious lady! She may never know how much
good her little plan for cheering the boys has done and will do. She may
remain hidden under the initials "R. S. M." But be sure such kind hearts
and ingenious hands as hers make this old world brighter and better to
live in. It is such little, delicate, thoughtful, feminine acts that
bless our lives and do more good ofttimes than books and sermons.
The United Daughters of the Confederacy of St. Louis, the same day, sent
us three dozen night shirts for our boys in the hospital. This was a
most useful gift and amply supplies our regiment in this respect. We are
awaiting with delight the fulfillment of their promise, made through
their secretary, Mrs. W. P. Howard, to send us one hundred "sewing
kits." These are not the first gifts to prove their patriotism and
womanly sympathy for the soldier boys these Daughters of the Confederacy
have sent us. Their ministration to the needs of the regiment began at
Jefferson Barracks and has continued, with larger promises of future
help.
The Soldiers' Relief Society of Kansas City, of which Mrs. A. W. Childs
is president, has also sent many boxes of useful articles to be
distributed to the soldiers. I was enabled this afternoon, by the
provision of this society, to answer the call of the hospital steward
for sheets by taking them two dozen white, clean ones, that surely will
make the cot of pain more tolerable. At first, during even those days of
extreme heat, you might have seen many a sick fellow lying in the
hospital in his blue flannel field shirt. Now all is white and
delightful to see, relieving the eye that must needs look upon
suffering.
A few evenings ago, as I stood in front of headquarters with a reverend
old gentleman, who had served as chaplain in the Civil War, watching
together and commenting upon the varied scene before us, the galloping
orderlies as they bore messages this way and that; the jolting heavy
lumber wagons, drawn each by four mules, hauling rations for the
regiments; the manifold activities of the soldiers, some carrying water
in their large black buckets from the deep and excellent well the
government bored for us; some with large boxes of rubbish which they
were bearing, each box on two poles, toward the dumps; a crowd reading,
writing and playing games in the Y. M. C. A. tent, while a half dozen
boys on one side, among the logs under the great chestnut trees, were
pitching rubber rings at pegs in an inclined board, and a like number on
the other side were engaged in the old-fashioned farmers' Sunday game of
pitching horseshoes, and the band, down in the little plain beyond the
tents, was playing its beautiful strains while the guard was being
mounted; there passed across this scene of many activities, an object
frequently enough seen here, but never seen without its painful
suggestiveness--it was the ambulance with the Red Cross upon its ground
of blue. And the man of many years and large experience made a remark I
shall not forget. "The Red Cross," said he, "is the sign of the highest
outcome of our civilization. We had no such society as this in the Civil
War. We had no such hospital system as you have. There is nothing, I
repeat, that better represents the spirit of Christian civilization than
the Red Cross."
While, therefore, as the vehicle thus marked rolled hastily by, giving
its momentary pang of sympathy for some hurt or stricken comrade, its
triumphant suggestion was of the mission of mercy unexampled in ages
past, so supremely Christ-like.
That night, in one of the hospital tents, we sat by the bedside of his
dying son. Through the long, slow hours, he upon one side and I upon the
other, we watched the heaving breast of pain and the suffering face, and
inquired of each other by looks, in the dim light, if there was yet hope
for the strong, young soldier to win the battle he was contending in so
bravely.
In the still evening air, from twenty hillsides, the mellow notes of the
bugle bade good-night and peaceful sleep to the weary soldiers--and we
thought eternal rest to the soul of the one we were so anxiously
watching. Slowly the stars, however, went round in their courses and
looked down--how calm and distant and seemingly all indifferent, upon
the bowed head of the aged father as, toward morning, I could hear his
regular, though feeble tread up and down outside. And then, as the
bright sun rose, and the smoke from the campfires drifted off down the
vales, making such a scene of idyllic beauty; then all the hills and
valleys echoed with the sound of revéille calling to action, awakening
to new hope and the new day's new opportunities. But not for one soldier
was all this--his pulse of life beat too low. Till noon he lingered on
wrestling with the last enemy, and, as the sun began to slope toward the
west, his light on earth went out. In the prime of his years, one of the
strongest among his comrades, after ten days of suffering, he passed
away--Corporal John B. McNair, a soldier of his country, whose courage
was shown not upon the field of carnage where the trumpet and flag
inspire on to the deadly charge and heroic deed, but only in a battle
where he fought alone, with nothing to inspire, nothing but now and then
the kind look or word of comrades to cheer. But he died his country's
defender in the cause of humanity. His will be a soldier's reward in
heaven. It was last Saturday that, near the great and renowned, we laid
him to rest in the beautiful grounds of Arlington.
Sunday morning, the 24th of July, after the regular preaching service,
Company D, with a considerable number from other companies, met in the
Y. M. C. A. tent to hold memorial services for Richard Maloy, who died
two days before at Fort Myer, from where his remains were sent home for
burial. Circumstances made the services nobly impressive. When the
president's call for troops was first made, Richard and his brother
Charles were at home with their widowed mother in Kansas City. Dick--so
was he called by his friends--Dick said to his mother, "Mother, I will
go." She replied, "One cannot go, my son, without the other." "Then,"
said Charles, the younger of the two, "I will go also." So they joined
the Third Regiment and went out with their mother's blessing upon them.
The rigor of army duty was too severe for their immature bodies. One day
Charles, just after the return from the hard practice march, was
assigned to outpost duty. Dick said his brother couldn't stand it, and
applied to the sergeant to be put on in his place. The substitution was
made. It killed Dick.
At the conclusion of the memorial, one of his comrades came to me with
an open Testament in his hand, and, with breast choked with emotion,
pointed with his finger to the passage: "Greater love hath no man than
this, that a man lay down his life for his friends." That was enough; it
told everything.