Colonel Johnson, commanding the 108th Regiment, Illinois Volunteer
Infantry, during the late war, up to the time he fairly earned and
secured his “single star,” was a strict disciplinarian. Straggling and
foraging were especially tabooed by him; certain and severe was the
punishment of the culprit who was caught away from his command without
authority, and if any foraged provisions were found on the scoundrel
they were at once confiscated. As it was not practicable to return the
provisions to the lawful owner, the colonel would have them served up
at his own mess table, “to keep them from going to waste.”
As a consequence, the colonel was cordially hated by many of his men,
and many were the plans laid down by them “to get even” and circumvent
him, but, owing to his astuteness, they generally came to grief.
One day a soldier of the regiment, who had the reputation of being “a
first-class, single-handed forager,” but who had nevertheless been
repeatedly compelled to disgorge his irregularly procured supply of
fresh meat, and as repeatedly to pass an interval of his valuable
time in the regimental bull-pen, slipped away from camp and, after an
absence of several hours, returned with a loaded haversack and tried
to get to his tent without attracting any attention. He was noticed,
however, and promptly arrested and escorted to regimental headquarters.
“Omar, you infernal scoundrel, you have been foraging again,” said the
colonel.
“No, I haven’t.”
“Haven’t, eh! Let’s see what is in your haversack. Leg o’ mutton, eh!
Killed some person’s sheep,” said the colonel. Omar was sent to the
guard house as usual, and the foraged property to the colonel’s cook.
The regimental mess, consisting of most of the field and staff
officers, had fresh meat for supper and breakfast. During the latter
meal the colonel happened to look out from under the tent fly that was
in use as a mess-room, and noticed Omar, who was under guard cleaning
up around headquarters, eyeing him very closely. The colonel remarked:
“Well, prisoner, what is it?”
“Nothing, colonel,” replied Omar, “except I was just wondering how you
liked your breakfast of _fried dog_.”
Consternation seized the party at the table. With an exclamation or
expletive, every one of them sprang to his feet, and from under the
tent fled.
Omar ran for his life, and at once, as per preconcerted agreement,
over half the men in the regiment commenced barking and howling like
dogs--big dogs, little dogs, hoarse and fine, bass and soprano,
fortissimo and mezzo-soprano, dogs ’round the corner and dogs under
the house--in short, there was the “dog”-onedest kind of a racket made
until the colonel grasped his sword, and, foaming with rage, rushed for
the men’s tents; but they were too old to be caught.
For a long time, though, they would “regulate” the colonel if he
showed signs of being excessive by barking, but at their peril, for he
would certainly have killed a _barker_ if discovered.
After that breakfast the regimental mess strictly abstained from eating
any second-hand foraged meat.