_A Regimental Baker--Hot Pies--Position of the Baker in line of
Battle--Troubles of the Baker--A Western Virginia Captain on a Whiskey
Scent--The Baker's Story--How to obtain Political Influence--Dancing
Attendance at Washington--What Simon says--Confiscation of Whiskey._
Besides the indispensables of quartermaster and sutler the 210th had
what might be considered a luxury in the shape of a baker, who had
volunteered to accompany the regiment, and furnish hot cakes, bread, and
pies. Tom Hudson was an original in his way, rather short of stature,
far plumper and more savory-looking than one of his pies, with a
pleasing countenance and twinkling black eye, that meant humor or
roguishness as circumstances might demand, and a never-ending supply of
what is always popular, dry humor. He was just the man to manage the
thousand caprices of appetite of a thousand different men. While in
camps accessible to the cities of Washington and Alexandria, matters
moved smoothly enough. His zinc-plated bakery was always kept fired up,
and a constant supply of hot pies dealt out to the long strings of men,
who would stand for hours anxiously awaiting their turn. A movement of
the baker's interpreted differently by himself and the men, at one time
created considerable talk and no little feeling. On several occasions
the trays were lifted out of the oven, and the pies dashed upon the
out-spread expectant hands, with such force as to break the too often
half-baked undercrust. In consequence the juices would ooze out, trickle
scalding hot between the fingers, and compel the helpless man to drop
the pie. One unfortunate fellow lost four pies in succession. As they
cost fifteen cents apiece, the pocket was too much interested to let the
matter escape notice. A non-commissioned officer, who had lost a pie,
savagely returned to the stand, and demanded another pie or his money.
The baker was much too shrewd for that. The precedent, if set, would
well nigh exhaust his stock of pies, and impoverish his cash drawer.
"I say," said the officer, turning to the men, "it is a trick. He wants
to sell as many pies as he can. He knows well enough that when one falls
in this mud fifteen cents are gone slap."
"Now, boys," said the baker blandly, "you know me better than that. I'd
scorn to do an act of that kind for fifteen cents. You know how it
is--what a rush there always is here. You want the pies as soon as
baked, and baking makes them hot. Now I want to accommodate you all as
soon as possible, and of course I serve them out as soon as baked. You
had better all get tin-plates or boards."
"That won't go down, old fellow," retorted the officer. "You know that
there is hardly a tin-plate in camp, and boards are not to be had."
A wink from the baker took the officer to the private passage in the
rear of his tent. What happened there is known but to the two, but ever
after the officer held his peace. Not so with the men. However, as the
pies were not dealt out as hot in future, the matter gradually passed
from their minds.
To make himself popular with the men, Tom resorted to a variety of
expedients, one of which was to assure them that in case of an
enterprise that promised danger, he would be with them. He was taken up
quite unexpectedly. An ammunition train on the morning of the second
battle of Bull Run, bound to the field, required a convoy. The regiment
was detailed. Tom's assertions had come to the ears of the regimental
officers, and without being consulted, he was provided with a horse, and
told to keep near the Adjutant. There was a drizzling rain all day long,
but through it came continually the booming of heavy ordnance.
"Colonel! how far do you suppose that firing is?" "And are they Rebel
cannon?" were frequent inquiries made by Tom during the day. About noon
he asserted that he could positively ride no further. But ride he must
and ride he did. The Regiment halted near Centreville, having passed
Porter's Corps on the way and convoyed the Train to the required point.
After a short halt the homeward route was taken and Tom placed in the
rear. By some accident, frequent when trains take up the road, he became
separated from the Regiment and lost among the teams. The Regiment moved
on, and as it was now growing dark, turned into a wood about half a mile
distant, for the night. Tom had just learned his route, when "ping!"
came a shell from a Rebel battery on a hill to the left, exploded among
some team horses, and created awful confusion. He suddenly forgot his
soreness, and putting spurs to his horse at a John Gilpin speed, rode
by, through and over, as he afterwards said, the teams. The shells flew
rapidly. Tom dodged as if every one was scorching his hair, at the same
time giving a vigorous kick to the rear with both heels. At his speed
he was soon by the teams; in fact did not stop until he was ten Virginia
miles from that scene of terror. But we will meet him again in the
morning.
The Regiment was soon shelled out of the wood, and compelled to continue
its march. Three miles further they encamped in a meadow, passed a wet
night without shelter, and early next morning were again upon the road.
Thousands of stragglers lined the way, living upon rations plundered
from broken-down baggage wagons--lounging lazily around fires that were
kept in good glow by rails from the fences near which they were built.
The preceding day these stragglers and skulkers were met in squads at
every step of the road. At a point sufficiently remote from danger,
their camps commenced. In one of these camps, situated in a fence
corner, the baker was espied, stretched at full length and fast asleep,
upon two rails placed at a gentle slope at right angles to the fence.
Surrounding him were filthy, mean-looking representatives of
half-a-dozen various regiments--the Zouave more gay than gallant in
flaming red breeches--blouses, dress coats, and even a pair of shoulder
straps, assisted to complete the crowd. Near by was tied his jaded
horse.
The baker was awakened. To his surprise, as he said, he saw the
regiment, as he had supposed them to be much nearer home than himself.
One of his graceless comrades, however, bluntly contradicted this, and
accused him of being mortally frightened when he halted the night
before, as although they assured him that he was full ten miles from
danger, he insisted that these rifled guns had terribly long range. The
baker remonstrated, and quietly resumed his place by the Adjutant and
Colonel.
"I have been thinking, Colonel," said he, in the course of a half hour,
riding alongside of the Colonel, and speaking in an undertone, "that I
ran a great risk unnecessarily."
"Why?" asked the Colonel.
"You see my exhortations are worth far more to the men than my example.
When they crowd my quarters, as they do every morning, I never fail to
deal out patriotic precepts with my pies."
"But particularly the pies," retorted the Colonel.
"That is another branch of my case," slily continued the baker.
"Suppose, if such a calamity can be dwelt upon, that I had been killed,
and there was only one mule between me and death, who would have run my
bakery? who," elevating his voice, "would have furnished hot rolls for
the officers, and warm bread cakes and pies for the men? Riding along
last night, these matters were all duly reflected upon, and I wound up,
by deciding that the regiment could not afford to lose me."
"But you managed to lose the regiment," replied the Colonel.
"Pure accident that, I assure you, upon honor. Now in line of battle I
have taken pains to ascertain my true position, but this confounded
marching by the flank puts me out of sorts. In line of battle the
quartermaster says he is four miles in the rear--the sutler says that he
is four miles behind the quartermaster, and as it would look singular
upon paper to shorten the distance for the baker, besides other good
reasons, I suppose I am four miles behind the sutler."
"Completely out of range for all purposes," observed the Adjutant, who
had slily listened with interest.
"There is a good reason for that position, it is well chosen, and shows
foresight," continued the baker, dropping his rein, and enforcing his
remarks by apt gestures. "Suppose we are in line of battle, and the
Rebels in line facing us at easy rifle range. Their prisoners say that
they have lived for a month past on roasted corn and green apples. Now
what will equal the daring of a hungry man! These Rebel Commanders are
shrewd in keeping their men hungry; our men have heart for the fight, it
is true, but the rebels have a stomach for it--they hunger for a chance
at the spoils. The quartermaster then with his crackers, as they must
not be needlessly inflamed, must be kept out of sight--the sutler, too,
with his stores, must be kept shady--but above all the baker. Suppose
the baker to be nearer," said he, with increased earnestness, "and a
breeze should spring up towards their lines bearing with it the smell of
warm bread, the rebels would rise instanter on tip-toe, snuff a
minute--concentrate on the bakery, and no two ranks or columns doubled
on the centre, could keep the hungry devils back. Our line pierced, we
might lose the day--lose the day, sir."
"And the baker," said the Major, joining in the laugh caused by his
argument.
Shortly after that march, matters went indifferently with the baker.
Camp was changed frequently, and over the rough roads he kept up with
difficulty.
A week after the battle of Antietam, after satisfying himself fully of
the departure of the Rebels, he arrived in camp. He had picked up by the
way an ill-favored assistant, whose tent stood on the hill side some
little distance from the right flank of the regiment.
Two nights after his arrival there was a commotion in camp. A tonguey
corporal, slightly under regulation size, in an exuberance of spirits,
had mounted a cracker-box almost immediately in front of the sutler's
tent, and commenced a lively harangue. He told how he had left a
profitable grocery business to serve his country--his pecuniary
sacrifices--but above all, the family he had left behind.
"And you've blissed them by taking your characther with you," chimed in
the little Irish corporal.
"Where did you steal your whiskey?" demanded a second.
The confusion increased, the crowd was dispersed by the guard, all at
the expense of the sutler's credit, as it was rumored that he had
furnished the stimulant.
The sutler indignantly demanded an investigation, and three officers,
presumed to possess a scent for whiskey above their fellows, were
detailed for the duty. One of these was our friend the Virginia captain.
Under penalty of losing his stripes, the corporal confessed that he had
obtained the liquor at the baker's. Thither the following evening the
detail repaired. The assistant denied all knowledge of the liquor. He
was confronted with the corporal, and admitted the charge, and that but
three bottles remained.
"By ----," said our Western Virginia captain, hands in pocket, "I smell
ten more. There are just thirteen bottles or I'll lose my straps."
The confidence of the captain impressed the detail, and they went to
work with a will--emptying barrels of crackers, probing with a bayonet
sacks of flour, etc. A short search, to the pretended amazement of the
assistant, proved the correctness of the captain's scent. The baker was
sent for, and with indignant manner and hands lifted in holy horror, he
poured volley after volley of invective at the confounded assistant.
"But, gentlemen," said the baker, dropping his tone, "I've known worse
things than this to happen. I've known even bakers to get tight."
"And your bacon would have stood a better chance of being saved if you
had got tight, instead of putting a non-commissioned officer in that
condition," said one of the detail. "The Colonel, I am afraid, Tom, will
clear you out."
"Well," sighed the baker, after a pause of a moment, "talk about Job and
all the other unfortunates since his day, why not one of them had my
variety of suffering. Did you ever hear any of my misfortunes?"
"We see one."
"My life has been a series of mishaps. I prosper occasionally in small
things, but totals knock me. God help me if I hadn't a sure port in a
storm--a self-supporting wife. For instance--but I can't commence that
story without relieving my thirst." A bottle was opened, drinks had all
around, and the baker continued--
"You see, gentlemen, when Simon was in political power, I waggled
successfully and extensively among the coal mines in Central
Pennsylvania. In those localities voters are kept underground until
election day, and they then appear above often in such unexpected force
as to knock the speculations of unsophisticated politicians. But Simon
was not one of that stripe. He knew his men--the real men of influence;
not men that have big reputations created by active but less widely
known under-workers, but the under-workers themselves. Simon dealt with
these, and he rarely mistook his men. Now I was well known in those
parts--kept on the right side of the boys, and the boys tried to keep on
the right side of me, and Simon knew it. No red tape fettered Simon, as
the boys say it tied our generals the other side of Sharpsburg in order
to let the Rebs have time to cross. If the measures that his shrewd
foresight saw were necessary for the suppression of this Rebellion, at
its outbreak, had been adopted, we would be encamped somewhat lower down
in Dixie than the Upper Potomac--if indeed there would be any necessity
for our being in service at all.
"He was not a man of old tracks, like a ground mole; indeed like some
military commanders who seem lost outside of them; but of ready
resources and direct routes, gathering influence now by one means and
then by another, and perhaps both novel. Now Simon set me at work in
this wise.
"'Tom,' one morning, says an old and respected citizen of our place, who
knew my father and my father's father, and me as an unlucky dog from my
cradle, 'Tom, did ever any idea of getting a permanent and profitable
position--say, as you are an excellent penman--as clerk in one of the
departments at Harrisburg or Washington, enter your head?'
"At this I straightened up, drew up my shirt collar, pulled down my
vest, and said with a sort of hopeful inquiry, 'Why should there?'
"'Tom, you are wasting your most available talent. Do you know that you
have influence--and political influence at that?'
"Another hitch at my shirt collar and pull at my vest, as visions of the
Brick Capitol at Harrisburg and the White one at Washington danced
before my eyes.
"'Did you ever reflect, Tom, upon the source of political power?'
continued the old gentleman, and without waiting for an answer,
fortunately, as I was fast becoming dumbfoundered, 'the people, Tom, the
people; not you and I, so much as that miner,' said he, pointing to a
rough ugly-looking fellow that I had kicked out of my wife's
bar-room--or, rather, got my ostler to do it--two nights before, 'That
man, Tom, is a representative of thousands; we may represent but
ourselves. Now these people are controlled. They neither think nor act
for themselves, as a general rule; somebody does that for them. Now,' as
he spoke, trying to take me by a pulled-out button-hole, 'you might as
well be that somebody as any man I know.'
"'Why, Lord bless you, Mr. Simpson, I can't do my own thinking, and as
to acting, my wife says I am acting the fool all day long.'
"'Tom, you don't comprehend me, you know our county sends three members
to the State Legislature, and that they elect a United States Senator.'
"'Yes.'
"'Well, now, our county can send Simon C---- to the United States
Senate.'
"'But our county oughtn't to do it,'--my whig prejudices that I had
imbibed with my mother's milk coming up strong.
"'Tut, tut, Tom, didn't I stand shoulder to shoulder with your father in
the old Clay Legion? Whiggery has had its day, and Henry Clay would
stand with us now.'
"'But with Simon's?'
"'Yes, Simon's principles have undergone a wholesome change.'
"I couldn't see it, but didn't like to contradict the old man, and he
continued.
"'Now, Thomas, be a man; you have influence. I know you have it.' Here I
straightened up again. 'Just look at the miners who frequent your hotel,
each of them has influence, and don't you think that you could control
their votes? Should you succeed, Simon's Scotch blood will never let him
forget a friend.'
"'Or forgive an enemy,' I added.
"'Tom, don't let your foolish prejudices stand in the way of your
success. Your father would advise as I do.'
"'Mr. S., I'll try.'
"'That's the word, Tom,' said the old man, patting me on the shoulder.
'It runs our steam-engines, builds our factories, in short, has made our
country what it is.'
"I took Mr. S.'s hand, thanked him for his suggestions, with an effort
swallowed my prejudices against the old Chieftain, and resolved to work
as became my new idea of my position.
"By the way, the recollection of that effort to swallow makes my throat
dry, and it's a long time between drinks."
Another round at the bottle, and Tom resumed.
"'Well, work I did, like a beaver; there wasn't a miner in my
neighborhood that I didn't treat, and a miner's baby that I didn't kiss,
and often their wives, as some unprincipled scoundrel one day told Mrs.
Hudson, to the great injury of my ears and shins for almost a week, and
the upshot of the business was, that my township turned a political
somerset. Friends of Simon's, in disguise, went to Harrisburg, were
successful, and I was not among the last to congratulate him.
"'Mr. Hudson,' said the Prince of politicians, 'how can I repay you for
your services?'
"Like a fool, as my wife always told me I was, I made no suggestion, but
let the remark pass with the tameness of a sheep--merely muttering that
it was a pleasure to serve him. Simon went to Washington--made no
striking hits on the floor, but was great on committees.
"Another idea entered my noddle, this clip without the aid of Mr. S. My
penmanship came into play. Days and nights of most laborious work
produced a full length portrait of Simon, that at the distance of ten
feet could not be distinguished from a fine engraving. I seized my
opportunity, found Simon in cozy quarters opposite Willard's, and
presented it in person. He was delighted--his daughter was delighted--a
full-faced heavily bearded Congressman present was delighted, and after
repeated assurances of 'thine to serve,' on the part of the Senator, I
crossed to my hotel--not Willard's--hadn't as yet sufficient elevation
of person and depth of purse for that,--but an humbler one in a back
street. Next day I saw my handiwork in the Rotunda--the admiration of
all but a black long-haired puppy, an M. C. and F. F. V., as I
afterwards learned, who said to a lady at his elbow who had admired it,
'Practice makes some of the poor clerks at the North tolerably good
pensmen.' I could have kicked him, but thought it might interfere with
the little matter in hand.
"'Tom,' said the senatorial star of my hopes one day, when my purse had
become as lean as a June shad, 'Tom, there is a place of $800 a year, I
have in view. A Senator is interfering, but I think it can be managed.
You must have patience, these things take time. I will write to you as
early as any definite result is attained.'
"Relying on Simon's management, which in his own case had never failed,
next morning saw me in the cars with light heart and lighter purse,
bound for home and Mrs. H., who I am always proud to think regretted my
absence more than my presence, although she would not admit it.
"Days passed; months passed; my wife reproached me with lost time--my
picture was gone; I had not heard from Simon; I ventured to write; next
mail brought a letter rich in indefinite promises.
"Years passed, and Simon was Secretary of War at a time when the office
had influence, position, and patronage, unequalled in its previous
history. 'Now is your time, Tom,' something within whispered--not
conscience--for that did not seem to favor my connection with Simon.
"I wrote again. Quarter-Masters, Clerks by the thousands, Paymasters--I
was always remarkably ready in disposing of funds--and Heaven only knows
what not were wanted in alarming numbers. Active service was proposed by
Simon; but you know, gentlemen, I am constitutionally disqualified for
that. And after tediously waiting months longer, I succeeded without
Simon's aid in obtaining my present honorable but unfortunate position.
"And that reminds me of the whiskey, another round, men." It was taken;
Tom's idea was to drink the detail into forgetfulness of their errand.
But he missed his men. He might as well have tried to lessen a sponge by
soaking it. The Virginia Captain announced that the Colonel had ordered
them to confiscate the whiskey for the use of the Hospital, and to the
Surgeon's quarters the detail must next proceed. The Captain gathered up
the bottles. The detail bowed themselves out of the tent, and poor Tom
thought his misfortunes crowned, as he saw them leave laboring under a
load of liquor inside and out. At the Surgeon's tent we will again see
them.