CAMP SAXTON, near Beaufort, S.C.
_December 11, 1862._
Haroun Alrashid, wandering in disguise through his imperial streets,
scarcely happened upon a greater variety of groups than I, in my evening
strolls among our own camp-fires.
Beside some of these fires, the men are cleaning their guns or
rehearsing their drill,--beside others, smoking in silence their very
scanty supply of the beloved tobacco,--beside others, telling stories
and shouting with laughter over the broadest mimicry, in which they
excel, and in which the officers come in for a full share. The
everlasting "shout" is always within hearing, with its mixture of piety
and polka, and its castanet-like clapping of the hands. Then there are
quieter prayer-meetings, with pious invocations, and slow psalms,
"deaconed out" from memory by the leader, two lines at a time, in a sort
of wailing chant. Elsewhere, there are _conversazioni_ around fires,
with a woman for queen of the circle,--her Nubian face, gay head-dress,
gilt necklace, and white teeth, all resplendent in the glowing light.
Sometimes the woman is spelling slow monosyllables out of a primer, a
feat which always commands all ears,--they rightly recognizing a mighty
spell, equal to the overthrowing of monarchs, in the magic assonance of
_cat_, _hat_, _pat_, _bat_, and the rest of it. Elsewhere, it is some
solitary old cook, some aged Uncle Tiff, with enormous spectacles, who
is perusing a hymn-book by the light of a pine splinter, in his deserted
cooking-booth of palmetto-leaves. By another fire there is an
actual dance, red-legged soldiers doing right-and-left, and
"now-lead-de-lady-ober," to the music of a violin which is rather
artistically played, and which may have guided the steps, in other days,
of Barnwells and Hugers. And yonder is a stump-orator perched on his
barrel, pouring out his exhortations to fidelity in war and in religion.
To-night for the first time I have heard an harangue in a different
strain, quite saucy, skeptical, and defiant, appealing to them in a sort
of French materialistic style, and claiming some personal experience of
warfare. "You don't know notin' about it, boys. You tink you's brave
enough; how you tink, if you stan' clar in de open field,--here you, an'
dar de Secesh? You's got to hab de right ting inside o' you. You must
hab it 'served [preserved] in you, like dese yer sour plums dey 'serve
in de barr'l; you's got to harden it down inside o' you, or it's
notin'." Then he hit hard at the religionists:--"When a man's got de
sperit ob de Lord in him, it weakens him all out, can't hoe de corn." He
had a great deal of broad sense in his speech; but presently some others
began praying vociferously close by, as if to drown this free-thinker,
when at last he exclaimed, "I mean to fight de war through, an' die a
good sojer wid de last kick,--dat's _my_ prayer!" and suddenly jumped
off the barrel. I was quite interested at discovering this reverse side
of the temperament, the devotional side preponderates so enormously, and
the greatest scamps kneel and groan in their prayer-meetings with such
entire zest. It shows that there is some individuality developed among
them, and that they will not become too exclusively pietistic.
Their love of the spelling-book is perfectly inexhaustible,--they
stumbling on by themselves, or the blind leading the blind, with the
same pathetic patience which they carry into everything. The chaplain is
getting up a school-house, where he will soon teach them as regularly as
he can. But the alphabet must always be a very incidental business in a
camp.
* * * * *
_December 14._