Part 5 (2/2)
We gathered the roastingears; we went back and gathered more roastingears, time and again. The bank was lined with green roastingears. Well, what was to be done? We began to shuck the corn. We would pull up a few shucks on one ear, and tie it to the shucks of another-first one and then another-until we had at least a hundred tied together. We put the train of corn into the river, and as it began to float off we jumped in, and taking the foremost ear in our mouth, struck out for the other bank. Well, we made the landing all correct.
I merely mention the above incident to show to what extremity soldiers would resort. Thousands of such occurrences were performed by the private soldiers of the Rebel army.
AM DETAILED TO GO FORAGING
One day I was detailed to go with a wagon train way down in Georgia on a foraging expedition. It was the first time since I had enlisted as a private that I had struck a good thing. No roll call, no drilling, no fatigue duties, building fortifications, standing picket, dress parade, reviews, or retreats, had to be answered to-the same old monotonous roll call that had been answered five thousand times in these three years. I felt like a free man. The shackles of discipline had for a time been unfettered. This was bliss, this was freedom, this was liberty. The sky looked brighter, the birds sang more beautiful and sweeter than I remember to have ever heard them. Even the little streamlets and branches danced and jumped along the pebbly beds, while the minnows sported and frollicked under the s.h.i.+ning ripples. The very flocks and herds in the pasture looked happy and gay. Even the screech of the wagons, that needed greasing, seemed to send forth a happy sound. It was fine, I tell you.
The blackberries were ripe, and the roadsides were lined with this delicious fruit. The Lord said that he would curse the ground for the disobedience of man, and henceforth it should bring forth thorns and briars; but the very briars that had been cursed were loaded with the abundance of G.o.d's goodness. I felt, then, like David in one of his psalms-”The Lord is good, the Lord is good, for his mercy endureth forever.”
PLEASE Pa.s.s THE b.u.t.tER
For several days the wagon train continued on until we had arrived at the part of country to which we had been directed. Whether they bought or pressed the corn, I know not, but the old gentleman invited us all to take supper with him. If I have ever eaten a better supper than that I have forgotten it. They had biscuit for supper. What! flour bread? Did my eyes deceive me? Well, there were biscuit-sure enough flour bread-and sugar and coffee-genuine Rio-none of your rye or potato coffee, and b.u.t.ter-regular b.u.t.ter-and ham and eggs, and turnip greens, and potatoes, and fried chicken, and nice clean plates-none of your tin affairs-and a snow-white table-cloth and napkins, and white-handled knives and silver forks. At the head of the table was the madam, having on a pair of golden spectacles, and at the foot the old gentleman. He said grace. And, to cap the climax, two handsome daughters. I know that I had never seen two more beautiful ladies. They had on little white ap.r.o.ns, trimmed with jaconet edging, and collars as clean and white as snow. They looked good enough to eat, and I think at that time I would have given ten years of my life to have kissed one of them. We were invited to help ourselves. Our plates were soon filled with the tempting food and our tumblers with California beer. We would have liked it better had it been twice as strong, but what it lacked in strength we made up in quant.i.ty. The old lady said, ”Daughter, hand the gentleman the b.u.t.ter.” It was the first thing that I had refused, and the reason that I did so was because my plate was full already. Now, there is nothing that will offend a lady so quick as to refuse to take b.u.t.ter when handed to you. If you should say, ”No, madam, I never eat b.u.t.ter,” it is a direct insult to the lady of the house. Better, far better, for you to have remained at home that day. If you don't eat b.u.t.ter, it is an insult; if you eat too much, she will make your ears burn after you have left. It is a regulator of society; it is a civilizer; it is a luxury and a delicacy that must be touched and handled with care and courtesy on all occasions. Should you desire to get on the good side of a lady, just give a broad, sweeping, slathering compliment to her b.u.t.ter. It beats kissing the dirty-faced baby; it beats anything. Too much praise cannot be bestowed upon the b.u.t.ter, be it good, bad, or indifferent to your notions of things, but to her, her b.u.t.ter is always good, superior, excellent. I did not know this characteristic of the human female at the time, or I would have taken a delicate slice of the b.u.t.ter. Here is a sample of the colloquy that followed:
”Mister, have some b.u.t.ter?”
”Not any at present, thank you, madam.”
”Well, I insist upon it; our b.u.t.ter is nice.”
”O, I know it's nice, but my plate is full, thank you.”
”Well, take some anyhow.”
One of the girls spoke up and said:
”Mother, the gentleman don't wish b.u.t.ter.”
”Well, I want him to know that our b.u.t.ter is clean, anyhow.”
”Well, madam, if you insist upon it, there is nothing that I love so well as warm biscuit and b.u.t.ter. I'll thank you for the b.u.t.ter.”
I dive in. I go in a little too heavy. The old lady hints in a delicate way that they sold b.u.t.ter. I dive in heavier. That cake of b.u.t.ter was melting like snow in a red hot furnace. The old lady says, ”We sell b.u.t.ter to the soldiers at a mighty good price.”
I dive in afresh. She says, ”I get a dollar a pound for that b.u.t.ter,” and I remark with a good deal of nonchalance, ”Well, madam, it is worth it,” and dive in again. I did not marry one of the girls.
WE EVACUATE CHATTANOOGA
One morning while sitting around our camp fires we heard a boom, and a bomb sh.e.l.l pa.s.sed over our heads. The Yankee army was right on the other bank of the Tennessee river. Bragg did not know of their approach until the cannon fired.
Rosecrans' army is crossing the Tennessee river. A part are already on Lookout Mountain. Some of their cavalry scouts had captured some of our foraging parties in Wills valley. The air was full of flying rumors. Wagons are being packed, camps are broken up, and there is a general hubbub everywhere. But your old soldier is always ready at a moment's notice. The a.s.sembly is sounded; form companies, and we are ready for a march, or a fight, or a detail, or anything. If we are marched a thousand miles or twenty yards, it is all the same. The private soldier is a machine that has no right to know anything. He is a machine that moves without any volition of his own. If Edison could invent a wooden man that could walk and load and shoot, then you would have a good sample of the private soldier, and it would have this advantage-the private soldier eats and the wooden man would not.
We left Chattanooga, but whither bound we knew not, and cared not; but we marched toward Chickamauga and crossed at Lee & Gordon's mill.
THE BULL OF THE WOODS
On our way to Lafayette from Lee & Gordon's mill, I remember a ludicrous scene, almost bordering on sacrilege. Rosecrans' army was very near us, and we expected before three days elapsed to be engaged in battle. In fact, we knew there must be a fight or a foot race, one or the other. We could smell, as it were, ”the battle afar off.”
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