Transcriber’s Note:

The cover image was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.

SKETCHES IN PRISON CAMPS:
A CONTINUATION OF
Sketches of the War.

BY

CHARLES C. NOTT,

LATE COLONEL OF THE 176TH NEW YORK VOLS.

“On her bier,

Quiet lay the buried year;

I sat down where I could see,

Life without and sunshine free—

Death within!”

NEW YORK:

ANSON D. F. RANDOLPH,

770 BROADWAY, CORNER OF 9TH ST.

1865.

Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1865, by

CHARLES C. NOTT,

In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern District of New York.

John J. Reed, Printer and Stereotyper,

43 Centre Street, N. Y.

To

CLARKSON N. POTTER,

FOR HIS GENEROSITY AND GREAT FAITHFULNESS TO ME,

AND TO EVERY SOLDIER WITH WHOM HE HAS BEEN IN ANY WAY CONNECTED

DURING THE PAST WAR,

THIS WORK IS GRATEFULLY DEDICATED.

CONTENTS.

PRISON CAMPS.

I.
THE TRANSPORT.

“There come the tug-boats, Colonel,” says an officer, as I stand on the deck of the “Alice Counce,” waiting for my regiment. I am a stranger to it, and only assume command to-day. From the East river come the boats, laden as many other boats have been, with a dark swarm of men, who cover the deck and hang upon the bulwarks.

The boats come alongside and throw their lines to the ship, and then rises a concord of those sounds that generally start with a new regiment.

“Attention! Officers and men will remain on board the boats till ordered aboard the ship. Captains of A and F will march their companies aboard and conduct them to their quarters. The bunks of each are marked with their Company letter.”

The hubbub ends, and the companies climb successively aboard, and stumble down into the dark hold, where, cold and clammy from recent scrubbings, are certain rough bunks, each so contrived as thoroughly to make four men unhappy. Unhappy! for the bunks are three tiers thick between decks, leaving no room wherein to sit up and be sick—and four men in one bed never did and never will lie still. Those who have never been to sea before, dream not of what awaits them!

Yet the men surprise me with the great good humor in which they seek out and take possession of their dark quarters. On one side, beginning at the sternmost bulkhead, Co. “A,” with the aid of dingy ship-lanterns, stows away the baggage, and next to it is “F,” at the same work. This order of the companies has a reason; for in line of battle, they are assorted in pairs, called “divisions,” so that each division shall contain one of the five senior and one of the five junior captains. In camp too they occupy the same places as in line of battle, and hence this is the proper guide for assigning quarters on ship board. Beginning on one side at the extreme stern with “A,” we run round the ship until at the extreme stern on the opposite side we finish with “B.” There is some difference in the comfort of the bunks; somebody must have the worst, and it is very desirable that this somebody shall blame for it only his own bad luck.

“Shall we weigh anchor soon, Captain?”

“Can’t tell, sir. No wind now. Looks as though a fog were coming down. Can’t sail till we’ve a wind.”

“Colonel,” says one of the Captains, “my first-lieutenant has not been out of camp for six weeks. If you will let him go ashore, I shall be much obliged.”

“I cannot, Captain; the ship is ordered to sail immediately. While this is possible, no officer can leave.”

“Colonel,” says another, “Lieutenant A., of my company, learnt last evening that his mother is quite ill. “Will you approve this pass?”

“I am sorry to say, Captain, that no officer can leave the ship. We are under sailing orders—the pilot is on board—the tug within hail, and we shall weigh anchor whenever the wind freshens.”

“It is really very hard.”

“Very!”

“Colonel,” says a third, “my first-sergeant’s wife is very ill. I told him that he could go back and see her, and get his things this morning. If you will approve this pass, I shall be very much obliged.”

“He must send for his things. We are under sailing orders. No one can leave the ship.”

“The poor fellow promised her that he would certainly be back to-day. It was the only way he could make her consent to his coming. He is a most faithful fellow.”

“Mate, do you think we can possibly sail to-night?”

“No, sir; fog won’t rise afore midnight. Pilot’s gone ashore.”

“Then, Captain, let your sergeant take this dispatch to head-quarters, and report on board at daylight.”

The fog grows denser and denser—the rain comes down; such dreary refusals and disappointments have filled the day. The cabin will not hold half the officers. Nothing is settled—all is dirt, disorder and confusion. Oh, what a wretched, moody, miserable day!

A week of such days passes, but at last the fresh west wind blows keen and cold. A little tug comes out from among the piers, and seizing the great vessel, leads her towards the Narrows, and the regiment at last is moving to New Orleans.

“I shall be glad,” says a young lieutenant, flushed with the thought of setting forth on his first campaign, “I shall be glad when we are out of sight of New York.”

“You’ll be gladder when you come in sight of it again.”

“Perhaps I shall,” he says, with a laugh; “but after all our working and waiting, it’s delightful to be off at last.”

I stand on the deck watching the sinking city and the lessening shores, as many have done before me, while gliding down the beautiful bay, until they grow dim in the distance, and then turn away, to think of inspections, rations, fires, and sea-sickness.

The first night has passed without incident or accident, extinguishing the excitement of our sailing and leaving us to wake up quietly for our first day at sea. Not “quietly,” for twenty drummer boys, without the faintest sign of sea-sickness, rattled out a reveille that frightened the rats from their holes, and brought the sleeping watch from the forecastle, and disturbed every sailor and sleeper in the ship. It left us wide awake, and ready for the routine and duties of the day.

Breakfast!—Breakfast is no easy thing to get in a transport ship. All night long two gangs of cooks have been at work, and there are fears and whispers that with all their efforts, the breakfast will run short. Very aggravating is it to wait for breakfast in this cold sea air, with nothing else to think of, and your thoughts quickened (if you are among the last) by the fear that there is not enough to go round. A serious business, too, it is to deal it out, requiring more than an hour of hungry moments. The companies form in files, and on each side of the ship approach the caboose. A mug and plate are thrust through a hole. In a moment, filled with a junk of pork, three “hard-tack,” and a pint of pale coffee, they are thrust back. The hungry owner seizes them and hurries away to some quiet spot, where he can unclasp his knife and fork, and cool his coffee to his liking. The long files of the unfed, one by one, creep slowly up to the greasy dispensary. The first company of the occasion ironically congratulates the last, the last ironically condoles with the first. They take turn about. Company A is first at breakfast to-day; second at lunch; third at supper; to-morrow it will be fourth, and thus it will keep on until at length it reaches the agonizing state of being last!

Water!—The water is the next annoyance of the morning. The men are brought up on the upper deck. On the lower one is a pump connected by a hose, with the water casks below. The mate, on behalf of the ship, and an officer, on behalf of the regiment, deal out the water. Two men from every squad, each with a load of canteens hung around his neck, come forward and fill them from the tub—a slow and mussy piece of work.

Inspection.—“The water is dealt out, Colonel,” says the Officer of the Day. “Will you inspect the quarters?”

The assembly beats, and the men again crowd the upper deck. Armed with a lantern, I grasp a slippery ladder, and go down into the dark, “between decks.” It is very still and almost empty there, much like a gloomy cave. The companies have been divided into four squads, and a sergeant and two corporals have charge of the quarters of each.

I begin with the first and poke the lantern up into the upper tier, over into the middle tier, down into the lower tier. Blankets out—knapsacks at the head—nothing lying loose. No crumbs betraying hard-tack smuggled in; the deck scrubbed clean. “Very good, Sergeant. Your quarters do you credit.” The next, a blanket not out—half a hard-tack in the upper tier, the crumbs scattered over the lower—the deck dingy with loathsome tobacco. “Look at this, and this, and this, Sergeant. Yours are the only dirty quarters in the ship.”

“Don’t you think the quarters pretty good on the whole, Colonel?” asks the Officer of the Day.

“Very good, Captain. If we except that sergeant’s, there is really nothing to find fault with.” And thus ends the first inspection.

“If the rebels hadn’t ha’ destroyed the light-house,” remarks my friend the first mate, as he looks with his glass toward Hampton Roads, “we could ha’ run right straight in last night, but seeing that the ship is light in ballast, and a good many souls aboard, why, it wasn’t safe.”

“So they destroyed the Cape Henry light, did they?”

“Yes indeed, they did, and it does seem to me that of all they’ve done that ought to ha’ set the hull civilized world against them, it’s the worst. Just think now how many a fine vessel must ha’ gone aground there, and never be got off again, just for want of the light; why, it does seem to me that it’s worse than a shooting women and children; at any rate, it’s just the same.”

“There comes the pilot-boat, and she has her signal set,” says some one.

Far up the Chesapeake the pilot-boat is seen, a small flag fluttering from her mast head. She comes straight as an arrow, like a greyhound rushing down upon us in his play. How beautifully she bounds along, looking as she mounts the waves as if she would leap from the water. The yards are backed and the ship stops and waits for the little craft. The pilot-boat circles round her, and coming into the wind, seems to settle down like a dog resting from his sport. A little cockle shell of a boat puts off, pulled by two black oarsmen, who buffet and dodge the waves, and make their way slowly against the wind toward the ship. There is much curiosity to see this Virginian pilot, and all hands crowd forward as he comes up the side. The Captain alone has not moved to meet him. He stands dignifiedly on the poop deck, his glass beneath his arm. The pilot does not ask for him, or pause or look around; he evidently knows the very spot on which the Captain stands. He bows to the crowd around him, pushes his way through, and mounts to the deck. He walks up to the Captain, and they shake hands. The Captain hands him his glass: the pilot takes it: it is the emblem of authority, and the Captain no longer commands the ship.

The pilot raises the glass and looks sharply in one direction; he takes a turn or two up and down the deck, and looks attentively in another. I am convinced that he knows as well where we are as I should, were I standing on the steps of the City Hall. All this looking is evidently done to impress beholders with the difficulty of being a pilot. “How does she head?” says the pilot. “Due west,” says the man at the wheel. “Keep her west by sou’ half sou’,” says the pilot. “Wes’ by sou’ half sou’,” responds the man at the wheel. “Set your jib, sir,” says the pilot to the Capt. “Set the jib, Mr. Small,” says the Captain to the first mate. “Set the jib, Mr. Green,” says the first mate to the second mate. “All hands man the jib halyards,” says the second mate. “Aye, aye, sir,” respond the sailors, and the soldiers look quite sober at finding themselves all of a sudden in so difficult and maybe dangerous a channel. Meanwhile the black oarsmen pull back to where the pilot-boat still lies at rest. The touch of the cockle shell upon her side startles her again into life. She shakes her white wings, and turning, bounds off toward another ship, whose sails are slowly rising from the waves far off toward the east.

What we have come to Fortress Monroe for no one can tell. In spite of a decisive order to sail forthwith for New Orleans, the wind refuses to blow. Another weary week of calm and fog intervenes. The Captain laments and growls, and says if we had kept on with that breeze, we could have been at the Hole-in-the-wall, and maybe at Abicum-light; but now there’s no telling when the wind will set in from the west—he’s known it set this way at this season for three weeks. The officers and men repeat the growls and lamentations, and fail not to ask me five hundred times a day what we have come to Fortress Monroe for.

The week of waiting ends, and a westerly wind assures us that we may start. “We must have a tug to tow us down,” says the Captain. “And we must have the water-boat along side,” says the mate. A boat load of officers and soldiers go ashore to make their last purchases. I wait on the dock and watch the water-boat as it puts off, and listen to the “yo he yo” on the “Alice Counce” and “Emily Sturges,” which tells me that their anchors are coming up.

The tug took us down—the pilot left us much as before, and we are now out at sea. The “Emily” led us by half an hour, and all day long was in sight, sailing closer to the wind and standing closer on the coast. As the evening closed in, we cast many jealous glances toward her, and asked each other which ship would be ahead in the morning.

The second day was a gloomy, wintry day, with a rising wind, and constantly increasing sea; and the second night out I felt the motion grow and grow, but thought it rather pleasant, and had no fears of evil consequences. I rose with the reveille, which seemed fainter than usual, steadied myself out of the cabin, and still knew no fear. I reached the deck and found that but four drummer boys rub-a-dubbed, and but few men had come up from below. I mounted to the poop deck, and there I found three lieutenants. There was something unusual about them. Two sat very still braced against a spar, while the third staggered violently up and down with a pale, in fact a ghastly face, and kept saying in a jolly manner to himself, “How are you, ship? how are you, o—oh—shun?”

“This is very strange,” thought I. “But perhaps they’re ill. I’ll ask them.”

“Gentlemen, are you sick—sea-sick?”

“Sick? oh no!”

Nobody was sick, so I turned and looked down on the main deck. The reveille had ended, yet the number on deck had not increased. A sergeant with five or six men in line was calling his roll in a loud voice, at which he and half his men repeatedly laughed, as though absence from roll-call was a capital joke.

It is usual for an officer from each company to come up to me immediately after the morning roll-call, and report the state of his company, “all present or accounted for,” or so many present and so many absent and not accounted for. I am somewhat strict about it, yet on this morning only one or two reported. I thought this negligence strange—unaccountable—yet for some reason or other, I did not go down and ascertain the cause of it. I turned toward the east. The sun was near his rising, and the crimson light filled the sky and tinged the white foam of the tossing waves. It was a splendid sight, and brought to mind one of the finest sea pieces of the Dusseldorf. I stood watching the wide expanse of heaving billows—the cloud-spotted sky under-lit with rays of the coming sun—the unnumbered waves breaking in long rolls of foam, silvered and gilded by the glowing east. I was lost in admiration, when I suddenly felt—sick! I made brave attempts to keep myself up—to weather it out—to stay on my legs—to stay on deck—to do something—to do anything. In vain!

That day the wind increased and blew a gale. Through the long hours of the afternoon the vessel plunged and tossed. Furniture broke loose and slid backward and forward across the cabin. The steward looked in, seized the vagrant pieces, and lashed them fast. Stragglers steadied themselves from door to table and from table to sofa, to say that all the others were down—that they began to feel a little qualmish, and that affairs were growing serious. Toward midnight there was a tremendous shock—the ship staggered and stood still, as though she had struck upon a rock; in an instant more the door of the forward cabin was burst open with a crash, and in another the water broke through the sky-light over my head, and poured, a torrent, on the cabin floor. To the men between decks it seemed a shipwreck. Yet there were not wanting a few heartless wretches, who, neither sea-sick nor frightened, made sport of all the others. “The ship’s struck a breaker,” roared one of these from his bunk. “All frightened men roll out and put on their boots to sink in.” “Struck,” “breakers,” “sinking,” sounded around, and several hundred men rolled out in the darkness, and frantically tried to put on their boots. With the next roll, away all hands went. Some caught at the bunks—some clutched each other—the penitent prayed—the wicked swore—the frightened blubbered—the sick and philosophical lay still. In the midst of the sliding, the scramble and the din, a voice rose from another bunk, “Captains”—it thundered in the style of a Colonel on drill—“rectify the alignment.” And the jokers added to the din their loud laughs of derision.

A little later the mate came in—a large, stalwart sailor, seeming a giant in his oilskins and sou’wester. He carefully closed the door, stepped lightly across the cabin floor, ceremoniously removed his hat, and looking into the darkness of the captain’s state-room, said in the most apologetic of tones, “Captain Singer, I’m really afraid the mast will go, if we don’t ease her a point. It works very bad, and the wind’s rising.”

The Captain considered slowly and said, “Ease her.”

The mate said politely, “Yes, sir,” and then backed across the cabin lightly on tip toe, hat in hand, opened the door slowly and noiselessly, and then, without replacing his hat, slipped out into the storm.

The long night wore away and was followed by a longer day. The ship tossed and plunged, rising as though she were mounting from the water to the sky, and then sinking as though she would never stop. At last the gale blew itself out, and then came a calm, when the ship lay like a log on the water, rolling ceaselessly from side to side, and creaked and groaned with every toss and roll. But now there is a cry of land, and the sick drag themselves to the deck and look toward a rocky island of the Bahama group, which is the “land.” How beautiful it seems, hung there on the horizon between the shifting clouds and tossing sea! The breeze is fair, the sea not rough, and we soon draw nearer to this land. On the farther end rises the snowy tower of the light-house, and beside it stands the house of the keeper. No other house, nor field, nor tree, nor blade of grass adorns this huge bare rock. The waves have worn grooves on the steep sides, and up these the water dashes, and runs down in white moving columns. Abreast of us is a strange opening in the wall-like rock, which has given to the island its name of “Hole-in-the-wall.” The spy-glasses disclose a man, a woman, and some children, looking toward the ship. Once in three months the supply ship will visit them, bringing their food, their clothing, their water and the oil: once or twice a year, when the sea is calm and the wind has fallen, the keeper may row out to some ship to beg for newspapers; more often they may gaze, as they are gazing now, at passing vessels; and thus, with such rare intervals, they pass their lonely life, cut off and isolated from all mankind.

The warm temperature and rich blue color of the water tell us that we are in the Gulf Stream. As I lie upon the deck looking upon the mysterious current, a slender bird, eight or ten inches long, shining like silver, flits through the air. “Did you see that bird?” asks more than one voice. “Was it a bird?” “Yes, it flew like one.” “No, it came out of the water and went back there.”

“It’s a flying-fish, gentlemen,” says the mate; “you’ll see plenty of them soon.”

A more beautiful, fairy-like sight than these flying-fish present, I have seldom seen. A delicate creature, bright and silvery, and often beautifully tinged with blue, emerges from the water, and soars just above the waves in a long, graceful, bird-like flight, until striking against the summit of some wave that lifts its white cap higher than the rest, it disappears.

This is called a pleasant voyage from Hole-in-the-wall. We watch the flying-fish, catch Portuguese men-of-war, and bathe in the warm water of the stream, until there appears before us what some at first thought a mud bank, but which now proves to be another ocean of muddy water.

“It is the Mississippi,” says the Captain. “The river must be up, for we’re a hundred miles good from the Sou’west Pass. There’ll be trouble in crossing the bar; when the river’s up the water’s down.”

As we draw nearer, the contrast between the two oceans grows more plain. The line is as distinct as that between land and water on a map. Now the bow of the vessel reaches it—now the line is a midship—now I look down upon it, and now the ship floats wholly in the water of the Mississippi.

The muddy sea has raised a ferment of excitement, and many, who have all faith in the ship’s reckoning, still look forward as though they could look through the hundred miles before us, and see the wished-for land. Night closes, however, leaving us surrounded by the same muddy waves; but we turn in, with the strong assurance that to-morrow we shall make the Pass.

Land! But hidden under low fogs, that, I am told, brood over this delta of the Mississippi. From the crosstrees can be seen one or two steam-tugs, vessels at anchor, and distant salt marshes; but from the deck we peer about in all directions, and see nothing in the fog. A pilot moves the ship up to her anchorage. We are to wait perhaps only the moving of the tugs—perhaps the falling of the river; the river is up, and as was foretold by the Captain, the water is down.

The explanation of this paradox is simple. The water on the bar is ocean water, though discolored by the river. Its height is always a tidal height, that is, it rises with the tide, not with the river. The freshets, while they do not add to the height of the water, nevertheless bring down large quantities of mud, which settles on the bar, and thus builds up the bottom without raising the surface of the water. The pilots measure from the bottom, and finding it nearer the surface than it was, say that the water has fallen, when in fact it is the bottom that has risen. Then come the tides and wash away the loose mud upon the bar, and thus the water deepens while the river falls.

We are again at anchor; a tug is heard in the fog, and all turn anxiously toward it. The Captain of the tug hails the Captain of the ship, and demands what water she draws.

“Sixteen feet and a half,” is the answer. “Will that do?”

The Captain of the tug says it is doubtful—they are going down to tug another ship that draws fifteen and a half, and if they get her over, they will tug us at the next flood-tide.

That ship is the transport “William Woodbury.” She comes down gallantly, the soldiers crowding her bulwarks, two powerful tugs puffing at her sides, and every sail set. We watch her with anxiety. She passes a buoy that we think marks the bar, and all seems well. The mate says he “don’t know but akind of believes she’s over.” As he speaks, she swings round, stops, and sticks fast. The steam-tugs pull her backward and forward and sidewise, and at last over the bar; she disappears in the fog beyond, and we await with fresh anxiety the flood-tide of the afternoon.

These tugs have one strange appendage in the form of a ladder as high as the smoke-pipe; on the top of this is a chair, and in this chair is a man. It is the pilot who thus looks over the low fogs of the Pass. From this high place we hear the voice of one, toward evening, and soon two tugs come down to try their strength in dragging our ship through two feet of mud. The heaviest hawser is out on deck and an end run over either side to the stubborn little tug that lies there. The anchor is tripped, a sail or two set, and with good headway, we approach the bar. Suddenly every one who is on his legs takes an unexpected step forward—the hawser parts—the tugs break loose—and we are hard aground. But the tugs do not give it up. They reattach themselves and drag us, after many efforts, out of the mud and back to where we started.

We approach the bar again cautiously; but again we feel the vessel grounding, and again she stands still. The tugs tug away as though striving to drag us through by main strength, and many declare that we are moving slowly. A neighboring buoy, however, stays close beside us, and after half an hour’s hard work, shows that we have not moved a foot. Still the tugs tug as obstinately as ever. They drag us back and try afresh—now to the right—now to the left—panting, puffing and blowing. The pilots sit enveloped in clouds of black coal smoke, and shout, and scream. At last, with the last rays of daylight, and the last swelling of the tide, and the last strands of the hawser, and at the moment when all efforts must cease, we are dragged across the bar, and enter the Mississippi.

II.
THE PAY-MASTER.

Westward from New Orleans stretches the Opelousas railroad, and along this road we are now doing guard duty. Guarding a railroad is the most unwelcome task that can be thrust on the Colonel of a new regiment—scattering the companies, demoralizing the men, destroying the regiment, and therefore a Colonel, under such circumstances, has a right to be a little discontented, and very cross.

I am a little discontented, and have wished a hundred times that I were back, writing on the sunny hill-side of Camp Lowe, enduring all the hardships of Tennessee. From an unsoldierly point of view, there is nothing to complain of here. For the leaky tent, the muddy floor, the pork and “hard-tack” of the West, my large new tent has a double-fly and plank floor; and it is filled with tables, chairs, and other luxuries. Up the neighboring bayou of La Fourche, too, come miniature canal-boats, tugged along by little creole ponies, and laden with fish and oysters, which the swarthy French fishermen catch in the not distant Gulf. The surrounding woods are filled with game that finds its way constantly to camp, and from every one of the large plantations that abound here, are brought vegetables, eggs and poultry. Yet I do not relish this ease and indolence—the rough cavalry service suits me better, and I wish a hundred times a day that I were back in Tennessee.

It is the spring-time of the year, yet there is but little of the reality of spring to us. The grass has long been green, the flowers are plentiful, the sun is hot and burning, but the leaves come leisurely along, and for a fortnight have only moved. These flowers, too, have generally no fragrance, though now and then there is one that overpowers us with its sweet, sickening odor, and the birds that fill the trees are songless, save the “merry mocking-bird,” who, like the perfume giving flowers, has more than his share of noise and song. There is, therefore, none of the glad bursting forth that makes so brief and beautiful our northern spring.

This is a muster-day in the army, and it is the forerunner of the Pay-Master. I have been busy since daybreak calling the rolls of the companies along the railroad, and I have now to ride twelve miles and muster one that is doing Provost guard duty in the village of Houma. It is not a pleasant ride to Houma; the road runs along a bayou, as straight and stagnant as a canal. Occasionally there comes a boat, freighted with a dozen barrels of molasses or a few hogsheads of sugar, furrowing its way through the green scum that covers the water, and breaking down the rank-growing weeds that choke the channel. The vagabond-looking ponies that drag it along, travel on the “levee,” which has the appearance of a tow-path, and makes the bayou look more than ever like a canal. This bayou is a hideous frog-pond, long drawn out, filled with black, slimy mud, and teeming with hideous reptiles. My horse starts as I ride beside it, and snuffs the tainted air nervously, for two turkey-buzzards fly up from the huge carcass of an alligator, and alight close beside me on the fence. Two more remain on the alligator, gorged so that they cannot rise. Their rough, dirty feathers remind one of the uncombed locks of a city scavenger. No one ever shoots them, but draws back and says, with unconcealed disgust, “What a foul bird that is.”

Yet on the other side of the road, spreading back to the poisonous swamps in the rear, lie some of the rich plantations of Louisiana. There are the sugar-houses, with their heavy brick chimneys, as large and clumsy as those of a foundry; and near by stand the planter’s house, the overseer’s house, the engineer’s house, and a little village of contraband cabins. The vast fields are cut up into square blocks by ditches, sometimes ten feet deep, reminding one of the graded lots in the outskirts of a city. On one side of each range of these blocks is a raised plantation road, which crosses the ditches on substantial bridges, and runs, perhaps for miles, arrow-like, as a railroad. It is probable that the plantation is surrounded by a levee, to keep the water out. The large ditches then empty into a canal, and at the end of this canal will be found a “pumping machine,” driven by a steam engine, which pumps the plantation dry and keeps it above water. Such wealthful agriculture we have nowhere in the North.

The broad, dull thoroughfare on which I ride is an unpleasant contrast to the shaded bridle-roads of Tennessee. Yet it furnishes our only ride, and for twelve miles there is but one turn-off, or intersecting road, and not one hill or hollow. So far as the eye can reach in all directions—so far as one can ride on any road he may choose to take, is one weary, continuing, unbroken flatness. I feel a constant longing to mount a hill, and often have to repress an impulse to climb a tree, where I can look around and breathe a little freer air.

Houma looks somewhat like a deserted village. The shops are shut, many of the houses empty, and the scowling people wear an idle, listless air. There is no love lost between them and the troops. Some months ago a few sick soldiers of the twenty-first Indiana were massacred not far from the village, and it was done by some of the most “respectable” planters. I believe all of the guilty parties escaped to the enemy’s lines, except one, and he, poor wretch, lived for months in the gloomy swamps near us, a frightened maniac. His body was lately found, showing that he had lain down, worn out and sick, and died alone in the dreary solitude.

In one of these deserted houses I find my officers established, and after finishing the muster of their company, I spend with them a pleasant evening and quiet night. Another dull and solitary ride carries me back to my head-quarters, to await the wished-for coming of the Pay-Master. A regiment which has never been paid looks eagerly for that admired and much respected functionary. It understands not why there should be delays, and coins a rumor at least once a day, that he is on his way to camp. After many disappointments, one of these rumors assumes a substantial shape. A special train comes rushing up the railroad, consisting of an engine and a single car. The train shrieks that it will stop and does so: it bears only two passengers, and a heavy, mysterious, iron-bound box. They are the Pay-Master, his clerk, and his money chest.

The Pay-Master is smiling, and happy as a man who travels with a trunk full of smiles should be. He walks through the excited throng to my tent, and the mysterious box is borne by two soldiers in a reverent manner behind him. He takes it from them at the tent in a careless sort of way, and pulls and tumbles it about as if it were a common piece of vulgar wood—he does not even glance at it as he twists and turns the mysterious lock. From its depths he brings out our pay-rolls, and says in a complimentary manner that they are correct—that indeed he never paid a new regiment where they were more correct. He shakes his head despondingly, and adds that there are some regiments in this department that have never been paid—that have never got their rolls right, and he fears never will. Our men are immensely relieved as these facts are whispered around, and acquire fresh confidence in their officers,—perhaps rather more than they ever had before.

The rolls are sent back to the different companies, and the men assemble round each Captain’s tent and sign them. The Pay-Master fortifies himself against the coming excitement with a little luncheon. Meanwhile a table has been placed at the opening of a tent, within which are the mysterious box and clerk.

“Now, Colonel,” says the Pay-Master, “if you will be so good as to give the necessary orders, we will begin.”

The Pay-Master takes his place behind the table which bars the entrance to the tent and box; the first company falls in “by one rank,” faces “without doubling,” and in single file approaches the Pay-Master. The Pay-Master takes a pay-roll and calls a name; the clerk takes its “duplicate” and checks the name; the owner steps forward and answers to the name. The Pay-Master seizes a bundle of the precious paper and tears off the wrapper. The notes dance through his flying fingers, and flutter down before the owner of the first name. The Pay-Master carelessly seizes them, says “sixty-three dollars, forty-five cents,” and tosses them toward the owner, as though he wishes to be rid of the vulgar trash. The owner, much discomposed, carefully picks them up and hurriedly retires to the nearest bench, whereon he seats himself, and slowly counts and recounts the notes, at least five times. It is labor in vain; he cannot make them a dollar more, or a dime less than did the Pay-Master. Those practised hands, though they count the money only once, and move with the swiftness of a magician’s wand, never make mistakes.

There is another day’s work before the Pay-Master, and a somewhat unusual one for him. Four companies remain to be paid, and the special train has gone back to New Orleans. We must travel, therefore, by a hand-car. The mysterious box is carried to the car, the clerk sits on it, keeping a bright look-out toward the rear, lest any pursuing locomotive should rush upon us ere we know it; the Pay-Master and I seat ourselves in front upon the floor, and half a dozen soldiers, who are both guard and engine, stow themselves away as best they can, and then seizing the crank, put our little vehicle slowly in motion.

It is very pleasant skimming along swiftly so close to the ground, with so little noise or jarring, with such an absence of smoke and dust, and with such a free, unrestrained view of everything around us. By far the pleasantest ride upon the rail that any of us have ever had, is this. We fly quickly across the wide plantation that adjoins the camp, and then enter the wood or swamp, whichever you prefer to call it.

“There will be no train coming along I hope,” said the Pay-Master, as he glanced at the narrow roadway and black, slimy water that came close to us on either side. “What should we do now, for instance?”

“Tumble the hand-car into the swamp, and slide ourselves down the sides of the road, and lie quiet till the train has passed.”

“Ugh!” said the Pay-Master. “I do not like the idea of sliding myself into that water. Look how black and slimy it is, and then that unhealthy green scum upon it. I should not wonder if it were full of snakes and alligators.”

“Alligators! You may say that; look there!”

An immense alligator is seen stretched on a fallen tree, and dozing in the warmth of the April sun.

“May I give him a shot?” asks the sergeant of our guard, drawing his revolver.

“Yes, if you can hit him.”

The sergeant slowly raises his pistol—the hand-car stops—bang! and the bullet strikes against the scaly side and glances off. The alligator slides from the log, and disappears in the inky water.

“I don’t care about making that gentleman’s acquaintance,” says the Pay-Master. “Mr. Clerk, please keep a sharp look-out behind for any stray locomotive that may be coming along, and the Colonel and I will look out ahead. Seven miles you say it is to the next station? Well, I shall feel a little easier when we get there.”

The hand-car resumes its former speed, and we fly along through the deep shades and deeper stillness of the swamp. The rumbling of the car that we hardly heard in the open fields now echoes distinctly, and our voices almost startle us, they sound so very clear and loud. There are no fields or openings on either side, no firm ground to stand upon, and the trees rise out of the green-coated water.

“Stop! what’s that? There’s something ahead,” calls the Pay-Master; “is it an engine?”

“No, sir,” replies the sergeant, “it is the picket at Moccason bayou.”

A mile or two ahead can be dimly seen something moving where the railroad track is lost among the over-hanging trees. Then, as the car lessens the distance, can be distinguished the figures of three or four men, the gleam of their muskets and the blue uniform of the United States. The picket has turned out and is watching us. Our engineer puts on a full head of steam, and our little special train rushes along faster than ever, until it is “braked-down” on the very bank of Moccason bayou.

“These are your men, are they?” asks the Pay-Master.

“Yes, they are here guarding the bridge.”

“Then I will take an order from them authorizing me to pay the money to their Captain.”

The Pay-Master writes the order, and looks around with curiosity at the picket station. We peer into the bayou, which is supposed to swarm with deadly moccason snakes, and then climbing on the car, resume our jaunt. We pay the two companies stationed at Tigerville; we hearken to the commanding officer’s advice to stay and dine with him, and then, with a new hand-car and a fresh guard, we run twelve miles further up the road and pay the last company. An hour or two after dark this is accomplished, and we prepare to return. As we approach the car, one of the men meets us with a rumor that a division of the army is coming up the single track, and that doubtless we shall meet several trains where the swamp is darkest and the roadway narrowest. We investigate the rumor, and find that it is based on the fact that the trains ought to come, but no one really knows that they are coming. “What do you think, Pay-Master? You and the money chest must be taken great care of.” The Pay-Master thinks that if we had a lantern it would be safe. We procure a lantern, and hold a consultation. One of our guard is an experienced railroad builder; he knows the ways of hand-cars, and can tell afar off the sound of advancing trains. He promises to “brake-down” the hand-car in an instant, and to forewarn us of impending engines long before they can run into us.

We start, and the experienced man stands with his hand upon the brake, and an officer who has joined us takes his place in front, holding the lantern plainly in sight. Away we go into the darkness of the swamp—a darkness so thick that you cannot see the man who sits beside you. For several miles the road runs straight as an arrow, and I sit behind with the Pay-Master, trusting those in front to keep a look-out. At length we come out of the swamp and enter an open plantation country, through which the road makes many turns. “Ease off and then brake-down,” and the car lessens its speed and in a few moments stops. The experienced man goes forward, puts one ear close to the track, and announces that there is no train on the road within ten miles. We start again, and this time I stand up and post myself where I can have a clear view of the front.

“Oh, Colonel, sit down,” says the experienced man; “no use in your standing up. I’ll tell you the moment any train comes in sight.”

“I’m much obliged to you, but as the way is somewhat crooked from here to Tigerville, I think I shall be quite as comfortable keeping a little look-out of my own, as sitting down and trusting it all to you.”

The hand-car runs merrily forward; the men, refreshed with our brief halt, are sending it along with increased speed, when through the trees and bushes, across a sharp curve of the road—a flash—a light, and the thunder of a coming train. “An engine.” “The cars.” “Brake-down’ quick.” “They’re at full speed.” “They’ll be on us if you don’t hurry.” The experienced man tugs at the brake, the others start up and frantically endeavor to extricate their legs and arms (which everybody else seems to be sitting upon), the hand-car runs on as if it will never stop; the heavy engine glares on us with its great, glowing eye, and comes rushing forward in unabated haste. There is no time to waste in trifles; the officer in front springs from the car and runs down the road, waving the lantern with all his might; a couple of soldiers tumble themselves off, and one adroitly falls across the track, and lies there stunned; the experienced man strains away on his brake; the Pay-Master and I drop off behind, and seizing hold of the car, succeed in stopping it. The train seems but a few yards distant, crashing and thundering, and shaking the very ground we stand on. The Pay-Master, who has been the most cautious of the party, is now the most cool and decided. While two men push against each other and the experienced man gives contradictory directions, the Pay-Master seizes the car, capsizes it off the track, and hurls it down the bank. The precious box and the stunned soldier are dragged out of the way, and the train goes roaring past. When all is over, we first berate the experienced man roundly, then haul the car with much trouble up the bank and on to the track, and then feel our way cautiously down to Tigerville. There we refresh ourselves with a cold supper, tell over the tale of our escape, and abuse the engineer to our heart’s content for not seeing our lantern, and stopping his train. The Pay-Master announces his intention of writing the history of the last twenty-four hours, and publishing it as the “Adventures of a Pay-Master.” I am sorry to say he does not keep this promise.

III.
THE WILD TEXANS.

Some weeks after the pay-day, I found myself stretched upon a bed, in a little shanty, at Tigerville. I had some hazy recollections of having moved my quarters to Tigerville—of having left my tent one evening, after dress-parade, for a ride—of having ridden to the hospital and dismounted, with a dizzy head and aching frame—of the surgeon telling me, that I was very ill and must not go back—and then of horrible fever-visions.

The long days travelled slowly, and the sultry nights wore away wearily, but they rolled into weeks ere anything was gained. Then I was carried to Brashear, and placed in a house which had been the mansion of an old Louisiana family. In front was a strip of lawn shaded by large oaks moss-hung and spreading. Beneath them the view opened on the waters of the Atchafalaya, which here had widened into Berwick Bay, and beyond, on the little village of Berwick. Around were the remains of the finest garden of western Louisiana. There still lingered thickets of the fig and orange, of lemon and banana; and there still flowered oleanders, and catalpas, and jasmin, with many other specimens of tropical fruits and flowers. As I sat observing these remnants of other times, an old New York friend and his wife came in. The lady looked around on the grass-grown walks, broken and effaced; on the long rows of fruit trees to which horses were picketed; on the rare flowerbeds trampled out by droves of mules; on the smooth grass-plots covered with heaps of rubbish.

“You have been here before,” I said, as I marked the careful looks that travelled so closely over every part of the sad, disordered scene.

“I have passed the most of my life here,” she replied. “This is my mother’s house.”

It was the story of another divided family. All of her own relations were in the Confederate lines, and she had remained with her husband to await the coming of the Union army.

The enemy were gathering above us on the Teche. Those oath-taking patriots, whose sons were in the enemy’s army and crops within our lines; who, heretofore, had stood aloof and scowled sullenly at us when we passed, now came into camp, and for once were communicative. They asked us if we knew what was coming, and hinted at Southern conscription, and the damage the Wild Texans would do the growing crop. They feared the rough riders from the prairies, and told many tales of their lawless cruelty. There came in, too, refugees and contrabands, all speaking of the enemy’s increasing strength; of boats collecting for some night attack, and of the reckless fierceness of those Wild Texans. On the opposite side of the river, the Wild Texans began to move in open day. They came down in little scouting parties, hiding behind houses and bushes, but constantly on the alert. We must have presented tempting marks for a long-range Enfield, yet they never fired, but flitted silently about, always observing us, yet never responding to our many shots.

I watched these indications of the gathering storm, with the nervous irritability inseparable from convalescence. But every slight exertion brought on a slight relapse, and I was soon forced, so far as I could do so, to abstract myself from these excitements, and try to gather back my strength in time to be of service in the coming trouble. To this end, I took up the contents of some captured mails. There were a few of the ridiculous letters, that once found their way freely into our newspapers, with bad spelling, and false syntax, and bombastic rhetoric, but the most of them were sad. More woeful letters were never read than these Wild Texans wrote. There were such mournful yearnings for home—for peace—for those they had left behind, that, insensibly, the mind changed from exultation into pity. There was a slight compunction, too, in running the eye over the secrets of our enemies; a more than reluctance to look upon these hidden words, which love and duty had written for loving eyes, and coldly appropriate them as our own. There were tales of want and tales of love—tidings of weddings and of deaths. Here was a letter from a father in Port Hudson, to his “dear little daughters;” and here one from a mother to her “own beloved son.” This is a family letter, written by the parents and sisters, to their “two dear boys,” who now are watching us from the other shore. And this one is the reverse, for it is addressed to “father, mother, wife, and sisters.” The rebel soldier has filled his “last sheet” with sad forebodings, with few hopes, much love, and many prayers. A widow’s letter tells me, that her only child fell at Iuka; and a father’s, that his eldest son died before Dalton. “What wonder,” each letter asks, “that I wish to die and be at rest?” Among so many, of course a love-letter can be found, breathing a first avowal. It is written to some village beauty, and hints at rivals, and her sometime smiles and sometime frowns. The village beauty is, I judge, a slight coquette, who has led her lover along with little encouragements and little rebuffs. His letter is written in a manly strain, and tells her that he had hoped to gain an honorable name, and come back to win her in an early peace. But the peace has not come. He can bear this suspense no longer. He begs her to deal frankly and truly with him, and, if she loves him, to answer this letter. The letter will never be answered! I laid it away, and thought that I would send it, by some flag of truce, to the unknown belle. But my papers were captured, and this letter, on which so many hopes hung, was lost.

The threatening trouble drew nearer. There were frequent alarms—the cannon rung out their warnings often during the night—the long rolls were beaten and the troops assembled and stood on their arms. One night I awoke at the call of the cannon near my window, and heard the men assembling and the ammunition wagons rolling past. To one accustomed to act at such times, such forced inaction is the severest of trials. I watched from habit, expecting the rattling small arms of an attack, but the night wore away in unusual silence. The next morning I was told that all our troops save the sick and a few on guard, had gone. The sick men whispered each other that we were defenceless, and it was well that we had the telegraph and railroad, and could call our troops back in case of an attack from across the river. A few hours passed and then the telegraph suddenly ceased its ticking—the railroad was cut and the enemy was between us and our forces at La Fourche.

No relief came, and after three days of suspense, Brashear was carried by assault. Some of our sick men formed a line and behaved well, but they were quickly overpowered. The red flag of our hospital was not understood by the assaulting party, and for a little while it looked as if no quarter would be given by the Wild Texans to our sick and wounded. I had risen and mounted my horse after the attack commenced, and I now dismounted at the hospital, and with Captain Noblet of the 1st Indiana Artillery stood awaiting the result. The Captain was full of wrath, and vowed that he would put the two or three charges, still in his revolver, in places where two or three of the murdering villains would feel them. A wild-looking squad, with broad hats and jangling spurs, rushed, revolver in hand, upon the building. In no very decided mood at the time, and acting chiefly from the military habit of looking to some one in authority, I asked sharply if there was an officer among them. They stopped, looked, a trifle disconcerted, and one answered that he was a sergeant.

“This is a hospital,” I said, authoritatively. “Sergeant, put two men on guard at the door, and don’t let any but the wounded pass in.”

“Well then, Bill,” said the sergeant, “you and John stand guard here. And now see you don’t let nobody go in unless they be wounded.”

This was the first and last order I ever gave to a Confederate soldier, and it is due to the sergeant to say that he executed it promptly and well.

About the same instant another squad rushed to a side window and poked their rifles through the sash. Dr. Willets, the surgeon of the 176th, at the moment was operating on a wounded soldier. With professional coolness he turned to the window, and in the decided manner that one would speak to a crowd of small boys, said—

“This is a hospital; you mustn’t come here. Go away from the window and get out of my light.”

The rifles were withdrawn; the party looked at the window a moment in a somewhat awe-struck manner, and then saying to each other, “You mustn’t go there,” they withdrew.

The wounded of both sides were brought in, and our surgeons, with scrupulous impartiality, treated all alike. From beside their operating table I was moved to an upper room with Lieutenant Stevenson of the 176th. A minnie ball had torn through the entire length of his foot, leaving a frightful wound that threatened lockjaw and amputation. On the next cot lay a wounded Confederate named Lewis—a plain, simple-hearted man, who, for the next week, proved a useful and trustworthy friend. As we thus lay there, my regimental colors, by some strange chance, were brought into the room. Our conversation stopped—the sick and wounded raised themselves from their cots, and all eyes were fastened upon the inanimate flag as though it were a being of intelligence and life. The Texan soldier first broke the silence.

“That,” he said, in a dreamy way—half to himself and half to us—“that has been the proudest flag that ever floated.”

“And is still, sir,” said my wounded lieutenant, proudly.

The Texan said nothing. I expected an outbreak, for there had been no little defiance in the lieutenant’s reply, but none came. Some old emotion had evidently touched his heart and carried him back to earlier and better days.

As he turned away my color-sergeant whispered to me a plan for destroying the colors, which, however, I did not approve. He pleaded that he knew every thread of that flag, and that it would almost kill him to see it borne away by rebel hands. “No, Sergeant,” I was obliged to reply, “we must keep our colors by fighting for them, and not by a dirty trick.” The answer satisfied neither the sergeant nor my fellow officers. Yet before my own imprisonment was over, I had the great happiness of learning that the undestroyed flag, honorably recaptured, was restored to its regiment.

An officer soon appeared charged with the duty of paroling our men. His quiet and courteous manner said plainly that he was a gentleman, and he introduced himself as Captain Watt, of Gen. Mouton’s staff. The Captain and I looked at each other as men do who think they have met before. He then informed me that formerly he had spent his summers at Saratoga and Newport, and that he thought we must have known each other there. For this slight reason—so slight that many men would have made it a good excuse for dropping an acquaintance, if any had existed—Captain Watt called on me repeatedly, procured an order for my being retained in the Brashear hospital, and for several months carefully transmitted to me such letters as found their way through the lines. His family had been one of the wealthiest in New Orleans, and were now refugees in Europe. He had entered the army under the belief that it was a duty to his State, and on the capture of the city had beheld the ruin of all who were dearest to him. Yet he made no ill-timed allusions to this, and in our conversations always selected pleasant topics and spoke kindly of the hours he had spent and the acquaintances he had made in the North.

The chief Confederate surgeon (Dr. Hughes, of Victoria, Texas,) next arrived, and assumed command at the hospital. It caused at first but little change. Our own surgeons continued in charge of our wounded—our steward continued to dispense the stores, and the stores continued to be forthcoming. The Confederate surgeons were polite and kind, doing all they could to make us comfortable, and expressing thanks for the treatment previously bestowed on their own wounded. Thus, in a few hours, our affairs had settled down in their new channels; and we, with a strange, new feeling of restriction upon us, set ourselves to wait for the bad news, and fresh reverses likely to come. From our window we could see the Confederate forces crossing the river. They waited not for tardy quarter-masters or proper transportation, but, in flat boats and dug-outs, pressed steadily across. A little steamer dropped out of one of the narrow bayous, and worked ceaselessly, bringing over artillery. Ere sunset, we estimated that five thousand men and four batteries had crossed, and were moving forward to break our communications on the Mississippi, and compel us to raise the siege of Port Hudson.

From this early day, there was a strong resolve in the minds of most of us, to be cheerful before the enemy, and, whatever we felt, not to let them see us down-cast. When the mind is really roused and in motion, a little effort will turn it into almost any channel. We made the effort, and succeeded. One individual who came in last, and ventured to say, with solemn visage, that this calamity was awful, was immediately frowned down, and warned that, if he talked such nonsense here, he should be moved to some other ward. The effect was magical, and in ten minutes he became rather a merry, careless kind of fellow. This treatment, I believe, saved many lives; and I found that my own convalescence, which had been slow and changeful in the previous quiet, was now rapid and steady.

There were sorrows enough to see, if one chose to look toward them. So many causes never united to depress, and never produced so little effect. Neither the shameful loss of the post, nor the presence of the sick and wounded filling every room, nor our unburied dead who lay around the building, nor the prospect of a long captivity, nor the helplessness of disease, nor the suffering of wounds, were sufficient to make us appear sad. I marvelled then, and cannot understand now, how the mind was able to throw off these troubles, and how real this enforced cheerfulness became. A sense of duty dictated it at the beginning, and redeemed it from heartlessness afterward. Once, indeed, my spirits failed me, as I searched some private letters to find an address. They were so light-hearted and happy, and dwelt on the belief, as on a certainty, that he, to whom they were written, would return crowned with honor. It was a happy and brief illusion. An only sister had given her only brother to the war—the orphan pair had made this great sacrifice of separation; and now I had to write to the young girl, and say that he had been my most trusted officer, and had fallen for the honor of his flag.[^[1]]

There was a class of captives who saw the loss of Brashear with heavier hearts than those who possessed the rights and hopes of “prisoners of war.” The unhappy contrabands were agitated before the blow fell, but met it with the tearless apathy of their race. “The niggers don’t look as if they wanted to see us,” I heard one Confederate soldier say to another.

“No,” said the other; “but you’ll see a herd of fat planters here to-morrow after them. They don’t fight any, but they are always on hand for their niggers.”

It was even so: for days, planter after planter appeared, and party after party of men, women and children, laden with their beds and baggage, tramped sorrowfully past our quarters. The hundreds that remained went, I know not whither.

There was one woman, a quadroon, who had been an attendant in our hospital. With her there were an old mother, darker than herself, and a little daughter so fair, that no one ever suspected her of being tainted with the blood of the hapless race. This woman, through all the turmoil and trial of that time, never lost the little marks of neatness and propriety that tell so plainly in woman of innate dignity and refinement. The tasteful simplicity of her frequently changed dress; the neat collar and snowy cuffs; the pretty work-box, and more especially her quiet reserve, indicated rather the lady than the slave. During the fight she had been calm and brave, and when a couple of cowards had rushed into the hospital and begged for a place where they could lie down and hide themselves, this woman, while volleys were firing at the hospital, and men and women falling in the passages, had shown these men to a room and closed the door on them, and walked away so quietly that one might have thought her beyond the reach of the danger that threatened them. An hour or two later, as she passed through the ward where we lay, she stopped at the window and looked out on the scene of the Confederates crossing the river. Of all the persons to whom the capture of Brashear boded grief and wrong, there probably was not one to whom it threatened so much as to her. With her mother and her child, she had been preparing to seek the surer refuge of the North, and this direful calamity had come when the place of safety appeared almost within her reach. Yet she shed no tears, and uttered no complainings. Her large, sad eyes fastened on the river, she stood beside the window and heard the shouts and yells that told of the Confederate triumph. For half an hour she never moved; her face retained its soft composure, and only once the muscles of the lip fluttered and trembled, as though there might be a troubled sea within. Then she turned and went back to her work, as calmly as if she alone had suffered no change. She cheered those men who were struggling for strength to go out on parole; she worked for those officers who were to be sent forward into captivity. For herself, she never invited aid or sympathy. We asked her if we might not send for her former master to come and take her back to her old home. But this, for some untold reason, she steadfastly refused. It was urged that she and her child would be sent far into Texas or Arkansas; and that they might be seized, as so much booty, by some of these half-savage strangers. She answered quietly, that she had thought of this. Ere we parted, we asked her what future help we could give, and what plan she would pursue to regain her freedom, or secure some less dangerous home. And she said briefly, that she did not know, and said no more.

[1]. Captain John S. Cutter.

The captured officers, able to march, were sent forward to Shreveport, and the men were paroled and marched off to our lines. Three officers of my regiment remained with me—two sick, and one severely wounded. Two “citizen prisoners” were also added to our number. One of these, whom I shall call Mr. Stratford, was held as lessee of a confiscated plantation. His wife was permitted to remain with him, and she now visited the hospital daily. The other civilian was Mr. Dwight Parce, of Chenango County, New York, who had just begun business in Brashear. He now witnessed the destruction of his property with undiminished cheerfulness, and, although an invalid, fated to fill a prisoner’s grave in Texas, met the discomforts that awaited him with a serenity and hopefulness that nothing ever disturbed.

We all effected some captures of baggage. Captain Watt sent me an order for the delivery of mine if it could be found, and Dr. Hughes, with ever ready kindness, advised me to take his ambulance and search for it at the fort, where some captured property was stored. The guard consisted of a young gentleman in his shirt-sleeves and no shoes, who, when requested to go, whistled violently, and perched himself on the rear of the ambulance, with his face toward the hospital and his back toward me. I asked him, with some surprise, if he was not going to take his rifle; at which he stopped whistling and said, he reckoned not. After whistling a few minutes, he further defined his position by saying, that if I ran away he reckoned he could run after me; and then, that he reckoned the climate had been a heap too much for me. After another whistle his stiffness wore away a trifle, and he manifestly tried to put me at my ease by saying, “Dog gone the Lousanny climate, and the bayous, and the beef, and dog gone the Lousanyans: they’re the meanest set of people ever I see. I’d just as soon shoot one of ’em as a Yank.” This put me quite at my ease, and we then had a very interesting conversation. The etymology of “dog gone” my guard was ignorant of; he suggested that it meant pretty much what something else did, but wasn’t quite so bad, in which opinion I coincided. Since then I have learnt that this expressive phrase is derived from the threat of putting a dog on you, and that it saves annually, in Texas, an immense amount of swearing, and is found to answer just as well.

On the morning of the third of July, the Officer of the Day appeared. He was a Captain in Colonel Bates’ Texan Battalion, and he blandly begged that we would prepare to move in the afternoon; the boat would be ready at five, and we would be sent to the hospital at Franklin, where we would be much more comfortable. The boat did not come, however, and we remained to celebrate the “Fourth” at Brashear. We went round among our sick men who remained, to cheer them with the certainty of their early release; we read the Declaration, and we drank a bottle of wine, which Mrs. Stratford, with patriotic devotion, smuggled in for us. Our friend, the ex-officer of the day, re-appeared to apologize; the boat had been detained—he knew he must have caused us much trouble—he had come to beg us to forgive him—he deeply regretted that he had not known of the delay in time to inform us. To-day he believed that there would be no delay, and he had just requested the new Officer to order the boat up to the hospital, so that we should not have the trouble of walking down to where she lay. Nothing could have been more elegant, chivalric, and delightful. If he were one of my own officers and I were the Lieutenant-General, he could not have been more courteous and respectful.

We started on our “Fourth of July excursion” in the afternoon. While the boat was lying at the wharf, an officer, with long white hair and of imposing appearance, came slowly down the saloon. As he drew near I observed a Colonel’s insignia on his collar, and one of the guard whispered me, that it was Colonel Bates, the commanding officer at Brashear. The Colonel marched up to me, extended his hand, and with grand solemnity, in keeping with his dignified bearing, said:

“Colonel, I have come down now to apologize for not having waited upon you before. I ought to have done so, sir—I ought to have done so. But I have been over-occupied. I pray you to excuse me, sir.”

“When I consider our difference in years, and the different circumstances that surrounded each, I do not know of any incident that could have pleased me more than this stately courtesy of the old Colonel. An interesting conversation followed, in which I learnt that he was an Alabamian by birth. He spoke highly of the Texan character, which, he said, excelled in bravery and simplicity; but he warned me that the country could furnish few comforts, such, he said, as Northerners have at home. Then, when the boat was ready to start, he called up the officer of the guard, and said to him:

“Captain, your orders are strict, I know; but these gentlemen are invalids; they are too weak to escape, sir. You must construe your orders liberally, sir, in favor of the sick. Do not let the guard trouble these gentlemen, and make them as comfortable as you can.”

There was another Colonel who succeeded Colonel Bates, at Brashear; he was a citizen of a New England State, and had been an ice merchant in New Orleans. When the war came, he went, not “with his State” but with his property. All the indignities, ill-treatment, meanness and cruelty that we met with at Brashear and Franklin, came directly from him. While the real Southern officers were showing us unsought kindness and attention—while they were overlooking what they sincerely believed to be the needless ruin of their homes, and the wanton destruction of their property, this miserable Northern renegade was bullying Northern ladies—“bucking and gagging” unfortunate prisoners, and sending sick and wounded officers out of the hospital by orders as cowardly as they were cruel.

The Franklin Hospital had been the “Franklin House” before the war, and stood close beside the bayou. Lieutenant Stevenson was placed in the wounded ward, and the rest of us were assigned three pleasant rooms in a wing of the building. Our guard consisted of a corporal, named Ingram, and six men of Colonel Bates’ regiment. They bivouacked on the piazza, and completed our confusion as to what Wild Texans are. They did not drink; they did not swear; they did not gamble. They were watchful of us, but did everything kindly and with a willingness that greatly lessened our feeling of dependence.

The surgeon in charge of the hospital, Dr. Marten, was polite and kind. A stylish little French lieutenant of the 10th Louisiana, named Solomon, was assiduous in his attentions. He detailed a contraband as our especial servant; hourly sent us little presents, in the way of fruit and refreshments, and paid us those easy, chatty visits, that Frenchmen pay so much better than any other men. There was a sort of Dutch Major-Domo, one Schneider, who took us under his special protection, blowing up the cook and scolding the waiter, on our behalf, a dozen times a day. There was also a sergeant of the Crescent regiment—a soldier and disciplinarian, but easy and communicative toward us. Lastly, there was our contraband, bearing the name of Ben, and very sharp and shrewd was he, and never wanting in good humor or flourishing obeisances.

The ladies of Franklin flocked to the hospital, bringing fruit and flowers, and knick-knacks of their own preparing. They differed considerably with the doctors on questions of diet; and did about as much damage, in their pretty way, as patriotic young ladies have done in other than Confederate hospitals. They carefully avoided the cot of the solitary Yankee prisoner in the wounded ward; the well-bred passing it by as though the slight were casual, and the ill-bred, showing with studied care, that it was intentional. The Wild Texans who had captured us shared not in these patriotic manifestations. They, on the contrary, divided with Lieutenant Stevenson whatever they received, looked after him as though he were a brother soldier, and, once or twice, asked their fair visitors rather angrily, why they didn’t give this or that to that gentleman on the fourth cot. Yet it must not be supposed that this conduct of the Franklin fair proceeded entirely from their own wicked imaginings. The women, like the men of the South, are all slaves of public opinion. After awhile one lady, giving way to the natural kindness of her nature, stopped at the prisoner’s cot, and then the others followed the example. The presents flowed in with a free hand, and the sails once fairly round on this tack, the wind seemed to blow as strongly from the chivalric quarter as it had previously blown from the patriotic.

This narrative would not be truthful if I omitted therefrom a statement of the fare, during our fortnight in the Franklin hospital. It was so much better than I had expected; so much better than I had supposed it possible that prisoners could receive at rebel hands; so different from the fare which we knew was to follow, that I carefully noted down the bill on several days, and from these select a favorable specimen.

“Wednesday, July 15. At Sunrise.—French Coffee and Biscuits.

“Breakfast.—Beef Steak, Beef Stew, Cucumbers, Stewed Peaches, Melons, French Bread, Biscuits, Toast and Tea.

“Dinner.—Soup, Roast Beef, Beef a la mode, Cucumbers, Egg Plant, Lima Beans, French Bread, Biscuits, Tea.”

This easy prison-life, however, received a jog, in the shape of an officer of Speight’s Battalion of Texas Cavalry. He was introduced to us as Lieutenant Geo. C. Duncan, and he bore orders to carry us to Niblett’s Bluff, on the Sabine. It appeared therefrom that we were to be moved to the southern side of Texas, and not to follow the officers captured with us.

The orders were, to carry all the prisoners at the hospital to Niblett’s Bluff; but when the officer saw Lieutenant Stevenson, and heard the surgeon’s statement, he sent down a special report from the surgeon, and waited for further orders. In the meanwhile, our polite French friend, Lieutenant Solomon, drove Mrs. Stratford to New Iberia, and we awaited, with some anxiety, our departure, and discussed the probabilities of marching through, or giving out by the way.

IV.
THE MARCH.

It was Sunday morning, about sunrise, when Lieutenant Duncan appeared at the door, and informed us that we must start immediately. There was an instantaneous springing up—a hurried toilet—a rapid rolling of blankets, and a hastily-snatched breakfast of bread and coffee. I remarked, with more unconcern in my manner than I really felt, that I supposed Lieutenant Stevenson would remain. The lieutenant’s countenance fell, and, looking another way, he said, nervously, “Orders have come to move all immediately, and I have no alternative.” It was my unpleasant task, therefore, to go down and announce to the wounded officer that he must go. In addition to his painful wound, he was suffering from an attack of fever. His exhausted appearance frightened me, though I talked quite boldly of the good effects of change of air, and the advantages of continuing with us.

A clumsy plantation wagon rumbled to the door, and the new guard, mounted on wild-looking Texan horses, drew up around it. The old guard, like good fellows, helped us quite cordially in carrying out our baggage; and they shook hands and bade us good bye, with a warmth that savored much less of rebel enemies than of countrymen and friends. Some newly arrived prisoners were brought from the Court House, and we started. As we moved off, one of them seized me by the hand with many expressions of surprise. At first I did not recognize him, but, after a moment, discovered that he was Captain Frederick Van Tine, of my former regiment, and learnt that he, with two Massachusetts officers, was captured on the Mississippi, and, for the last week, had been confined in the jail at Thiboudeau.

Up the main street of Franklin we marched two by two, the guard strung along on each side, their rifles unslung and their eyes watching us, as if they somewhat feared an immediate escape. The loafers of Franklin of course turned out to stare at us, and made remarks rarely complimentary; the women looked at us from the door-steps as we passed, some triumphantly, and a few in pity. At the head of this inglorious procession it was my place to walk; but the new prisoners revealed the hitherto concealed news, and I felt proud and happy over the long delayed result of Vicksburg and Port Hudson.

Beside our own party, and the three officers from the Mississippi, were a number of “citizen prisoners,” and an unfortunate deserter whom they had caught at Brashear. Of these civilians, a dozen were Irishmen and they immediately placed themselves at the head of the column, and proceeded to walk and talk with a zeal that nobody attempted to equal. A move is always animating, even when it is toward captivity; but our excitement was short-lived. Hardly had we passed from the shadow of the town, when the convalescents felt the effect of the burning, fever-kindling sun. It was a serious business for some of us. One hundred and eighty miles distant flowed the Sabine, and we were to march there, over open prairies and in the middle of the Southern summer.

Before a mile was travelled over, I could see the effect of the fearful heat in others, and feel it on myself. Faces grew flushed; coats were stripped off, and the perspiration poured in streams. Yet it was a matter of honor not to give up. For my own part, I was smarting with mortification at the disgrace of Brashear, and resolved, and re-resolved, to walk till I fell dead, before one of these Southern soldiers should say that a Yankee Colonel had given out.

At the head of the guard rode a good-looking young fellow, tall and sinewy, and with the merriest face I have ever seen in a Southerner. I had some doubts, at first, whether he was a private or a Captain, but found that he was a corporal. He was mounted on a compact little bay, called, in Texas, a pony; a long revolver was stuck in his belt; a lariat rope loosely coiled hung on the saddle-bow; his bright Springfield rifle was balanced across the pommel, and with his broad hat and heavy, jangling Spanish spurs, he formed a brilliant picture of a Wild Texan. As some little changes and arrangements were wanting and the lieutenant was not in sight, I addressed myself to the corporal, and asked if he would order a halt for a moment. “Why to be sure I will,” was his very ready reply, followed up with the order, “Now, halt here, men, and let these prisoners put their little tricks on the wagon; there is no need of their packing them.”

“We took advantage of the halt to lash some sticks to the sides of the wagon and to spread upon them our blankets, so as to form an awning over Lieutenant Stevenson. But the sun beat down hotter and hotter. At the next halt, one of us took a canteen from the end of the wagon—the water was hot, so incredibly hot that the others were called up to feel it, and all agreed that its heat was painful. My first impression was, that this intense burning heat would blister us. But the damp Louisiana atmosphere caused floods of perspiration, pouring over the exposed face and hands, and soaking quickly through every garment. Faces grew more and more flushed; conversation flagged and soon ceased. Those who, at the beginning, rattled away cheerfully, walked in moody silence near each other, occasionally exchanging distressed looks, but rarely, if ever, speaking a word.”

About mid-day the expected shower of the rainy season came down on us furiously. We drew up under some trees, and stood close against the leeward side of their trunks, until it blew over. The different characteristics of the three parties who were gathered there immediately developed. The Irishmen laughed, hullabaloed, pushed each other out in the rain, and treated the affair as a capital joke. The Northerners shifted their positions, and attempted improvements, while the rain was at the worst—grumbled a great deal, and hurled fierce denunciations at, what they called, their “luck.” The Southerners silently unrolled their blankets, folded them around their shoulders, looked upward at the storm with their usual sad indifference of expression, made no attempts to better their condition, and waited apathetically till it was over.

A prairie spread out for several miles immediately beyond our sheltering trees, and the road curved around its outskirts. It was a prairie, but a tame one; interspersed with fields; pastured by cattle; surrounded by houses, and looking like any dull, uninteresting plain. Its grass, however, was thick and wet, and its sticky black mud soon loaded our boots and almost glued us fast. The coolness of the air quickly vanished, and the sun, more burning than ever, re-appeared. We dragged on wearily, very wearily, casting wistful glances at the grove on the other side, which rose very slowly, and, for a long time, seemed as distant as when we started. At last, however, we manifestly drew nearer; the chimneys of a house could be distinguished in the foliage, and the guard cheered us with the assurance that it was the house at which we were to halt. Every one made a last effort, and after half an hour’s exertion, we dragged ourselves out of the muddy prairie and into a plantation yard, bordering on the Teche.

We sat there waiting for the wagon, and watching a small drove of hogs that had come down the bank of the bayou, and, half immersed, were greedily eating the green scum that covered the water. The lieutenant had bought provisions at the house, and hired the contrabands to cook for us. The dinner finally appeared, consisting of a large kettle of boiled beef, and a quantity of corn bread in the shape of little rolls. It did not impress us favorably; but the guard seemed to think it excellent—perhaps because boiled beef was a rarity—perhaps because the corn bread was a superior article, (I was not a judge of it then); and one, with charming simplicity, said, “If we do as well as this, it will do!” To which rhapsody one of my disgusted friends was obliged to respond, with a faint and sickly smile, “Yes, yes; it is very nice.”

The place of bivouac that night was in the grass-covered yard, or rather field, of one of the finest plantations on the Teche. The owner soon appeared, accompanied by his son, his son-in-law, and a friend. He was an old gentleman, dressed with the scrupulous taste and neatness of a Frenchman, and treated us with as much politeness and as little kindness as could very well be united. The son-in-law regaled us with a description of the manner in which some of our troops had plundered his house, and burnt his furniture; and the friend sat himself down, and opened with the invariable remark, “We consider this a most unnatural war, sir;” which he followed up with the invariable question, “When do you think there will be peace, sir?” To these I gave my invariable replies, that we also thought it a most unnatural war, and that there would be peace whenever the Southern soldiers chose to go home and take care of their own affairs. The gentleman seemed very much disgusted at the idea of having peace on such simple and easy terms, and said solemnly, that he couldn’t allow himself to believe it.

There was a large open shed beside us, but the ground was covered with fleas, and we preferred the wet grass and heavy dew of a Louisiana night, to these pests of a tropical climate. But few slept well. For a long time I felt too tired to close my eyes, and awoke repeatedly, aching in every part. When daylight dawned we rose so stiff and sore that we could hardly move, and with renewed apprehensions made ready for another day. Lieutenant Stevenson showed such increased exhaustion that the Confederate officer took me aside and said, that he would not be guilty of carrying him beyond New Iberia.

We started, not at daylight, as was intended, but a long time after the sun was up. With all such parties there are many petty causes of delay, and it requires an iron-handed commander to bear them down, and carry his party off at the appointed hour. Lieutenant Duncan was too good-natured for this, and instead of coercing us, he, on the contrary, told us to choose our own time, and not to start till we were ready. The delay brought down the burning sun again upon us, and the pain and weariness of this second day much exceeded those of the first.

As we thus toiled along, the road, which was running between un-inclosed fields, approached a tall rail fence. Three or four of us were walking a few yards in advance of the guard, when we heard the corporal shout from behind, “Take care of the bull! Take care of the bull!” I looked ahead and saw nothing very alarming: a large red bull was drawing himself up, and lashing his sides with his tail. After a moment or two, however, he started toward us, shaking his head and breaking into a low, deep bellow. He was a magnificent animal, with long, low, spreading horns, and moved in a full, square trot that many a horse might envy. There was a scramble at once for the fence which stood very nearly midway between us and the bull. What the result might have been I think somewhat doubtful, had not the gallant corporal, on his bright little bay, rushed past us on a gallop. The pony was a herding pony and understood his business. Like a spirited dog, he flew straight at the bull until they nearly touched, then wheeling he kept alongside, watching him closely and sheering off whenever the long horns made a lunge toward himself. The pony did this of his own accord, for, as he wheeled, his rider held the rifle in his left hand and was drawing the long revolver with his right, and these Texan horses are rarely taught to wheel from the pressure of the leg. A finer picture of intelligent instinct than this pony presented could hardly be painted: his ears erect, his eyes flashing, and his whole soul in the chase. The corporal was not slower than his horse. He brought the long revolver up; a shot flashed, and the poor beast received a heavy wound. This diverted his attention from us, for, with a loud bellow, he wheeled toward the corporal. But the pony’s eye was on him, and, quicker than spur or rein could make him, he also wheeled, and scoured off, across the plain faster than any bull could go. The corporal brought up the rifle, and there was a second flash—a second wound, for the bull staggered, and then walked slowly and proudly away. Occasionally he stopped, turned defiantly round, uttered deep bellowings, and shook at us his splendid horns.

The incident afforded us a little excitement, and led me into a conversation with the corporal, who narrated anecdotes of the wonderful intelligence of herding ponies. The heat, the dust, the glaring sun, and increasing pain and weariness at length stopped even a conversation on so interesting a topic as horses are and ever will be, and I was fain to drag myself along without expending an ounce of strength on any object beyond the dusty road. We entered upon the last two miles, and saw Iberia in the distance. The road ran between hedges twenty feet high—it was filled with a long column of dust—not a breath of outer air disturbed it, and the sun shone directly down from his noon-day height. I felt myself grow weaker and weaker as we advanced through this green boiler. The perspiration poured into my eyes and blinded me—my head whirled round—my feet stumbled and dragged, so that every step seemed almost the last. While in this critical state, a couple of pretty Louisiana “young ladies” stopped their carriage, and greatly refreshed me by expressing the hope that we should be hung at the end of the lane, and the opinion that hanging was quite as good treatment as nigger-thieves deserved. Such was the power of this well-timed stimulus, that I kept on for more than a mile, and at last found that I was in the midst of the little town of New Iberia.

We halted in the shade of some large trees. There seemed to be an unusual number of vagabonds in New Iberia, who congregated closely round us, and asked impudent questions (generally as to how we liked the war now), until it occurred to our guards that this might be annoying to us, and then they very promptly drove the Iberian loafers back. One cowardly-looking, black-eyed little rascal, however, was very desirous of finding an officer of the Twenty-first Indiana amongst us that he might kill him, and repeatedly hinted that he had a great mind to kill one of us anyhow. But one of the guard quieted him by the suggestion that if he wanted to kill a Yank, he’d find plenty of them over on the Mississippi, and that he’d better go there instead of skulking round in the rear—anyhow, he’d better stop insulting prisoners, or he’d have a right smart chance to kill a Texan—dog-goned if he wouldn’t.

Soon after this, an officer of the Provost Guard appeared. The roll of the “citizen prisoners” was called over, and all but six marched off to the jail. We were put in motion, and marched to the outskirts of the town, where we halted beside a saw-mill standing on the bank of the Teche. The lieutenant then brought a surgeon, who speedily pronounced in favor of receiving Lieutenant Stevenson, and directed that he should be taken at once to his hospital.

During the afternoon, our kind and courteous French friend, Lieutenant Solomon, appeared, to take us to the hospital, and thence to his own house. I asked Lieutenant Duncan for a guard, and he politely sent one of his men with us. One of my officers walked with me to the hospital. It was in a church, and at its extreme end we found Lieutenant Stevenson. He looked wretched, and my hopes sank as I saw him. The church was crowded with Confederate sick, and he was the only prisoner there. Yet there was no alternative. We knew that if he were carried along, a sadder parting would soon ensue. Faintly hoping that we should again see him, and inwardly praying that he might find the friends he sorely needed, we bade him farewell.

The French lieutenant rejoined us in the street, and led the way to his own house. He wished, he said, to present us to Madame, and offer us some slight refreshment, which was not good, but was better than we might enjoy again. We soon reached his house, and were presented to Madame, who received us with the grace and politeness of a French lady. The slight refreshment, doubtless, was preparing, and we were comfortably waiting to enjoy it, when a patriot soldier of the Confederacy, with the villainous look peculiar to those of Louisiana, stuck his gun and then his head in the room, and said sulkily, that the Provost Marshal wanted us. Our worthy lieutenant accompanied us, saying, “Oh, surely it must be a mistake; somebody has told him you are making an escape. He will let you return to my house, and you shall stay all the afternoon.” Arrived at the Provost Marshal’s, the Louisiana patriot left us on the sidewalk, and stepped in to inform the august official that we were in waiting. That magnate immediately came forth—a youthful, swarthy, small-sized, unwashed Louisianian, with a consequential air, and a vagabond face. “Take these fellows back to your camp,” he said, addressing our Texan guard. “I won’t have prisoners running about my town.” As he said this, he honored us with a vicious stare, and then banged back into his office.

There was no resisting this eloquence, so back we went. Our guard, who had been very silent, became very talkative. He swore pardonable oaths at the Louisianians in general, and the Provost Marshal in particular. As to the former, he said they were all a disgrace to the South; and as to the latter, that if ever he got a chance, he’d scalp him—dog-gone if he wouldn’t. In camp, his excitement extended to the rest. Our gallant friend, the corporal, was especially indignant.

“What,” he said, “he spoke so right before you, without your having insulted him. The dog-gone little puppy. If I’d been there, I’d have slapped his face, and then run for Texas. There’s just such ducks everywhere, and most of all in Louisiana. Dog-gone them—I’d like to shoot the whole of them.”

Our wounded honor being soothed by these chivalric sentiments, and a shower of rain coming up about the same time, we retired to the saw-mill, where we selected soft planks, swept away the saw-dust, and made ready for the night. About dark, Lieutenant Duncan returned, with anger and mortification glowing in his face. He had not been able to get fresh mules or a good wagon, or full rations, or even a wagon cover, for prisoners, and he was vexed and wrathful at the refusals he had met. “I tell you what it is, though, gentlemen,” he said, “you shall be taken care of, and have the best this country can give you, if I take it out of their houses with my revolver. It’s not so in Texas, gentlemen. There our people haven’t got much, but they will give you what they have.” In fact, the good lieutenant was so chagrined and mortified, that I had to assure him that we were not children, and would rather undergo a little extra hardship, than put him to further trouble. But while affairs were gliding in this harmonious and humane channel within the saw-mill, some wicked imp suggested to our friend, the Provost Marshal, the feasibility of his bestowing on us another kick. Hardly had the lieutenant wiped the perspiration from his brow, and looked around for a dry plank on which to sleep, when a second Louisiana patriot, dirtier even than the first, appeared. He delivered an order to the lieutenant. It was to pack up and be off instantly—he, the Provost Marshal, wouldn’t have prisoners camping in his town over night.

We accordingly packed up and went off, not more than a hundred yards (for the saw-mill was on the boundary of the town), and stopped at an abandoned barn, just beyond the Provost Marshal’s jurisdiction. The barn was dirty—the ground around it muddy—the fleas were hale and hearty—and these little circumstances added a great deal of force to the thanks which the guard lavished on the Provost Marshal. Yet we looked forward with hopefulness to the morrow, for then we were to turn off from the Teche, and leaving civilization and the hateful Louisianians behind us, strike off, undisturbed, on the free prairies.

V.
THE PRAIRIES.

The road ran, for several miles, between hedges and among plantations, and close to gardens and houses, with their fields and fences, until it suddenly emerged on a broad, unbounded prairie. Our guards’ eyes sparkled when they saw it, and they declared that this began to look like Texas. We all felt better at the sight, and the fresh breeze that swept over it almost swept away the weary weakness of the previous days. There is a profound sense of loneliness and littleness on these great seas of green far exceeding that which men feel in forests. There is such an absence of objects—such long distances appearing to the eye, and before which the feet grow feeble—such a want of all shelter and protection, that one wishes for the woods, and acknowledges a companionship in hills and trees beyond all that he has ever known before.

A long noon-day halt was made at a Frenchman’s, whose wretched shanty stood environed by a beautiful grove of the deep-shading China tree; and, during the afternoon, we found the prairie interspersed with small plantations. These took away the sense of loneliness, and, in some respects, added to the interest of the march. There was a good stiff breeze, too, blowing directly from the west, (to which we travelled) and all moved cheerfully along, shaking off fatigue and forgetting, for the time, that we were prisoners. As the sun approached his setting, we descended by a gently sloping plain toward a wood that marks and hides Vermillion Bayou. While it was still a mile or two distant, we turned from the wagon-trail and made our way across the prairie to a plantation, whose large white house and numerous out-buildings peered forth from a grove of over-hanging trees.

The plantation was owned by a lady, who kindly allowed her servants to cook our supper, and gave us her lawn to bivouac upon. She also invited Mr. and Mrs. Stratford to occupy a room in her house, and showed the rare good taste and delicacy of not coming out to stare at us. We found ourselves still connected with civilized life; for supper was spread out handsomely in the dining-room, and was accompanied by the luxury of real French coffee, served in delicate china.

We started earlier than usual the next morning, and soon crossed the strip of prairie between us and the Vermillion. The belt of wood was not more than half a mile in breadth, and near its farther edge we found a narrow, sluggish stream, almost bridged by the ferry-scow, yet deep in mud, and with miry banks that made it difficult to cross. As we waited for the wagon that was slowly rumbling along, we discovered below the ferry, closely drawn up against the bank and almost hidden by the trees, a full rigged schooner, that had eluded the watchfulness of our blockaders, and escaped the eyes of our cavalry, and now lay snugly waiting for the proper time to glide down the bayou and escape on the open sea.

The wagon rolled up while we were scanning and discussing the little blockade runner, and we began our crossing. It was not a labor of very great importance, for when one end of the scow had been pushed a few feet from the eastern bank, the other end ran into the western. We found the latter much higher than the former, being, in Southern phrase, “something of a bluff.” On mounting it, we saw a rolling prairie spreading out like a lake of green, and enclosed by distant woods which seemed its shore. The “timber,” (as forests in the West are called,) was four or five miles distant on either side, and, to the front of us, sank down behind the far-off horizon. Numerous herds were in sight; and troops of young cattle would draw up and stare at us. They were not the “fine stock” of our good breeders; yet, still were beautiful creatures—straight-backed, fine-boned, and with heads gracefully carried and erect. “When our shouts startled them into motion, they carried themselves off with the same high horse-like trot I had been struck with in our bull on the Teche, and then, breaking into an easy gallop, bounded away like deer. The guards repeatedly warned us to keep near the horsemen, and said, that these cattle of the prairies did not know what a man a-foot was, and were so wild that they would attack us if we ventured near them.”

The guard had been improving daily since we left Franklin. No formal parole was given by us, yet there was an informal one which we respected, and in which they placed implicit confidence. They behaved, too, with great kindness, constantly dismounting and making first one and then another of us ride. Our column broke up into little parties of twos and threes, the faster walkers opening gaps on those who took it more leisurely, and each one travelling at whatever rate he best liked. After five or six miles of this, three of us, with a like number of the guard, reached a little house that stood alone in the prairie. The guards showed their appreciation of our honor, by handing us their horses and rifles to take care of while they went into the house. After a while they returned, and showed their appreciation of our appetites by bringing us a pail full of milk for a drink.

We watched the different parties that dotted the prairie for a mile or two behind us, until they severally came up, wiping the perspiration from their faces and throwing themselves on the grass beside us. The wagon overtook us last, and then we rose and resumed the march. The prairie continued to present the same rich picture of beautiful seclusion. Occasionally its timber-shores approached each other, and sometimes they opened into successive lakes. Yet, with all this beauty, we found ourselves becoming hot and weary. There were no way-side trees to cast an occasional shade, and no brooks or springs at which to halt and re-fill canteens. The usual morning breeze that sweeps across the prairies, as across the sea, went down, and wistful eyes were thrown at a distant plantation which we saw embowered in trees. Where the road to this cool retreat branched off, Lieutenant Duncan ordered a halt, and then, with his usual kindness, asked us to decide whether we would go to the plantation and rest till evening, or push on and finish our day’s work before we halted. There was some little difference of opinion. Certain thirsty individuals, who kept up a constant sucking at their canteens, declared that they were nearly choked, notwithstanding the three pints of water each had swallowed; others, who had drunk nothing since we started, were in favor of pushing on. It ended in the lieutenant sending one of his men, laden with canteens, to the plantation, and in our resuming the march.

The Texan put his “pony” on the easy amble, which is the leading trait of a Southern horse, and struck off in a straight line toward the distant house. We could see the horse and rider gradually sinking in the prairie as they receded from us, until not much could be discerned beside the wide-brimmed Texan hat. There was a little interval, and then horse and rider re-appeared, striking off at an angle which would intercept our line of march, and travelling on the same easy amble. The horses of the Texans, I must confess, had greatly disappointed me. Half of them were miserable, ill-shaped ponies, which could never have made or withstood a charge, and were unworthy of the name of cavalry horses. And yet these mounted troops of the Confederates have shown a wonderful readiness and swiftness of movement, which have often outwitted our generals and eluded our strategy, and that too, in a country where our horses would have starved. This great “mobility” I ascribe, in part, to the ambling gait (forbidden in our service) which carries them along some five miles an hour, without strain to the horse or fatigue to the rider; and, in part, to the free use of the lariat, which enables the horse to graze at every momentary halt. Man and horse understood this latter principle, for the former never dismounted without twitching off the bridle, and the latter never stopped without industriously picking up his living. In one respect the Texans are careless of their horses, tearing off the saddles the moment they halt, and never dreaming of cold water either as a preventive or a cure of the sore back that tortures nearly every horse.

“While I was making these reflections, our column had stretched out in its usual manner, and then broken into small groups: these separated more and more as we advanced. The guards told us that Turtle-Tail Bayou was to be our camping ground, and they pointed to the timber, which looked like a low cloud along the horizon. How long this cloud was in changing into trees, and how slowly these trees rose in view, no one can imagine who has not travelled a-foot upon the prairies. The sun sent down his usual burning rays as he approached the meridian, and a damp stifling heat rose from the grass. Yet it is a great thing to be first in camp, and able thereby to choose your own tree, and label it “TAKEN,” by pitching your haversack at its foot, and to lie down and rest ere the slow walkers arrive. So the two or three of us who led pushed on. The trees came slowly more and more into view; the branches imperceptibly rose; the grass beneath them appeared. Then the corporal and his men left us and rode on to select the camping ground. We followed slowlier on their trail, keeping our eyes upon them until we saw them dismount where timber and prairie met—unsaddle and turn loose their horses, the welcome signs of our coming rest. The sight gave vigor to our halting feet—on, on, without a stop, though it was two miles, as the bird flies, to the nearest tree. On, on, until panting and streaming, I tear off my hat and haversack and drop them, with myself, at the foot of a spreading oak.”

There is no rest like that which comes after such, exercise. I see again the little groups drawing nearer across the prairie; coming in with sun-tinted faces and dripping brows; speaking no words, unless a few tired monosyllables; casting quick glances round for some smooth, shaded spot of turf, then walking there and dropping down. And last of all, the heavy, lumbering wagon rumbling up; its tired passengers jolted, and jaded, and cross, and broiled, yet still willing to find, with particular care, a spot that pleases them, whilst the teamster pulls the clattering harness from the mules, turns them loose upon the prairie, and, like the others, drops down to silence and repose.

Hour upon hour thus passed, partly in sleep and partly in a dreamy languor of delicious rest. Then came a little restlessness and glances at the sun—then the blue smoke of a fresh-kindled camp-fire, and assertions that A. and B. had risen, and were preparing (for themselves) the one important meal. When such assertions had been repeated twice or thrice around me, the ground, which at first was softer than down, began to grow hard, and withal somewhat knobby. I arose, and went with Lieutenant Sherman to find the bayou. It was a stagnant bed of pollywogs, not ten feet wide nor ten inches deep. Crawling out on a log, nevertheless, and skimming off the green, slimy scum, we dipped up the water and enjoyed, as we had seldom enjoyed before, the luxury of a bath. Returning to the camp-fire, we found that the guards, mindful of their prisoners’ more tired condition, were baking “dodgers” for all hands, and that the “dodgers” were nearly done.

One of us quickly clambered into the wagon, and cut from the side of bacon a couple of slices, while the other sharpened two slender sticks. The bacon, skewered on these, was speedily toasted over the fire. A slice of “dodger” took the place of plates and dishes; our pocket-knives were also spoons and forks; and yet this Texan supper in the open air, cooked by oneself, and eaten after a twenty mile march and a twelve hour fast, is as delicious a meal as was ever served. The blankets were spread ere the dew fell. We lay gazing on the stars, smoked lazily, and talked of to-morrow’s march, till it grew dark. To me this camp brought back all the interest of an old cavalry bivouac with some of its most unpleasant parts left out. The sense of responsibility was now gone. I had no anxiety or duty beyond that of taking care of myself. There were no guards for me to post; no pickets to visit; no rounds to make, and no prisoners to watch.

Again the blankets were rolled—the bacon toasted—the dodger divided, and a cup of tea made. Of tired nature’s sweet restorer, English breakfast tea—so much perverted and abused in civilized life—we had a little canister, and wondrous were the works which that little canister performed. Its few ounces of simple-looking herb—so light—so portable—so bulk-less, seemed to contain strength sufficient for an army. Those who sipped it, though weary and faint, grew strong and cheerful: those who disliked it at home, confessed that it tasted like nectar on the march. Ere the last sip was taken, the corporal mounted the wagon and said, “Now, gentlemen, please to pack along your little tricks.” The “little tricks” were safely stowed by the gallant corporal, on top of the rations; the sick and lame were stowed on top of them; Mrs. Stratford took the seat reserved for her; the well “fell in,” and again we started.

The road crossed the timber-belt, and emerged on a lake-like prairie. It was that hour when the soft light of the morning heightened the peculiar beauty which this march revealed. The rising sun gilded the tree-tops beside us, and tinged the soft expanse before. The herds were moving slowly; some so near that we could hear the sullen bellow of the bulls; and some so distant that we could see only their long horns moving above the green, looking like wild fowl floating on the surface of the grassy sea. The prairie rose and fell in occasional swells, the distant timber swept around it in the graceful windings of a serpentine shore, and islets of trees waved upon the bosom of this green and wood-bound lake.

Before the morning passed, I had an illustration of a folly which pervades our army. The guards had warned us that it was sixteen miles across this prairie, and until it should be crossed, we should find no water. Every canteen was therefore filled, as was a two-gallon keg that had followed me through the lines. Several years ago, Lieutenant-Colonel Frederick Townsend, of the Eighteenth United States Infantry, in recounting to me his sufferings while crossing the Gila desert, had laid great stress upon the fact, that during the journey he had made it a rule to go without drinking till he halted for the night. Remembering this when I entered the army, I subjected myself to like discipline, drinking only when I ate. A single week made this a habit, and left me comparatively comfortable and independent. On this morning, I accordingly loaned my canteen to some one foolish enough to need it, and walked along without the slightest feeling of thirst. It was not eleven o’clock, and we had not marched six hours, when we came to a puddle of water, filling the wagon-track. The water was apparently the result of some local shower; it was clear, but the road was dirty, and on one side, lying in the water, were the putrid remains of an ox. I was turning out to go around the puddle, when I heard my friends behind shout to me to stop.

“What for?” I asked, in much amazement at the idea of halting in the wettest spot we could find.

“Why, for a drink.”

“A drink! What, drink that filthy water?”

Yes, they were thirsty enough to drink anything. They must drink something; the canteens and keg had been empty two hours. With accelerated speed, they hurried to the margin of the puddle. Some knelt down and drank, others ladled it up in their mugs, and several actually filled their canteens with the decoction. Thus had the little period of six hours swept away the niceties of men who, in their own homes, would have sickened at the thought of this loathsome draught; and thus did a childish habit destroy the whole pleasure of their walk, hide all the beauties of the landscape, divert their attention from objects of interest, and subject them to a needless annoyance, sometimes little less than torture.

The following day passed much like the others—our road still leading us across several wood-encircled prairies, separated from each other by narrow timber-belts and trivial, dried-up bayous. Early in the afternoon, after a march of twenty-three miles, we reached a bayou possessed of two or three names. From these, I selected as the one easiest to be remembered, “Indian,” and after crossing the place where the water of Indian Bayou ought to have been, I found that we were to encamp beyond the “timber,” and in a little grove. This word “grove” is in constant use through western Louisiana and Texas, and when first heard, it strikes the educated ear as a specimen of the fine talk so common in all parts of our country. But when these natural groves are seen, the purest taste acknowledges that the word is not misapplied. The one in which we now encamped was an oval clump of the live-oak, so clear and clean below, so exact and regular in form, that one could hardly believe nature had not been aided by the gardener’s art.

The next morning our breakfast disclosed the fact, that the Confederate bacon ration is not so large as the military appetite. The lieutenant informed me that he had no intention of starving in the midst of plenty, and had sent forward two men to shoot a yearling, near a certain bayou, and there we would halt and “barbecue” the meat. From the time of leaving the Teche, the prairies had been steadily growing drier. The atmosphere, too, was clearer, the sky brighter, the air more bracing and elastic, and though the sun was intensely hot, yet there was not the damp, vaporous heat that is so oppressive in the lower prairies of Louisiana. This day we were to cross a “dry-prairie,” and as we had at last succeeded in an early start (4–45), we reached it before the heat of the day had begun. A very dreary waste it was, unenlivened by the usual herds, its scanty herbage dried and withered up, and its wide expanse barren and desolate. It was, if I remember aright, nine miles across, but seemed much farther, for the road was soft and sandy, and with every breeze, a cloud of dust travelled down upon us. As the nine miles lessened into one, and the stunted trees that bordered the dry-prairie came in view, our two beef-hunters also could be seen driving down their half-wild game toward the road. Being somewhat in advance, I struck off to join them. Ere I accomplished this, a young heifer broke from the herd and bounded away. Instantly one of the rifles flashed and the heifer fell. The shot attracted the corporal, and in a moment his little bay was coming pell-mell across the broken ground, leaping some gullies and scrambling in and out of others, until he threw himself back on his haunches beside us. The corporal looked with great interest at what they called the “yuhlin,” inquired how far they had driven it (some eight miles), and enlarged on our great luck in getting so fat a “beef” on so poor a “range.”

It was somewhat of a mystery to me how the “yuhlin” would be carried to camp. When I asked whether the wagon, or perhaps the leading pair of mules, would be brought round to tow it in, the corporal laughed, and said in his merry way, that he would show us how they carried their game home in Texas. Forthwith he took his ever-useful lariat, and making fast one end to the “yuhlin’s” horns, wound the other round the horn of his Mexican saddle. One of the men attached another in like manner, and thus harnessed, the two horses dragged the heifer as they would a log. The saddles, girthed for “roping” cattle, did not yield, and the horses tugged away with as much unconcern as though they were pulling by the ordinary collar and traces.

The mile between us and the halting-place was soon passed over, and all hands seemed to feel a deep, immediate interest in the “yuhlin.” Although we had marched eighteen miles that morning, it was not eleven o’clock; nevertheless there were suggestions of fresh steaks, and the deserter (who really seemed to try to eat all he could, so as to be in some measure even with men who had less ripened chances of being shot) proceeded to bake a dodger. The corporal had unsaddled his horse in a trice, and was now elbow deep in breaking up the “yuhlin.” Another corporal—a quiet, hardworking, unassuming German—prepared the frame for barbecuing the meat. This consisted of poles placed horizontally, about three feet from the ground. Beneath it a slow fire was made, and the meat, cut up in thin slices, was spread on the poles. In three or four hours it was partly dried and partly cooked into a half-hard state, and was then said to be barbecued. Meanwhile an army of hogs came out of the woods, lean and savage, and grunted impatiently for their share of the “yuhlin.” A smaller but not less impatient party waited, with drawn knives and sharpened sticks, till the steaks could be cut, and then hurried with them to their several fires. A steak thus cooked upon hard-wood embers retains a flavor that the best French chef, with charcoal range, only approaches. And when this flavor is intensified by the fresh breezes of the prairie, and the long miles of a day’s march, it is not wonderful that men affirm that steaks cut from buffalo or stag, or even from a poor little half-tamed “yuhlin,” are better than the best butcher’s meat that can be bought at home.

“When the meat was all barbecued, we pushed forward for the Calcasieu. The river formed a dividing line between a forest and a prairie country. At the foot of a slight bluff was a flat-boat and rope-ferry. I learnt from the ferryman, with much surprise, that our “gun-boat boats” had been up there, and captured a steamer and several schooners. I wished most ardently as we stepped aboard the flat, that they might re-appear at that particular moment, and enable us to return the good treatment of our guards, by providing for their wants in New Orleans. The wish was not realized, and the scow, like a gentler craft, wafted us to the other shore. There an unexpected individual hailed our approach, in the person of a bright-looking mule, who, solitary and sad, was travelling briskly toward the ferry. The corporal, who, as usual, led, answered the mule in his way, and quickly uncoiled the lariat. The mule tried a dodge, but the lariat flew straight over his head and tight around his neck. The mule was fairly “roped.” The corporal gave an inspiriting yell, and examined the brand. It was an unknown brand—a Louisianian brand—and the mule was therefore adjudged a lawful prize.”

Our road now wound through the green woods and along the bank of the winding river. The sun, which at first was behind us, moved round upon our left, then swung in front, then passed beside us on our right, then speedily changed back, and shone again before us. The foliage screened the river, but frequent openings uncovered views of these river-bends, and of the clear, dark water flowing beside us. Could a section of the Calcasieu be cut out and transplanted to the environs of some great city, the rich luxuriance of its banks, clad with verdure from the vines that trail upon the water to the tops of the tall firs and deep-green magnolias that overhang the stream—its constant windings and its graceful curves, would be deemed a marvel of picturesque beauty. Yet here the traveller finds in it only a dull monotony of never-ceasing turnings, and sees in the beautiful foliage of its banks, only a dreary loneliness. I listened to a Texan’s description, and doubted whether it had ever received an admiring glance before my own. This wood, too, through which we marched, was not the foul swamp of eastern Louisiana. There was the cool, deep shade, the dreamy stillness, the sweet, wild perfume of our northern forests. The trees aided, too, in the brief delusion. We knew the rough branches of the oak and the needles of the “fadeless pine.” Large gum-trees deceived us into the belief that they were the maples of a “sugar-bush;” and dwarfed magnolias, at the first glance, took the semblance of the hickory. There was also a delightful refreshingness in the cool, shadeful river-bank, and our long march through prairies, exposed and shelterless, helped us to realize “the sweet retirement” of the woods.

For four miles we marched with spirit and pleasure, although they made up the sum of twenty-five for that day’s work. Then halting, on a sandy bluff covered with pines, we encountered a legion of troubles. The gnats were terrible—the mosquitoes fearful—the pine smoke spoilt our steaks—the fresh breeze of the prairie did not reach us—and our longest march was followed by a restless night. All the next day our road continued in the “piny-woods.” There were occasional openings, and the ground was clear of underbrush, yet most of the party wished themselves back on the prairie, and thought the light shade of the pines a poor return for the prairie breeze. As it was Sunday, we halted early, and the lieutenant told us that one day more would bring us to Niblett’s Bluff.

For two days we lay idle at the Bluff, with no better recreation than yawning and cooking. On the third, the Beaumont boat arrived. Some Vicksburg paroled prisoners had, meanwhile, come in, and they spoke of our soldiers in terms which were most cheering to us. They were as brave as men could be—they had treated them like brothers—they had given them all the rations they could carry with them, and they had behaved “a heap better every way” than it was supposed Yankees could. They said this not only to us, but to other soldiers and citizens, and spoke up boldly on our behalf. The effect was agreeable, not in any material change, but in good feeling and in the greater kindliness with which we were treated. The boat started the next morning at daybreak. We descended the Sabine and ascended the Neches, reaching Beaumont in the evening. At this place there was a railway eating-house, that gave us a greasy breakfast, for a dollar and a half; we also bought sugar for a dollar a pound, and watermelons for a dollar apiece. These prices seemed enormous at the time, but subsequent experience makes them appear quite reasonable.

We left the little town of Beaumont on an open platform car of the Houston train. Lieutenant Duncan made an effort to have us placed in the passenger cars, but they were full. The news of Vicksburg had reached here some time before us, and the coming of the Vicksburg prisoners was expected. At every station were anxious faces, sometimes made glad and sometimes going away more anxious than they came. At one of these, there were two women, evidently a mother and her daughter. The train had hardly stopped, when I heard a shriek, which sounded like one of agony, but was instantly followed by the words, “O my son, I’m so glad, I’m so glad, I’m so glad!” I looked and saw a fine young fellow, who had told us many tales of the sufferings of the siege, running toward the woman, and the next moment folded in her arms. Unconscious of the many eyes upon them, the mother hung upon his neck, and the sister held his hand. Some friends tossed him his roll of blankets, but it fell unnoticed. The train started, but they did not look around, and when we were far out upon the prairie, they still stood there exchanging their eager words, and seemingly unconscious that we had left them.

It was twilight when the train ran into Houston. A crowd was on the platform, made up of families and friends, who had come there to welcome their sons and brothers from the dreadful siege. There was a line of young girls upon the edge of the platform, and as our car was the first of the train, they of course saw us while looking for their friends. It was interesting to observe the different expressions that passed over the line of pretty faces as their eyes scanned us. At first a look of anxious interest—a shade of disappointment—a start of surprise—a slight shrinking back with side glances at each other and the whispered-word, “prisoners”—and then, in most cases, a little glance of pity. But our car ran past them, and the next moment were heard the usual sounds that welcome long-absent soldiers to their homes—loud congratulations, eager inquiries, laughter and kisses. A little shade of sorrow, and perhaps of envy, fell on us. We stood apart, a small group unnoticed, as unknown. I tried to repress the dangerous feeling, but insensibly my thoughts flew far away to those who would thus have welcomed us.

The kindness of Lieutenant Duncan continued unabated. We had shouldered our knapsacks, but he sent for carts, and insisted on conveying them for us. Before the Provost Marshal’s, a small crowd assembled, but it was quiet and respectful. An officer of the provost guard came out. He took the roll and called it, made sure that all were present, and informed Lieutenant Duncan that he was relieved from the further charge of us. We were faced, and marched to what had been the Court House. Our old guard accompanied us. They attempted to carry in our things, but were stopped at the door. There they shook hands warmly, and wished us a speedy exchange. We turned down a dark stone passage and entered a room. There were bars on the window, and the moonlight fell in little checkered squares upon the dirty floor. The corporal of the guard, brought in our baggage—sent out and bought us some bread—asked if we wanted anything else—and then drew out a key. With the sight of that key, all conversation ceased. It was a wand of silence. No one spoke or moved or looked elsewhere. Every eye remained fixed on the key. The corporal inserted it in the door. It went in slowly and grated horribly, unlike the grating of a house key, or an office key, or a safe key, or a stable key, or any kind of a key, SAVE ONE! The corporal looked around and said, good night. No one had breath enough to respond. The corporal stepped out and the door closed, not with a bang or a slam or a crash, but with a heavy, ominous, awful sound. There was still an instant of suspense, a small infinitesimal fraction of a faint hope, and then the key turned, grating with an indescribable sound, such as none of us ever heard key give forth before. With a great effort I withdrew my eyes from the door-lock, and looked around the room. All were seated on their blankets, and ranged round, with their backs against the walls. The moonlight checkers still fell on the floor. I felt that somebody must speak, that if somebody did not speak soon, some of us would never speak again. I thought that I would speak—I made another great effort, and said:

“What a singular sound a key makes when somebody else turns it; did you ever remark it before? I suppose you have.”

One man laughed—all laughed. Lieutenant Sherman came promptly to my aid, and said:

“How pretty that moonlight is on the floor! Who cares for the bars.”

And then we had (apparently) a very jolly evening, in the dark.

As this military prison has not a very good name among prisoners, and some who have been confined there have had to wait a day or two for rations, and then a day or two more to get them cooked, I feel bound to say that the guard brought us a very good breakfast the next morning, which I took to be a part of their own. They brought us also word that we should be sent by the morning cars to Camp Groce.

With alacrity we shouldered our knapsacks, and lugged our remaining “traps” to the cars; and with a sense akin to freedom, we hurried away from those picturesque bars and that detestable lock. There was a little detention at the depot, and then we were placed in a “first-class passenger car” with first-class passengers, and rolled along toward the prisoners’ camp. The conductor soon came upon his rounds, and as he passed me, asked in a whisper, if there were any Massachusetts officers among the prisoners. He was a tall, fine-looking man, with the tightness and trimness of dress that no one ever finds in a Southerner. I asked who he was, and learnt that he was Lieutenant-Governor B——, of Massachusetts. The fact was even so—an ex-Lieutenant-Governor of Massachusetts was a conductor on the South Western Railroad of Texas!

“Here is your stopping-place, gentlemen,” said the sergeant of our guard. We looked from the car windows, and saw long barracks of rough boards, like an enclosed cow-shed. In front was a pretty grove, and in the rear a sloping hill. At the doors of the barracks we saw clusters of blue-jackets, and a few sauntered around the buildings. We toiled up a sandy bank; the roll was called, and we were “turned over” to the commanding officer. Captain Buster greeted us kindly, and said he was sorry to see us; he had been a prisoner twenty-two months in the dungeons of Mexico, and knew what it was. He marshalled us down to the barracks, and formally presented us to Captain Dillingham, the senior officer of the naval prisoners. We entered the barracks. They were like most such buildings, long and narrow, with bunks around the sides, and tables for the well and cots for the sick. The officers occupied the first compartment. They crowded around us, with eager questions, and showed us kindness and hospitality beyond our expectations. We selected such bunks as were still empty, unpacked our knapsacks, and made our arrangements for the night, and the many nights that were to follow. We studied the faces of our new companions, and found that they were for the most part sick and sad. We talked to them, and found that they were unhappy and dejected. Half a year’s imprisonment had manifestly changed them from energetic, active men, to listless, idle, irritable invalids. We asked ourselves whether it could have a like effect on us, and answered that it could not.

VI.
CAMP GROCE.

It is not a pleasant thing to be a prisoner; I never enjoyed it, and never made the acquaintance of any prisoner who said that he did. True is it that you have but few cares and responsibilities. In the prisoners’ camp you take no heed of what you shall eat, or what you shall drink, or wherewith you shall be clothed. If the rations come, you can eat them; and if they do not, you can go without; in neither case have your efforts any thing to do with the matter. Your raiment need not trouble you; for there vanity has no place, and rags are quite as honorable as any other style of dress. You are never dunned by importunate creditors, and if, by possibility, you were, it would be a sufficient bar in law and equity to say that you would not pay. There you are not harassed by pressing engagements, or worried by clients or customers. There you have no fear of failure, and may laugh at bankruptcy. And yet, with all these advantages, no man ever seeks to stay in this unresponsible paradise.

“The dews of blessing heaviest fall

Where care falls too.”

I found that there was a horrible sense of being a prisoner—of being in somebody’s possession—of eating, drinking, sleeping, moving, living, by somebody’s permission; and worst of all, that somebody the very enemy you had been striving to overcome. There was a feeling of dependence on those who were the very last persons on whom you were willing to be dependent. There was a dreary sense of constraint in your freest hours, of being shut in from all the world, and having all the world shut out from you.

In the first days of imprisonment the novelty carried the new prisoners along, and buoyed them up. Then came a season of work, when they built cabins and made stools and tables; and then, a restless fit, when they felt most keenly the irksomeness of the life, and made foolish plans to escape, which (so the “old prisoners” said) had been tried before and failed. Then the “new prisoners” would grow quiet and sad. The most of them would become idle, inert, neglectful of their dress and quarters, peevish and listless, despondent of exchange, yet indifferent to all present improvement. A few (about one in ten) would struggle to make matters better; they would take hopeful views of affairs and perform active work on things around them.

For a day or two after our arrival at Camp Groce we lay by, idle and weary. As I thus looked on, and saw the listless despondency of the “old prisoners,” I discovered quickly that those were happiest who were busiest. Experience since has confirmed me in the value I early set on occupation. Those labors which the rebels have imposed on our men—the chopping of wood—the building of houses—the cooking of rations—have been, I think, the prisoner’s greatest blessings. Our active northern minds chafe at enforced idleness, and the freshly caught Yankee, or Hoosier, after the work of cabin building is done, and the rough tables and stools are made, becomes dejected and then sick; and yet while he was doing the work at which he growled, both soul and body bore up easily. It is no wonder then that I said to my lieutenant, “This will never do for us, Sherman, we must be busy.”

We turned over a new leaf, therefore, for the following day. The Captain of the “Morning Light” joined us and pledged himself to provide and devise quantities of work. With the first gleam of light one of us rose, and from a little private hoard abstracted a small handful of coffee. These sailor prisoners, I early found, had no idea of going without while the Confederacy could supply them for either love or money (they did not care much which); and they inspired the rest with a little of their own easy impudence.

Accordingly on the door-post hung one of the last coffee-mills that the shops of Houston had held, and in the galley (as they called the kitchen) stood a stove—the only one, probably, in any Texan camp. The first riser then kindled a fire in the stove, if it was not already there, and ground and made the coffee. Then bearing it to the sleepers’ bunks, he quickly roused them with the cheerful salutation of “Here’s your coffee—your fine hot coffee!” When a tin mug of coffee is the only luxury of the day it rises in importance and becomes great. We sipped it slowly and discussed it gravely. One thought that if it were strained a fourth time it would be stronger—the maker, on the contrary, thought that straining it again would take the strength out; a second insisted that it ought to boil—but the maker maintained that boiling dispelled the aroma and sent it flying through the air. The coffee ended before the argument; and then after rinsing out our mugs and restoring them to their private pegs, we took down our towels and started for the “branch.” We descended the hill by a little path that was nearly hidden in tall weeds and led to some thick bushes and trees that grew along the “branch.” The chain of sentinels around the camp consisted of broad-hatted Texans, sitting at irregular intervals on stumps and logs, and generally engaged in balancing their rifles on their knees. One of these, Captain Dillingham hailed in a patronizing way, in return for which attention the sentry halted us.

“I reckon,” he said, “you can’t go no further jist yit awhile.”

“Halloo,” said the Captain, “what’s the matter now?”

“Well, there be three down there now, and the orders is not to let no more down to once.”

“Orders?” said the Captain, indignantly: “who cares for orders! What difference does it make to Jeff Davis whether there are three prisoners or six washing themselves?”

“Well, I reckon it don’t make an awful sight of difference,” the sentry admitted.

“Of course it doesn’t,” said the Captain, following up the concession. “The idea of making us wait here because there’s somebody down there!”

“Well, I reckon you might as well go on,” yielded the sentry: “I reckon you won’t run off this morning;” and on we went.

The “branch” was a little brook, sometimes running over sand-bars, sometimes filtering through them, and occasionally settling into pools, which were our bathing places. It was a happy relief to be out of sight of the barracks and alone. We clung to this under all sorts of difficulties and restrictions—sometimes going out with a patrol—sometimes squeezing through on parole, and holding fast to it, until we left Camp Groce in the cold weather of December.

The bath being taken, we walked leisurely back, wondering that so few sought this relief from the misery of prison. At the barracks our sailor cook had prepared the breakfast, which was set out on the long table. He blew his boatswain’s whistle, and all members of the mess hurried at the call. I had felt poor when I arrived at Camp Groce. I had expected to broil beef on sticks, and bake dodger in a dodger pot, and live on my ration as the Texans did. I was amazed at the extravagance I beheld, and when Captain Dillingham, with a sailor’s heartiness, invited me to join the navy mess, I hinted to him that probably I should become insolvent in a fortnight, if I did. The Captain laughed at the idea. He said there was plenty of money in Texas—he had never seen a country that had so much money—and it was the easiest thing to get it—anybody would lend you all you wanted—the only fault he had to find was, that after he got it he couldn’t spend it. Now, making reasonable allowances for nautical exaggeration, this was true. Sometimes a secret Unionist—sometimes a Confederate officer fairly forced his money upon us. They took no obligation, save the implied one of our honor; and the manner of payment, and the specie value of their Confederate funds, they left entirely to ourselves. To spend this money was a harder task. To change this easily gotten spoilt paper into something of real intrinsic worth was to acquire wealth.

When breakfast was finished, I took up a little French volume of ghost stories (which I read over five times carefully in the course of the next five months), and spent on it and some military works the next four hours. “Prisoners have nothing to do but to eat;” so at the end of four hours we had our breakfast over again. When “dinner,” as it was called, was finished, the Captain stoutly asserted that a load of wood must be got, and somebody must volunteer to get it. The Captain volunteered, so did Lieutenant Sherman and myself, so did another officer cheerfully, and two more tardily; but the mass of closely confined prisoners were too weak and too dejected, and they shrunk back from the effort that this work would cost them, preferring to stay idle and listless in their horrid prison. Those of us who volunteered, seized a couple of dull old axes, and proceeded to head-quarters.

“We are going out for wood to cook with,” said the Captain to the lieutenant that we found there, “and we must have an arbor to keep the sun off those sick fellows, or they’ll all die, and you’ll have nobody to exchange. Wake up one or two of your men, and send them out with us.”

The lieutenant reckoned he could not, he hadn’t a man to spare, all were on guard who hadn’t gone off to a race. The Captain pointed to the axes and said, “we were all ready to go.” This struck the lieutenant as a powerful reason, and he reckoned he would let a nigger hitch up the mules, and then let us go without any guard, but we must not go across the “branch.” The Captain replied that we would not go a great way across the “branch;” but he was fond of liberty, he said, and would not be circumscribed by “branches.” The lieutenant insisted on the “branch,” there had been orders given to that effect, he reckoned. The Captain did not care anything about orders—what difference could it make to Jeff Davis, he asked, whether we cut wood on this side of the “branch” or the other. The lieutenant could not answer this question, so he said, coaxingly, “Well, you won’t go a great ways on the other side, will you?”

This little difference being thus compromised, we mounted an old rickety “two-mule wagon,” and drove down the “wood road,” till a sentry, sitting on a stump, reckoned we had better stop. Stop! what should we stop for? He reckoned he’d orders to let nobody out. Orders! Why, we had just been up to head-quarters, and got orders to go out, and also the wagon; what more could he want. Then why had not the lieutenant sent down a man to tell him; it was no way to do business. The Captain said the wagon was pass enough as long as the mules would travel, and that we were going out for wood, which he thought altered the case; if he, the sentry, doubted it, there were the axes. The sentry looked at the axes, and could not doubt the evidence of his eyes, so he let us out.

The sun went down, and then began a long evening. There was nothing to do but to sit in the dark and talk of nothing. Then there was a detail made of two for the sick watch, and finding that I was “on,” I went to bed. In the morning there had been several late sleepers who wondered why people got up early and ran a coffee-mill. As a matter of course these individuals now wondered why people went to bed early and wanted to sleep. The topics, too, which they chose were exactly the topics that always keep you awake; and if by chance you forgot them long enough to fall asleep, then there would be a furious argument on some important matter; and if that did not waken you, then some other man (who, like yourself, turned in at taps,) would lose patience and roar out, “taps,” “lights out,” “guard-house,” etc., etc.

In small assemblages men may wake up and fall asleep when they please, but in camps and barracks, where many men of different habits are brought together, there must be some uniform rule for all. The Confederates never enforced military usage upon us, much to the regret of all who were accustomed to it, and a few very early and very late individuals, some of whom sat up till after taps, and others of whom turned out before reveille, were an endless annoyance to each other and to all. I think no officer of experience ever ran this gauntlet without inwardly resolving that, if ever he got back to his own command, stillness and darkness should rule between taps and reveille; that with daylight every blanket should go out, and every tent be put in order; that every shaggy head should be clipped, and all the little regulations which weak-minded recruits think to be “military tyranny,” should be most rigorously enforced.

But as I tossed around and made these resolves, the little sailor who was acting as hospital steward came in with both hands full of prescriptions. We had two excellent and faithful surgeons at Camp Groce, Dr. Sherfy of the “Morning Light,” and Dr. Roberts of the Confederate service. They kept their little office outside of the lines, came round on their second visit in the afternoon, and during the evening made up their prescriptions. This evening the first watch took the prescriptions from the hospital steward, and received the directions. It was Lieut. Hays, of the 175th N. Y., a happy, generous, warm-hearted Irishman, youthful and with the humor and drollery of his race. He was always making fun when others were dull, and making peace when they were angry. Soon I heard him going round among the sick. “I will listen,” I thought, “and find out what I have to do when my watch comes.”

“Here’s your medicine now, Mr. Black,” I heard him say, “wake up and take it.”

“What is it?” asked the sick man.

“Oh! it’s blue pills to touch your liver; come, take it, and don’t be asking questions.”

“How many of them are there?” inquired the patient after swallowing several.

“There are just seven of them, but what’s that to you? it won’t do you any good to know it.”

“Why, the doctor said he would send me six. Perhaps you are not giving me mine.”

“Just you take what’s sent to you. If you don’t take the whole seven, they won’t touch your liver a bit; six would be of no use at all.”

The man with the untouched liver swallowed the pills, and soon I heard the first watch rousing another sick man with the same formula of “Here’s your medicine now, wake up and take it—it’s blue pills to touch your liver.”

“How many of them are there?” asked this patient.

“There are just six of them—what’s the use of your knowing?”

“Why, the doctor said he would send me seven—perhaps these are not mine.”

“No matter, six are just as good as seven, and seven are just as good as fifty. All you need do is to take what I give you, and it will touch your liver all the same.”

Much enlightened by this mode of distributing doses, and re-assuring patients, I went to sleep, and slept till one A.M., when the first watch called me, and I took my turn. It was rather dreary, sitting in the dark and cold, occasionally giving a man his medicine or a drink, and wishing for daylight. There was one poor fellow, also a lieutenant of the 175th, fast going in consumption. His constant cough, his restless sleep, his attenuated form, bright eye and hectic cheek, all told of the coming end. Yet with him there was nothing to be done but wait and watch.

Now this, of itself, was not such a bad sort of day; but there was a month of such days; and then another month, and then a third, and then many more. What wonder that the strongest resolutions failed!

Then death came in among our little company, and came again and again. Then sickness increased under the August sun. The long moss that hung down from the trees and waved so gracefully on the breeze, had betokened it long before it came, and the uncleaned camp and listless life made the prediction sure. It went on until all but one had felt it in some shape or other, and there were not enough well to watch the sick. It never left us, and down to our last day at Camp Groce the chief part of our company were frail and feeble and dispirited.

Near to the barracks stood a little shanty of rough boards, divided by a plank partition into two rooms. One of these had been assigned to Mr. Stratford and his wife, and the other after several weeks came into the possession of Col. Burrell of the 42d Mass., Dr. Sherfy, Capt. Dillingham and myself. After living amid the sickness, the discord, and the misery of the barracks, this room measuring ten feet by twelve, promised to four of us a quiet and retirement that amounted almost to happiness. We went to work upon our little house with all the zeal of school-boys, and positively look back upon it with affection. It boasted doors, but neither windows nor chimney. Its walls were without lath and plaster, and through innumerable chinks let in the wind. The Captain and I also messed with Mr. and Mrs. Stratford; so we had a double interest in the shanty, and when we had built ourselves bunks and swung a shelf or two, we went to work on our other half.

“What shall I do for a blanket line?” was one of the first questions I had asked after our arrival.

“Let me lend you mine,” said an officer of the “Morning Light,” “we sailors always hang on to our ropes.”

“I will take it this morning, with thanks; but I want something of my own. If there is anything I despise, it’s a soldier’s blanket in his tent after reveille.”

“We are not so particular here, I’m sorry to say,” said my friend; “and unless you can find a line among the sailors, you won’t find one in Texas.”

“I am going out in the woods this afternoon, with Mr. Fowler,” I answered, “and will try to get one there.”

Now, Mr. Fowler, the acting Master of the “Morning Light,” was an old sailor, who had hardly been on shore for forty years. But in his early boyhood he had watched the Indians at their work, and caught from them, as boys do, some of their simple medicines and arts. For years and years these facts had slept undisturbed in his mind. If any one had asked him, he would have said they were forgotten; but now, under the pressure of our wants, they, one by one, came back. With this long-time worthless knowledge, Mr. Fowler was now busily and usefully employed. He made Indian baskets of all shapes and sizes, and even bent his ash-slips into fantastic dishes. He made Indian brooms and fly-brushes, and wooden bowls, and wove grape-vine and black-jack into high-backed, deep-seated, sick-room chairs. Where others saw only weeds or firewood, he found remedies for half our diseases; and when the surgeon’s physic gave out, Mr. Fowler’s laboratory was rich in simples.

We went out on parole that afternoon, Mr. Fowler carrying his basket, and I, an axe. He called attention to the fact that these pecan nuts would be ripe by-and-by, and that those persimmons would be worth coming after when the frost should have sugared them, and he filled his basket as he walked and talked. Before long, we saw some clean black-jack vines hanging from the top-most branches of a tree. We tugged and strained a few minutes, and then a splendid vine came down, not thicker than a lady’s finger at the root, yet forty feet in length. It was flexible as a rope, and as I coiled it up, I said to Mr. Fowler, “I have got my blanket line.”

Having cut an ash stick for a broom, and a pecan log for an axe handle, we went back to camp, where, soon after, Mr. Fowler was busily engaged in pounding his ash stick to loosen the splints, and I, at work on the severest manual effort of my life, viz., whittling with a soft-bladed penknife, out of flinty pecan wood, an orthodox American axe-helve.

Some weeks passed, and then one of those events occurred which are doubly mortifying if you are then on the wrong side of the enemy’s lines. I was lying ill in my bunk when an excited individual rushed into the barracks and made me better by the announcement, that the train had brought up great news from Houston. Blunt was coming down through the Indian Territory with his rough borderers, and all the troops in Texas were to be hurried northward to repel the invasion. For several days and nights trains ran by our camp loaded with soldiers who howled horribly to our guards, who howled, horribly back to them. The Houston Telegraph came filled with orders of General Magruder, directing the movement of his forces, and naming twenty-seven different battalions that were to hurry forward immediately. The General did not publish such orders ordinarily, and this one looked like haste, excitement and alarm.

One night, about ten o’clock, an engine was heard hurrying up the road. As usual it stopped at the water-tank near our camp. In ten minutes important news had leaped from the engine to head-quarters; from head-quarters to the guard-house, and from the guard-house straight through the line of sentries into our bunks. The news was this: twelve Yankee gun-boats, twenty-four large transports, and six thousand men lay off Sabine.

The next day the train confirmed the news. We learnt, too, that Union men, in Houston, were bold and defiant, and talked openly of a change of masters. Our guards were in a ferment. They talked with us freely, and confessed that there were not three hundred troops between Houston and Sabine. “Your folks will seize the railroad and march straight on to Houston,” they said, “and then Galveston will have to go, and like as not you’ll be guarding us within a week.” “What splendid strategy,” said everybody. “Blunt has drawn all the forces in the State up to Bonham—there is nothing to prevent our coming in below; Magruder is completely out-generalled. We must forgive the two months of idleness since Vicksburg and Port Hudson fell.”

Another day came, and the excitement increased; another, and affairs seemed in suspense; a third, and there was a rumor that two gun-boats had been sunk, their crews captured, and that the “Great Expedition” was “skedaddling” (such was the ignominious term applied) back to New Orleans. There came yet another day, when we sat waiting for the train.

“The cars are late,” said one. “It is past three o’clock, and they should have been here at two.”

“That’s a good sign,” said another; “it shows they have something to keep them. When they come you will see Magruder is sending off his ordnance stores.”

“Then you don’t feel any fear about that rumor?”