I'll amputate his reveille, And stamp upon it heavily, And spend the rest of my life in bed!"

We didn't kill old Crouch--I don't know why, except that he was protected by a special providence, which sometimes permits such evil deeds to go unpunished. We used to hope that he would blow his own brains out, through his bugle, but he didn't--he lived many years after the war.

=Camp Recreations=

In between our stated duties, we had some time in which we could amuse ourselves as we chose, and we had many means of entertainment. We had a chessboard and men--a set of quoits, dominoes, and cards; and there was the highly intellectual game of "push pin" open to all comers. Some very skillful chess players were discovered in the company. When the weather served, we had games of ball, and other athletic games, such as foot races, jumping, boxing, wrestling, lifting heavy weights, etc. At night we would gather in congenial groups around the camp fires and talk and smoke and "swap lies," as the boys expressed it.

There was one thing from which we got a great deal of fun. We got up an organization amongst the youngsters which was called the "Independent Battalion of Fusiliers." The basal principle of this kind of heroes was, "In an advance, always in the rear--in a retreat, always in front. Never do anything that you can help. The chief aim of life is to rest. If you should get to a gate, don't go to the exertion of opening it. Sit down and wait until somebody comes along and opens it for you."

After the first organizers, no one applied for admission into the Battalion--they were elected into it, without their consent. The way we kept the ranks full was this: Whenever any man in the Battery did any specially trifling, and good-for-nothing thing, or was guilty of any particularly asinine conduct, or did any fool trick, or expressed any idiotic opinion, he was marked out as a desirable recruit for the Fusiliers. We elected him, went and got him and made him march with us in parade of the Battalion, and solemnly invested him with the honor.

This was not always a peaceable performance. Sometimes the candidate, not appreciating his privilege, had to be held by force, and was struggling violently, and saying many bad words, during the address of welcome by the C. O.

I grieve to say that an election into this notable corps was treated as an insult, and responded to by hot and unbecoming language. One fellow, when informed of his election, flew into a rage, and said bad words, and offered to lick the whole Battalion. But what would they have? We were obliged to fill up the ranks.

After a while it did come to be better understood, and was treated as a joke, and some of the more sober men entered into the fun, and would go out on parade, and take part in the ceremony. We paraded with a band composed of men beating tin buckets, frying pans, and canteens, with sticks, and whistling military music. It made a noisy and impressive procession. It attracted much attention and furnished much amus.e.m.e.nt to the camp.

=A Special Entertainment=

On proper occasions, promotions to higher rank were made for distinguished merit in our line. An instance will ill.u.s.trate. One night, late, I was pa.s.sing along when I saw this sight. The sentinel on guard in camp was lying down on a pile of bags of corn at the forage pile--sound asleep. He was lying on his left side. One of the long tails of his coat was hanging loose from his body and dangling down alongside the pile of bags. A half-grown cow had noiselessly sneaked up to the forage pile, and been attracted by that piece of cloth hanging loose--and, as calves will do, took the end of it into her mouth and was chewing it with great satisfaction. I called several of the fellows, and we watched the proceedings. The calf got more and more of the coat tail into her mouth. At length, with her mouth full of the cloth, and perhaps with the purpose of swallowing what she had been chewing she gave a hard jerk. The cloth was old, the seams rotten--that jerk pulled the whole of that tail loose from the body of the coat. The sleeping guard never moved. We rescued the cloth from the calf, and hid it. When the sleeper awoke, to his surprise, one whole tail of his coat was gone, and he was left with only one of the long tails. Our watching group, highly delighted at the show of a sentinel sleeping, while a calf was browsing on him, told him what had happened and that the calf had carried off the other coat tail. He was inconsolable. He was the only private in the company who had a long-tailed coat and it was the pride of his heart. There was no way of repairing the loss, and he had to go around for days, sad and dejected, shorn of his glory--with only one tail to his coat.

All this was represented to the "Battalion of Fusiliers." Charges were preferred, and the Court Martial set. The witnesses testified to the facts--also said that if we had not driven off the calf it would have gone on, after getting the coat tail, and chewed up the sentinel, too.

The findings of the Court Martial were nicely adjusted to the merits of the case. It was, that the witnesses were sentenced to punishment for driving off the calf, and not letting her eat up the sentinel.

For the sentinel, who appeared before the Court with the one tail to his coat, it was decreed that his conduct was the very limit. No one could ever hope to find a more thorough Fusilier than the man who went to sleep on guard and let a calf eat his clothes off. Such conduct deserved most distinguished regard, as an encouragement to the Fusiliers. He was promoted to the rank of Lieutenant-General of the Battalion, the highest rank in our corps. After a while the lost coat tail was produced, and sewed on again.

=Confederate Soldier Rations=

The one thing that we suffered most from, the hardship hardest to bear, was hunger. The scantiness of the rations was something fierce. We never got a square meal that winter. We were always hungry. Even when we were getting full rations the issue was one-quarter pound of bacon, or one-half pound of beef, and little over a pint of flour or cornmeal, ground with the cob on it, we used to think--no stated ration of vegetables or sugar and coffee--just bread and meat. Some days we had the bread, but no meat; some days the meat, but no bread. Two days we had nothing, neither bread nor meat--and it was a solemn and empty crowd. Now and then, at long intervals, they gave us some dried peas.

Occasionally, a little sugar--about an ounce to a man for a three days'

ration. The Orderly of the mess would spread the whole amount on the back of a tin plate, and mark off thirteen portions, and put each man's share into his hand--three days' rations, this was. One time, in a burst of generosity, the Commissary Department stunned us by issuing coffee.

We made "coffee" out of most anything--parched corn, wheat or rye--when we could get it. Anything for a hot drink at breakfast! But this was _coffee_--"sure enough" coffee--we called it. They issued this three times. The first time, when counted out to the consumer, by the Orderly, each man had 27 grains. He made a cup--drank it. The next time the issue was 16 grains to the man--again he made a cup and drank it. The third issue gave nine grains to the man. Each of these issues was for three days' rations. By now it had got down to being a joke, so we agreed to put the whole amount together, and draw for which one of the mess should have it all--with the condition, that the winner should make a pot of coffee, and drink it, and let the rest of us see him do it. This was done. Ben Lambert won--made the pot of coffee--sat on the ground, with us twelve, like a coroner's jury, sitting around watching him, and drank every drop. How he could do it, under the gaze of twelve hungry men, who had no coffee, it is hard to see, but Ben was capable of very difficult feats. He drank that pot of coffee--all the same!

After this, there was no more issue of coffee. Even a Commissary began to be dimly conscious that nine grains given a man for a three days'

rations was like joking with a serious subject, so they quit it, and during that winter we had mostly just bread and meat--very little of that, and that little not to be counted on.

This hunger was much the hardest trial we had to bear. We didn't much mind getting wet and cold; working hard, standing guard at night; and fighting when required--we were seasoned to all that--but you don't season to hunger. Going along all day with a gnawing at your insides, of which you were always conscious, was not pleasant. We had more appet.i.te than anything else, and never got enough to satisfy it--even for a time.

Under this very strict regime, eating was like to become a lost art and our digestive organs had very little to do. We had very little use for them, in these days. A story went around the camp to this effect: One of the men got sick--said he had a pain in his stomach and sent for the surgeon. The doctor, trying to find the trouble, felt the patient's abdomen, and punched it, here and there. After a while he felt a hard lump, which ought not to be there. The doctor wondered what it could be--then feeling about, he found another hard lump, and then another, and another. Then the doctor was perfectly mystified by all those hard places in a man's insides. At last, the explanation came to him: he was feeling the vertebrae of the fellow's back-bone--right through his stomach!

I do not vouch for the exact accuracy of all the details of the story, but it ill.u.s.trates the situation. We all felt that our stomachs had dwindled away for want of use and exercise.

=A Fresh Egg=

Another incident, that I can vouch for, showing the strenuous time the whole army had about food that winter: One day Major-Quartermaster John Ludlow, of Norfolk, met a Captain of Artillery from his own town of Norfolk--Capt. Charles Grandy, of the Norfolk Light Artillery Blues. The Major invited the Captain to dine with him on a certain day. He did not expect anything very much, but there was a seductive sound in the word "dining" and he accepted. Grandy told the story of his experience on that festive occasion. He walked two miles to Major Ludlow's quarters, and was met with friendly cordiality by his old fellow-townsman, and ushered into his hut where a bright fire was burning. After a time spent in conversation, the Major began to prepare for dinner. He reached up on a shelf, and took down a cake of bread, cut it into two pieces, and put them in a frying pan on the fire to heat. Then he reached up on the shelf and got down a piece of bacon--not very large--cut it into two pieces, and put them in another pan on the fire to fry. Down in the ashes by the fire was a tin cup covered over--its contents not visible.

The dining table was an old door, taken from some barn and set up on skids.

When the bread and meat were ready, the Major put it on the table and with a courtly wave of his hand said, "D-d-draw up, Charley." They seated themselves. The Major gave a piece of bread and a piece of bacon to his guest, and took the other piece, of each, for himself. After he had eaten a while--the Major got up, went to the fireplace and took up the tin cup. He poured off the water, and, behold, one egg came to view.

This egg, the Major put on a plate and, coming to the table, handed it to Grandy--"Ch-Ch-Charley, take an egg," as if there were a dish full.

Charley, having been brought up to think it not good manners to take the last thing on the dish, declined to take the only egg in sight--said he didn't care specially for eggs! though he said he would have given a heap for that egg, as he hadn't tasted one since he had been in the army. "But," urged the Major, "Ch-Ch-Charley, I insist that you take an egg. You must take one--there is going to be plenty--do take it." Under this encouragement, Grandy took the egg--while he was greatly enjoying it, suddenly there was a flutter in the corner of the hut. An old hen flew up from behind a box in the corner, lit on the side of the box and began to cackle loudly. The Major turned to Grandy and said, "I-I t-t-told you there was going to be a plenty. I invited you to dinner today because this was the day for the hen to lay." He went over and got the fresh egg from behind the box, cooked and ate it. So each of the diners had an egg. The incident was suggestive of the situation. Here was a Quartermaster appointing a day for dining a friend--depending for part of the feast on his confidence that his hen would come to time. The picture of that formal dinner in the winter quarters on the Rapidan is worth drawing. It was a fair sign of the times, and of life in the Army of Northern Virginia; when it came to a Quartermaster giving to an honored, and specially invited guest, a dinner like that--it indicates a general scarceness.

=When Fiction Became Fact=

One bright spot in that "winter of our discontent"--lives in my memory.

It was on the Christmas Day of 1863. That was a day specially hard to get through. The rations were very short indeed that day--only a little bread, no meat. As we went, so hungry, about our work, and remembered the good and abundant cheer always belonging to Christmas time; as we thought of "joys we had tasted in past years" that did _not_ "return" to us, now, and felt the woeful difference in our insides--it made us sad.

It was harder to starve on Christmas Day than any day of the winter.

When the long day was over and night had come, some twelve or fifteen of us, congenial comrades, had gathered in a group, and were sitting out of doors around a big camp fire, talking about Christmas, and trying to keep warm and cheer ourselves up.

One fellow proposed what he called a _game_, and it was at once taken up--though it was a silly thing to do, as it only made us hungrier than ever. The game was this--we were to work our fancy, and imagine that we were around the table at "Pizzini's," in Richmond. Pizzini was the famous restauranteur who was able to keep up a wonderful eating house all through the war, even when the rest of Richmond was nearly starving.

Well--in reality, now, we were all seated on the ground around that fire, and very hungry. In imagination we were all gathered 'round Pizzini's with unlimited credit and free to call for just what we wished. One fellow tied a towel on him, and acted as the waiter--with pencil and paper in hand going from guest to guest taking orders--all with the utmost gravity. "Well, sir, what will you have?" he said to the first man. He thought for a moment and then said (I recall that first order, it was monumental) "I will have, let me see--a four-pound steak, a turkey, a jowl and turnip tops, a peck of potatoes, six dozen biscuits, plenty of b.u.t.ter, a large pot of coffee, a gallon of milk and six pies--three lemon and three mince--and hurry up, waiter--that will do for a start; see 'bout the rest later."

This was an order for one, mind you. The next several were like unto it.

Then, one guest said, "I will take a large saddle of mountain mutton, with a gallon of crabapple jelly to eat with it, and as much as you can tote of other things."

This, specially the crabapple jelly, quite struck the next man. He said, "I will take just the same as this gentleman." So the next, and the next. All the rest of the guests took the mountain mutton and jelly.

All this absurd performance was gone through with all seriousness--making us wild with suggestions of good things to eat and plenty of it.

The waiter took all the orders and carefully wrote them down, and read them out to the guest to be sure he had them right.

Just as we were nearly through with this Barmecide feast, one of the boys, coming past us from the Commissary tent, called out to me, "Billy, old Tuck is just in (Tucker drove the Commissary wagon and went up to Orange for rations) and I think there is a box, or something, for you down at the tent."

I got one of our crowd to go with me on the jump. Sure enough, there was a great big box for me--from home. We got it on our shoulders and trotted back up to the fire. The fellows gathered around, the top was off that box in a jiffy, and there, right on top, the first thing we came to--funny to tell, after what had just occurred--was the biggest saddle of mountain mutton, and a two-gallon jar of crabapple jelly to eat with it. The box was packed with all good, solid things to eat--about a bushel of biscuits and b.u.t.ter and sausage and pies, etc., etc.

We all pitched in with a whoop. In ten minutes after the top was off, there was not a thing left in that box except one skin of sausage which I saved for our mess next morning. You can imagine how the boys did enjoy it. It was a bully way to end up that hungry Christmas Day.

I wrote my thanks and the thanks of all the boys to my mother and sisters, who had packed that box, and I described the scene as I have here described it, which made them realize how welcome and acceptable their kind present was--and what comfort and pleasure it gave--all the more that it came to us on Christmas Day, and made it a joyful one--at the end, at least.

In regard to all this low diet from which we suffered so much hunger that winter--it is well worthy of remark that the health of the army was never better. At one time that winter there were only 300 men in hospital from the whole Army of Northern Virginia--which seems to suggest that humans don't need as much to eat as they think they do.

That army was very hungry, but it was very healthy! It looks like cause and effect! But it was a very painful way of keeping healthy. I fear we would not have taken that tonic, if we could have helped it, but we couldn't! Maybe it was best as it was. Let us hope so!

Well, the winter wore on in this regular way until the 3d or 4th of February, when our quiet was suddenly disturbed in a most unexpected manner. Right in the dead of a stormy winter, when n.o.body looked for any military move--we had a fight. The enemy got "funny" and we had to bring him to a more serious state of mind, and teach him how wrong it was to disturb the repose of gentlemen when they were not looking for it, and not doing anything to anybody--just trying to be happy, and peaceable if they could get a chance.

=Confederate Fashion Plates=

Leading up to an account of this, I may mention some circ.u.mstances in the way of the boys in the camp. Living the hard life, we were--one would suppose that fashion was not in all our thoughts; but even then, we felt the call of fashion and followed it in such lines, as were open to us. The instinct to "do as the other fellow does" is implanted in humans by nature; this blind impulse explains many things that otherwise were inexplicable. With the ladies it makes many of them wear hats and dresses that make them look like hoboes and guys, and shoes that make them walk about as gracefully as a cow in a blanket, instead of looking, and moving like the young, graceful gazelles--that nature meant, and men want them to look like. Taste and grace and modesty go for nothing--when fashion calls.

Well, the blind impulse that affects the ladies so--moved us in regard to the patches put on the seats of our pants. This was the only particular in which we could depart from the monotony of our quiet, simple, gray uniform--which consisted of a jacket, and pants and did not lend itself to much variety; but fashion found a way.

There must always be a leader of fashion. We had one--"The gla.s.s of fashion and the mould of form" in our gang was Ben Lambert. He could look like a tombstone, but was full of fun, and inventive genius.

Our uniform was a short jacket coming down only to the waist, hence a hole in the seat of the pants was conspicuous, and was regarded as not suited to the dignity and soldierly appearance of a Howitzer. For one to go around with such a hole showing--any longer than he could help it--was considered a want of respect to his comrades. Public opinion demanded that these holes be stopped up as soon as possible. Sitting about on rough surfaces--as stumps, logs, rocks, and the ground--made many breaks in the integrity of pants, and caused need of frequent repairs, for ours was not as those of the ancient Hebrews to whom Moses said, "Thy raiment waxed not old upon thee"--ours waxed very old, before we could get another pair, and were easily rubbed through. The more sedate men were content with a plain, unpretentious patch, but this did not satisfy the youngsters, whose aesthetic souls yearned for "they know not what," until Ben Lambert showed them. One morning he appeared at roll call with a large patch in the shape of a heart transfixed with an arrow, done out of red flannel. This at once won the admiration and envy of the soldiers. They now saw what they wished, in the way of a patch, and proceeded to get it. Each one set his ingenuity to work to devise something unique. Soon the results began to appear. Upon the seats of one, and another, and another, were displayed figures of birds, beasts and men--a spread eagle, a cow, a horse, a cannon. One artist depicted a "Cupid" with his bow, and just across on the other hip a heart pierced with an arrow from Cupid's bow--all wrought out of red flannel and sewed on as patches to cover the holes in the pants, and, at the same time, present a pleasing appearance. By and by these devices increased in number, and when the company was fallen in for roll call the line, seen from the rear, presented a very gay and festive effect.

One morning, a General, who happened in camp--the gallant soldier, and merry Irishman, General Pat Finnegan, was standing, with our Captain, in front of the line, hearing the roll call.

That done, the Orderly Sergeant gave the order, "'Bout face!" The rear of the line was thus turned toward General Finnegan. When that art gallery--in red flannel--was suddenly displayed to his delighted eyes the General nearly laughed himself into a fit.

"Oh, boys," he cried out, "don't ever turn your backs upon the enemy.

Sure they'll git ye--red makes a divil of a good target. But I wouldn't have missed this for the world."