Part 2 (2/2)

=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 Fas.h.i.+on 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 fas.h.i.+on was not in all our thoughts; but even then, we felt the call of fas.h.i.+on 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 fas.h.i.+on 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 fas.h.i.+on found a way.

There must always be a leader of fas.h.i.+on. We had one--”The gla.s.s of fas.h.i.+on 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.”

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