IX.
BLUNDERBUS ON PICKET.
Scene.—Banks of the Rappahannock, in the winter of 1862-3; a
camp fire blazing under an oak, and Captain Blunderbus conversing
with a Staff Officer on inspection duty—the picket stationed
near, and opposite the enemy.
Blunderbus loquitur.—“This is pleasant—picketing always
is. Uncommonly dark, however—the night black but comely,
and that frosty moon yonder trying to shine, and dance on the
ripples of the river! Don't you think it would look better if
you saw it from the porch at home, with Mary or Fanny by
your side?
“Picturesque, but not warm. Pile on the rails, my boy; never
mind the expense. The Confederacy pays—or don't pay—for
all the fences; and nothing warms the feet, expands the soul,
and makes the spirits cheerful like a good rail-fire. I was reading
in an old paper, the other day, some poetry-writing which they
said was found on the body of one of Stonewall's sergeants at
Winchester—a song he called `Jackson's Way.' He tells his
comrades to `pile on the rails,' and says,
“ `No matter if the canteen fails,
We'll make a roaring light!'
Sensible—and speaking of canteens, is there anything in yours,
my boy? Nothing. Such is fate!
“I was born unlucky, and always will be so. Now a drop of
brandy would not have been bad to-night; or say a mouthful
of whiskey, or a little apple or peach-brandy, gin, madeira,
sherry, claret, or even bottled porter, crab-cider or champagne!
Any of these would have communicated a charm to existence,
which—wanting them—it lacks.
“But let us be content with what we have, and accept all fortunes
as they come! If ever you hear people say that Blunderbus
is a mere trooper, old fellow—that he cares for nothing but
eating and drinking, and sleeping—just tell 'em you heard him
express that fine sentiment, and they will think better of him.
You see I'm a philosopher, like yourself, and I don't let trifles
get the better of me. The soul superior to misfortune is a noble
spectacle, and warms the heart of the beholder like generous
wine. I wish I had some.
“I think, however, I prefer this water. Now that I observe it,
it is excellent—with a body to it, a flavour, a sweetness, and
stimulating effect which I never noticed before. And then our
fire! Just look at it! You're an old hand at rails, I'll be willing
to bet—for you fix 'em on the fire with the art of a master.
What a glorious sight to see! How it warms the soul!
“I observe that the Yankee pickets over yonder have a miserable
fire—made of green wood, doubtless, and smouldering. I
was looking at them just now through my glass, and I am glad
to say one of the blue-coats was slapping his arms violently
against his breast to keep up the circulation. Pleasant; for if
anything can increase the comfort of a fire like this, it is the
consciousness that our friends over the way are shivering by
one that won't burn.
“I believe I will smoke. Nothing assists intellectual conversation
like a pipe. Help yourself. You will find that pouch—
Yankee plunder from Manassas last August—full of the real
article, and the best you ever smoked. It is real, pure Lynchburg—brown,
free from stems, and perfumed with the native
aroma of the weed. Smoke, guest of mine! That brand is
warranted to drive off all blue-devils—to wrap the soul in Elysian
dreams of real Java coffee, English boots, French wines, and no
blockade. There are men, I am told, who don't smoke. I pity
'em! How do they sustain existence, or talk or think? All
real philosophers use the magical weed; and I always thought
Raleigh, when I used to read about him, the most sensible man
of his time, because he smoked. I have no doubt Shakespeare
carried a pipe about, and wrote his plays with it in his mouth.
“I'll trouble you to hand me that chunk when you are done
with it. Thank you. Now the summit glows; the mysterious
depths are illumined. All right; I am lit.
“This is soothing; all care departs when you smoke a good
pipe. Existence assumes a smiling and bright aspect; all things
are rose-coloured. I find my spirits rising, my sympathies expanding,
even until they embrace the whole Yankee nation.
This is an excellent root I am leaning my back against—I never
knew a rocking-chair more agreeable. Our fire is magnificent;
and observe the picturesque effect of the enemy's blaze reflected
in the stream!
“The enemy! Who knows if that is fair? Perhaps that
good fellow over there, who was slapping his arms, I am sorry
to say, just now, by way of restoring the circulation and keeping
himself warm, came here to fight us against his will! Honest
fellows! who blames them? They are unfortunate, and I sympathize
with them. I observe that the fire over yonder, which
our friends have kindled, burns feebly, and doubtless is fed with
green wood. We could spare them a few rails, eh? But then
to communicate with them is against orders.
“I believe they come down here from pure curiosity, and
rather like to be taken prisoner. But it takes a good deal to
feed them. We want all our provisions. Often I have been
nearly starved, and I assure you starving is a disagreeable process.
I have tried it several times, and I can tell you where I
first experienced the sensation in full force. At Manassas, in
July, 1861.
“I was in the artillery then, and had command of a gun,
which gun was attached to a battery, which battery was a part
of General Bonham's brigade. Now General Bonham commanded
the advance force of Beauregard's army, and was stationed
at the village of Fairfax. Well, we had a gay time at
Fairfax in those early months of the war, playing at soldiering,
and laughing at the enemy for not advancing. The red cuffs of
the artillery, the yellow of the cavalry, and the blue of the infantry,
were all popular in the eyes of the village beauties, and
rarely did anything of a melancholy character interfere with our
pleasures. Sometimes a cavalry-man would be shot on picket—
as we may be to-night, old fellow; and I remember once a
noble boy of the `Black Horse,' or Radford's regiment, was
brought back dead, wrapped in an oil-cloth which his sister had
taken from her piano and given him to sleep on. Poor thing!
she must have cried when she heard of that; but there has been
a good deal of crying during the present war.
“Kick that rail-end up. It makes me melancholy to see a fire
dying down. Well, we had a pleasant time in the small village
of Fairfax, until one July day my gun was ordered to a breastwork
not far off, and I heard that the `Grand Army' was
coming. Now I was thinking about the Commissary department
when I heard this news, for we had had nothing to cat for
a day nearly; but I went to work, finishing the embrasure for
my piece. Bags marked `The Confederate States' were filled
with sand and piled up skilfully; trees obstructing the range
were chopped down rapidly; and then, stepping off the ground
from the earthwork to the woods from which the enemy would
issue, I had the pleasure of perceiving that the foe would be
compelled to pass over at least four hundred and thirty yards
before reaching me with the bayonet. Now in four hundred
and thirty yards you can fire, before an enemy gets up to you,
about one round of solid shot, and two rounds of canister—say
three of canister. I depended, therefore, upon three rounds of
canister to drive back the Grand Army, and undertook it with
alacrity. I continued hungry, however, and grew hungrier as
night fell, on the 16th July.
“At daylight I was waked by guns in front, and found myself
hungrier than ever. At sunrise a gentleman on a white
horse passed by at a gallop, with the cheerful words: `Gentlemen,
the enemy are upon you!' and the cannoneers were ranged
at the gun, with the infantry support disposed upon the flanks.
All was ready, the piece loaded, the lanyard-hook passed
through the ring of the primer, and the sharpshooters of the
enemy had appeared on the edge of the woods, when they sent
us an order to retire. We accordingly retired, and continued to
retire until we reached Centreville, halting on the hill there.
We were posted in battery there, and lay down—very hungry.
A cracker I had borrowed did not allay hunger; and had a
dozen Yankees been drawn up between me and a hot supper, I
should have charged them with the spirit of Winkelreid, when
he swept the Austrian spears in his embrace, and `made a gap
for liberty.'
“We did not fight there, however; we were only carrying out
General Beauregard's plan for drawing on the enemy to Bull
Run, where he was ready for them. At midnight we limbered
up, the infantry and cavalry began to move, blue and red signal
rockets were thrown up, and the little army slowly retired before
the enemy, reaching the southern bank of Bull Run at daylight.
The Federals were close upon our heels, and about ten o'clock
commenced the first fight there, the `battle of the 18th.'
“Now when I arrived at Bull Run, I was hungry enough to
eat a wolf. I lay down on the wet ground, and thought of various
appetizing bills of fare. Visions of roast beef, coffee, juleps,
and other Elysian things rose before my starving eyes; and the
first guns of the enemy, crashing their round shot through the
trees overhead, scarcely attracted my attention. I grew hungrier
and hungrier—things had grown to a desperate pitch, when—beautiful
even in the eyes of memory!—an African appeared from our
wagons in the rear with hot coffee, and broiled bacon, and flat-cake,
yet hot from the oven! At the same moment a friend, who had
stolen off to the wagons, made an imperceptible gesture, and indicating
his tin canteen, gave me an inquiring look. In the service
this pantomime always expresses a willingness to drink your
health and pass the bottle. I so understood it—and retiring from
the crowd, swallowed a mouthful of the liquid. It was excellent
whiskey, and my faintness from hunger and exhaustion made
the effect magical. New life and strength filled my frame—and
turning round, I was saluted by an excellent breakfast held out
to me by the venerable old African cook!
“Ye gods! how that breakfast tasted! The animal from
which that ham was cut must surely have been fattened on ambrosia;
and the hot, black coffee was a tin cup full of nectar in
disguise! When I had finished that meal I was a man again.
I had been in a dangerous mood before—my patriotism had
cooled, my convictions were shaken. I had doubted of the Republic,
and thought the Confederacy in the wrong, perhaps. But
now all was changed. From that moment I was a true Southerner
again, and my opinions had the genuine ring of the true
Southern metal. I went into the battle with a joyous soul—
burning with love of my native land, and resolved to conquer or
die!
“I wish I could get at that bill of fare to-night. Hunger sours
the temper—men grow unamiable under it. Hand me that carbine—it
is not more than four hundred yards to the picket
across yonder, and I'll bet you I can put a bullet through that
bluebird nodding over the fire. Against orders, do you say?
Well, so it is; but my fingers are itching to get at that carbine.
“I'll trouble you to stick my pipe in the hot ashes by you, my
friend. I am fixed here so comfortably with my back against
this tree, that I hate the idea of getting up. You see I get lazy
when I begin to smoke, old fellow; and I think about so many
things, that I don't like to break my reflections by moving. I
have seen a good deal in this war, and I wish I was a writer to
set it down on paper. You see if I don't, I am certain to forget
everything, unless I live to eighty—and then when the youngsters,
grandchildren, and all that (if I have any, which I doubt),
gather around me, with mouths open, I will be certain to make
myself out a tremendous warrior, which will be a lie; for Blunderbus
is only an old Captain of Cavalry, good at few things but
picketing. Besides, all the real colours of the war would be lost,
things would be twisted and ruined; if I could set 'em down now
in a book, the world would know exactly how the truth was.
Oh, that Blunderbus was an author!
“I have my doubts about the figure we will cut when the
black-coats, who don't see the war, commence writing about us
Just think what a mess they will make, old fellow! They will
be worse than Yankee Cavalry slashing right and left—much
ink will be shed, but will the thing be history? I doubt it.
You see, the books will be too elegant and dignified; war is a
rough, bloody trade, but they will gild it over like a looking-glass
frame. I shouldn't wonder if they made me, Blunderbus,
the old bear, a perfect `carpet knight'—all airs, and graces,
and attractions. If they do, they will write a tremendous lie, old
fellow! The way to paint me is rough, dirty, bearded, and hungry,
and always growling at the Yankees. Especially hungry—
the fact is, I am really wolfish to-night; and I see that blue rascal
over yonder gnawing his ratious and raising a black bottle to
his lips! Wretch!—the thing is intolerable; give me the carbine—I'll
stop him!—cursed order that keeps me from stopping
his amusement—the villain! Who can keep his temper under
trials like this, Sergeant?”
Sergeant of pickets advancing.—“Here, Captain.”
Blunderbus, scowling.—“Are all the men present? Call the
roll—if any are missing—”
(The Sergeant calls the roll and returns to the fire.)
Sergeant.—“All present but Tim Tickler, Captain.”
Blunderbus, enraged.—“Where is Tickler—the wretched
Tickler?”
Tickler, hastening up.—“Here, Captain—present, Captain.”
Blunderbus, wrathful.—“So you are absent at roll-call! So
you shirk your duty on picket! Sergeant, put this man to-morrow
in a barrel shirt; on the next offence, buck him!
What are you standing there for, villain?”
Tickler, producing a canteen.—“I don't bear malice, I don't,
Captain. I just went to the house yonder, thinking the night
was cold—for a few minutes only, Captain, being just relieved
from post—to get a little bit to eat, and a drop of drink. Prime
applejack, Captain; taste it, barrel shirt or no.”
(Tickler extends the canteen, which Blunderbus takes, offers his
friend, and drinks from.)
Tickler, offering ham and bread.—“And here's a little prog,
Captain.”
Blunderbus, calling to the Sergeant, who retires with Tickler.—
“Remit Private Tickler's punishment, Sergeant; under the circumstances
he is excusable.”
Staff Officer.—“Ha, ha!”
Blunderbus, smiling.—“You may laugh, my friend; but
applejack like that is no laughing matter. What expands the
soul like meat, bread, and drink? Do you think me capable of
punishing that honest fellow? Never! My feelings are too
amiable. I could hug the whole world at the present moment,
even the Yanks yonder. Poor fellows! I fear their fire is
dying down, and they will freeze; suppose we call across and
invite them to come and warm by our fire? They are not such
bad fellows after all, my dear friend; and Blunderbus will answer
for their peaceful propensities. Nothing could tempt them
to fire upon us—they are enemies alone from the force of circumstances!”
(A stick rolls from the fire, and the carbine lying near is discharged.
The enemy start to arms, and a shower of bullets whistles
round, one from a long-range Spencer rifle striking Blunderbus on
the buckle of his sword belt, and knocking him literally heels over
head.)
Blunderbus, rising in a tremendous rage.—“Attention! fire
on 'em! Exterminate 'em! Give it to the rascals hot and
heavy, boys! Go it! Fire! (Bang! bang! bang! bang!)
Pour it into 'em! Another round! That's the thing! I saw
one fall! Hoop! give 'em another, boys! Hand me a carbine!”
Staff Officer, from his post behind the oak.—“Ha! ha! You
are a philosopher, my dear Blunderbus, and a real peace missionary—but
the `force of circumstances' alters cases, eh?”
Blunderrus, sardonically.—“I rather think it does.”
(Staff Officer mounts, and continues his rounds, the fire having
ceased, leaving Blunderbus swearing and rubbing the spot where he
was struck.)
Staff Officer, moving on.—“Good-night!”
Blunderbus, in the distance.—“Good-night! Curse 'em.”
