University of Virginia Library

XIII.
ON THE WING.

The days of “Camp No-Camp” are numbered. The cannon
begin to move—the bugle calls—the hours of idleness and
“outlines” are a thing of the past.

Whither will the winds of war now waft us? That is a hard
question to reply to; for a marked peculiarity of the Southern
military theory is mystery. General Monck, of the time of
Charles II., was so reticent, I have heard, that when any one
said, “Good-morning, General,” he reflected for twelve hours,
and then replied, “Good-evening;” which caused every one
to wonder at the accuracy of the response. That is an excellent
example to be followed by officers; and thus—being
ignorant—I carefully conceal the route we are about to take.

But we go, that is certain; and it is not without a feeling
of regret that I leave this old familiar spot, where so many
pleasant hours have passed away with song and langhter. As
I gaze around, I fall into a reverie, and murmur.

Strange that I ever thought the spot dull and commonplace.
It is really charming; and memory I know will make it still
more attractive. There is that music in the pines again—the
band of the brigade, camped yonder in the green thicket. I
heard that band more than one thousand times, I suppose;
strange that I thought it annoying, when it is evidently a band
of unusual excellence. It plays all day long, and the regiments
are eternally cheering. Do you hear that echoing shout?
You would think they were about to charge the enemy; but
it is only an old hare that has jumped up, and the whole brigade

is hot upon the trail, with uproar and excitement. If
there is no old hare, it is a stray horse—a tall woman riding
behind a short man—a big negro mounted on a small mule—
anything whatever. The troops must cheer and make a noise;
and the band must play.

Exquisite music! How could I ever think it a little excessive
in quantity, and deficient in quality? “We are going!
we are going!! we are going!!!” I imagine it says—the
refrain of music, surging to me from the pine woods. And as
the brave musicians are about to leave me, they appear to
excel all their brethren. “That strain again!” and I hear the
brigade cheering. They are Georgians—children of the sun,
“with whom revenge is virtue.” Brave fellows, they have got
the order to move, and hail it with delight; for all the wood is
burned, and they are going to fresher fields and forests, and a
fight, perhaps.

Farewell, familiar band in the pines! I have spent some
happy moments listening to your loud, triumphant strains;
some moments filled with sadness, too, as I thought of all those
good companions gone into the dust—for music penetrates the
heart, and stirs the fount of memory; does it not, good reader?
As I listened to that band, I often saw the old familiar faces;
and the never-to-be-forgotten forms of loved friends came back.
They looked at me with their kindly eyes; they “struck a
sudden hand in mine,” and once again I heard their voices
echoing in the present, as they echoed in the happy days
before!

So, sweet memorial music, floating with a wild, triumphant
ardour in the wind, farewell!

Farewell, brave comrades cheering from the pines!

All health and happiness attend you!

In addition to the brass band above referred to, my days
have been alive here with the ringing strains of the bugle.
The tattoo, reveille, and stable-call have echoed through the
pine woods, making cheerful music in the short, dull days, and
the winter nights. It is singular how far you can hear a bugle-note.
That one is victor over space, and sends its martial peal

through the forest for miles around. There is something in
this species of music unlike all others. It sounds the call to
combat always to my ears; and speaks of charging squadrons,
and the clash of sabres, mingled with the sharp ring of the
carbine. But what I hear now is only the stable-call. They
have set it to music; and I once heard the daughter of a cavalry
officer play it on the piano—a gay little waltz, and merry
enough to set the feet of maidens and young men in motion.
As there are no maidens in these fields of war—at least none
in camp—we cannot dance to it.

The bugle takes its place among the old familiar sounds,
which have not been sufficiently attended to and appreciated.
All these winter days, it has been but a call to rise or go to
rest: now it is eloquent with poetry and battle! So, blow old
bugle! Sound the tattoo, and the reveille, and stable-call, to
your heart's content! No “purple glens” are here to ring
through, or to “set replying”—but the echoes in the pines are
“dying, dying, dying,” with a martial melody and sweetness,
and a splendid ardour, which are better than the weird sound of
the “horns of elf-land faintly blowing!”

There is our banjo too—could I think of neglecting that
great instrument in my list of “sights and sounds?” It plays
“O Johnny Booker, help this Nigger,” “Wake up in the Morning,”
“The Old Gray Hoss,” “Come Back, Stephen,” “Hard
Times and Worse a-comin,” “Sweet Evelina,” and a number of
other songs. It is a good banjo. I hear it at present playing
“Dixie” with a fervour worthy of that great national anthem.
It is a “Yankee” instrument, captured and presented to the
minstrel who now wields it, by admiring friends! But—proh
pudor!—it plays Southern ditties only, and refuses obstinately
to celebrate the glories of the “Happy Land of Lincoln.” I have
heard the songs of our minstrel which he plays on his banjo,
something like a thousand times—but they always make me
laugh. They ring so gaily in the airs of evening that all sombre
thoughts are banished—and, if sometimes I am tempted to exclaim,
“There is that old banjo rattling again!” I always relent,
and repent me of my disrespect toward the good old friend;

and go and listen and laugh at the woes of Booker, or the colloquy
with Stephen—above all, at the “Old Gray Hoss,” noblest
of melodies, and now adopted as the national air of all the
dwellers in Camp No-Camp!

Good-by, jolly old Yankee banjo! Rattle on gaily, and play
all the old tunes! It is singular how new and delightful they
are—what a world of mirth they contain.

All around the woods are deserted and lonely. I say “the
woods,” but there are scarcely any left; they have fallen before
the ringing axes of the troops.

Your soldier is a foe to wood-lands. Did you ever see a
division, after a long and dreary march through rain, and mud,
and mire, halt at evening and advance to attack a forest? They
carry it at the point of the bayonet, and cheer as they “close in.”
A moment ago, and the weary column lagged, and dragged its
slow length along like a wounded snake—painfully toiling on
without talk or laughter. Now a party of children seem to have
scattered through the woods. Songs, shouts, and jests resound;
the axes are ringing against a hundred trunks, huge monarchs
of the forest crash down, roaring in their fall, and fires spring up
every where like magic.

The bivouac-fire is the soldier's delight. It warms his limbs
and cheers his spirit, dries his wet clothes, cooks his rations, and
dispels all his gloomy thoughts.

The gay groups pass the jest and sing their songs, and tell their
stories. Then they sleep; and sleep is so pleasant after a long
tramp—the luxury of the gods!

War teaches many valuable lessons never learned in peace.

O Sybarite, tossing on your couch of down and grumbling at
the rose leaf which destroys your slumber! O good Lucullus,
searching for an appetite, though all the dainties of the earth are
on your table—shoulder a musket and tramp all day without rest
or food, and you will learn this truth—that the greatest of
luxuries are bread and water and sleep!

I have said that the woods around camp are deserted and
lonely. Not long since they were filled with troops. But the
troops are gone.

Before the onslaught of the regiments and brigades the forest
disappeared—vanished and floated off in smoke. For miles
you can see through long vistas once impenetrably closed.
Many traces remain of the army which has moved. Riding
out the other day I came suddenly, in a hollow of the hills, on
a deserted camp. The soldiers had built the most excellent
log cabins, with enormous chimneys, and stout roofs held down
by cross-poles well secured; but just as they were finished,
they were forced to leave them. One curious structure I remember
observing especially. It was a large log chimney on
the side of the declivity, with “flankers” of timber. In the
hillside the original genius who had planned this retreat had
dug a sort of cave, piled dirt on the timber roof, and made his
retreat bomb-proof! He evidently designed retiring from the
world to this comfortable retreat, extending his feet toward his
blazing fire, and sleeping or reflecting without thought of the
enemy's artillery.

One and all, these “winter quarters” were deserted, and I
thought as I looked at them of those excellent houses which
our forces left near Centreville and Manassas in March,
1862.

Dreary, bare, lonely, melancholy—such is the landscape
around me.

That bugle! It sounds “to horse!”

Camp No-Camp goes, and becomes a thing of the Past!

The band, the bugle, the banjo, sound no more—at least in this
portion of the world. I leave with a sigh that excellent stable
for my horse: I cast a last lingering look upon the good log
chimney which I have mused by so often, pondering idly on the
future or the past.

Farewell chimney, that does not smoke; and stable, which
a new log floor has just perfected! Farewell pine-trees and
mud, and dreams and reveries, and recollections—at least
here!

Strike the tent, O African of the scriptural name! Put my
traps in the wagon—strap my blanket behind the saddle—give
me my sabre and pistol, and hold my stirrup!

You will oblige me particularly if you will tell me where I
am going, friend.

There is the bugle, and the colours are unrolled.

“Forward!”

And so we depart.