University of Virginia Library

3. CHAPTER III.
MR. COLBURNE TAKES A SEGAR WITH LIEUTENANT-COLONEL
CARTER.

As Colburne neared his house he saw the Lieutenant-Colonel
standing in the flare of a street lamp and looking
up at the luminary with an air of puzzled consideration.
With a temperance man's usual lack of charity to people
given to wine, the civilian judged that the soldier was
disgracefully intoxicated, and, instead of thinking how
to conduct him quietly home, was about to pass him by
on the other side. The Lieutenant-Colonel turned and recognized
the young man. In other states of feeling he
would have cut him there and then, on the ground that
it was not binding on him to continue a chance acquaintance.
But being full at the moment of that comprehensive
love of fellow existences which some constitutions
extract from inebriating fluids, he said,

“Ah! how are you? Glad to come across you again.”

Colburne nodded, smiled and stopped, saying, “Can I
do anything for you?”

“Will you smoke?” asked the Lieutenant-Colonel, offering
a segar. “But how to light it? there's the rub. I've
just broken my last match against this cursed wet lamp-post—never
thought of the dew, you know—and was studying
the machine itself, to see if I could get up to it
and into it.”

“I have matches,” said Colburne. He produced them;
they lighted and walked on together.

Being a great fancier of good segars, and of moonlit
summer walks under New Boston elms, I should like here
to describe how sweetly the fragrance of the Havanas rose
through the still, dewy air into the interlacing arches of
nature's cathedral aisles. The subject would have its
charms, not only for the great multitude of my brother
smokers, but for many young ladies who dearly love the
smell of a segar because they like the creatures who use
them. At a later period of this history, if I see that I am
likely to have the necessary space and time, I may bloom
into such pleasant episodes.

“Come to my room,” said the soldier, taking the arm of
the civilian. “Hope you have nothing better to do. We
will have a glass of ale.”

Colburne would have been glad to refuse. He was modest
enough to feel himself at a disadvantage in the company
of men of fashion; and moreover he was just sufficiently
jealous of the Lieutenant-Colonel not to desire to fraternize
with him. Finally, a strong suspicion troubled his
mind that this military personage, indifferent to New Boston
opinions, and evidently a wine-bibber, might proceed
to get publicly drunk, thus making a disagreeable scene,
with a chance of future scandal. Why then did not Colburne
decline the invitation? Because he was young,
good-natured, modest, and wanting in that social tact
and courage which most men only acquire by much intercourse
with a great variety of their fellow creatures.
The Lieutenant-Colonel's walk was the merest trifle unsteady,
or at least careless, and his herculean arm, solid

and knotted as an apple-tree limb, swayed repeatedly
against Colburne, eliciting from him a stroke-oarsman's approbation.
Proud of his own biceps, the young man had
to acknowledge its comparative inferiority in volume and
texture.

“Are you a gymnast, Colonel?” he asked. “Your arm
feels like it.”

“Sword exercise,” answered the other. “Very good
thing to work off a heavy dinner. What do you do
here? Boat it, eh? That's better yet, I fancy.”

“But the sword exercise is just the thing for your profession.”

“Pshaw!—beg pardon. But do you suppose that we
in these times ever fight hand to hand? No sir. Gunpowder
has killed all that.”

“Perhaps there never was much real hand to hand
fighting,” suggested Colburne. “Look at the battle of
Pharsalia. Two armies of Romans, the best soldiers of antiquity,
meet each other, and the defeated party loses
fifteen thousand men killed and wounded, while the victors
lose only about two hundred. Is that fighting? Isn't
it clear that Pompey's men began to run away when they
got within about ten feet of Cæsar's?”

“By Jove! you're right. Bully for you! You would
make a soldier. Yes. And if Cæsar's men had had long-range
rifles, Pompey's men would have run away at a
hundred yards. All victories are won by moral force—by
the terror of death rather than by death itself.”

“Then it is not the big battalions that carry the day,”
inferred Colburne. “The weakest battalions will win, if
they will stand.”

“But they won't stand, by Jove! As soon as they see
they are the weakest, they run away. Modern war is
founded on the principle that one man is afraid of two.
Of course you must make allowance for circumstances,
strength of position, fortifications, superior discipline, and
superior leadership. Circumstances are sometimes strong

enough to neutralize numbers.—Look here. Are you interested
in these matters? Why don't you go into the
army? What the devil are you staying at home for when
the whole nation is arming, or will soon have to arm?”

“I”—stammered Colburne—“I have thought of applying
for a quartermaster's position.”

“A quartermaster's!” exclaimed the Lieutenant-Colonel,
without seeking to disguise his contempt. “What for?
To keep out of the fighting?”

“No,” said Colburne, meekly. “But I do know a little
of the ways of business, and I know nothing of tacties and
discipline. I could no more drill a company than I could
sail a ship. I should be like the man who mounted such a
tall horse that he not only couldn't manage him, but
couldn't get off till he was thrown off. I should be dismissed
for incompetency.”

“But you can learn all that. You can learn in a month.
You are a college man, aint you?—you can learn more in
a month than these boors from the militia can in ten years.
I tell you that the fellows who are in command of companies
in my regiment, and in all the volunteer regiments
that I know, are not fit on an average to be corporals. The
best of them are from fair to middling. You are a college
man, aint you? Well, when I get a regiment you shall
have a company in it. Come up to my quarters, and let's
talk this over.”

Arrived at his room, Carter rang for Scotch ale and segars.
In the course of half an hour he became exceedingly
open-hearted, though not drunk in the ordinary and disagreeable
acceptation of the word.

“I'll tell you why I am on here,” said he. “It's my
mother's native State—old Baratarian family—Standishes,
you know—historically Puritan and colonial. The Whitewoods
are somehow related to me. By the way, I'm a
Virginian. I suppose you think it queer to find me on
this side. No you don't, though; you don't believe in
the State Right of secession. Neither do I. I was educated

a United States soldier. I follow General Scott.
No Virginian need be ashamed to follow old Fuss and
Feathers. We used to swear by him in the army. Great
Scott! the fellows said. Well, as I had to give up my father's
State, I have come to my mother's. I want old Barataria
to distinguish herself. Now's the chance. We are
going to have a long war. I want the State to be prepared
and come out strong; it's the grandest chance she'll
ever have to make herself famous. I've been to see the
Governor. I said to him, `Governor, now's your chance;
now's the chance for Barataria; now's my chance. It's
going to be a long war. Don't depend on volunteering—
it won't last. Get a militia system ready which will
classify the whole population, and bring it into the fight
as fast as it's needed. Make the State a Prussia. If you'll
allow me, I'll draw up a plan which shall make Barataria
a military community, and put her at the head of the
Union for moral and physical power. Appoint me your
chief of staff, and I'll not only draw up the plan, but put
it in force. Then give me a division, or only a brigade,
and I'll show you what well-disciplined Baratarians can
do on the battle-field. Now what do you think the Governor
answered?—Governor's a dam fool!”

“Oh, no!” protested Colburne, astonished; for the chief
magistrate of Barataria was highly respected.

“I don't mean individually—not a natural-born fool,”
explained the Lieutenant-Colonel—“but a fool from the
necessity of the case; mouthpiece, you see, of a stupid day
and generation. What can he do? he asks. I admit it.
He can't do anything but what Democracy permits. Lose
the next election, he says. Well, I suppose he would; and
that won't answer. Governor's wise in his day and generation,
although a fool by the eternal laws of military
reason.—I don't know as I talk very clearly. But you get
at my meaning, don't you?—Well, I had a long argument,
and gave it up. We must go on volunteering, and
commissioning the rusty militia-men and greasy demagogues

who bring in the companies. The rank and file
is magnificent—can't be equalled—too good. But such an
infernally miserable set as the officers average! Some
bright young fellows, who can be licked into shape; the
rest old deacons, tinkers, military tailors, Jew pedlars,
broken down stump orators; wrong-headed cubs who have
learned just enough of tactics to know how not to do it.
Look at the man that I, a Virginian gentleman, a West
Pointer, have over me for Colonel. He's an old bloat—an
old political bloat. He knows no more of tactical evolutions
than he does of the art of navigation. He'll order a
battalion which is marching division front to break into
platoons. You don't understand that? It's about the
same as—well, never mind—it can't be done. Well, this
cursed old bloat is engineering to be a General. We don't
want such fellows for Generals, nor for Colonels, nor for
Captains, nor for privates, by Jove! If Barataria had to
fit out frigates instead of regiments, I wonder if she would
put such men in command of them. Democracy might demand
it. The Governor would know better, but he might
be driven to it, for fear of losing the next election.

“Now then,” continued the Lieutenant-Colonel, “I
come to business. We shall have to raise more regiments.
I shall apply for the command of one of them, and shall
get it. But I want gentlemen for my officers. I am a
gentleman myself, and a West Pointer. I don't want tinkers
and pedlars and country deacons. You're a college
man, aint you? All right. College men will do for me.
I want you to take a company in my regiment, and get in
as many more of your set as you can. I'm not firing blank
cartridge. My tongue may be thick, but my head is clear.
Will you do it?”

“I will,” decided Colburne, after a moment of earnest
consideration.

The problem occurred to him whether this man, clever
as he was, professional soldier as he was, but apparently a
follower of rash John Barleycorn, would be a wiser leader

in the field than a green but temperate civilian. He could
not stop to settle the question, and accepted the Lieutenant-Colonel's
leadership by impulse. The latter thanked
him cordially, and then laughed aloud, evidently because
of that moment of hesitation.

“Don't think I'm this way always,” he said. “Never
when on duty; Great Scott! no man can say that. Indeed
I'm not badly off now. If I willed it I could be as logical
as friend Whitewood—I could do a problem in Euclid.
But it would be a devil of an effort. You won't demand
it of me, will you?”

“It's an odd thing in man,” he went on gravely, “how
he can govern drunkenness and even sickness. Just as
though a powder-magazine should have self-control enough
not to explode when some one throws a live coal into it.
The only time I ever got drunk clear through, I did it deliberately.
I was to Cairo, caught there by a railroad
breakdown, and had to stay over a night. Ever at Cairo?
It is the dolefullest, cursedest place! If a man is excusable
anywhere for drinking himself insensible, it is at Cairo,
Illinois. The last thing I recollect of that evening is that I
was sitting in the bar-room, feet against a pillar, debating
whether I would go quite drunk, or make a fight and stay
sober. I said to myself, It's Cairo, and let myself go.
My next distinct recollection is that of waking up in a
railroad car. I had been half conscious two or three times
previously, but had gone to sleep again, without taking
notice of my surroundings. This time I looked about me.
My carpet-bag was between my feet, and my over-coat in
the rack above my head. I looked at my watch; it was
two in the afternoon. I turned to the gentleman who
shared my seat and said, `Sir, will you have the goodness
to tell me where this train is going?' He stared, as you
may suppose, but replied that we were going to Cincinnati.
The devil we are! thought I; and I wanted to go to St.
Louis. I afterwards came across a man who was able to
tell me how I got on the train. He said that I came down

at five in the morning, carpet-bag and over-coat in hand,
settled my bill in the most rational manner possible, and
took the omnibus to the railroad station. Now it's my belief
that I could have staved off that drunken fit by obstinacy.
I can stave this one off. You shall see.”

He emptied his glass, lighted a fresh segar big enough
to floor some men without other aid, and commenced
walking the room, taking it diagonally from corner to corner,
so as to gain a longer sweep.

“Don't stir,” he said. “Don't mind me. Start another
segar and try the ale. You won't? What an inhuman
monster of abstinence!”

“That is the way they bring us up in New Boston. We
are so temperate that we are disposed to outlaw the raising
of rye.”

“You mean in your set. There must be somebody in
this city who gets jolly! there is everywhere, so far as I
have travelled. You will find a great many fellows like
me, and worse, in the old army. And good reason for it;
just think of our life. All of us couldn't have nice places in
charge of arsenals, or at Newport, or on Governor's
Island. I was five years on the frontier and in California
before I got to Baton Rouge; and that was not so very
delightful, by the way, in yellow fever seasons. Now
imagine yourself in command of a company garrisoning
Fort Wallah-Wallah on the upper Missouri, seven hundred
miles from an opera, or a library, or a lady, or a
mince pie, or any other civilizing influence. The Captain
is on detached service somewhere. You are the First
Lieutenant, and your only companion is Brown the Second
Lieutenant. You mustn't be on sociable terms with the
men, because you are an officer and a gentleman. You
have read your few books, and talked Brown dry. There
is no shooting within five miles of the fort; and if you go
beyond that distance, the Blackfeet will raise your hair.
What is there to save you from suicide but old-rye?
That's one way we come to drink so. You are lucky.

You have had no temptations, or almost none, in this little
Puritan city.”

“There are some bad places and people here. I don't
speak of it boastingly.”

“Are there?” laughed Carter. “I'm delighted to hear
it, by Jove! When my father went through college here,
there wasn't a chance to learn anything wicked but hypocrisy.
Chance enough for that, judging from the stories
he told me. So old Whitewood is no longer the exact
model of all the New Bostonians?”

“Not even in the University. There used to be such a
solemn set of Professors that they couldn't be recognised
in the cemetery because they had so much the air of tombstones.
But that old dark-blue lot has nearly died out,
and been succeeded by younger men of quite a pleasant
cerulean tint. They have studied in Europe. They like
Paris and Vienna, and other places that used to be so
wicked; they don't think such very small lager of the
German theologians; they accept geology, and discuss
Darwin with patience.”

“Don't get out of my range. Who the devil is Darwin?
Never mind; I'll take him for granted; go on with
your new-school Professors.

“Oh, I havn't much to say about them. They are quite
agreeable. They are what I call men of the world—though
I suppose I hardly know what a man of the world is. I
dare say I am like the mouse who took the first dog that
he saw for the elephant that he had heard of.”

The Lieutenant-Colonel stopped his walk and surveyed
him, hands in pockets, a smile on his lip, and a silent
horse-laugh in his eye.

“Men of the world, are they? By Jove! Well; perhaps
so; I havn't met them yet. But if it comes to
pointing out men of the world, allow me to indicate
our Louisiana friend, Ravenel. There's a fellow who can
do the universally agreeable. You couldn't tell this evening
which he liked best, Whitewood or me; and I'll be

hanged if the same man can like both of us. When he
was talking with the Professor he seemed to be saying
to himself, `Whitewood is my blue-book;” and when he
was talking with me his whole countenance glowed with
an expression which stated that `Carter is the boy.'
What a diplomatist he would make! I like him immensely.
He has a charming daughter too; not beautiful exactly,
but very charming.”

Colburne felt an oppression which would not allow him
to discuss the question. At the same time he was not indignant,
but only astonished, perhaps also a little pleased,
at the tone of indifference with which the other spoke of
the young lady. His soul was so occupied with this new
train of thought that I doubt whether he heard understandingly
the conversation of his interlocutor for the next
few minutes. Suddenly it struck him that Carter was entirely
sober, in body and brain.

“Colonel, wouldn't you like to go on a pic-nic?” he
asked abruptly.

“Pic-nic?—political thing? Why, yes; think I ought
to like it; help along our regiment.”

“No, no; not political. I'm sorry I gave you such an
exalted expectation; now you'll be disappointed. I mean
an affair of young ladies, beaux, baskets, paper parcels,
sandwiches, cold tongue, biscuits and lemonade.”

“Lemonade!” said Carter with a grimace. “Could a
fellow smoke?”

“I take that liberty.”

“Is Miss Ravenel going?”

“Yes.”

“I accept. How do you go?”

“In an omnibus. I will see that you are taken up—say
at nine o'clock to-morrow morning.”