University of Virginia Library

CAMP REMINISCENCES.

Perhaps, you will not object to a few short military
yarns which I have hastily twined for your edification. And
if the interesting, fair-haired, blue-eyed (or otherwise) son
of the reader, now sitting on his knee, on hearing them,
should look confidingly into his parent's face, and inquire—
“Is that true, Papa?” reply, oh reader, unhesitatingly—
“My son, it is.”

Many years since, during the height of the Florida war, a
company of the Second Infantry made their camp for the
night, after a rainy day's march, by the bank of a muddy
stream that sluggishly meandered through a dense and unwholesome
everglade. Dennis Mulligan, the red-haired Irish
servant of the commanding officer, having seen his master's
tent comfortably pitched, lit a small fire beneath a huge
palmetto, and having cut several slices of fat pork from the
daily ration, proceeded to fry that edible for the nightly
repast.

In the deep gloom of the evening, silence reigned unbroken
but by the crackling of Dennis's small fire and the
frizzling of the pork as it crisped and curled in the mighty
mess-pan, when suddenly, with a tremendous “whoosh,” the
leaves of the palmetto were disturbed and a great barred
owl, five feet from tip to tip, settled in the foliage. Dennis
was superstitious, most Irishmen are, and startled by the
disturbance, he suspended for an instant his culinary operations,
and frying-pan in hand, gazed slowly and fearfully
about him. Persuading himself that the noise was but the
effect of imagination, he again addressed himself to his task,
when the owl set up his fearful hoot, which sounded to the
horrified ears of Dennis, like, “Who—cooks—for you—all?
Again he suspended operations, again gazed fearfully forth into
the night, again persuaded himself that his imagination was at
fault, and was about to return to his task, when accidentally
glancing upward he beheld the awful countenance and glaring
eyes of the owl turned downward upon him, and from that
cavernous throat in hollow tones, again issued the question,
“Who—who—cooks—for you—all?” “God bless your
honor,” said poor Dennis, while the mess-pan shook in his
quivering grasp, and the unheeded pork poured forth a molten
stream, which, falling upon the flames, caused a burst of illumination
that added to the terrors of the scene, “God bless
your honor, I cooks for Captain Eaton, but I don't know sir,
who cooks for the rest of the gintlemen.” A burst of fiendish
laughter followed—from those who had witnessed the incident

unseen, and “Dennis's Devil” became a favorite
yarn in the Second Infantry from that time forth.

In New Mexico, at some time during the last two years,
Capt. A. B. of the First Dragoons, commanding Company,
had been stationed about forty miles from a small post
commanded by Lieut. O. B. of the Infantry. One day
Capt. B. concluded to ride over and give his neighbor a
call; so throwing himself athwart a noble horse, he started,
and after a hard gallop—forty miles is a respectable ride
you know—he arrived at O. B.'s tent just as the drummer
was performing that popular air, “Oh, the roast beef of Old
England.”

Reining in his horse and shaking hands with O. B., who
came forth to greet him, “on hospitable thought intent,” he
said, “Well, Lawrence, been to dinner?” “No, I haven't,”
was the reply, “just going, come in, come in;” “Devilish
glad of it,” said Capt. B. dismounting, “never was so hungry
in all my life.” “Well, come in,” said O. B., and they went in
accordingly, and took seats at a small uncovered pine table, on
which a servant shortly placed a large tin pan full of boiled
rice, and a broken bottle half full of mustard. The Captain
looked despairingly around—there was nothing else. “Abe,”
said O. B., as he drew the tin pan towards him, “are you
fond of boiled rice?” “Well, no,” said Abe, somewhat
hesitatingly, “I can't say that I am—very—Lawrence.”
“Ah,” replied Lawrence, coolly, “well just help yourself to
the mustard!” “He was from South Carolina,” said B.,

when he told this story, “and they eat rice down there
some-what.”

For the following, Lieut. W. of the Engineers is responsible.
He told it to me in 1852, at the Café of Dominico,
in Havana.

Old Col. Tom S. of the Infantry, a very large, burly, redfaced
gentleman, with a snow-white head and a voice like a
bass trombone, has an unfortunate habit of thinking out loud.
While stationed temporarily in Washington, the old gentleman
one Sunday morning, took it into his head to go to
church, where he took a seat in a pew beneath the pulpit,
and, prayer-book in hand, attentively followed the clergyman
through the service. It happened to be the 17th day of the
month; but in giving out the Psalms for the day, the Rev.
Mr. P. made a mistake and announced—“The 16th day of
the month, morning prayer, beginning at the 79th Psalm.”
When to the astonishment of the congregation, Old Col. Tom
in the pew below, in a deep bass voice thought aloud—“The
17th day of the month, by Jupiter!” The clergyman immediately
corrected himself—“Ah! the 17th day of the
month, morning prayer, beginning at the 86th Psalm.”
When the propriety of the assembly was immediately disturbed
by another thought from Old Tom, who in the same
deep tone remarked, “Had him there!” He had, certainly,
and the congregation also.

Two years ago, when the gallant Col. Magruder, of convivial
memory, commanded the U. S. forces at the Mission
of San Diego, it entered into that officer's head to execute a

serenade for the behoof of certain fair ladies then honoring
New Town with their presence. Accordingly all the officers
of the mess who could sing, play, or beat time, were pressed
into the service, and one night about 12 o'clock, a jolly crowd
loft the Mission for New Town, in a large wagon plentifully
furnished with guitars, flutes, and other arangements of a
musical nature. Among the rest, a jovial young surgeon,
attached to the command, had installed himself on the back
seat, with his instrument; which happened on this occasion
to be a bottle of whiskey, and on which he played during the
ride with such effect as to have raised his spirits on the arrival
at New Town, considerably above the fifth ledger line.
You may remember a Bowery song, rather popular in those
days, the chorus of which ran—

This unfortunate song had somehow or other occurred to
the Doctor, he couldn't get rid of it, he couldn't help singing
it; and accordingly when the whole party were duly ranged
beneath the window and with flutes and voices upraised, were
solemnly bleating forth

the entertainments were disagreeably varied; for far louder
than the “stilly night,” rang the wild medical chant, only
varied by an occasional hic,
This was not to be borne; so turning fiercely on the delinquent
Esculapius, Col. Magruder commanded him to
desist from the interruption, and to “thenceforth hold his
peace.”

With admirable strategy the Doctor backed up against
an adjacent fence, where he could deliver himself safely and
to advantage, and with most intense dignity replied—“Col.
Magrudger, I'm rofficer of the arry, when I'm ath' Mission,
I'm under your orrers; consider se'f so—and—obey 'im; But,
when I'm down here sir! serrerading—“Oh, I'm bound to
be a butcher, by Heavens, or die! whoop!” and after performing
an extempore dance, of a frantic description, during
which he fell to the earth, the Doctor was borne by main
force to the wagon, where he slept at intervals during the remainder
of the serenade, occasionally waking as some flourish
of extra shrillness or power occurred, to mutter incoherently,
that his “name was Jake Keyser.”

My last sheet of paper is exhausted, so I presume is
your patience. I have glanced hastily over my work to see
if there is any thing that Miss Pecksniff may object to; I
see nothing. A little blank swearing, to be sure, but I
grieve to say that it is difficult to relate stories without, for
since the days of Uncle Toby and the Flanders campaign

there is no question but what the army have sworn terribly;
but I really believe that “they don't mean any thing by it,
it's just a way they've got,” which is a remark made by an
affectionate father, when told that his seven children had all
been seized with the measles in one night.—Adieu.

Yours respectively.