University of Virginia Library

45. CHAPTER XLV.
DOINGS IN THE APOLLO CHAMBER

Our partisan division of the army, with their horses, occupied
no small extent of territory. Our Captain Porgy, himself, with
his little personal equipage, demanded considerable space. He
was the person always to secure that “ample room and verge
enough,” which, as he himself said, were essential to his individual
girth. “My breadth of belt,” he was wont to say, “implies
a fair field; and, having that, I ask no favors.” Besides,
being of social habits, his mess was always a large one. Among
his immediate associates, retainers rather, he kept not only his
cook, but his poet; the one almost as necessary as the other.
Then, he never was without a guest, and whenever his commissariat
was particularly well supplied, he was sure to have a full
table. Such an idea as a good table, without an adequate number
of guests to enjoy it, seemed to him a thing vile, unreasonable,
inhuman, and utterly unchristian. We have seen that,
particularly fortunate in his foray among the green-jacketed
denizens of the Caw-caw, he had made arrangements for a
larger circle than usual. His own tastes and purposes requiring
it, Captain Porgy usually chose his own ground whenever tents
were to be pitched. He had a great eye to proper localities.

“The open woods, on the south and west,” was his rule.
“Let the swamp and thicket cover my back on the east. That
east wind has been of evil tendency from the earliest periods of
time. The Bible speaks of it. A bad-tempered person, soured
and surly, growling always, and insufferable from bile and conceit,
is said to fill his bowels with the east wind. It has a bad
effect on the best bowels. Give me just opening enough on the
east for the purposes of draught, but let your tent be open to the
full pressure of the winds from south and west. You need, in

our climate, an eastern opening at the dinner-hour, dining at
three, or thereabout; but beware of it after the sun has set.
Don't sleep with the east wind blowing upon you. If you do,
face it — let your feet receive it first. Every wind that blows
has a specific quality. The east, northeast, and southeast, are
all more or less pernicious, muddy, insidious, hateful. Our natural
winds in midsummer are from the south and west. The
south persuades you to languor, pleasantly relaxes, discourages
the exertion which would be too exhaustive for the season. The
west is the agitator, the thunder-storm wind, that purges and
purifies; the northwest is the cleaning wind, that sweeps up the
sky, and brushes off all its cobwebs. Each wind having thus a
specific mission, it is wonderful that men who build know so
little of the means of ventilation. Now, you see, I choose my
ground with an open pine-forest in front, that is south and west
and northwest. I take care that the land slopes down from me
in all these directions. If there be hill, swamp, or dense thicket,
I put them, with the devil, behind me. I have here chosen
the very pleasantest spot in the whole encampment. There is
not one of these continental officers who knows anything of the
subject. Yet, to the health of an army, a difference of fifty
yards in the location of a camp, is very frequently all the difference
between life and death!”

And, in that broad, terrace-like spread of wood and thicket,
he had chosen the most agreeable region. The pine-woods
opened at his feet, and spread away almost interminably, giving
the necessary degree of shade, yet leaving free passage
for the wind.

“Free circulation, Geordie Dennison,” said he, as with hands
outspread he seemed to welcome the gentle play of the breezes
reeking up from the southwest —“that is the secret of health
— free circulation for the winds, the waters, and the blood. It
is stagnation that is death. This is the reason why a pine-forest
is more healthy than any other. It is the only forest that
suffers free play to the winds. Hence you hear the music in
a pine-forest which you hear in no other. The breezes pour
through, and swell up, until all the tree-tops become so many
organ-pipes. The vulgar notion is that there is some virtue in
the odor of the pines to neutralize malaria. But this is all nonsense.

Pine-woods that have a dense undergrowth, are not more
healthy than any other. It is the shape of the tree, a tall column,
without lateral branches, naked a hundred feet high, and
arching above, umbrella fashion, into a grand ceiling, which
shuts out the intense heat of the sun, and suffers free exercise
to the breeze. Here it plays with delight and impunity. In
the dense thickets it trickles only, and finally stagnates; and
hence the fevers of uncleared lands. Bays, swamps, ponds, are
unhealthy, not because of the water which they contain, but because
of the dense thickets which they nurture. The hottest
place in the world in midsummer, is a deep forest or thicket,
with a close undergrowth. Fools talk of decaying vegetation
as the secret of disease; yet when our fevers are raging most,
vegetation has not begun to decay. Gardens, fields, forests, are
never more fresh and beautiful, never more vigorous and verdant,
than when death seems lurking under every flower, like
some venomous reptile watching for and creeping to the ear of
the unconscious sleeper. But, Geordie Dennison, boy, once
suppose that the air is stagnant in any locality, and you need
not suppose the necessity for its impregnation by any deleterious
agent. A stagnant atmosphere is, per se, malaria. And
that fact that we can assign a distinct locality for the disease —
that we can say with confidence, to sleep here is death, while
you may sleep with safety within half a mile — establishes the
fact conclusively that the atmosphere is localized — no matter
by what cause — though even that is a matter which I have
considered also — and once let the atmosphere be fixed, and it
is only in degree that it differs from that of an old sink or well.
It is putrid, and to inhale it is a danger. You can not impregnate
with miasma any region, where the winds are allowed to
penetrate freely from three points of the compass, and where
they do penetrate. When we are very sickly, you will always
find a pressure of winds, daily from a single quarter, for a long-continued
period of time. The atmosphere loses its equilibrium,
as it were; the winds lack their balance; and running
one course only, they run into a cul de sac, as water that can not
escape, rises to a level with its source, becomes a pond, and stagnates.
A thunder-storm purifies, not from its electricity, as some
contend, but because it is a storm. All storms purify because
they agitate. They disperse the local atmosphere over a thousand
miles of space, and restore its equilibrium.”

“But, Captain Porgy, were it not better that you should be
thinking of your supper and company, instead of philosophizing
here about the atmosphere?”

“It is because I am thinking of my company and supper,
Master Geordie, that I do philosophize about the atmosphere.
A wholesome atmosphere is half of a good supper. We can
eschew the water. We need not drink that, if we can find any
other liquor; but make what wry faces we will, the atmosphere
we must drink, even though we know it to be impregnated with
poison. Better drink the vilest ditch-water a thousand times.
That may disorder the stomach, but the other must vitiate the
lungs and so directly disease the blood and the heart. I am
trying to teach you, sir, that in giving a good supper or dinner
to your friends, you are to serve it up in properly-ventilated
apartments.”

“Well, we have it airy enough here.”

“True; but had it been left to anybody else, ten to one you
would have had our tents pitched in a villanous thicket where
we never could have got a breath of air. Look, now, at the
Legion encamped on the left; they are in a bottom, the breeze
passing clean over their heads. Their camp-master had no
idea of what was the duty to be done, beyond the simply getting
room enough for the horses and wagons of some three hundred
men. Sir, the partisan cavalry have never been so
healthy as when I have been permitted to select the ground for
their bivouac.”

“That's true!”

“To be sure it's true; and you see the fruits of it in the
pleasant sleeps that we enjoy, and the hardy elasticity with
which we travel. There never was any people so exposed as
ours have been, night and day, in all weathers, and the most
wearisome marches, that have ever enjoyed such admirable
health. And they owe it to me, sir — to me, Geordie Dennison
— yet, d—n 'em, they are not half so grateful for this blessing
as for my soups and suppers. They would readily compound
to drink any quantity of malaria, if they could swallow a pint
of my rum-punch after it.”

“Ah, they regard the rum-punch as the antidote, and there
is nothing unreasonable, therefore, in their practice. But, captain,
the hour latens.”

“Latens! By what right do you use that word?”

“It's a good word, captain.”

“So it is; but I never heard it used before.”

“Very likely; but would you permit that argument to be
used against any new dish that Tom should put on the table
to-night!”

“No, sir; no, Geordie, you are right. You could not have
answered me better if you had argued a thousand years. And
I will remember the word; — so, as the hour latens, Geordie, get
up and help me with these tables. I must summon Frampton
and Millhouse. We shall need their knives and hatchets. I
have invited thirty-one guests, Geordie, not counting you and
Lance; we three will make the number thirty-four. There's no
such table to be spread in camp to-night. Think of it; — a simple
captain of militia giving a supper to thirty guests, and upon
such short commons as are allowed us. Half of the poor devils
in camp think it monstrous impudent of me to give a supper at
all — and to thirty persons—”

“They can't guess how it's to be done.”

“No! indeed! the blockheads! But their vexation increases
when they find my guests all outranking myself. The envious
rascals! Beware of envy, Geordie — it is the dirtiest, sneakingest,
meanest little passion in the world, the younger brother
of vanity, furnishing all the venom to its sleek-skinned and
painted senior.”

“And you are to have the governor, captain?”

“Ay, he accepts. John Rutledge is a great fellow, without
affectation, Geordie — no pretender — one of the few men who
really do think. The greater number, even when they greatly
rank, only repeat each other — they do not think. Thought,
George Dennison, is really confined to a very few. Men, as a
race, are not thinking animals. They are gregarious and imitative.
They go in droves and follow a leader, whom they contrive
after a while to mimic after a monkey fashion. Thought
is always an individual. But — where is that boy Frampton?
Sound your whistle, George.”

The whistle was sounded.

“Now help me with these poles. There are forty cut. We
must have crotch-sticks — two, four, six, eight, ten, twelve — it
will require twenty-four; we must make our tables solid.”

Lance Frampton now appeared, followed by half a dozen
stout young troopers, bearing slim green poles upon their shoulders,
forked sticks, and all the appliances necessary to the construction
of the rustic tables and seats of the company. Long
practice had made all of them familiar with the rude sort of
manufacture which was required. The crotch-sticks were soon
driven upright into the ground, in frequent parallels; cross
pieces were laid in the crotchets of these, and the poles were
stretched along, forming a crossed table with four ends, for so
many dignitaries, and capable to accommodate forty guests
with ease. Of a similar, but stouter fashion, were the seats for
the guests. It was surprising how soon the area was filled — how
soon the mechanical preparations for the feast were fashioned.
The amphitheatre beneath the pines was ample. Porgy, as he
boasted, had the proper eye for a locality. When reared and
steadied, stanchioned and strengthened, the tables were covered
with great oak-leaves, green, looking very clean, nice, and fresh
— a verdant tablecloth.

“Now, see that you have torches, Lance; for, though we
have a glorious moon, we need torches for the dark corners.
Many of the guests will bring their negroes to wait. But we
shall need some waiters besides. Engage some of these young
chaps. They shall sweep the platters clean. Forget nothing,
boy. We are to have big wigs to supper, remember. Geordie,
come with me to our wagon. I think we shall astonish these
epauleted gentry to-night.”

And the two turned off to another part of the wood where
stood the little wagon already described — a sort of covered
box — a thing which one man might have rolled, but to which
a couple of stout hackneys were harnessed, when taken.

“Little,” said Porgy, as he unlocked the cover of the vehicle,
“little did stuttering Pete dream what he lost and we gained,
when we cut off the four wagons of Stewart. His eyes opened
only upon the big wagons. He never gave a look at the one
little one upon which I fastened — as if the most precious commodities

were not always packed in the smallest compass!
Yet, look there, Geordie.”

The poet looked in:—

“Lemons, captain.”

“Ay, lemons and white sugar, and nutmegs, and cloves, and
spices of all sorts, and an anchor of Geneva, and a box of cocoa,
and a bag of coffee, and a good supply of old Jamaica, and, see
you that keg? — tongues, beef-tongues, English beef-tongues.
Now please you to read the name on the cover; ay! Lord
Rawdon's own prog, by the pipers, specially selected for his
table and palate. We shall astonish these wooden-headed
continentals to-night, Geordie! won't we? You thought me
mad, didn't you, when I invited so many? But I knew what
I was about. They shall stare, they shall sup, though they
lament for ever, after the acquisition of such a taste as their
vulgar fortunes can never hereafter satisfy. But mum! Not
a word in anticipation.”

And Porgy closed the wagon with haste and locked it, as
half a dozen troopers lounged carelessly by, looking, with some
curiosity as they passed, to the proceedings of the two.

“Stay here, Geordie, and keep watch till I return. I must
put Millhouse on duty over this wagon, or there will be a Flemish
account of its contents when supper's called. The morals
of the dragoon service, imply theft as a necessity. A good
scout has all the capabilities of a good pickpocket.”

And, moralizing as he went, Porgy hurried off for succor.
Dennison was relieved by Millhouse, a one-armed trooper of
iron aspect, and as stubborn of purpose as a mule. The wagon
was safe in his keeping as long as his left arm could lift sabre
or pistol — and he was duly armed with both.

The next visit of our host was to Tom, the cook, who had a
precinct of his own, some twenty-five yards from the spot where
the tables had been spread. The terrapin soup was discussed,
the ragout; the stew; the boiled tongues; nothing escaped
attention. Then, a survey was taken of the crockery; the
bowls, plates, dishes; the knives and forks; the spoons of iron,
the drinking vessels of delph, tin, or calabash. These commodities
were too frail of character, not to need the greatest care
and attention; and every feast given by our captain, mortified

him with the slenderness of his resources. But there was no
remedy. If half a dozen good bowls of delph, and platters of
tin, could be provided for the more distinguished guests, the
rest might surely be satisfied with clean calabashes. We will
suppose our captain satisfied in respect to these things. He
was in the midst of the examination, however, venting his annoyances
at his limited resources, in uneasy exclamations, when
a messenger from Rutledge brought him the note from that personage
apprizing him that Greene and Lee would appear among
his guests. The governor wrote:—

“Humph!” exclaimed Porgy, “I should not have ventured
to ask General Greene, not that I stand in awe of his epaulettes,
but it is so rare to find a parvenu who would not hold such an invitation
from a poor captain of militia, to be a piece of impertinence
and presumption. Our own folks know me too well to
exhibit any such gaucherie. As for Lee, he is a popinjay! I
should never ask him myself; but have no objection that he
should occasionally appear among gentlemen who can teach
him, by example, how gentlemen can be good fellows without
any loss of dignity.— Geordie — your pen and a scrap of paper.
I hope I diminish none of your verses by consuming your
foolscap.”

The pen and paper were had, and our captain wrote:—

“Governor Rutledge can take no liberty for the propriety
of which his name is not a sufficient guaranty. Captain Porgy
will be most happy to welcome any guests whom he may think
proper to bring.”

This written, he handed it to the messenger. It was then

that Greene's cook uncovered a small tumbril or box in a
wheelbarrow, containing the uncooked provisions which had
been destined for his own table. Porgy looked at the bloody
and livid meats with unqualified disgust.

“But,” said he sotto voce, “we can't reject them. Here, Tom.”

The cook appeared, apron in front and knife in hand.

“Tom, take charge of these provisions. They are sent by
the general — General Greene, do you hear? Use them. Cook
them. Turn them into soup, hash, steak, what you will!”
then, as the messengers of Rutledge and Greene disappeared —
“but d—m you, boy, don't let them show themselves upon my
table. The meat is villanously butchered. That alone should
condemn it. Make it up for some of these young fellows that
have been working for us. And — Tom —”

“Well, maussa — talk quick.”

“Don't forget the balls. Let there be a plenty in the soup.”

“Psho, maussa, enty I know.”

“Enough! Begone!”

The active mind of our corpulent captain began to grow
restless. He had seen to everything that he could think of, and
grew peevish from nothing to do. Suddenly he stuck his fingers
into his hair.

“No! the vessels for the punch; Geordie. By heavens, I
had almost forgotten. Let us after the punchbowls, and then
for the manufacture. You are good at that; a poet should be.
Curious problem, Geordie — the affinity between poetry and the
bottle.”

“Not at all. It only implies the ardency of the poet. It is
so with the orator. You never saw poet or orator yet, that was
not ardent and fond of the juices of the grape.”

“Not the didactic orders, surely. But how is it, then, that
Bacchus is not your deity instead of Apollo?”

“Because Apollo, with virtues of his own, includes those of
Bacchus. He is a ripener of Bacchus, and loves not the wine
less, nor is less the true god of it, because he employs a vintner.
I see no difficulty in the matter.”

“And, perhaps, there is none. Yet what would Apollo say,
or Bacchus even, to such a punchbowl as ours.”

And he pointed to an enormous calabash, holding a couple

of gallons at the least, that, duly valued and taken care of, had
survived all the vicissitudes of the campaign.

“They would, either of them, feel that there was wholesome
propriety in the vessel. It is one which Ceres has presented
for the occasion, to a kindred deity. Boon nature has provided
where vulgar art has failed. It would be much more staggering
to either of the ancient gods to try them with the Jamaica,
instead of the blood of Tuscany.”

“Ah! they never got such liquor on Olympus. Their nectar
was a poor wishy-washy sort of stuff, of not more body than
some of those thin vaporing French and German liquors, of
which we have had a taste occasionally. Their wine of Tuscany,
nay, the Falernian of Horace, would not take rank now-a-days
with the juices of the common corn, prepared according
to our process. Drinking whiskey or Jamaica, Nero might
have been a fool, a wretch, a murderer — might fire his city or
butcher his mother — might have committed any crime, but
cowardice! Whiskey or Jamaica might have saved Rome
from Gaul and Vandal. The barbarians, be sure, drank the
most potent beverages.”

“A notion deserving of study. We drink deep now-a-days.
Will our descendants beat us? Will they laugh at our potations,
which rarely leave a gentleman on his legs after midnight?”

“Ah! say nothing of our progeny. Do not build upon the
degenerates. It may be that the milksops will fancy it bad
taste, nay, even immoral, on the part of their ancestors, to have
swallowed Jamaica or whiskey at all. In proportion as their
heads are weak, will they pronounce ours vicious; and just
because we have a certain amount of strength in our virtue —
a certain quality of brawn and blood and muscle, to keep our
sentiment from etherealizing — growing into mere thin air —
will they presume to stroke their beards in self-complaisant
satisfaction, thanking God that such poor publicans, have given
way to a more saintly race of sinners. I am half inclined to
thank my stars that, when I disappear, the race of Porgy will
not be continued in the person of one who prides himself upon
having no head — for a bottle!”

“Yes! save us from all degenerate children. But, captain,
will this one calabash of punch suffice for forty? Impossible.

Two gallons among forty! Never in the world! Why, sir,
there are three generals, and one governor, a score of colonels,
and others of inferior rank, who are emulous of great men's
virtues. Two gallons to forty such persons.”

“Oh! don't stop to calculate. Luckily there are two calabashes.”

And the little wagon yielded up the desired article.

“Make it rich, Geordie.”

“Captain Porgy, when they drink of this liquor, each man
will feel that his will has been made. He will feel that he has
no more care in life — will fold his robes about him for flight.”

“Or fall! Well, give us a taste. I profess to be a very
competent judge of what a good Jamaica punch should be.”

Smacks his lips.

“The proportions are good: the acid has yielded to the
embrace of the sugar with the recognition of a perfect faith,
and both succumb to the spirit, as with the recognition of a
perfect deity. Next to poetry, Geordie, you are an adept at
punch.”

Geordie somewhat proudly:—

“Yes, captain, on this score I feel safe. I am not always
certain of my verses. I sometimes feel that they lack the
sweet and the ardent — but I am never doubtful of the perfect
harmony that prevails among all the elements when I manufacture
punch.”

Porgy quaffs off the contents of the dipper.

“Geordie, you are a benefactor. When this war ceases, you
shall partake my fortunes. You shall live with me; and, between
punch and poetry, we will make the latter end of life
a felicitous finale to a very exciting drama. By the way,
Geordie, talking of poetry and punch reminds me. You must
be prepared with something good to-night. I shall have you
out. You shall give us some heroic ballad. I know you have
not been drowsing in that thicket for nothing. Have you got
anything ready?”

“I have been doing a trifle, but —”

“None of your buts. Get aside, and memorize it. These
two vessels of punch, meanwhile, we will put under lock and
key, and yield to the guardianship of Sergeant Millhouse.”