University of Virginia Library

11. CHAPTER XI.
MILES O'REILLY AT FORTRESS MONROE.

BY the flag of truce boat “New York,” from City
Point, this morning arrived Private Miles
O'Reilly, 47th Regiment New York Volunteers, en
route from Richmond to Washington with important
dispatches. Private O'Reilly appears in good health
and remarkably good appetite—the latter probably
a result of his brief sojourn within the Confederate
lines. He says himself that he “was treated as well
as they knew how, and could afford, poor craythurs;”
and that his heart bled for many of them
whom he had known in better and more peaceful
times. Of their condition, or what he thinks of the
treatment of our prisoners, he will give no picture,
indignantly spurning all questions, on the ground
that his appointment as the successor of Dr. Zacharie
has placed him in a confidential position between

Mr. Jefferson Davis and His Excellency the President
of the United States; and that what he has
seen and heard “is the business of them two, and of
no one else whatsumdever.”

Immediately on the arrival of Private O'Reilly
he was surrounded by a vast crowd of soldiers,
citizens and sailors, who cheered him vociferously,
calling—some for a speech, others for a song; but to
none of these requests would he accede. Shaking
hands with all, but elbowing his way vigorously
through them, and towards the sally-port of the
Fortress, he was at length released by the interposition
of Colonel J. Wilson Shaffer, Chief of Staff to
General Butler, who took him in charge, and ordered
the assemblage to fall back—a mandate enforced by a
sergeant and squad of men sent down to compel order.

Private O'Reilly was introduced to General Butler
by Colonel Shaffer, who said that he had known
Miles for years, having formerly had him under his
command in Missouri, Kansas and the Indian Territories—under
Frémont in the former Department;
and, in the latter, about the time that Colonel (now
General) Canby made his gallant fight, and suffered
so severely, at the battle of Fort Craig.

General Butler said he was glad to see Private

Miles, and immediately ordered Colonel Shaffer to
prepare a special dispatch steamer to carry the new
“Envoy Extraordinary”—General Butler said “extraordinary
envoy”—to Baltimore, where a special
train for Washington would be in waiting. “No
one can tell, Shaffer,” said General Butler, “what's
going to be the upshot of this Miles O'Reilly business!
He is worth a dozen Zacharies; and the
rebels may have `acknowledged the corn' to him
which they concealed from the corn-cutter.” With
these words General Butler withdrew O'Reilly into
his private office, from which they did not again
emerge until Colonel Shaffer tapped at the door and
reported the dispatch-boat nearly ready.

By this time the whole garrison had assembled in
front of the General's headquarters; and the appearance
on the stoop of Private Miles in company with
General Butler, was the signal for a burst of cheering
that made the welkin ring. “Order him to
speak, General—order him to sing,” were the prevailing
cries, mingled with cheers for “Butler,”
“Honest Old Abe,” “General Grant,” “Little
Mac,” “Sal. Chase,” “Admiral Du Pont,” and other
eminent characters who live in the hearts of the
soldiery and people.

General Butler, introducing Miles, desired them to
know that he had seen Private O'Reilly before. It
was at the Charleston Convention, where Miles had
been “going his millions better with nary a pair”
on the lamented Stephen A. Douglas; while he (Gen.
Butler), in company with the late Isaac I. Stevens,
then delegate from Oregon, was working like a beaver
for Breckinridge (groans), or whomsoever else the
“black squadron of the Gulf States” would agree
upon as their candidate. (Dead silence.) His friend
Gen. Stevens had since been paid with a bullet
through his brain for that attempted service to the
cause of the South. He was shot while carrying the
colors of the 79th New York Highlanders—his old
regiment—in an attempt to retrieve Gen. Pope's
disasters in front of Washington. (Loud cheers.)
As for himself (Gen. Butler), he had seen the error
of his ways and claimed that he had brought forth
fruits meet for repentance. (Loud laughter and
cheers.) It was now his chief regret that his old
friend and co-operator, Caleb Cushing, still remained
in a condition of Egyptian darkness—at least, had
returned to that condition ever since Mr. Lincoln had
refused his repeated applications for a Brigadier's
commission; and ever since he had realized how

much money could be made by prosecuting claims
against Uncle Sam in the interest of the shoddy contractors
and copperheads. (Laughter and cheers
renewed.)

General Butler would only further remark, before
introducing to his audience Private O'Reilly, that
he had often been struck by recognising amongst the
names of the anti-Douglas leaders in the Charleston
Convention, nearly all those arch-villains upon whom
the hand of Heaven and an outraged country now
presses with heaviest terrors. (Loud cheers.) Some
of them lie in bloody and nameless graves—and
these are the happiest. Some are exiles in Europe,
penniless, despised, and without hope—Uncle Sam's
soldiers in possession of their palaces and plantations;
themselves the laughing-stock of diplomacy.
Some have drunk, and others are drinking themselves
to death—seeking in oblivion, at any cost, an escape
from the haunting spectres of the human hecatombs
that have been sacrificed to their ambition. (Sensation
and applause.) Upon the brows of all, the
brands of the wrath of God and man are visibly
imprinted. Famished, ragged, hollow-eyed, foot-sore,
and fainting, the few survivors of the original conspiracy
at Charleston now drag themselves round
their desolated country at the head of diminishing

legions—cursed everywhere in the hearts of their
less guilty, because more ignorant dupes; and terrified
by the vision in a near future of that Divine
Retribution which gave up to the guillotine in Paris,
and by the very hands of the Jacobin-mob who had
been their frenzied idolators and instruments—the
authors of the worst infamies of the Reign of Terror.
(Sensation and cheering.) General Butler would
now introduce Private Miles O'Reilly, 47th Regiment
New York Volunteers, who could only address them
very briefly, the steamer being nearly if not quite
ready; and O'Reilly's business with the President
(loud cheers) being of a kind that could not be
delayed. (Cheers, and a voice: “Nine times nine
for our next President.”)

Private Miles, on stepping forward, thanked General
Butler and Col. Shaffer for their kindness,
which he regarded as wholly undeserved by any
thing he had done or could do. [Loud cries of
“You're too modest, Miles,” and laughter.] Of
how he had come to be within the Rebel lines,
and how he had got out of them, the bundle of
Southern papers he had brought would give them
particulars, if they would only read “Extracts from
the Southern press,” in the next day's Herald. But

on his way that morning in the flag-of-truce boat
from City Point, he had picked up an old New York
paper containing a debate in the Senate of the
United States that “made a fool of all the other debates”
he had ever seen. “To the rare—open ordher
—march,” shouted he in stentorian accents. “Prepare
for review! It isn't a review of yourselves,
boys, I mane, so don't be pullin' your white cottons
out of your pockets; but it's a review of that illusthrious
Conschrip Father, who is opposed to axin' any
questions of Uncle Gid., as to how he spinds the nate
little sum of nearly two hundhred millions a year, for
a navy that can't catch the `Alabama;' while at the
same time, this same Conschrip Father—an' I wish
he was conschripted wid all my heart—is in favor of
again cuttin' down the pay of our officers,—and this
although they are now paid in a currency that isn't as
good by a long sight as its face!” In honor of this
conscript Father, he would give them a song,
written by Captain De Lancy Rochford, of the Invalid
Corps, formerly of the Irish Brigade,—only
premising for the benefit of such misfortunates as
hadn't had the privilege of being born in Ireland,
that the words of the chorus, “Ma bouchal dhas
cruithin amoe,” meant “My pretty boy milking his
cow,” as “Ma colleen dhas,” in the original, meant
the other gender. He begged all present to join him
in the chorus, which should be accompanied by the
gesture of “milking,” and which must be pronounced
as if spelled: “Ma boohal tha crooveen amoe.”
[Uproarious laughter and cries of “We will that,
Miles.”] “Just to think of it,” continued Private
O'Reilly, waxing indignant, “just to think that while
the financial stump-tail only yields us a swill-milk
currency, not only is the army to suffer from the
natural wakeness of the demoralized liquid, but even
the small quantity honestly due us is to be cut down!'
[Loud cries of “Grimes shan't do it, Miles,” &c.]

“So now, boys,” resumed Miles, “get your right
hands ready for milkin', and when I give the signal
for the chorious, rattle down the fluid lively into your
tin pails. I tell yez all, that no candydate need
hereafther apply for the Irish vote, or the army or
navy vote, who can't sing this song and give the pure
Greek chorious its thrue Athaynian accintuation.”

A HEALTH TO THE MAN FROM I-OW-A.

Air:—The Pretty Boy Milking his Cow.

Never was song a greater success than this, despite
the very execrable and Fort Lafayette “tang”
that was in some of what Ben. Shillaber, as “Mrs.
Partington” would call—“its seditionary sediments.”
The audience “milked” and roared until the very
sentinels caught the infection and shook all over as
they presented arms to passing double-rows of buttons.
Gen. Butler had a cough so violent that it
compelled him to cover his face with his handkerchief.
Col. Shaffer took refuge behind a pillar, and
internally determined that Miles should some day or
other be his guest “at Freeport, Illinoy”—of which
rising, but not yet quite risen town, he was mayor,
sheriff, county clerk, register, and both boards of the

common council at last advices. It is even said that
an orderly sergeant of the regular army—that stateliest
and most solemn of created beings—was observed
to bite very hard on a bullet which he carries
round in his pocket to guard against the rare
temptation of a smile: but even the bullet couldn't
save him. He first smiled, then grinned; and finally
the infection of the universal “milking” so carried
him away, that he was actually seen to pull the imaginary
teat of the Treasury stump-tail no less than
thrice during the third chorus!

Emerging at last from behind the pillar, Col. Shaffer
was understood to observe—running his fingers
wildly through his hair as he spoke—that the song
was improper, and should not have been sung. It
was a thing to be deplored. [Here the Colonel
choked, coughed, and blew his nose.] He had no
time, however, to call their attention at present to
that portion of the “Revised Army Regulations”
applying to the case. The steamboat was waiting;
the President was waiting; the Country was waiting;
and Private Miles had no time to lose. On
behalf of General Butler, who had retired, he thanked
the crowd for their conduct—with the exception
of their having laughed at a chorus (here the Colonel

“milked”) which should rather have moved their
tears. [Loud laughter, the crowd recommencing to
“milk” and again shouting “Ma bouchal dhas cruithin
amoe!”] All present would now retire, while
he and Private O'Reilly made their way to the boat.

Upon this Colonel R. M. Hough, of Chicago, stepped
forward and shook Private O'Reilly by the hand.
“Miles,” said he—with many expletives omitted—
“Miles, I love you. You've a heart bigger, Miles,
than any steer I ever slaughtered. I've killed and
packed more steers in my time, and I've had more
bullets fired at me at one moment, than any other
man this side of—no matter where! But amongst
all the steers, Miles, and I've weighed their hearts,
there never was a bigger heart than yours!” [Applause
from the crowd, Colonel Hough being now at
the Fortress filling a beef contract.] “Before he
goes, Shaffer, I've one favor to ask: that you'll give
him time for a song that I hear he once wrote about
some celebrated steers in South Carolina. If you'll
only do this, old fellow, I'll stand two baskets!”

Colonel Shaffer consented—the more readily, as the
dispatch-boat had not yet completed her coaling.
“Now fire away, Miles,” urged the impatient Hough.
“I've had once to run Shaffer and a saw-mill, Gen.

Benham and a coal-yard, all four together; I've had
a horse fall under me with sixteen bullets in his body,
twenty-two bullets through my clothes, and only a
scratch on my sitting-machine. I've charged on
horseback into the sea to fight an iron-clad; but”—
and here the Colonel became very energetic in his
assurances—“a song from you about a live steer,
or a dead steer for the matter of that, would more
than repay me for all I have been, and done, and
suffered in the suppression of this most foul and
unnatural rebellion.”

Private O'Reilly, whose face brightened up at the
hint about “two baskets,” briefly explained that the
South Carolina “steer” happened to be a “bull;”
and the only bull, on the authority of a celebrated
elderly and philanthropic lady, to be found in all
the Sea-Islands of the Southern coast at the time of
his lamented decease. Certain straggling soldiers
had crossed over from St. Helena to Lady's Island one
day, and in sport had made beef of the bull. [Laughter.]
Not such “prime mess,” to be sure, as Col.
Hough was in the habit of slaughtering, but ordinary
army beef—or beef without much bleeding, by the
process of bullets. It was to lay before General
Hunter this disaster to the cows under her charge, that

the eminent philanthropic lady, already referred to,
next morning wrote and sent to Head Quarters of
the Department the subjoined elegy, which (as alleged)
she offered to appear and sing, if so desired,
to the air that “The Old Cow died of.” It was called:

THE BUTCHERED BULL.

A BALLAD OF LADY'S ISLAND.

The recitation of this elegy concluded, Private
O'Reilly, preceded by Colonels Shaffer and Hough,
made his way to the steamboat pier, and was soon
en route for Washington, charged with information
for the President, and carrying with him renewed

pleasant recollections of “life at old Point Comfort.”
To the President and Congress we now commit him
and the important “Proposals for Peace,” about
which Mr. Fernando Wood is continually raving in
Congress, and of which, we assure him, Miles
O'Reilly is the only authorized bearer.

What these “Peace” proposals are, it is for Mr.
Lincoln to explain, whenever such explanation can
be given “consistently with the public interests.”
In Mr. Lincoln's hands we are well assured, that,
whenever the negotiation ripens to a consistency
that will give us back “Peace with the Union,”
all minor points of difference or difficulty will be
ignored. The cocoa-nut will be laid, in its layers of
native packing, upon the Speaker's desk. Messrs.
Anson Herrick, of New York, better known as “the
Deacon;” and S. S. Cox, of Ohio, better known
as “Sun-Set,” will be appointed a Committee of two
to piece one of the eyes of the fruit, and let not
only Fernando, but all the country, taste its milk!
Private O'Reilly will then appear as “ma bouchal
dhas cruithin” his cocoanut—there being no word
in Holy Irish for this heathen fruit; and, with both
houses of Congress singing, sipping, and “milking,”
Brother Ben will lie down with Owen Lovejoy; Mr.

Holman, of Indiana, take Thad. Stevens of Pennsylvania
as the partner of his couch; while Sunset
Cox will get astride of war-horse Gurley, and allow
that mild but mettled animal to snuff “Peace
anear” with the same keen nostrils that were once
distended in the task of snuffing battles—at a distance!
The golden age will return, and Mr. Chase
will re-employ Jay Cooke & Co. in buying up greenbacks
all over the country, giving twenty-three dollars
and fifty cents in gold for every ten dollars'
worth of the verdant paper that has on it the quaint
signature of General Spinner. For this agency the
patriotic financiers named will charge nothing; after
which, it will only remain to proclaim that the Millennium
which was to have arroven, has arriv; and
that Private Miles O'Reilly, 47th Regiment New
York Volunteers, has been its prœsidium et dulce
decus—at once its poet and its prophet!