Incidents of the War: Humorous, Pathetic, and Descriptive Part 13

Confessions of a Fat Man-home-guard.

The moment the flag was threatened, large bodies of men were called upon to rally to its defense. Being large and able-bodied, I enrolled with the home-guard. The drill was very severe in hot weather, and I wanted an attendant, a fan, and pitcher of ice-water.

I am constantly reminded that one of the first requirements of a soldier is to throw out his chest and draw in his stomach. Having been burned out several times, while occupying an attic, I have had considerable practice in throwing out my chest; but by what system of practice could I ever hope to draw in my stomach? I can't "dress up;" it's no use of my trying. If my vest b.u.t.tons are in a line, I am far in the rear. If I toe the mark, a fearful bulge indicates my position. Once we had a new drill-sergeant, who was near-sighted. Running his eye along the line, he exclaimed sharply:

"What is that man doing in the ranks with a base drum?"

He pointed at me; but I hadn't any drum; it was the surplus stomach, that I couldn't, for the life of me, draw in. I am the b.u.t.t of numberless jokes, as you may well suppose. They have got a story in the Guards, that, when I first heard the command "order arms," I dropped my musket, and, taking out my notebook, began drawing an order on the Governor for what arms I needed. They say I ordered a Winans steam-gun, with a pair of Dahlgren howitzers for side arms! Base fabrication! My ambition never extended beyond a rifled cannon, and they know it!

Although, in respect to size, I belong to the "heavies," my preference is for the light infantry service. My knapsack is marked "Light Infantry!" One evening the spectators seemed convulsed about something, and my comrades t.i.ttered by platoons, whenever my back was turned. It was a mystery to me till I laid off my knapsack. Some wretch had erased the two final letters, and I had been parading, all the evening, labeled, "Light Infant!"

The above is one of the thousand annoyances to which I am subjected, and nothing but my consuming patriotism could ever induce me to submit to it. I overheard a spectator inquire of the drill-sergeant one day:

"Do you drill that fat man all at once?"

"No," he returned, in an awful whisper; "I drill him by squads!"

I could have drilled him, if I had had a bayonet.

Specifications have been published in regard to my uniform, and contractors advertised for; the making will be let out to the lowest bidder. In case the Guards are ordered to take the field, a special commissary will be detailed to draw my rations.

That reminds me of a harrowing incident. On last night's drill an old farmer, who dropped in to see us drill, took me aside, and said he wanted to sell me a yoke of powerful oxen.

"My ancient agriculturist," said I, smiling at his simplicity, "I have no use for oxen."

"Perhaps not at present," quoth he, "but if you go to war you will want them."

"For what?" said I, considerably annoyed.

"Want 'em to draw your rations!"

The Guards paid me a delicate compliment at their last meeting: elected me Child of the Regiment, with the rank of a First Corpulent. I was about to return thanks in a neat speech, when they told me it was no use; that a reporter, who was present, had got the whole thing in type-speech and all-and I could read it in the evening paper. I got his views, and held my own.

Yours for the Union, including the Stars, also the Stripes.

Fat Contributor.

"What are you going to do, you bad woman's boy?" said Mrs. Wiggles, as her youngest son pa.s.sed through the kitchen into the garden.

"Down with the Seceshers!" he shouted; and she looked out just in time to see the top of a rose-bush fall before the artillery-sword of her son, that the youngster held in his hand.

"You had better go to Mola.s.ses Jugtion, if you want to do that," she said, restraining his hand as 't was lifted against a favorite fuschia, that she had trained with so much care.

"Dear me!" she murmured, half to herself; "what a terrible thing war is, when children show signs of such terrible consanguinity!"

The Negro on the Fence.

"Hearken to what I now relate, And on its moral meditate."

A Wagoner, with grist for mill, Was stalled at bottom of a hill.

A brawny negro pa.s.sed that way, So stout he might a lion slay.

"I'll put my shoulder to the wheels, If you'll bestir your horse's heels."

So said the African, and made As if to render timely aid.

"No," cried the wagoner, "stand back!

I'll take no help from one that's black;"

And, to the negro's great surprise, Flourished his whip before his eyes.

Our "darkey" quick "skedaddled" thence, And sat upon the wayside fence.

Then went the wagoner to work, And lashed his horses to a jerk; But all his efforts were in vain; With shout, and oath, and whip, and rein, The wheels budged not a single inch, And tighter grow the wagoner's pinch.

Directly there came by a child, With toiling step, and vision wild, "Father," said she, with hunger dread, "We famish for the want of bread."

Then spake the negro: "If you will, I'll help your horses to the mill."

The wagoner, in grievous plight, Now swore and raved with all his might, Because the negro wasn't white; And plainly ordered him to go To a certain place, that's down below; Then, rushing, came the wagoner's wife, To save her own and infant's life; By robbers was their homestead sacked, And smoke and blood their pillage tracked.

Here stops our tale. When last observed, The wagoner was still "conserved"

In mud, at bottom of the hill, But bent on getting to the mill; And hard by, not a rod from thence, The negro sat upon the fence.

A Camp Letter of Early Times.

Our camp is alive; our camp is exuberant; our camp is in a furore. "Who's that man with 'Secesh' clothes?" says one; and "Who's that big-faced, genial, good-natured looking feller?" says another. "Are they prisoners?" "Maybe it's the paymaster; and that short, chunky man is here to watch the other feller, and see that the money is paid all on the square." "No, it aint one nor t' other-'tis Cons Millar, the ever-vigilant and hard-working Cons, of the Commercial; and the good-natured looking feller is Invisible Green, or, as he is familiarly called, Bill Crippen, of the Times." They have brought sunshine into camp, for a merrier set of soldiers the sun never shone on than are the Guthrie Grays to-night. Cons has just had supper, and Bill is "spreading devastation" over the table of Captain Andrews. They have both been up inspecting intrenchments, which are in statu quo, the brave Lee having retreated some sixteen miles, or, more politely speaking, "fallen back." So I suppose we will soon have to creep up on the gallant gentleman once more, and see if he can not be induced to fall still further back.

The news of the gallant conduct of our Cincinnati boys at the late fight under Rosecrans sent a thrill of pleasure to the hearts of all our men, and a feeling of envy that we were not with them to share the glory of that day. Colonel Lytle, Stephen McGroarty, and the other brave fellows' names, are on the lips of all, and a fervent "G.o.d bless them" is frequently uttered. Our encampment now may be said to extend over four miles, a brigade of twelve thousand; and I can a.s.sure you they make a formidable appearance. Three splendid batteries, three or four fine cavalry companies, and any quant.i.ty of men, are yet on the way.

One of the best Secesh tricks I have heard of was attempted, a short time since, by a rebel telegrapher. When Lee was about to advance upon this point, wishing to ascertain the number of troops here, he sent out this operator, with pocket implements, to attach to our wires. So, carefully picking his way through the woods, Mr. Operator came upon a secluded part of the road; climbing the pole, he attached his battery, and "click, click, click," he inquires of our operator at head-quarters, "How many troops have you altogether, that can, at any pressing event, be sent to aid us if we attack Lee?" Just as he concluded the query, one of the ever-vigilant pickets of the Indiana regiments, who infest the woods and roads in every direction, espied the gentleman, and brought him into camp with his non-confiscated horse. A minute more and the fellow, doubtless, would have been fully informed, as he had guarded against cipher-telegraphing by telegraphing that the cipher-operator was out, and the general wanted an immediate answer.

Our boys continue to scour the woods, and constantly are finding Secesh doc.u.ments. The following beautiful poem is from the pen of Miss M. H. Cantrell, of Jonesboro, Tennessee, and was found in the pocket of a "Secesher," who had invaliantly fled, dropping his overcoat and love-epistles. It is ent.i.tled:

Sweetharts Against War.

O Dear! its shameful I declare To make the men all go And leive so manny sweetharts here Wit out a single bough.

We like to see them leave 'tis true, And wold not urge them stay; But what are we poor girls to do When you are all away?

We told you we cold spare you here Before you had to go, But Bless your Harts, wernt aware That we would miss you sow.

We miss you all in manny ways, But troth will ware out; The gratest things we miss you for Joy going withe out.

On Sunday when we go to church, We look in vane for sum To mete us smilin on the porch, And ask to see us home.

And then we dont enjoy a walk Since all the bows have gone; For what the good to us plain talk If we must trip alone?

But what the use talkin thus We will try to beecontent And if you cannot come to us A message may bee cent.

And that one comfort any way Although we are Apart, There is no reason why we may Not open hart to hart.

We trust it may not ever come To any War like test, We want to see our Southern home Secured in peaceful rest.

But if the blood of those we love In freedoms cause must floo, With fervent trust in Lov Above We bid them onward go.

Written By your friend, M. H. Cantrell.