Chapter II: Part 2

No relief came, and after three days of suspense, Brashear was carried by assault. Some of our sick men formed a line and behaved well, but they were quickly overpowered. The red flag of our hospital was not understood by the assaulting party, and for a little while it looked as if no quarter would be given by the Wild Texans to our sick and wounded. I had risen and mounted my horse after the attack commenced, and I now dismounted at the hospital, and with Captain Noblet of the 1st Indiana Artillery stood awaiting the result. The Captain was full of wrath, and vowed that he would put the two or three charges, still in his revolver, in places where two or three of the murdering villains would feel them. A wild-looking squad, with broad hats and jangling spurs, rushed, revolver in hand, upon the building. In no very decided mood at the time, and acting chiefly from the military habit of looking to some one in authority, I asked sharply if there was an officer among them. They stopped, looked, a trifle disconcerted, and one answered that he was a sergeant.

“This is a hospital,” I said, authoritatively. “Sergeant, put two men on guard at the door, and don’t let any but the wounded pass in.”

“Well then, Bill,” said the sergeant, “you and John stand guard here. And now see you don’t let nobody go in unless they be wounded.”

This was the first and last order I ever gave to a Confederate soldier, and it is due to the sergeant to say that he executed it promptly and well.

About the same instant another squad rushed to a side window and poked their rifles through the sash. Dr. Willets, the surgeon of the 176th, at the moment was operating on a wounded soldier. With professional coolness he turned to the window, and in the decided manner that one would speak to a crowd of small boys, said—

“This is a hospital; you mustn’t come here. Go away from the window and get out of my light.”

The rifles were withdrawn; the party looked at the window a moment in a somewhat awe-struck manner, and then saying to each other, “You mustn’t go there,” they withdrew.

The wounded of both sides were brought in, and our surgeons, with scrupulous impartiality, treated all alike. From beside their operating table I was moved to an upper room with Lieutenant Stevenson of the 176th. A minnie ball had torn through the entire length of his foot, leaving a frightful wound that threatened lockjaw and amputation. On the next cot lay a wounded Confederate named Lewis—a plain, simple-hearted man, who, for the next week, proved a useful and trustworthy friend. As we thus lay there, my regimental colors, by some strange chance, were brought into the room. Our conversation stopped—the sick and wounded raised themselves from their cots, and all eyes were fastened upon the inanimate flag as though it were a being of intelligence and life. The Texan soldier first broke the silence.

“That,” he said, in a dreamy way—half to himself and half to us—“that has been the proudest flag that ever floated.”

“_And is still, sir_,” said my wounded lieutenant, proudly.

The Texan said nothing. I expected an outbreak, for there had been no little defiance in the lieutenant’s reply, but none came. Some old emotion had evidently touched his heart and carried him back to earlier and better days.

As he turned away my color-sergeant whispered to me a plan for destroying the colors, which, however, I did not approve. He pleaded that he knew every thread of that flag, and that it would almost kill him to see it borne away by rebel hands. “No, Sergeant,” I was obliged to reply, “we must keep our colors by fighting for them, and not by a dirty trick.” The answer satisfied neither the sergeant nor my fellow officers. Yet before my own imprisonment was over, I had the great happiness of learning that the undestroyed flag, honorably recaptured, was restored to its regiment.

An officer soon appeared charged with the duty of paroling our men. His quiet and courteous manner said plainly that he was a gentleman, and he introduced himself as Captain Watt, of Gen. Mouton’s staff. The Captain and I looked at each other as men do who think they have met before. He then informed me that formerly he had spent his summers at Saratoga and Newport, and that he thought we must have known each other there. For this slight reason—so slight that many men would have made it a good excuse for dropping an acquaintance, if any had existed—Captain Watt called on me repeatedly, procured an order for my being retained in the Brashear hospital, and for several months carefully transmitted to me such letters as found their way through the lines. His family had been one of the wealthiest in New Orleans, and were now refugees in Europe. He had entered the army under the belief that it was a duty to his State, and on the capture of the city had beheld the ruin of all who were dearest to him. Yet he made no ill-timed allusions to this, and in our conversations always selected pleasant topics and spoke kindly of the hours he had spent and the acquaintances he had made in the North.

The chief Confederate surgeon (Dr. Hughes, of Victoria, Texas,) next arrived, and assumed command at the hospital. It caused at first but little change. Our own surgeons continued in charge of our wounded—our steward continued to dispense the stores, and the stores continued to be forthcoming. The Confederate surgeons were polite and kind, doing all they could to make us comfortable, and expressing thanks for the treatment previously bestowed on their own wounded. Thus, in a few hours, our affairs had settled down in their new channels; and we, with a strange, new feeling of restriction upon us, set ourselves to wait for the bad news, and fresh reverses likely to come. From our window we could see the Confederate forces crossing the river. They waited not for tardy quarter-masters or proper transportation, but, in flat boats and dug-outs, pressed steadily across. A little steamer dropped out of one of the narrow bayous, and worked ceaselessly, bringing over artillery. Ere sunset, we estimated that five thousand men and four batteries had crossed, and were moving forward to break our communications on the Mississippi, and compel us to raise the siege of Port Hudson.

From this early day, there was a strong resolve in the minds of most of us, to be cheerful before the enemy, and, whatever we felt, not to let them see us down-cast. When the mind is really roused and in motion, a little effort will turn it into almost any channel. We made the effort, and succeeded. One individual who came in last, and ventured to say, with solemn visage, that this calamity was awful, was immediately frowned down, and warned that, if he talked such nonsense here, he should be moved to some other ward. The effect was magical, and in ten minutes he became rather a merry, careless kind of fellow. This treatment, I believe, saved many lives; and I found that my own convalescence, which had been slow and changeful in the previous quiet, was now rapid and steady.

There were sorrows enough to see, if one chose to look toward them. So many causes never united to depress, and never produced so little effect. Neither the shameful loss of the post, nor the presence of the sick and wounded filling every room, nor our unburied dead who lay around the building, nor the prospect of a long captivity, nor the helplessness of disease, nor the suffering of wounds, were sufficient to make us appear sad. I marvelled then, and cannot understand now, how the mind was able to throw off these troubles, and how _real_ this enforced cheerfulness became. A sense of duty dictated it at the beginning, and redeemed it from heartlessness afterward. Once, indeed, my spirits failed me, as I searched some private letters to find an address. They were so light-hearted and happy, and dwelt on the belief, as on a certainty, that he, to whom they were written, would return crowned with honor. It was a happy and brief illusion. An only sister had given her only brother to the war—the orphan pair had made this great sacrifice of separation; and now I had to write to the young girl, and say that he had been my most trusted officer, and had fallen for the honor of his flag.[1]

There was a class of captives who saw the loss of Brashear with heavier hearts than those who possessed the rights and hopes of “prisoners of war.” The unhappy contrabands were agitated before the blow fell, but met it with the tearless apathy of their race. “The niggers don’t look as if they wanted to see us,” I heard one Confederate soldier say to another.

“No,” said the other; “but you’ll see a herd of fat planters here to-morrow after them. _They_ don’t fight any, but they are always on hand for their niggers.”

It was even so: for days, planter after planter appeared, and party after party of men, women and children, laden with their beds and baggage, tramped sorrowfully past our quarters. The hundreds that remained went, I know not whither.

There was one woman, a quadroon, who had been an attendant in our hospital. With her there were an old mother, darker than herself, and a little daughter so fair, that no one ever suspected her of being tainted with the blood of the hapless race. This woman, through all the turmoil and trial of that time, never lost the little marks of neatness and propriety that tell so plainly in woman of innate dignity and refinement. The tasteful simplicity of her frequently changed dress; the neat collar and snowy cuffs; the pretty work-box, and more especially her quiet reserve, indicated rather the lady than the slave. During the fight she had been calm and brave, and when a couple of cowards had rushed into the hospital and begged for a place where they could lie down and hide themselves, this _woman_, while volleys were firing at the hospital, and men and women falling in the passages, had shown these _men_ to a room and closed the door on them, and walked away so quietly that one might have thought her beyond the reach of the danger that threatened them. An hour or two later, as she passed through the ward where we lay, she stopped at the window and looked out on the scene of the Confederates crossing the river. Of all the persons to whom the capture of Brashear boded grief and wrong, there probably was not one to whom it threatened so much as to her. With her mother and her child, she had been preparing to seek the surer refuge of the North, and this direful calamity had come when the place of safety appeared almost within her reach. Yet she shed no tears, and uttered no complainings. Her large, sad eyes fastened on the river, she stood beside the window and heard the shouts and yells that told of the Confederate triumph. For half an hour she never moved; her face retained its soft composure, and only once the muscles of the lip fluttered and trembled, as though there might be a troubled sea within. Then she turned and went back to her work, as calmly as if she alone had suffered no change. She cheered those men who were struggling for strength to go out on parole; she worked for those officers who were to be sent forward into captivity. For herself, she never invited aid or sympathy. We asked her if we might not send for her former master to come and take her back to her old home. But this, for some untold reason, she steadfastly refused. It was urged that she and her child would be sent far into Texas or Arkansas; and that they might be seized, as so much booty, by some of these half-savage strangers. She answered quietly, that she had thought of this. Ere we parted, we asked her what future help we could give, and what plan she would pursue to regain her freedom, or secure some less dangerous home. And she said briefly, that she did not know, and said no more.

Footnote 1:

Captain John S. Cutter.

The captured officers, able to march, were sent forward to Shreveport, and the men were paroled and marched off to our lines. Three officers of my regiment remained with me—two sick, and one severely wounded. Two “citizen prisoners” were also added to our number. One of these, whom I shall call Mr. Stratford, was held as lessee of a confiscated plantation. His wife was permitted to remain with him, and she now visited the hospital daily. The other civilian was Mr. Dwight Parce, of Chenango County, New York, who had just begun business in Brashear. He now witnessed the destruction of his property with undiminished cheerfulness, and, although an invalid, fated to fill a prisoner’s grave in Texas, met the discomforts that awaited him with a serenity and hopefulness that nothing ever disturbed.

We all effected some captures of baggage. Captain Watt sent me an order for the delivery of mine if it could be found, and Dr. Hughes, with ever ready kindness, advised me to take his ambulance and search for it at the fort, where some captured property was stored. The guard consisted of a young gentleman in his shirt-sleeves and no shoes, who, when requested to go, whistled violently, and perched himself on the rear of the ambulance, with his face toward the hospital and his back toward me. I asked him, with some surprise, if he was not going to take his rifle; at which he stopped whistling and said, he reckoned not. After whistling a few minutes, he further defined his position by saying, that if I ran away he reckoned he could run after me; and then, that he reckoned the climate had been a heap too much for me. After another whistle his stiffness wore away a trifle, and he manifestly tried to put me at my ease by saying, “Dog gone the Lousanny climate, and the bayous, and the beef, and dog gone the Lousanyans: they’re the meanest set of people ever I see. I’d just as soon shoot one of ’em as a Yank.” This put me quite at my ease, and we then had a very interesting conversation. The etymology of “dog gone” my guard was ignorant of; he suggested that it meant pretty much what something else did, but wasn’t quite so bad, in which opinion I coincided. Since then I have learnt that this expressive phrase is derived from the threat of putting a _dog on_ you, and that it saves annually, in Texas, an immense amount of swearing, and is found to answer just as well.

On the morning of the third of July, the Officer of the Day appeared. He was a Captain in Colonel Bates’ Texan Battalion, and he blandly begged that we would prepare to move in the afternoon; the boat would be ready at five, and we would be sent to the hospital at Franklin, where we would be much more comfortable. The boat did not come, however, and we remained to celebrate the “Fourth” at Brashear. We went round among our sick men who remained, to cheer them with the certainty of their early release; we read the Declaration, and we drank a bottle of wine, which Mrs. Stratford, with patriotic devotion, smuggled in for us. Our friend, the ex-officer of the day, re-appeared to apologize; the boat had been detained—he knew he must have caused us much trouble—he had come to beg us to forgive him—he deeply regretted that he had not known of the delay in time to inform us. To-day he believed that there would be no delay, and he had just requested the new Officer to order the boat up to the hospital, so that we should not have the trouble of walking down to where she lay. Nothing could have been more elegant, chivalric, and delightful. If he were one of my own officers and I were the Lieutenant-General, he could not have been more courteous and respectful.

We started on our “Fourth of July excursion” in the afternoon. While the boat was lying at the wharf, an officer, with long white hair and of imposing appearance, came slowly down the saloon. As he drew near I observed a Colonel’s insignia on his collar, and one of the guard whispered me, that it was Colonel Bates, the commanding officer at Brashear. The Colonel marched up to me, extended his hand, and with grand solemnity, in keeping with his dignified bearing, said:

“Colonel, I have come down now to apologize for not having waited upon you before. I ought to have done so, sir—I ought to have done so. But I have been over-occupied. I pray you to excuse me, sir.”

“When I consider our difference in years, and the different circumstances that surrounded each, I do not know of any incident that could have pleased me more than this stately courtesy of the old Colonel. An interesting conversation followed, in which I learnt that he was an Alabamian by birth. He spoke highly of the Texan character, which, he said, excelled in bravery and simplicity; but he warned me that the country could furnish few comforts, such, he said, as Northerners have at home. Then, when the boat was ready to start, he called up the officer of the guard, and said to him:

“Captain, your orders are strict, I know; but these gentlemen are invalids; they are too weak to escape, sir. You must construe your orders liberally, sir, in favor of the sick. Do not let the guard trouble these gentlemen, and make them as comfortable as you can.”

There was another Colonel who succeeded Colonel Bates, at Brashear; he was a citizen of a New England State, and had been an ice merchant in New Orleans. When the war came, he went, not “with his State” but with his property. All the indignities, ill-treatment, meanness and cruelty that we met with at Brashear and Franklin, came directly from him. While the _real_ Southern officers were showing us unsought kindness and attention—while they were overlooking what they sincerely believed to be the needless ruin of their homes, and the wanton destruction of their property, this miserable Northern renegade was bullying Northern ladies—“bucking and gagging” unfortunate prisoners, and sending sick and wounded officers out of the hospital by orders as cowardly as they were cruel.

The Franklin Hospital had been the “Franklin House” before the war, and stood close beside the bayou. Lieutenant Stevenson was placed in the wounded ward, and the rest of us were assigned three pleasant rooms in a wing of the building. Our guard consisted of a corporal, named Ingram, and six men of Colonel Bates’ regiment. They bivouacked on the piazza, and completed our confusion as to what Wild Texans are. They did not drink; they did not swear; they did not gamble. They were watchful of us, but did everything kindly and with a willingness that greatly lessened our feeling of dependence.

The surgeon in charge of the hospital, Dr. Marten, was polite and kind. A stylish little French lieutenant of the 10th Louisiana, named Solomon, was assiduous in his attentions. He detailed a contraband as our especial servant; hourly sent us little presents, in the way of fruit and refreshments, and paid us those easy, chatty visits, that Frenchmen pay so much better than any other men. There was a sort of Dutch Major-Domo, one Schneider, who took us under his special protection, blowing up the cook and scolding the waiter, on our behalf, a dozen times a day. There was also a sergeant of the Crescent regiment—a soldier and disciplinarian, but easy and communicative toward us. Lastly, there was our contraband, bearing the name of Ben, and very sharp and shrewd was he, and never wanting in good humor or flourishing obeisances.

The ladies of Franklin flocked to the hospital, bringing fruit and flowers, and knick-knacks of their own preparing. They differed considerably with the doctors on questions of diet; and did about as much damage, in their pretty way, as patriotic young ladies have done in other than Confederate hospitals. They carefully avoided the cot of the solitary Yankee prisoner in the wounded ward; the well-bred passing it by as though the slight were casual, and the ill-bred, showing with studied care, that it was intentional. The Wild Texans who had captured us shared not in these patriotic manifestations. They, on the contrary, divided with Lieutenant Stevenson whatever they received, looked after him as though he were a brother soldier, and, once or twice, asked their fair visitors rather angrily, why they didn’t give this or that to that gentleman on the fourth cot. Yet it must not be supposed that this conduct of the Franklin fair proceeded entirely from their own wicked imaginings. The women, like the men of the South, are all slaves of public opinion. After awhile one lady, giving way to the natural kindness of her nature, stopped at the prisoner’s cot, and then the others followed the example. The presents flowed in with a free hand, and the sails once fairly round on this tack, the wind seemed to blow as strongly from the chivalric quarter as it had previously blown from the patriotic.

This narrative would not be truthful if I omitted therefrom a statement of the fare, during our fortnight in the Franklin hospital. It was so much better than I had expected; so much better than I had supposed it possible that prisoners could receive at rebel hands; so different from the fare which we knew was to follow, that I carefully noted down the bill on several days, and from these select a favorable specimen.

“_Wednesday, July 15._ AT SUNRISE.—French Coffee and Biscuits.

“BREAKFAST.—Beef Steak, Beef Stew, Cucumbers, Stewed Peaches, Melons, French Bread, Biscuits, Toast and Tea.

“DINNER.—Soup, Roast Beef, Beef _a la mode_, Cucumbers, Egg Plant, Lima Beans, French Bread, Biscuits, Tea.”

This easy prison-life, however, received a jog, in the shape of an officer of Speight’s Battalion of Texas Cavalry. He was introduced to us as Lieutenant Geo. C. Duncan, and he bore orders to carry us to Niblett’s Bluff, on the Sabine. It appeared therefrom that we were to be moved to the southern side of Texas, and not to follow the officers captured with us.

The orders were, to carry _all_ the prisoners at the hospital to Niblett’s Bluff; but when the officer saw Lieutenant Stevenson, and heard the surgeon’s statement, he sent down a special report from the surgeon, and waited for further orders. In the meanwhile, our polite French friend, Lieutenant Solomon, drove Mrs. Stratford to New Iberia, and we awaited, with some anxiety, our departure, and discussed the probabilities of marching through, or giving out by the way.

IV.
THE MARCH.

It was Sunday morning, about sunrise, when Lieutenant Duncan appeared at the door, and informed us that we must start immediately. There was an instantaneous springing up—a hurried toilet—a rapid rolling of blankets, and a hastily-snatched breakfast of bread and coffee. I remarked, with more unconcern in my manner than I really felt, that I supposed Lieutenant Stevenson would remain. The lieutenant’s countenance fell, and, looking another way, he said, nervously, “Orders have come to move _all_ immediately, and I have no alternative.” It was my unpleasant task, therefore, to go down and announce to the wounded officer that he must go. In addition to his painful wound, he was suffering from an attack of fever. His exhausted appearance frightened me, though I talked quite boldly of the good effects of change of air, and the advantages of continuing with us.

A clumsy plantation wagon rumbled to the door, and the new guard, mounted on wild-looking Texan horses, drew up around it. The old guard, like good fellows, helped us quite cordially in carrying out our baggage; and they shook hands and bade us good bye, with a warmth that savored much less of rebel enemies than of countrymen and friends. Some newly arrived prisoners were brought from the Court House, and we started. As we moved off, one of them seized me by the hand with many expressions of surprise. At first I did not recognize him, but, after a moment, discovered that he was Captain Frederick Van Tine, of my former regiment, and learnt that he, with two Massachusetts officers, was captured on the Mississippi, and, for the last week, had been confined in the jail at Thiboudeau.

Up the main street of Franklin we marched two by two, the guard strung along on each side, their rifles unslung and their eyes watching us, as if they somewhat feared an immediate escape. The loafers of Franklin of course turned out to stare at us, and made remarks rarely complimentary; the women looked at us from the door-steps as we passed, some triumphantly, and a few in pity. At the head of this inglorious procession it was my place to walk; but the new prisoners revealed the hitherto concealed news, and I felt proud and happy over the long delayed result of Vicksburg and Port Hudson.

Beside our own party, and the three officers from the Mississippi, were a number of “citizen prisoners,” and an unfortunate deserter whom they had caught at Brashear. Of these civilians, a dozen were Irishmen and they immediately placed themselves at the head of the column, and proceeded to walk and talk with a zeal that nobody attempted to equal. A move is always animating, even when it is toward captivity; but our excitement was short-lived. Hardly had we passed from the shadow of the town, when the convalescents felt the effect of the burning, fever-kindling sun. It was a serious business for some of us. One hundred and eighty miles distant flowed the Sabine, and we were to march there, over open prairies and in the middle of the Southern summer.

Before a mile was travelled over, I could see the effect of the fearful heat in others, and feel it on myself. Faces grew flushed; coats were stripped off, and the perspiration poured in streams. Yet it was a matter of honor not to give up. For my own part, I was smarting with mortification at the disgrace of Brashear, and resolved, and re-resolved, to walk till I fell dead, before one of these Southern soldiers should say that a Yankee Colonel had given out.

At the head of the guard rode a good-looking young fellow, tall and sinewy, and with the merriest face I have ever seen in a Southerner. I had some doubts, at first, whether he was a private or a Captain, but found that he was a corporal. He was mounted on a compact little bay, called, in Texas, a pony; a long revolver was stuck in his belt; a lariat rope loosely coiled hung on the saddle-bow; his bright Springfield rifle was balanced across the pommel, and with his broad hat and heavy, jangling Spanish spurs, he formed a brilliant picture of a Wild Texan. As some little changes and arrangements were wanting and the lieutenant was not in sight, I addressed myself to the corporal, and asked if he would order a halt for a moment. “Why to be sure I will,” was his very ready reply, followed up with the order, “Now, halt here, men, and let these prisoners put their little tricks on the wagon; there is no need of their packing them.”

“We took advantage of the halt to lash some sticks to the sides of the wagon and to spread upon them our blankets, so as to form an awning over Lieutenant Stevenson. But the sun beat down hotter and hotter. At the next halt, one of us took a canteen from the end of the wagon—the water was hot, so incredibly hot that the others were called up to feel it, and all agreed that its heat was painful. My first impression was, that this intense burning heat would blister us. But the damp Louisiana atmosphere caused floods of perspiration, pouring over the exposed face and hands, and soaking quickly through every garment. Faces grew more and more flushed; conversation flagged and soon ceased. Those who, at the beginning, rattled away cheerfully, walked in moody silence near each other, occasionally exchanging distressed looks, but rarely, if ever, speaking a word.”

About mid-day the expected shower of the rainy season came down on us furiously. We drew up under some trees, and stood close against the leeward side of their trunks, until it blew over. The different characteristics of the three parties who were gathered there immediately developed. The Irishmen laughed, hullabaloed, pushed each other out in the rain, and treated the affair as a capital joke. The Northerners shifted their positions, and attempted improvements, while the rain was at the worst—grumbled a great deal, and hurled fierce denunciations at, what they called, their “luck.” The Southerners silently unrolled their blankets, folded them around their shoulders, looked upward at the storm with their usual sad indifference of expression, made no attempts to better their condition, and waited apathetically till it was over.

A prairie spread out for several miles immediately beyond our sheltering trees, and the road curved around its outskirts. It was a prairie, but a tame one; interspersed with fields; pastured by cattle; surrounded by houses, and looking like any dull, uninteresting plain. Its grass, however, was thick and wet, and its sticky black mud soon loaded our boots and almost glued us fast. The coolness of the air quickly vanished, and the sun, more burning than ever, re-appeared. We dragged on wearily, very wearily, casting wistful glances at the grove on the other side, which rose very slowly, and, for a long time, seemed as distant as when we started. At last, however, we manifestly drew nearer; the chimneys of a house could be distinguished in the foliage, and the guard cheered us with the assurance that it was the house at which we were to halt. Every one made a last effort, and after half an hour’s exertion, we dragged ourselves out of the muddy prairie and into a plantation yard, bordering on the Teche.

We sat there waiting for the wagon, and watching a small drove of hogs that had come down the bank of the bayou, and, half immersed, were greedily eating the green scum that covered the water. The lieutenant had bought provisions at the house, and hired the contrabands to cook for us. The dinner finally appeared, consisting of a large kettle of boiled beef, and a quantity of corn bread in the shape of little rolls. It did not impress us favorably; but the guard seemed to think it excellent—perhaps because _boiled_ beef was a rarity—perhaps because the corn bread was a superior article, (I was not a judge of it then); and one, with charming simplicity, said, “If we do as well as _this_, it _will_ do!” To which rhapsody one of my disgusted friends was obliged to respond, with a faint and sickly smile, “Yes, yes; it is very nice.”

The place of bivouac that night was in the grass-covered yard, or rather field, of one of the finest plantations on the Teche. The owner soon appeared, accompanied by his son, his son-in-law, and a friend. He was an old gentleman, dressed with the scrupulous taste and neatness of a Frenchman, and treated us with as much politeness and as little kindness as could very well be united. The son-in-law regaled us with a description of the manner in which some of our troops had plundered his house, and burnt his furniture; and the friend sat himself down, and opened with the invariable remark, “We consider this a _most_ unnatural war, sir;” which he followed up with the invariable question, “When do you think there will be peace, sir?” To these I gave my invariable replies, that we also thought it a most unnatural war, and that there would be peace whenever the Southern soldiers chose to go home and take care of their own affairs. The gentleman seemed very much disgusted at the idea of having peace on such simple and easy terms, and said solemnly, that he couldn’t allow himself to believe it.

There was a large open shed beside us, but the ground was covered with fleas, and we preferred the wet grass and heavy dew of a Louisiana night, to these pests of a tropical climate. But few slept well. For a long time I felt too tired to close my eyes, and awoke repeatedly, aching in every part. When daylight dawned we rose so stiff and sore that we could hardly move, and with renewed apprehensions made ready for another day. Lieutenant Stevenson showed such increased exhaustion that the Confederate officer took me aside and said, that he would not be guilty of carrying him beyond New Iberia.

We started, not at daylight, as was intended, but a long time after the sun was up. With all such parties there are many petty causes of delay, and it requires an iron-handed commander to bear them down, and carry his party off at the appointed hour. Lieutenant Duncan was too good-natured for this, and instead of coercing us, he, on the contrary, told us to choose our own time, and not to start till we were ready. The delay brought down the burning sun again upon us, and the pain and weariness of this second day much exceeded those of the first.

As we thus toiled along, the road, which was running between un-inclosed fields, approached a tall rail fence. Three or four of us were walking a few yards in advance of the guard, when we heard the corporal shout from behind, “Take care of the bull! Take care of the bull!” I looked ahead and saw nothing very alarming: a large red bull was drawing himself up, and lashing his sides with his tail. After a moment or two, however, he started toward us, shaking his head and breaking into a low, deep bellow. He was a magnificent animal, with long, low, spreading horns, and moved in a full, square trot that many a horse might envy. There was a scramble at once for the fence which stood very nearly midway between us and the bull. What the result might have been I think somewhat doubtful, had not the gallant corporal, on his bright little bay, rushed past us on a gallop. The pony was a herding pony and understood his business. Like a spirited dog, he flew straight at the bull until they nearly touched, then wheeling he kept alongside, watching him closely and sheering off whenever the long horns made a lunge toward himself. The pony did this of his own accord, for, as he wheeled, his rider held the rifle in his left hand and was drawing the long revolver with his right, and these Texan horses are rarely taught to wheel from the pressure of the leg. A finer picture of intelligent instinct than this pony presented could hardly be painted: his ears erect, his eyes flashing, and his whole soul in the chase. The corporal was not slower than his horse. He brought the long revolver up; a shot flashed, and the poor beast received a heavy wound. This diverted his attention from us, for, with a loud bellow, he wheeled toward the corporal. But the pony’s eye was on him, and, quicker than spur or rein could make him, he also wheeled, and scoured off, across the plain faster than any bull could go. The corporal brought up the rifle, and there was a second flash—a second wound, for the bull staggered, and then walked slowly and proudly away. Occasionally he stopped, turned defiantly round, uttered deep bellowings, and shook at us his splendid horns.

The incident afforded us a little excitement, and led me into a conversation with the corporal, who narrated anecdotes of the wonderful intelligence of herding ponies. The heat, the dust, the glaring sun, and increasing pain and weariness at length stopped even a conversation on so interesting a topic as horses are and ever will be, and I was fain to drag myself along without expending an ounce of strength on any object beyond the dusty road. We entered upon the last two miles, and saw Iberia in the distance. The road ran between hedges twenty feet high—it was filled with a long column of dust—not a breath of outer air disturbed it, and the sun shone directly down from his noon-day height. I felt myself grow weaker and weaker as we advanced through this green boiler. The perspiration poured into my eyes and blinded me—my head whirled round—my feet stumbled and dragged, so that every step seemed almost the last. While in this critical state, a couple of pretty Louisiana “young ladies” stopped their carriage, and greatly refreshed me by expressing the hope that we should be hung at the end of the lane, and the opinion that hanging was quite as good treatment as nigger-thieves deserved. Such was the power of this well-timed stimulus, that I kept on for more than a mile, and at last found that I was in the midst of the little town of New Iberia.

We halted in the shade of some large trees. There seemed to be an unusual number of vagabonds in New Iberia, who congregated closely round us, and asked impudent questions (generally as to how we liked the war _now_), until it occurred to our guards that this might be annoying to us, and then they very promptly drove the Iberian loafers back. One cowardly-looking, black-eyed little rascal, however, was very desirous of finding an officer of the Twenty-first Indiana amongst us that he might kill him, and repeatedly hinted that he had a great mind to kill one of us anyhow. But one of the guard quieted him by the suggestion that if he wanted to kill a Yank, he’d find plenty of them over on the Mississippi, and that he’d better go there instead of skulking round in the rear—anyhow, he’d better stop insulting prisoners, or he’d have a right smart chance to kill a _Texan_—dog-goned if he wouldn’t.

Soon after this, an officer of the Provost Guard appeared. The roll of the “citizen prisoners” was called over, and all but six marched off to the jail. We were put in motion, and marched to the outskirts of the town, where we halted beside a saw-mill standing on the bank of the Teche. The lieutenant then brought a surgeon, who speedily pronounced in favor of receiving Lieutenant Stevenson, and directed that he should be taken at once to his hospital.

During the afternoon, our kind and courteous French friend, Lieutenant Solomon, appeared, to take us to the hospital, and thence to his own house. I asked Lieutenant Duncan for a guard, and he politely sent one of his men with us. One of my officers walked with me to the hospital. It was in a church, and at its extreme end we found Lieutenant Stevenson. He looked wretched, and my hopes sank as I saw him. The church was crowded with Confederate sick, and he was the only prisoner there. Yet there was no alternative. We knew that if he were carried along, a sadder parting would soon ensue. Faintly hoping that we should again see him, and inwardly praying that he might find the friends he sorely needed, we bade him farewell.

The French lieutenant rejoined us in the street, and led the way to his own house. He wished, he said, to present us to Madame, and offer us some slight refreshment, which was not good, but was better than we might enjoy again. We soon reached his house, and were presented to Madame, who received us with the grace and politeness of a French lady. The slight refreshment, doubtless, was preparing, and we were comfortably waiting to enjoy it, when a patriot soldier of the Confederacy, with the villainous look peculiar to those of Louisiana, stuck his gun and then his head in the room, and said sulkily, that the Provost Marshal wanted us. Our worthy lieutenant accompanied us, saying, “Oh, surely it must be a mistake; somebody has told him you are making an escape. He will let you return to my house, and you shall stay all the afternoon.” Arrived at the Provost Marshal’s, the Louisiana patriot left us on the sidewalk, and stepped in to inform the august official that we were in waiting. That magnate immediately came forth—a youthful, swarthy, small-sized, unwashed Louisianian, with a consequential air, and a vagabond face. “Take these fellows back to your camp,” he said, addressing our Texan guard. “I won’t have prisoners running about my town.” As he said this, he honored us with a vicious stare, and then banged back into his office.

There was no resisting this eloquence, so back we went. Our guard, who had been very silent, became very talkative. He swore pardonable oaths at the Louisianians in general, and the Provost Marshal in particular. As to the former, he said they were all a disgrace to the South; and as to the latter, that if ever he got a chance, he’d scalp _him_—dog-gone if he wouldn’t. In camp, his excitement extended to the rest. Our gallant friend, the corporal, was especially indignant.

“What,” he said, “he spoke so right before you, without your having insulted him. The dog-gone little puppy. If I’d been there, I’d have slapped his face, and then run for Texas. There’s just such ducks everywhere, and most of all in Louisiana. Dog-gone them—I’d like to shoot the whole of them.”

Our wounded honor being soothed by these chivalric sentiments, and a shower of rain coming up about the same time, we retired to the saw-mill, where we selected soft planks, swept away the saw-dust, and made ready for the night. About dark, Lieutenant Duncan returned, with anger and mortification glowing in his face. He had not been able to get fresh mules or a good wagon, or full rations, or even a wagon cover, _for prisoners_, and he was vexed and wrathful at the refusals he had met. “I tell you what it is, though, gentlemen,” he said, “you shall be taken care of, and have the best this country can give you, if I take it out of their houses with my revolver. It’s not so in Texas, gentlemen. There our people haven’t got much, but they will give you what they have.” In fact, the good lieutenant was so chagrined and mortified, that I had to assure him that we were not children, and would rather undergo a little extra hardship, than put him to further trouble. But while affairs were gliding in this harmonious and humane channel within the saw-mill, some wicked imp suggested to our friend, the Provost Marshal, the feasibility of his bestowing on us another kick. Hardly had the lieutenant wiped the perspiration from his brow, and looked around for a dry plank on which to sleep, when a second Louisiana patriot, dirtier even than the first, appeared. He delivered an order to the lieutenant. It was to pack up and be off instantly—he, the Provost Marshal, wouldn’t have prisoners camping in his town over night.

We accordingly packed up and went off, not more than a hundred yards (for the saw-mill was on the boundary of the town), and stopped at an abandoned barn, just beyond the Provost Marshal’s jurisdiction. The barn was dirty—the ground around it muddy—the fleas were hale and hearty—and these little circumstances added a great deal of force to the thanks which the guard lavished on the Provost Marshal. Yet we looked forward with hopefulness to the morrow, for then we were to turn off from the Teche, and leaving civilization and the hateful Louisianians behind us, strike off, undisturbed, on the free prairies.

V.
THE PRAIRIES.

The road ran, for several miles, between hedges and among plantations, and close to gardens and houses, with their fields and fences, until it suddenly emerged on a broad, unbounded prairie. Our guards’ eyes sparkled when they saw it, and they declared that this began to look like Texas. We all felt better at the sight, and the fresh breeze that swept over it almost swept away the weary weakness of the previous days. There is a profound sense of loneliness and littleness on these great seas of green far exceeding that which men feel in forests. There is such an absence of _objects_—such long distances appearing to the eye, and before which the feet grow feeble—such a want of all shelter and protection, that one wishes for the woods, and acknowledges a companionship in hills and trees beyond all that he has ever known before.

A long noon-day halt was made at a Frenchman’s, whose wretched shanty stood environed by a beautiful grove of the deep-shading China tree; and, during the afternoon, we found the prairie interspersed with small plantations. These took away the sense of loneliness, and, in some respects, added to the interest of the march. There was a good stiff breeze, too, blowing directly from the west, (to which we travelled) and all moved cheerfully along, shaking off fatigue and forgetting, for the time, that we were prisoners. As the sun approached his setting, we descended by a gently sloping plain toward a wood that marks and hides Vermillion Bayou. While it was still a mile or two distant, we turned from the wagon-trail and made our way across the prairie to a plantation, whose large white house and numerous out-buildings peered forth from a grove of over-hanging trees.

The plantation was owned by a lady, who kindly allowed her servants to cook our supper, and gave us her lawn to bivouac upon. She also invited Mr. and Mrs. Stratford to occupy a room in her house, and showed the rare good taste and delicacy of not coming out to stare at us. We found ourselves still connected with civilized life; for supper was spread out handsomely in the dining-room, and was accompanied by the luxury of real French coffee, served in delicate china.

We started earlier than usual the next morning, and soon crossed the strip of prairie between us and the Vermillion. The belt of wood was not more than half a mile in breadth, and near its farther edge we found a narrow, sluggish stream, almost bridged by the ferry-scow, yet deep in mud, and with miry banks that made it difficult to cross. As we waited for the wagon that was slowly rumbling along, we discovered below the ferry, closely drawn up against the bank and almost hidden by the trees, a full rigged schooner, that had eluded the watchfulness of our blockaders, and escaped the eyes of our cavalry, and now lay snugly waiting for the proper time to glide down the bayou and escape on the open sea.

The wagon rolled up while we were scanning and discussing the little blockade runner, and we began our crossing. It was not a labor of very great importance, for when one end of the scow had been pushed a few feet from the eastern bank, the other end ran into the western. We found the latter much higher than the former, being, in Southern phrase, “something of a bluff.” On mounting it, we saw a rolling prairie spreading out like a lake of green, and enclosed by distant woods which seemed its shore. The “timber,” (as forests in the West are called,) was four or five miles distant on either side, and, to the front of us, sank down behind the far-off horizon. Numerous herds were in sight; and troops of young cattle would draw up and stare at us. They were not the “fine stock” of our good breeders; yet, still were beautiful creatures—straight-backed, fine-boned, and with heads gracefully carried and erect. “When our shouts startled them into motion, they carried themselves off with the same high horse-like trot I had been struck with in our bull on the Teche, and then, breaking into an easy gallop, bounded away like deer. The guards repeatedly warned us to keep near the horsemen, and said, that these cattle of the prairies did not know what a man a-foot was, and were so wild that they would attack us if we ventured near them.”

The guard had been improving daily since we left Franklin. No formal parole was given by us, yet there was an informal one which we respected, and in which they placed implicit confidence. They behaved, too, with great kindness, constantly dismounting and making first one and then another of us ride. Our column broke up into little parties of twos and threes, the faster walkers opening gaps on those who took it more leisurely, and each one travelling at whatever rate he best liked. After five or six miles of this, three of us, with a like number of the guard, reached a little house that stood alone in the prairie. The guards showed their appreciation of our honor, by handing us their horses and rifles to take care of while they went into the house. After a while they returned, and showed their appreciation of our appetites by bringing us a pail full of milk for a drink.

We watched the different parties that dotted the prairie for a mile or two behind us, until they severally came up, wiping the perspiration from their faces and throwing themselves on the grass beside us. The wagon overtook us last, and then we rose and resumed the march. The prairie continued to present the same rich picture of beautiful seclusion. Occasionally its timber-shores approached each other, and sometimes they opened into successive lakes. Yet, with all this beauty, we found ourselves becoming hot and weary. There were no way-side trees to cast an occasional shade, and no brooks or springs at which to halt and re-fill canteens. The usual morning breeze that sweeps across the prairies, as across the sea, went down, and wistful eyes were thrown at a distant plantation which we saw embowered in trees. Where the road to this cool retreat branched off, Lieutenant Duncan ordered a halt, and then, with his usual kindness, asked us to decide whether we would go to the plantation and rest till evening, or push on and finish our day’s work before we halted. There was some little difference of opinion. Certain thirsty individuals, who kept up a constant sucking at their canteens, declared that they were nearly choked, notwithstanding the three pints of water each had swallowed; others, who had drunk nothing since we started, were in favor of pushing on. It ended in the lieutenant sending one of his men, laden with canteens, to the plantation, and in our resuming the march.

The Texan put his “pony” on the easy amble, which is the leading trait of a Southern horse, and struck off in a straight line toward the distant house. We could see the horse and rider gradually sinking in the prairie as they receded from us, until not much could be discerned beside the wide-brimmed Texan hat. There was a little interval, and then horse and rider re-appeared, striking off at an angle which would intercept our line of march, and travelling on the same easy amble. The horses of the Texans, I must confess, had greatly disappointed me. Half of them were miserable, ill-shaped ponies, which could never have made or withstood a charge, and were unworthy of the name of cavalry horses. And yet these mounted troops of the Confederates have shown a wonderful readiness and swiftness of movement, which have often outwitted our generals and eluded our strategy, and that too, in a country where our horses would have starved. This great “mobility” I ascribe, in part, to the ambling gait (forbidden in our service) which carries them along some five miles an hour, without strain to the horse or fatigue to the rider; and, in part, to the free use of the lariat, which enables the horse to graze at every momentary halt. Man and horse understood this latter principle, for the former never dismounted without twitching off the bridle, and the latter never stopped without industriously picking up his living. In one respect the Texans are careless of their horses, tearing off the saddles the moment they halt, and never dreaming of cold water either as a preventive or a cure of the sore back that tortures nearly every horse.