Chapter III: Part 3

“While I was making these reflections, our column had stretched out in its usual manner, and then broken into small groups: these separated more and more as we advanced. The guards told us that Turtle-Tail Bayou was to be our camping ground, and they pointed to the timber, which looked like a low cloud along the horizon. How long this cloud was in changing into trees, and how slowly these trees rose in view, no one can imagine who has not travelled _a-foot_ upon the prairies. The sun sent down his usual burning rays as he approached the meridian, and a damp stifling heat rose from the grass. Yet it is a great thing to be first in camp, and able thereby to choose your own tree, and label it “TAKEN,” by pitching your haversack at its foot, and to lie down and rest ere the slow walkers arrive. So the two or three of us who led pushed on. The trees came slowly more and more into view; the branches imperceptibly rose; the grass beneath them appeared. Then the corporal and his men left us and rode on to select the camping ground. We followed slowlier on their trail, keeping our eyes upon them until we saw them dismount where timber and prairie met—unsaddle and turn loose their horses, the welcome signs of our coming rest. The sight gave vigor to our halting feet—on, on, without a stop, though it was two miles, as the bird flies, to the nearest tree. On, on, until panting and streaming, I tear off my hat and haversack and drop them, with myself, at the foot of a spreading oak.”

There is no rest like that which comes after such, exercise. I see again the little groups drawing nearer across the prairie; coming in with sun-tinted faces and dripping brows; speaking no words, unless a few tired monosyllables; casting quick glances round for some smooth, shaded spot of turf, then walking there and dropping down. And last of all, the heavy, lumbering wagon rumbling up; its tired passengers jolted, and jaded, and cross, and broiled, yet still willing to find, with particular care, a spot that pleases them, whilst the teamster pulls the clattering harness from the mules, turns them loose upon the prairie, and, like the others, drops down to silence and repose.

Hour upon hour thus passed, partly in sleep and partly in a dreamy languor of delicious rest. Then came a little restlessness and glances at the sun—then the blue smoke of a fresh-kindled camp-fire, and assertions that A. and B. had risen, and were preparing (for themselves) the one important meal. When such assertions had been repeated twice or thrice around me, the ground, which at first was softer than down, began to grow hard, and withal somewhat knobby. I arose, and went with Lieutenant Sherman to find the bayou. It was a stagnant bed of pollywogs, not ten feet wide nor ten inches deep. Crawling out on a log, nevertheless, and skimming off the green, slimy scum, we dipped up the water and enjoyed, as we had seldom enjoyed before, the luxury of a bath. Returning to the camp-fire, we found that the guards, mindful of their prisoners’ more tired condition, were baking “dodgers” for all hands, and that the “dodgers” were nearly done.

One of us quickly clambered into the wagon, and cut from the side of bacon a couple of slices, while the other sharpened two slender sticks. The bacon, skewered on these, was speedily toasted over the fire. A slice of “dodger” took the place of plates and dishes; our pocket-knives were also spoons and forks; and yet this Texan supper in the open air, cooked by oneself, and eaten after a twenty mile march and a twelve hour fast, is as delicious a meal as was ever served. The blankets were spread ere the dew fell. We lay gazing on the stars, smoked lazily, and talked of to-morrow’s march, till it grew dark. To me this camp brought back all the interest of an old cavalry bivouac with some of its most unpleasant parts left out. The sense of responsibility was now gone. I had no anxiety or duty beyond that of taking care of myself. There were no guards for me to post; no pickets to visit; no rounds to make, and no prisoners to watch.

Again the blankets were rolled—the bacon toasted—the dodger divided, and a cup of tea made. Of tired nature’s sweet restorer, English breakfast tea—so much perverted and abused in civilized life—we had a little canister, and wondrous were the works which that little canister performed. Its few ounces of simple-looking herb—so light—so portable—so bulk-less, seemed to contain strength sufficient for an army. Those who sipped it, though weary and faint, grew strong and cheerful: those who disliked it at home, confessed that it tasted like nectar on the march. Ere the last sip was taken, the corporal mounted the wagon and said, “Now, gentlemen, please to pack along your little tricks.” The “little tricks” were safely stowed by the gallant corporal, on top of the rations; the sick and lame were stowed on top of them; Mrs. Stratford took the seat reserved for her; the well “fell in,” and again we started.

The road crossed the timber-belt, and emerged on a lake-like prairie. It was that hour when the soft light of the morning heightened the peculiar beauty which this march revealed. The rising sun gilded the tree-tops beside us, and tinged the soft expanse before. The herds were moving slowly; some so near that we could hear the sullen bellow of the bulls; and some so distant that we could see only their long horns moving above the green, looking like wild fowl floating on the surface of the grassy sea. The prairie rose and fell in occasional swells, the distant timber swept around it in the graceful windings of a serpentine shore, and islets of trees waved upon the bosom of this green and wood-bound lake.

Before the morning passed, I had an illustration of a folly which pervades our army. The guards had warned us that it was sixteen miles across this prairie, and until it should be crossed, we should find no water. Every canteen was therefore filled, as was a two-gallon keg that had followed me through the lines. Several years ago, Lieutenant-Colonel Frederick Townsend, of the Eighteenth United States Infantry, in recounting to me his sufferings while crossing the Gila desert, had laid great stress upon the fact, that during the journey he had made it a rule to go without drinking till he halted for the night. Remembering this when I entered the army, I subjected myself to like discipline, drinking only when I ate. A single week made this a habit, and left me comparatively comfortable and independent. On this morning, I accordingly loaned my canteen to some one foolish enough to need it, and walked along without the slightest feeling of thirst. It was not eleven o’clock, and we had not marched six hours, when we came to a puddle of water, filling the wagon-track. The water was apparently the result of some local shower; it was clear, but the road was dirty, and on one side, lying in the water, were the putrid remains of an ox. I was turning out to go around the puddle, when I heard my friends behind shout to me to stop.

“What for?” I asked, in much amazement at the idea of halting in the wettest spot we could find.

“Why, for a drink.”

“A drink! What, drink that filthy water?”

Yes, they were thirsty enough to drink anything. They must drink something; the canteens and keg had been empty two hours. With accelerated speed, they hurried to the margin of the puddle. Some knelt down and drank, others ladled it up in their mugs, and several actually filled their canteens with the decoction. Thus had the little period of six hours swept away the niceties of men who, in their own homes, would have sickened at the thought of this loathsome draught; and thus did a childish habit destroy the whole pleasure of their walk, hide all the beauties of the landscape, divert their attention from objects of interest, and subject them to a needless annoyance, sometimes little less than torture.

The following day passed much like the others—our road still leading us across several wood-encircled prairies, separated from each other by narrow timber-belts and trivial, dried-up bayous. Early in the afternoon, after a march of twenty-three miles, we reached a bayou possessed of two or three names. From these, I selected as the one easiest to be remembered, “Indian,” and after crossing the place where the water of Indian Bayou ought to have been, I found that we were to encamp beyond the “timber,” and in a little grove. This word “grove” is in constant use through western Louisiana and Texas, and when first heard, it strikes the educated ear as a specimen of the fine talk so common in all parts of our country. But when these natural _groves_ are seen, the purest taste acknowledges that the word is not misapplied. The one in which we now encamped was an oval clump of the live-oak, so clear and clean below, so exact and regular in form, that one could hardly believe nature had not been aided by the gardener’s art.

The next morning our breakfast disclosed the fact, that the Confederate bacon ration is not so large as the military appetite. The lieutenant informed me that he had no intention of starving in the midst of plenty, and had sent forward two men to shoot a yearling, near a certain bayou, and there we would halt and “barbecue” the meat. From the time of leaving the Teche, the prairies had been steadily growing drier. The atmosphere, too, was clearer, the sky brighter, the air more bracing and elastic, and though the sun was intensely hot, yet there was not the damp, vaporous heat that is so oppressive in the lower prairies of Louisiana. This day we were to cross a “dry-prairie,” and as we had at last succeeded in an early start (4–45), we reached it before the heat of the day had begun. A very dreary waste it was, unenlivened by the usual herds, its scanty herbage dried and withered up, and its wide expanse barren and desolate. It was, if I remember aright, nine miles across, but seemed much farther, for the road was soft and sandy, and with every breeze, a cloud of dust travelled down upon us. As the nine miles lessened into one, and the stunted trees that bordered the dry-prairie came in view, our two beef-hunters also could be seen driving down their half-wild game toward the road. Being somewhat in advance, I struck off to join them. Ere I accomplished this, a young heifer broke from the herd and bounded away. Instantly one of the rifles flashed and the heifer fell. The shot attracted the corporal, and in a moment his little bay was coming pell-mell across the broken ground, leaping some gullies and scrambling in and out of others, until he threw himself back on his haunches beside us. The corporal looked with great interest at what they called the “yuhlin,” inquired how far they had driven it (some eight miles), and enlarged on our great luck in getting so fat a “beef” on so poor a “range.”

It was somewhat of a mystery to me how the “yuhlin” would be carried to camp. When I asked whether the wagon, or perhaps the leading pair of mules, would be brought round to tow it in, the corporal laughed, and said in his merry way, that he would show us how they carried their game home in Texas. Forthwith he took his ever-useful lariat, and making fast one end to the “yuhlin’s” horns, wound the other round the horn of his Mexican saddle. One of the men attached another in like manner, and thus harnessed, the two horses dragged the heifer as they would a log. The saddles, girthed for “roping” cattle, did not yield, and the horses tugged away with as much unconcern as though they were pulling by the ordinary collar and traces.

The mile between us and the halting-place was soon passed over, and all hands seemed to feel a deep, immediate interest in the “yuhlin.” Although we had marched eighteen miles that morning, it was not eleven o’clock; nevertheless there were suggestions of _fresh_ steaks, and the deserter (who really seemed to try to eat all he could, so as to be in some measure even with men who had less ripened chances of being shot) proceeded to bake a dodger. The corporal had unsaddled his horse in a trice, and was now elbow deep in breaking up the “yuhlin.” Another corporal—a quiet, hardworking, unassuming German—prepared the frame for barbecuing the meat. This consisted of poles placed horizontally, about three feet from the ground. Beneath it a slow fire was made, and the meat, cut up in thin slices, was spread on the poles. In three or four hours it was partly dried and partly cooked into a half-hard state, and was then said to be barbecued. Meanwhile an army of hogs came out of the woods, lean and savage, and grunted impatiently for their share of the “yuhlin.” A smaller but not less impatient party waited, with drawn knives and sharpened sticks, till the steaks could be cut, and then hurried with them to their several fires. A steak thus cooked upon hard-wood embers retains a flavor that the best French _chef_, with charcoal range, only approaches. And when this flavor is intensified by the fresh breezes of the prairie, and the long miles of a day’s march, it is not wonderful that men affirm that steaks cut from buffalo or stag, or even from a poor little half-tamed “yuhlin,” are better than the best butcher’s meat that can be bought at home.

“When the meat was all barbecued, we pushed forward for the Calcasieu. The river formed a dividing line between a forest and a prairie country. At the foot of a slight bluff was a flat-boat and rope-ferry. I learnt from the ferryman, with much surprise, that our “gun-boat boats” had been up there, and captured a steamer and several schooners. I wished most ardently as we stepped aboard the flat, that they might re-appear at that particular moment, and enable us to return the good treatment of our guards, by providing for their wants in New Orleans. The wish was not realized, and the scow, like a gentler craft, wafted us to the other shore. There an unexpected individual hailed our approach, in the person of a bright-looking mule, who, solitary and sad, was travelling briskly toward the ferry. The corporal, who, as usual, led, answered the mule in his way, and quickly uncoiled the lariat. The mule tried a dodge, but the lariat flew straight over his head and tight around his neck. The mule was fairly “roped.” The corporal gave an inspiriting yell, and examined the brand. It was an unknown brand—a Louisianian brand—and the mule was therefore adjudged a lawful prize.”

Our road now wound through the green woods and along the bank of the winding river. The sun, which at first was behind us, moved round upon our left, then swung in front, then passed beside us on our right, then speedily changed back, and shone again before us. The foliage screened the river, but frequent openings uncovered views of these river-bends, and of the clear, dark water flowing beside us. Could a section of the Calcasieu be cut out and transplanted to the environs of some great city, the rich luxuriance of its banks, clad with verdure from the vines that trail upon the water to the tops of the tall firs and deep-green magnolias that overhang the stream—its constant windings and its graceful curves, would be deemed a marvel of picturesque beauty. Yet here the traveller finds in it only a dull monotony of never-ceasing turnings, and sees in the beautiful foliage of its banks, only a dreary loneliness. I listened to a Texan’s description, and doubted whether it had ever received an admiring glance before my own. This wood, too, through which we marched, was not the foul swamp of eastern Louisiana. There was the cool, deep shade, the dreamy stillness, the sweet, wild perfume of our northern forests. The trees aided, too, in the brief delusion. We knew the rough branches of the oak and the needles of the “fadeless pine.” Large gum-trees deceived us into the belief that they were the maples of a “sugar-bush;” and dwarfed magnolias, at the first glance, took the semblance of the hickory. There was also a delightful refreshingness in the cool, shadeful river-bank, and our long march through prairies, exposed and shelterless, helped us to realize “the sweet retirement” of the woods.

For four miles we marched with spirit and pleasure, although they made up the sum of twenty-five for that day’s work. Then halting, on a sandy bluff covered with pines, we encountered a legion of troubles. The gnats were terrible—the mosquitoes fearful—the pine smoke spoilt our steaks—the fresh breeze of the prairie did not reach us—and our longest march was followed by a restless night. All the next day our road continued in the “piny-woods.” There were occasional openings, and the ground was clear of underbrush, yet most of the party wished themselves back on the prairie, and thought the light shade of the pines a poor return for the prairie breeze. As it was Sunday, we halted early, and the lieutenant told us that one day more would bring us to Niblett’s Bluff.

For two days we lay idle at the Bluff, with no better recreation than yawning and cooking. On the third, the Beaumont boat arrived. Some Vicksburg paroled prisoners had, meanwhile, come in, and they spoke of our soldiers in terms which were most cheering to us. They were as brave as men could be—they had treated them like brothers—they had given them all the rations they could carry with them, and they had behaved “a heap better every way” than it was supposed Yankees could. They said this not only to us, but to other soldiers and citizens, and spoke up boldly on our behalf. The effect was agreeable, not in any material change, but in good feeling and in the greater kindliness with which we were treated. The boat started the next morning at daybreak. We descended the Sabine and ascended the Neches, reaching Beaumont in the evening. At this place there was a railway eating-house, that gave us a greasy breakfast, for a dollar and a half; we also bought sugar for a dollar a pound, and watermelons for a dollar apiece. These prices seemed enormous at the time, but subsequent experience makes them appear quite reasonable.

We left the little town of Beaumont on an open platform car of the Houston train. Lieutenant Duncan made an effort to have us placed in the passenger cars, but they were full. The news of Vicksburg had reached here some time before us, and the coming of the Vicksburg prisoners was expected. At every station were anxious faces, sometimes made glad and sometimes going away more anxious than they came. At one of these, there were two women, evidently a mother and her daughter. The train had hardly stopped, when I heard a shriek, which sounded like one of agony, but was instantly followed by the words, “O my son, I’m so glad, I’m so glad, I’m so glad!” I looked and saw a fine young fellow, who had told us many tales of the sufferings of the siege, running toward the woman, and the next moment folded in her arms. Unconscious of the many eyes upon them, the mother hung upon his neck, and the sister held his hand. Some friends tossed him his roll of blankets, but it fell unnoticed. The train started, but they did not look around, and when we were far out upon the prairie, they still stood there exchanging their eager words, and seemingly unconscious that we had left them.

It was twilight when the train ran into Houston. A crowd was on the platform, made up of families and friends, who had come there to welcome their sons and brothers from the dreadful siege. There was a line of young girls upon the edge of the platform, and as our car was the first of the train, they of course saw us while looking for their friends. It was interesting to observe the different expressions that passed over the line of pretty faces as their eyes scanned us. At first a look of anxious interest—a shade of disappointment—a start of surprise—a slight shrinking back with side glances at each other and the whispered-word, “_prisoners_”—and then, in most cases, a little glance of pity. But our car ran past them, and the next moment were heard the usual sounds that welcome long-absent soldiers to their homes—loud congratulations, eager inquiries, laughter and kisses. A little shade of sorrow, and perhaps of envy, fell on us. We stood apart, a small group unnoticed, as unknown. I tried to repress the dangerous feeling, but insensibly my thoughts flew far away to those who would thus have welcomed us.

The kindness of Lieutenant Duncan continued unabated. We had shouldered our knapsacks, but he sent for carts, and insisted on conveying them for us. Before the Provost Marshal’s, a small crowd assembled, but it was quiet and respectful. An officer of the provost guard came out. He took the roll and called it, made sure that all were present, and informed Lieutenant Duncan that he was relieved from the further charge of us. We were faced, and marched to what had been the Court House. Our old guard accompanied us. They attempted to carry in our things, but were stopped at the door. There they shook hands warmly, and wished us a speedy exchange. We turned down a dark stone passage and entered a room. There were bars on the window, and the moonlight fell in little checkered squares upon the dirty floor. The corporal of the guard, brought in our baggage—sent out and bought us some bread—asked if we wanted anything else—and then drew out a key. With the sight of that key, all conversation ceased. It was a wand of silence. No one spoke or moved or looked elsewhere. Every eye remained fixed on the key. The corporal inserted it in the door. It went in slowly and grated horribly, unlike the grating of a house key, or an office key, or a safe key, or a stable key, or any kind of a key, SAVE ONE! The corporal looked around and said, good night. No one had breath enough to respond. The corporal stepped out and the door closed, not with a bang or a slam or a crash, but with a heavy, ominous, awful sound. There was still an instant of suspense, a small infinitesimal fraction of a faint hope, and then the key turned, grating with an indescribable sound, such as none of us ever heard key give forth before. With a great effort I withdrew my eyes from the door-lock, and looked around the room. All were seated on their blankets, and ranged round, with their backs against the walls. The moonlight checkers still fell on the floor. I felt that somebody must speak, that if somebody did not speak soon, some of us would never speak again. I thought that I would speak—I made another great effort, and said:

“What a singular sound a key makes when somebody else turns it; did you ever remark it before? I suppose _you_ have.”

One man laughed—all laughed. Lieutenant Sherman came promptly to my aid, and said:

“How pretty that moonlight is on the floor! _Who_ cares for the bars.”

And then we had (apparently) a very jolly evening, in the dark.

As this military prison has not a very good name among prisoners, and some who have been confined there have had to wait a day or two for rations, and then a day or two more to get them cooked, I feel bound to say that the guard brought us a very good breakfast the next morning, which I took to be a part of their own. They brought us also word that we should be sent by the morning cars to Camp Groce.

With alacrity we shouldered our knapsacks, and lugged our remaining “traps” to the cars; and with a sense akin to freedom, we hurried away from those picturesque bars and that detestable lock. There was a little detention at the depot, and then we were placed in a “first-class passenger car” with first-class passengers, and rolled along toward the prisoners’ camp. The conductor soon came upon his rounds, and as he passed me, asked in a whisper, if there were any Massachusetts officers among the prisoners. He was a tall, fine-looking man, with the tightness and trimness of dress that no one ever finds in a Southerner. I asked who he was, and learnt that he was Lieutenant-Governor B——, of Massachusetts. The fact was even so—an ex-Lieutenant-Governor of Massachusetts was a conductor on the South Western Railroad of Texas!

“Here is your stopping-place, gentlemen,” said the sergeant of our guard. We looked from the car windows, and saw long barracks of rough boards, like an enclosed cow-shed. In front was a pretty grove, and in the rear a sloping hill. At the doors of the barracks we saw clusters of blue-jackets, and a few sauntered around the buildings. We toiled up a sandy bank; the roll was called, and we were “turned over” to the commanding officer. Captain Buster greeted us kindly, and said he was sorry to see us; he had been a prisoner twenty-two months in the dungeons of Mexico, and knew what it was. He marshalled us down to the barracks, and formally presented us to Captain Dillingham, the senior officer of the naval prisoners. We entered the barracks. They were like most such buildings, long and narrow, with bunks around the sides, and tables for the well and cots for the sick. The officers occupied the first compartment. They crowded around us, with eager questions, and showed us kindness and hospitality beyond our expectations. We selected such bunks as were still empty, unpacked our knapsacks, and made our arrangements for the night, and the many nights that were to follow. We studied the faces of our new companions, and found that they were for the most part sick and sad. We talked to them, and found that they were unhappy and dejected. Half a year’s imprisonment had manifestly changed them from energetic, active men, to listless, idle, irritable invalids. We asked ourselves whether it could have a like effect on us, and answered that it could not.

VI.
CAMP GROCE.

It is not a pleasant thing to be a prisoner; I never enjoyed it, and never made the acquaintance of any prisoner who said that he did. True is it that you have but few cares and responsibilities. In the prisoners’ camp you take no heed of what you shall eat, or what you shall drink, or wherewith you shall be clothed. If the rations come, you can eat them; and if they do not, you can go without; in neither case have your efforts any thing to do with the matter. Your raiment need not trouble you; for there vanity has no place, and rags are quite as honorable as any other style of dress. You are never dunned by importunate creditors, and if, by possibility, you were, it would be a sufficient bar in law and equity to say that you would not pay. There you are not harassed by pressing engagements, or worried by clients or customers. There you have no fear of failure, and may laugh at bankruptcy. And yet, with all these advantages, no man ever seeks to stay in this unresponsible paradise.

“The dews of blessing heaviest fall
Where care falls too.”

I found that there was a horrible sense of being a prisoner—of being in somebody’s possession—of eating, drinking, sleeping, moving, living, by somebody’s permission; and worst of all, _that_ somebody the very enemy you had been striving to overcome. There was a feeling of dependence on those who were the very last persons on whom you were willing to be dependent. There was a dreary sense of constraint in your freest hours, of being shut in from all the world, and having all the world shut out from you.

In the first days of imprisonment the novelty carried the new prisoners along, and buoyed them up. Then came a season of work, when they built cabins and made stools and tables; and then, a restless fit, when they felt most keenly the irksomeness of the life, and made foolish plans to escape, which (so the “old prisoners” said) had been tried before and failed. Then the “new prisoners” would grow quiet and sad. The most of them would become idle, inert, neglectful of their dress and quarters, peevish and listless, despondent of exchange, yet indifferent to all present improvement. A few (about one in ten) would struggle to make matters better; they would take hopeful views of affairs and perform active work on things around them.

For a day or two after our arrival at Camp Groce we lay by, idle and weary. As I thus looked on, and saw the listless despondency of the “old prisoners,” I discovered quickly that those were happiest who were busiest. Experience since has confirmed me in the value I early set on _occupation_. Those labors which the rebels have imposed on our men—the chopping of wood—the building of houses—the cooking of rations—have been, I think, the prisoner’s greatest blessings. Our active northern minds chafe at enforced idleness, and the freshly caught Yankee, or Hoosier, after the work of cabin building is done, and the rough tables and stools are made, becomes dejected and then sick; and yet while he was doing the work at which he growled, both soul and body bore up easily. It is no wonder then that I said to my lieutenant, “This will never do for us, Sherman, we _must_ be busy.”

We turned over a new leaf, therefore, for the following day. The Captain of the “Morning Light” joined us and pledged himself to provide and devise quantities of work. With the first gleam of light one of us rose, and from a little private hoard abstracted a small handful of coffee. These sailor prisoners, I early found, had no idea of going without while the Confederacy could supply them for either love or money (they did not care much which); and they inspired the rest with a little of their own easy impudence.

Accordingly on the door-post hung one of the last coffee-mills that the shops of Houston had held, and in the galley (as they called the kitchen) stood a stove—the only one, probably, in any Texan camp. The first riser then kindled a fire in the stove, if it was not already there, and ground and made the coffee. Then bearing it to the sleepers’ bunks, he quickly roused them with the cheerful salutation of “Here’s your coffee—your fine hot coffee!” When a tin mug of coffee is the only luxury of the day it rises in importance and becomes great. We sipped it slowly and discussed it gravely. One thought that if it were strained a fourth time it would be stronger—the maker, on the contrary, thought that straining it again would take the strength out; a second insisted that it ought to boil—but the maker maintained that boiling dispelled the aroma and sent it flying through the air. The coffee ended before the argument; and then after rinsing out our mugs and restoring them to their private pegs, we took down our towels and started for the “branch.” We descended the hill by a little path that was nearly hidden in tall weeds and led to some thick bushes and trees that grew along the “branch.” The chain of sentinels around the camp consisted of broad-hatted Texans, sitting at irregular intervals on stumps and logs, and generally engaged in balancing their rifles on their knees. One of these, Captain Dillingham hailed in a patronizing way, in return for which attention the sentry halted us.

“I reckon,” he said, “you can’t go no further jist yit awhile.”

“Halloo,” said the Captain, “what’s the matter now?”

“Well, there be three down there now, and the orders is not to let no more down to once.”

“Orders?” said the Captain, indignantly: “who cares for orders! What difference does it make to Jeff Davis whether there are three prisoners or six washing themselves?”

“Well, I reckon it don’t make an awful sight of difference,” the sentry admitted.

“Of course it doesn’t,” said the Captain, following up the concession. “The idea of making us wait _here_ because there’s somebody down _there_!”

“Well, I reckon you might as well go on,” yielded the sentry: “I reckon you won’t run off this morning;” and on we went.

The “branch” was a little brook, sometimes running over sand-bars, sometimes filtering through them, and occasionally settling into pools, which were our bathing places. It was a happy relief to be out of sight of the barracks and alone. We clung to this under all sorts of difficulties and restrictions—sometimes going out with a patrol—sometimes squeezing through on parole, and holding fast to it, until we left Camp Groce in the cold weather of December.

The bath being taken, we walked leisurely back, wondering that so few sought this relief from the misery of prison. At the barracks our sailor cook had prepared the breakfast, which was set out on the long table. He blew his boatswain’s whistle, and all members of the mess hurried at the call. I had felt poor when I arrived at Camp Groce. I had expected to broil beef on sticks, and bake dodger in a dodger pot, and live on my ration as the Texans did. I was amazed at the extravagance I beheld, and when Captain Dillingham, with a sailor’s heartiness, invited me to join the navy mess, I hinted to him that probably I should become insolvent in a fortnight, if I did. The Captain laughed at the idea. He said there was plenty of money in Texas—he had never seen a country that had so much money—and it was the easiest thing to get it—anybody would lend you all you wanted—the only fault he had to find was, that after he got it he couldn’t spend it. Now, making reasonable allowances for nautical exaggeration, this was true. Sometimes a secret Unionist—sometimes a Confederate officer fairly forced his money upon us. They took no obligation, save the implied one of our honor; and the manner of payment, and the specie value of their Confederate funds, they left entirely to ourselves. To spend this money was a harder task. To change this easily gotten spoilt paper into something of real intrinsic worth was to acquire wealth.

When breakfast was finished, I took up a little French volume of ghost stories (which I read over five times carefully in the course of the next five months), and spent on it and some military works the next four hours. “Prisoners have nothing to do but to eat;” so at the end of four hours we had our breakfast over again. When “dinner,” as it was called, was finished, the Captain stoutly asserted that a load of wood must be got, and somebody must volunteer to get it. The Captain volunteered, so did Lieutenant Sherman and myself, so did another officer cheerfully, and two more tardily; but the mass of closely confined prisoners were too weak and too dejected, and they shrunk back from the effort that this work would cost them, preferring to stay idle and listless in their horrid prison. Those of us who volunteered, seized a couple of dull old axes, and proceeded to head-quarters.

“We are going out for wood to cook with,” said the Captain to the lieutenant that we found there, “and we must have an arbor to keep the sun off those sick fellows, or they’ll all die, and you’ll have nobody to exchange. Wake up one or two of your men, and send them out with us.”

The lieutenant reckoned he could not, he hadn’t a man to spare, all were on guard who hadn’t gone off to a race. The Captain pointed to the axes and said, “we were all ready to go.” This struck the lieutenant as a powerful reason, and he reckoned he would let a nigger hitch up the mules, and then let us go without any guard, but we must not go across the “branch.” The Captain replied that we would not go a great way across the “branch;” but he was fond of liberty, he said, and would not be circumscribed by “branches.” The lieutenant insisted on the “branch,” there had been orders given to that effect, he reckoned. The Captain did not care anything about orders—what difference could it make to Jeff Davis, he asked, whether we cut wood on this side of the “branch” or the other. The lieutenant could not answer this question, so he said, coaxingly, “Well, you won’t go a great ways on the other side, will you?”

This little difference being thus compromised, we mounted an old rickety “two-mule wagon,” and drove down the “wood road,” till a sentry, sitting on a stump, reckoned we had better stop. _Stop!_ what should we stop for? He reckoned he’d orders to let nobody out. _Orders!_ Why, we had just been up to head-quarters, and got orders to go out, and also the wagon; what more could he want. Then why had not the lieutenant sent down a man to tell him; it was no way to do business. The Captain said the wagon was pass enough as long as the mules would travel, and that we were going out for wood, which he thought altered the case; if he, the sentry, doubted it, there were the axes. The sentry looked at the axes, and could not doubt the evidence of his eyes, so he let us out.

The sun went down, and then began a long evening. There was nothing to do but to sit in the dark and talk of nothing. Then there was a detail made of two for the sick watch, and finding that I was “on,” I went to bed. In the morning there had been several late sleepers who wondered why people got up early and ran a coffee-mill. As a matter of course these individuals now wondered why people went to bed early and wanted to sleep. The topics, too, which they chose were exactly the topics that always keep you awake; and if by chance you forgot them long enough to fall asleep, then there would be a furious argument on some important matter; and if that did not waken you, then some other man (who, like yourself, turned in at taps,) would lose patience and roar out, “taps,” “lights out,” “guard-house,” etc., etc.

In small assemblages men may wake up and fall asleep when they please, but in camps and barracks, where many men of different habits are brought together, there must be some uniform rule for all. The Confederates never enforced military usage upon us, much to the regret of all who were accustomed to it, and a few very early and very late individuals, some of whom sat up till after taps, and others of whom turned out before reveille, were an endless annoyance to each other and to all. I think no officer of experience ever ran this gauntlet without inwardly resolving that, if ever he got back to his own command, stillness and darkness should rule between taps and reveille; that with daylight every blanket should go out, and every tent be put in order; that every shaggy head should be clipped, and all the little regulations which weak-minded recruits think to be “military tyranny,” should be most rigorously enforced.

But as I tossed around and made these resolves, the little sailor who was acting as hospital steward came in with both hands full of prescriptions. We had two excellent and faithful surgeons at Camp Groce, Dr. Sherfy of the “Morning Light,” and Dr. Roberts of the Confederate service. They kept their little office outside of the lines, came round on their second visit in the afternoon, and during the evening made up their prescriptions. This evening the first watch took the prescriptions from the hospital steward, and received the directions. It was Lieut. Hays, of the 175th N. Y., a happy, generous, warm-hearted Irishman, youthful and with the humor and drollery of his race. He was always making fun when others were dull, and making peace when they were angry. Soon I heard him going round among the sick. “I will listen,” I thought, “and find out what I have to do when my watch comes.”

“Here’s your medicine now, Mr. Black,” I heard him say, “wake up and take it.”

“What is it?” asked the sick man.

“Oh! it’s blue pills to touch your liver; come, take it, and don’t be asking questions.”

“How many of them are there?” inquired the patient after swallowing several.

“There are just seven of them, but what’s that to you? it won’t do you any good to know it.”

“Why, the doctor said he would send me six. Perhaps you are not giving me mine.”

“Just you take what’s sent to you. If you don’t take the whole seven, they won’t touch your liver a bit; six would be of no use at all.”

The man with the untouched liver swallowed the pills, and soon I heard the first watch rousing another sick man with the same formula of “Here’s your medicine now, wake up and take it—it’s blue pills to touch your liver.”

“How many of them are there?” asked this patient.

“There are just six of them—what’s the use of your knowing?”

“Why, the doctor said he would send me seven—perhaps these are not mine.”

“No matter, six are just as good as seven, and seven are just as good as fifty. All you need do is to take what I give you, and it will touch your liver all the same.”

Much enlightened by this mode of distributing doses, and re-assuring patients, I went to sleep, and slept till one A.M., when the first watch called me, and I took my turn. It was rather dreary, sitting in the dark and cold, occasionally giving a man his medicine or a drink, and wishing for daylight. There was one poor fellow, also a lieutenant of the 175th, fast going in consumption. His constant cough, his restless sleep, his attenuated form, bright eye and hectic cheek, all told of the coming end. Yet with him there was nothing to be done but wait and watch.

Now this, of itself, was not such a bad sort of day; but there was a month of such days; and then another month, and then a third, and then many more. What wonder that the strongest resolutions failed!

Then death came in among our little company, and came again and again. Then sickness increased under the August sun. The long moss that hung down from the trees and waved so gracefully on the breeze, had betokened it long before it came, and the uncleaned camp and listless life made the prediction sure. It went on until all but one had felt it in some shape or other, and there were not enough well to watch the sick. It never left us, and down to our last day at Camp Groce the chief part of our company were frail and feeble and dispirited.

Near to the barracks stood a little shanty of rough boards, divided by a plank partition into two rooms. One of these had been assigned to Mr. Stratford and his wife, and the other after several weeks came into the possession of Col. Burrell of the 42d Mass., Dr. Sherfy, Capt. Dillingham and myself. After living amid the sickness, the discord, and the misery of the barracks, this room measuring ten feet by twelve, promised to four of us a quiet and retirement that amounted almost to happiness. We went to work upon our little house with all the zeal of school-boys, and positively look back upon it with affection. It boasted doors, but neither windows nor chimney. Its walls were without lath and plaster, and through innumerable chinks let in the wind. The Captain and I also messed with Mr. and Mrs. Stratford; so we had a double interest in the shanty, and when we had built ourselves bunks and swung a shelf or two, we went to work on our other half.

“What shall I do for a blanket line?” was one of the first questions I had asked after our arrival.

“Let me lend you mine,” said an officer of the “Morning Light,” “we sailors always hang on to our ropes.”

“I will take it this morning, with thanks; but I want something of my own. If there is anything I despise, it’s a soldier’s blanket in his tent after reveille.”

“We are not so particular here, I’m sorry to say,” said my friend; “and unless you can find a line among the sailors, you won’t find one in Texas.”

“I am going out in the woods this afternoon, with Mr. Fowler,” I answered, “and will try to get one there.”

Now, Mr. Fowler, the acting Master of the “Morning Light,” was an old sailor, who had hardly been on shore for forty years. But in his early boyhood he had watched the Indians at their work, and caught from them, as boys do, some of their simple medicines and arts. For years and years these facts had slept undisturbed in his mind. If any one had asked him, he would have said they were forgotten; but now, under the pressure of our wants, they, one by one, came back. With this long-time worthless knowledge, Mr. Fowler was now busily and usefully employed. He made Indian baskets of all shapes and sizes, and even bent his ash-slips into fantastic dishes. He made Indian brooms and fly-brushes, and wooden bowls, and wove grape-vine and black-jack into high-backed, deep-seated, sick-room chairs. Where others saw only weeds or firewood, he found remedies for half our diseases; and when the surgeon’s physic gave out, Mr. Fowler’s laboratory was rich in simples.

We went out on parole that afternoon, Mr. Fowler carrying his basket, and I, an axe. He called attention to the fact that these pecan nuts would be ripe by-and-by, and that those persimmons would be worth coming after when the frost should have sugared them, and he filled his basket as he walked and talked. Before long, we saw some clean black-jack vines hanging from the top-most branches of a tree. We tugged and strained a few minutes, and then a splendid vine came down, not thicker than a lady’s finger at the root, yet forty feet in length. It was flexible as a rope, and as I coiled it up, I said to Mr. Fowler, “I have got my blanket line.”

Having cut an ash stick for a broom, and a pecan log for an axe handle, we went back to camp, where, soon after, Mr. Fowler was busily engaged in pounding his ash stick to loosen the splints, and I, at work on the severest manual effort of my life, viz., whittling with a soft-bladed penknife, out of flinty pecan wood, an orthodox American axe-helve.

Some weeks passed, and then one of those events occurred which are doubly mortifying if you are then on the wrong side of the enemy’s lines. I was lying ill in my bunk when an excited individual rushed into the barracks and made me better by the announcement, that the train had brought up great news from Houston. Blunt was coming down through the Indian Territory with his rough borderers, and all the troops in Texas were to be hurried northward to repel the invasion. For several days and nights trains ran by our camp loaded with soldiers who howled horribly to our guards, who howled, horribly back to them. The _Houston Telegraph_ came filled with orders of General Magruder, directing the movement of his forces, and naming twenty-seven different battalions that were to hurry forward immediately. The General did not _publish_ such orders ordinarily, and this one looked like haste, excitement and alarm.

One night, about ten o’clock, an engine was heard hurrying up the road. As usual it stopped at the water-tank near our camp. In ten minutes important news had leaped from the engine to head-quarters; from head-quarters to the guard-house, and from the guard-house straight through the line of sentries into our bunks. The news was this: twelve Yankee gun-boats, twenty-four large transports, and six thousand men lay off Sabine.

The next day the train confirmed the news. We learnt, too, that Union men, in Houston, were bold and defiant, and talked openly of a change of masters. Our guards were in a ferment. They talked with us freely, and confessed that there were not three hundred troops between Houston and Sabine. “Your folks will seize the railroad and march straight on to Houston,” they said, “and then Galveston will have to go, and like as not you’ll be guarding us within a week.” “What splendid strategy,” said everybody. “Blunt has drawn all the forces in the State up to Bonham—there is nothing to prevent our coming in below; Magruder is completely out-generalled. We must forgive the two months of idleness since Vicksburg and Port Hudson fell.”

Another day came, and the excitement increased; another, and affairs seemed in suspense; a third, and there was a rumor that two gun-boats had been sunk, their crews captured, and that the “Great Expedition” was “skedaddling” (such was the ignominious term applied) back to New Orleans. There came yet another day, when we sat waiting for the train.

“The cars are late,” said one. “It is past three o’clock, and they should have been here at two.”

“That’s a good sign,” said another; “it shows they have something to keep them. When they come you will see Magruder is sending off his ordnance stores.”

“Then you don’t feel any fear about that rumor?”

“That rumor, oh no! It is the best sign of all. They never fail to get up such rumors when they are being beaten. Don’t you remember how, just before Vicksburg surrendered, we used to hear that Breckenridge had taken Baton Rouge, and Taylor was besieging New Orleans, and Lee had burnt Philadelphia?”

“Oh no,” said everybody, stoutly, “there is no danger. And how can there be? We know that there is nothing down there but a little mud fort, with fifty men in it, and six forty-two pounders. Our hundred-pound Parrots will knock it to pieces, and a couple of companies can carry it by assault. Oh no, all I am afraid of is, that _we_ shall be run off, nobody knows where.”

The whistle sounded and we waited for the news. The track ran through a deep cutting, which at first hid the body of the cars from our sight, but a man stood on the roof of the foremost baggage car and waved his hat. Presently a howl was given by those of our guard who were waiting at the station.

“What can that mean?” said everybody. “Very strange! surely there can be no bad news for us.”

The next moment, some one exclaimed, “Good heavens, what a sight! Look there!” I looked; the train was covered with the blue-jackets of our navy.