Chapter IV: Part 4

The officers of the “Clifton” and “Sachem” did not accompany their men. We heard that they were guilty of spiking their cannon, flooding their magazines, secreting their money, and other like offences, for which they were kept at Houston; later, however, they unexpectedly came up. A new Captain, who then commanded Camp Groce, ushered them in, and we welcomed them. The youngest of us then had been prisoners more than three months, and felt ourselves to be “old prisoners.” The Captain of the “Clifton” supped with us, and as he surveyed our little shanty, replete with black-jack lines, hat-racks of curiously twisted branches, knives, and spoons, and salt-cellars, neatly carved from wood, and pipes fashioned out of incomparable corn-cob, he said that these little luxuries made him feel sorry for us, for they showed him what straits we had been reduced to. I felt sorry for him as he said it, for the speech reminded me of the lessons reserved for him to learn. Later than usual we retired, excited with this unusual event. The barracks had just grown quiet, when the Captain in command suddenly re-appeared, his guard at his back. “The gentlemen who arrived to-day,” he said, in an agitated voice, “will please to rise immediately.” The new-comers rose, groped round for clothes and baggage in the dark; and as they dressed, asked what all this meant. The Captain vouchsafed no reply, but in a still more agitated voice, begged them to be as quick as possible. Whether they were going to be searched, or executed, or sent back to Houston, nobody could determine. They were marched off, and we, now wide awake, discussed the matter for some hours. The next morning disclosed our friends haplessly shivering around a small building, some three hundred yards distant. It appeared that strict orders had been sent up with the prisoners, directing that they should be confined separately, and hold no communication with us. The now unhappy Captain had not thought it worth while to read his orders until bed-time. Then he stumbled on the fiat of the stern Provost Marshal General, whose chief delight was to court-martial Confederate captains. Deeply dismayed, he had rushed to the guard-house for his guard, to the barracks for his prisoners, and executed the painful work of separation.

The Provost Marshal General had not enclosed subsistence in his order. In the absence of dodger-pots, the “old prisoners” had to take care of these new ones. We were not allowed to write or talk, to send messages or to receive them. The baskets, as they went and came, were searched, the dodgers broken open, and everything was done in a very military and terrible way. In a few days we received a present of pea-nuts from our friends. We were not fond of pea-nuts, and did not appreciate the gift. The basket travelled over as usual with their dinner, but carried no acknowledgment of the pea-nuts. In the afternoon Lieutenant Dane, of the signal corps, was seen approaching our lines with a prize—a prize that had neither predecessor nor successor—a leg of mutton. The lieutenant delivered the mutton across the line to one of us, and the notability of the event warranted him in saying before the guard:

“This is a present from Major Barnes. Did you get the pea-nuts we sent you this morning?”

“Yes, yes,” responded Captain Dillingham, on behalf of our mess; “yes, they’re very nice. We are much obliged to you.”

“Eat them,” said the lieutenant, “eat them. They won’t hurt you—eat them all.”

The Captain carried the leg of mutton in, and hurriedly took down the pea-nuts. We looked sharply at them, but saw nothing unusual. Why eat them _all_? “If they want us to do so, it must be done!” We proceeded to break the shells. Presently there was a shell—a sound and healthy shell—within which had grown a long, narrow slip of paper, rolled up tightly. It contained a single message, viz., that the covered handle of Mr. Fowler’s basket was in fact a mail-bag. From that time on, the watchful patrols would lift out the plates, and inspect the beef, and scrutinize the dodger, and then carry the mail-bag backward and forward for us.

With the increased number of prisoners, there had been a change in the command of the camp. The company of volunteers were relieved by a battalion of militia. To our surprise, the militia very far surpassed the volunteers, and did their business in a very soldierly way. The battalion was commanded by Lieutenant-Colonel John Sayles, a lawyer of considerable distinction in Texas. The Lieutenant-Colonel was a man of few words, very quiet, very kind, and rarely gave an order that did not effect an improvement.

On the Sunday after he assumed command, Colonel Sayles informed me in his quiet way, that there would be Divine service in the grove, and invited me and all the prisoners to accompany him. There had been a reverend gentleman preaching at Camp Groce the Sunday before I arrived, who had been seeking a chaplaincy, and had assumed what he supposed was a popular train of argument; as for instance, warning his beloved brethren that the chief horror of eternal punishment would be meeting the President of the United States there. I do not care to hear irreverent things said in the pulpit, nor do I think it the part of an officer to listen voluntarily to denunciations of his government, yet I felt assured that Colonel Sayles would not invite me to anything of that kind, and I thought I could best acknowledge his civility by accepting.

When the clergyman who officiated first caught sight of the prisoners, forming one-half of his audience, he evinced a little embarrassment. He alluded to this as he began his sermon, and spoke happily of the breadth of the Christian faith, extending to all conditions of men, and enabling enemies to stand together and worship at one altar. His prayer was chiefly an affecting and beautiful petition on our behalf. He spoke of the tender ties that were severed, and besought consolation for our distant dear ones, who must be now in anxiety watching our fate. He prayed, too, that “we their captors and keepers, may have grace to treat them as becomes Christian soldiers, resisting the evil passions of our hearts and the evil counsels of wicked and cruel men.”

After the services were concluded, we were introduced to the clergyman, Mr. McGown, of Huntsville. He visited us in our quarters, ministered to our sick, and was always one of our most welcome visitors. He had been with Houston in the war of Texan independence, and was one of the heroes of San Jacinto. His acquaintance with the General had been intimate, and he entertained us with many interesting anecdotes of him and tales of the former war.

These anecdotes of General Houston then possessed for us unusual interest. When some of the older prisoners had been sent to the State Prison at Huntsville, they were halted a few minutes on the outskirts of the town. As they waited there, a tall, imposing old man approached and asked, who was the United States officer highest in rank. Captain Dillingham was pointed out to him as the senior naval officer. Walking up to him and extending his hand, he said, in a deep, emphatic voice, “My name is Houston, sir. I have come to say to you, gentlemen, that I do not approve of such treatment for prisoners of war. No prisoner of war shall ever be put in a jail with my consent.”

The death of General Houston occurred just before I reached Texas. Many stories were told of his great personal power, and strange incidents of his wondrously romantic life. The forebodings of his celebrated letter were all realized before he died, for his oldest son was in the ranks—his warmest friends and supporters were scattered and slain, and ruin and desolation brooded over the State which he had established and so long directed and controlled. He was guarded in the expression of his political sentiments, but occasionally addressed the troops, speaking from the _Texan_ point of view. He never took the oath of allegiance to the Confederate Government. A short time before his death travellers were required to have a Provost Marshal’s pass, and to procure a pass they must take the oath. The General had neither taken the oath nor procured a pass. He set out, however, on a journey and proceeded till one of the provost guard halted him and demanded his pass.

“My pass through Texas,” said the old man, in his sternest tone, “is San Jacinto.”

The Texan soldier looked at him for a moment. “I reckon,” he said, “_that_ pass will go as far in Texas as any a Provost Marshal ever wrote. Pass an old San Jacinto.”

Colonel Sayles was soon succeeded by Major James S. Barnes of the same battalion. The Major was a Georgian by birth, an old Texan by residence, and a man of great general information, and so far as we were concerned, in every thought and word and deed a perfect Christian gentleman. He told stories with a graphic simplicity I have never heard excelled, and was so pleasantly reasonable and so enticingly good-natured that even our wayward sailors consented to be led by a landsman, and allowed that he was as good a man as a rebel could be. One day as the Major passed through the barracks chatting with the well and cheering up the sick, he hinted at the uncertainty of exchange and at coming “northers,” and advised us to prepare for the worst by building ourselves chimneys and fire-places. He promised to provide an old negro chimney-builder to engineer the work and teams to haul the material. The dwellers in the shanty quickly availed themselves of the offer. But nothing could induce those in the barracks to go and do likewise. So weak and dispirited were all that the difficulties appeared insurmountable. When the frost came and found them still prisoners, they piled sand on the floor, and making fire upon it sat there and shivered, while the smoke floated over them and found its way out through the holes in the roof.

We, who were wise betimes, cut our logs in the woods, dug up our clay on the neighboring hill-side, and waited the arrival of “Uncle George.” This uncle came in time, and led the work. A hole was cut in Mr. Stratford’s room—the logs were notched and crossed, the chimney splints were split and laid up, and the whole was properly cemented together, and daubed over with rich clay mortar.

Hardly was the chimney complete, when one of the guard announced that he reckoned there’d be a norther; the beeves, he said, were making for the timber. In Texas it is an established fact that nobody can tell anything about the weather, so we gave little heed to the prediction. Early in the afternoon, however, some one said that the norther was in sight. The day was warm; the sun was bright; birds were singing, and the leaves still were green. There was nothing to indicate a change save a black cloud rapidly rising in the north. Our men were sitting round in their shirt-sleeves, whittling and working as usual, and every thing continued pleasant. The black cloud, however, bore swiftly down upon us. As it drew near, we saw an immense flock of turkey-buzzards driven before it, whirling in the air and screaming wildly. A moment later the breeze struck us. It felt not unlike the gust that precedes a thunder-shower, but as I watched the cloud I found that I had suddenly grown cold. I had heard fearful stories of these northers, and read of a hardy Vermonter, who, scorning a cold that merely skimmed the ponds with ice, had ventured out in one; and how his blood congealed, and he was carried back by his horse insensible. I saw that all the men had gone in, and that the sentries had wrapped themselves in their blankets. Within the shanty I found our little fire-place bright and its owners sitting in a close circle around it. But the cold seemed to beat directly through the walls, and the wind blew a steady blast. We passed all the long evening closely crouched around the fire, warming first one side and then the other, talking of home and pitying the poor wretches in the barracks. When bed-time came we carried hot stones with us into our bunks and hurried to bed before we should be chilled. I wrapped myself in my double army blanket with which I had braved ice and snow and then rolled myself in my buffalo. I thought it sufficient for an Arctic winter, but ere morning the horrible cold crept in and penetrated to the very bones. As I moved about to try and make my blood circulate, Colonel Burrill spoke and said that he was so cold that he feared he was dying. The Colonel had been quite ill, and this startled me; so I rose, threw a coat or two upon him, and then drawing the blankets over his head, tucked them tightly in and left him to take the chances of suffocation or freezing. I went back to my own couch and shivered away till morning. The cold drove us all out early, and we met again around our fire-place. A sailor boy brought up a hot breakfast, for cooking over a hot stove that morning was a high privilege which no one threw away. He told us that one of his shipmates lay frozen in his bunk, and that they had just found him there dead. During the morning we suspended our blankets from the rafters so as to form a little tent immediately around the fire, and there in darkness we sat the live-long day. Another dismal evening followed and another bitter night. Then, after thirty-six hours of fury, the norther went down and we ventured to crawl out and resume our work.

VII.
TEA.

There was some coffee in Camp Groce, when we arrived—not much—and a little was bought afterward for “morning coffee,” with some tea for the sick, at fifteen dollars per pound. It was poor stuff, and not worth the price.

The messes that I found there used corn; or, as they called it, corn coffee. This was made from the meal. Burnt in a frying-pan upon the stove, by a sailor-cook, some particles in charcoal and some not singed at all, it formed a grayish compound, and made as horrible a beverage as any one could be supposed willing to drink. I thought at first that I would go back, for my own part, to an old habit of cold water; and if we had possessed pure water I might have done so. But our well-water had a sulphurous taste; and then, in this southern climate, there is an insatiable appetite for nervine food. Thus those who never touched pepper, nor cared a fig for seasoning, and spices at home (not because they disliked them, but because they thought it wisest not to eat what they did not want), have had a constant craving in the army for coffee, tea, and spices, and for the bad catsups, and worse imitation sauces, that sutlers sell and soldiers buy. So I drank these slops, and, like the others, called them coffee.

A little mess, indeed, as I have hinted, applied the Louisiana lesson we had learnt, and made their “morning coffee.” Turning out with the first glimmer of dawn, we ground and re-ground exactly twenty of the precious berries, watchful that not one should be lost, nor a speck of the priceless dust spilt. An old tin cylinder, with a piece of flannel bound tightly round the end, formed the strainer, and a large-sized tin mug our coffee-pot; and by keeping a week’s grounds, at least, in the strainer, it was wonderful what strength this ingenious apparatus did extract.

But the enterprising Yankee mind, never long contented with any thing, quarrelled with the corn-meal coffee and proposed a change. A hardy sailor, of New England origin, objected to the _meal_, and insisted that it would be better to make the coffee directly out of corn—we should, he said, get all the flavor then. There was a furious debate over this, of course, for the enterprising Yankee mind much prefers a theory to a fact. It was argued on the one side, that the flavor was just what you did not want; that corn was corn, and it made no difference if it was also meal; and that it was much wiser to use the meal and thereby make the enemy grind our coffee, than to burn the corn and grind it ourselves. These arguments were met by others equally strong, and the debate continued till some stupid person of Dutch descent, suggested that the proof of the pudding is in the eating, and that if any one wanted to try corn for coffee, he might.

We traded some of our meal ration for corn; the corn was burnt and ground and tried, and found far preferable to meal and all other substitutes. Its opponents drank it, and our little coffee-mill creaked and rattled at all hours under the load which the discovery threw upon it.

A further improvement was effected, for it was discovered one day, that the outside of the kernel would be well parched, while the inside would have a yellow, undone appearance. The fact is, it was impossible to roast it through, and this gave to the coffee a raw, mealy taste. The remedy was simple, and consisted merely in not grinding the corn, and thus using only the outside of the kernel.

“We thought then that we had reached the perfection of corn, and the last of substitutes.”

There was, however, a tea made by the Texans from the leaves of a half bush, half tree, called _yapon_, which was said to taste wonderfully like the real. They drank it three times a day, at Captain Buster’s head-quarters, and many of the sailors followed the fashion. Yet it had a bad name. It was said, that it caused certain unpleasant medical effects, and one young gentleman, who had once taken a mug full, averred that he shortly thereafter felt a burning sensation in that part of his body where he supposed (erroneously) was his stomach.

I never could find the men whom it was said to have made sick, and I had little belief in the rumor. Yet, as I do not like tea except when ill, there was little inducement to experiment with this unknown, untried plant. Still I meant to test it, some time or other, as a matter of scientific curiosity, and if it were like the Chinese plant, to carry a handful home for the edification of tea drinkers there.

This “some time or other” did not come, probably because the material was always close at hand. The yapon grew thickly along the brook and up to the borders of the camp. It was generally from ten to twenty feet high, and as thick as a man’s arm; it had furnished us with nearly all the poles for a rustic arbor, that ran along the sunny side of the barracks, and helped to shade and cool the sick-bunks. Its branches, too, had been used to fill up in roofing the arbor, and there were leaves enough there to furnish an army with bohea.

Thus time glided away under the influence of corn coffee, till one day it was said, that the commanding officer had proclaimed corn coffee unhealthy, nay, dangerous. There were then numerous medical symptoms, all pointing forward to intermittent fever and backward to corn coffee. When a dozen men compare notes, and find that they are all afflicted in the same way, and never in their lives have been so before, it alarms them.

The surgeon was informed of this, and he thought there must be something in it, the intermittent cases had increased so unaccountably. As we thus deliberated, Colonel Sayles came up and we consulted him. The Colonel gave his facts and recommended sweet potatoes as a substitute for corn and coffee.

“Let us look at the analysis,” said the surgeon, walking into his office and taking down a big book.

“‘Corn or maize, sometimes called Indian corn. This grain is cultivated throughout the United States.’” “Yes, we know that.” “‘Its analysis shows starch, sugar, _sulphate of lime_.’ That must be the agent (if any) which is doing us all the damage. I really think you had better follow the Colonel’s advice and take up the sweet potatoes.”

“Let us see what the potato has in it. Doctor, who knows but that there’s some other atom to be roasted into poison there?”

“Batata, yes, ‘batata, or common potato,’ ‘seed poisonous,’ and so forth. Analysis sugar, and so forth. It has the sulphate again and more of it than there is in corn. That will never do, to say nothing of costing ten dollars a bushel.”

October was drawing toward its end when there came a “wet norther,” and with it a sharp frost, ice thick as a pane of glass—much suffering—some agues and countless colds.

The “norther” found me ill with a periodical return of my Louisiana malarial, and brought me a cold of the severest kind. It blew through the cracks and crannies of the barracks, through my blankets and through me. I felt as though my blood had ceased to circulate and I should never be warm again.

“Try some of Mr. Fowler’s sumach,” suggested some one; “it cured my cold.”

“I have tried everything,” I said, “and find the only thing is prevention—nothing cures these colds with me when they have come.”

“And I never got any help from medicine,” said my friend. “But this stuff of Fowler’s cured mine in a night. I never knew any thing like it.”

I went to Mr. Fowler and got the sumach berries. A cluster or two thrown in a quart mug of boiling water made the remedy. It was fearfully acid, and it took fearful quantities of sugar to make it palatable, but it then had quite a pleasant taste and worked (let me say for the benefit of the victims of violent catarrh) a miraculous cure.

I had not paid much attention to the Acting Master’s simples, having no great faith in medicine and less in herbs—but this with the dread of another bilious attack aroused me so far that I walked round the barracks and asked after the livers of all the patients who had been treated with his wild peach bark. These livers were found to be in a highly improved condition, and thinking it fair that mine should have a share in all the medical advantages afforded by a residence in Texas, I determined to treat it also to wild peach bark.

The “norther” broke on the second day, and in the after noon the weather was much like the last part of one of our cold nor’-easters. The rain had ceased, but the clouds floated gloomily overhead and the wind blew coldly from the north.

“Come, Stratford,” I said, “I am a convert to the Fowler treatment, and shall feel the better for a little exercise. Let us go out and get some bark.”

“Oh, it’s too cold and the ground will be muddy; you had better wait till to-morrow; it will be fine weather then.”

“No, no, to-morrow you will be at work on the chimney, and this is a broken day; let us go now.”

“Well, if you will get the patrol we will go.”

I walked down to the guard-house and represented to the sergeant of the guard the importance of having wild peach bark and the necessity of going out to get it.

The sergeant first raised the usual difficulties and then gave the usual order. A stout gentleman, who helped himself to a double-barrelled gun, informed us that he would go as Pat Roll. He sketched briefly his life for us by stating that he was born in South Carolina, raised in Alabama, druv stage in Florida, and sogered it in Texas. He also expressed the opinion that Texas was an easy country to live in, “because the hogs run in the woods and the horses run out,” and he intimated that he looked with great contempt on those parts of the world where the hogs eat corn, and the horses live in the stable.

As I was still weak I handed my axe over to one of the others. We crossed the brook and near by found a wild peach. It was soon cut down, and we proceeded as usual to shave off the bark from the trunk of the tree, and then pull up such roots as would come. When this was done each of my companions loaded himself with an unpeeled log, while I took the axe and basket of bark. Thus laden, we started to return.

“Since we are working for the Herb Department,” said I, “let us take up some yapon and try the tea. I wonder if I can cut off this branch with one hand?”

A well-leaved branch of the yapon hung over the road, bright with red berries, and against it I raised the axe. A couple of blows brought it down. Mr. Stratford added it to his load, and with it we went back to our quarters.

A day or two passed, during which the weather moderated. It was Saturday afternoon, and I was sitting in the sun, still languid, while Mr. Stratford was trying to heat red-hot an old shovel he had found, in order that he might cut off its rivets and fit in it a new handle, when the thought of the yapon came into my head, I took up the branch and began to pluck off the leaves.

“Are you going to try the yapon?” said Lieutenant Sherman, who casually came in.

“Yes, and I want you to go up to the galley and dry the leaves.”

“Oh, why don’t you take them green? That’s the way the sailors do.”

“True! but the sailors are not remarkable for skill in scientific cookery, and I think a decoction of any green plant must differ a good deal from that of a dry one.”

“Then why don’t you take some of the leaves from the arbor?”

“They are all bleached and washed to pieces. A horse would not eat hay that had been hung up in the rain and dew as they have. Go into the doctor’s office and get his Dispensatory, and we will prepare them as the Chinese do. The book must give the process for tea, for I was looking at ‘sweet potatoes’ the other day, and found accidentally that it is very full on the making of sugar.”

The lieutenant brought the book, turned to the article, and read:

“‘TEA.—The plant which furnishes tea. _Thea Chinensis_ is an evergreen shrub, belonging to’”——

“Never mind the botany, we do not mean to grow tea, but cure it. Go over to the manufacture.”

He skipped over a page or two and proceeded:

“‘It is propagated from the seeds. In three years the plant yields leaves for collection, and in six attains the height of a man. When from seven to ten years old, it is cut down, in order that the numerous shoots which issue from the stumps may afford a large product of leaves. These are picked separately by the hand. Three harvests, according to Koempfer, are made during the year. As the youngest leaves are the best, the product of the first collection is most valuable, while that of the third, consisting of the oldest leaves, is comparatively little esteemed. After having been gathered, the leaves are dried by artificial heat in a shallow iron pan.’”

“That’s a shovel,” said Mr. Stratford, who generally manufactured the most of our small-wit, and who had just come in to take his shovel from the fire. “That’s a shovel—a shovel is a shallow iron pan.”

“‘From which,’” pursued Lieutenant Sherman, reading, “‘they are removed while still hot, and rolled with the fingers on the palm of the hands, to be brought into the form in which they are found in commerce.’”

“All right,” said Mr. Stratford. “You have picked the leaves separately by the hand. I’ll dry them artificially by heat in a shallow iron pan, and Sherman can roll them with the finger or in the palm of his hand, to bring them into the right shape.”

He drew his shovel from the fire as he spoke, and after knocking off the loose ashes, threw a handful of the yapon leaves upon it.

“These leaves won’t roll up,” said Lieutenant Sherman, after they had been drying a few minutes on the shovel. “They crack and unroll themselves.”

“Yes, but they are old leaves, see how thick they are, and the berries are red and ripe. Here by chance is a young one; the book says, you know, that they value the young leaves most. What better shape could you have than that—just the roll of a tea-leaf.”

“And now,” said Mr. Stratford, “that they are artificially dried in a shallow iron pan, Sherman, put the coffee-pot on, and let’s all take tea.”

The turn affairs had taken roused in me rather more than usual curiosity, and as my mug was filled, I examined the tea with rather more than customary care. The aroma was that of poor tea, and the resemblance was quite striking, making me more curious as to the taste. I cooled it down as rapidly as possible and took a sip. There was a woody taste, but through this came the unmistakable flavor of the tea. “Who knows but this is a discovery?” I thought, and so I said emphatically:

“_This is_ TEA.”

“It is amazingly like it, though not very good.”

“It is the tea-plant itself. Sherman, turn back to the article and read the botany.”

The lieutenant re-opened the book and again read.

“‘The plant which furnishes tea, _Thea Chinensis_, is an evergreen shrub.’”

“This is an evergreen shrub. See how bright the leaves are, though we are near November.”

“‘Belonging to the class and order _Monadelphia Polyandria_, of the sexual system, and to the natural order _Ternstromiaceæ_.’”

“I think this is Poly—what do you call it?” said Mr. Stratford, encouragingly; “and I’m sure it belongs to the natural order.”

“‘It is usually from four to eight feet high, though capable, in a favorable situation, of attaining the height of thirty feet.’”

“Texas is a favorable situation,” said Lieutenant Sherman. “I can find one that comes up to thirty feet.”

“‘It has numerous alternate branches.’”

“So has the yapon, alternate and plenty of them.”

“‘Furnished with elliptical-oblong or lanceolate pointed leaves.’”

“These are elliptical, oblong and pointed leaves.”

“‘Which are serrate, except at the base.’”

“These are serrate; and let me see, yes, ‘except at the base.’ Not a saw tooth there.”

“‘Smooth on both sides, green, shining, marked with one rib and many transverse veins.’”

“‘_Smooth on both sides, green, shining, marked with one rib and many transverse veins_’—the exact description. Do look at them.”

“‘And supported alternately upon short foot-stalks.’”

“‘Supported alternately upon short foot-stalks’—so they are.”

“‘They are two or three inches long and from half an inch to an inch in breadth.’”

“These are little more than half the size. But then the book is describing the cultivated plant, and this is the wild one.”

“‘The flowers are either solitary or supported two or three together at the axils of the leaves.’”

“What a pity we have not seen the flower!”

“The berries, though, will help us to place them. Here they are ‘solitary,’ yes, and ‘two or three together,’ and at ‘the axils of the leaves.’”

“‘The fruit is a three-celled, three-seeded capsule.’”

“This has four, but I think that is not material. The persimmons, for instance, have seven seeds here and only two or three in New Jersey.”

“That,” said Mr. Stratford, still encouragingly, “is because Texas is such a seedy place. I’ve grown somewhat seedy myself since I’ve been here.”

“‘It is stated that the odor of the tea-leaves themselves is very slight.’”

“The odor of these is _very_ slight,” remarked Mr. Stratford, “so slight, that I sometimes imagine I don’t smell it at all.”

“‘And that it is customary to mix with them the leaves of certain aromatic plants, such as _Olea Fragrans_.’”

“When the war is over,” said Mr. Stratford, in conclusion, “we will get some olea to mix with it, and then it will be all complete. And now let us hurrah for the great American tea. You can stay here and take care of the plant, and I will go home (so soon as I can) and get up a great Texan Tea Company.”

VIII.
CAMP FORD.

Autumn was drawing to a close, the leaves had fallen from the trees, the grass was no longer green, and prairie and timber seemed alike bare and cold. Still no exchange had come. We knew of the thirty-seven thousand prisoners taken at Vicksburg, and the six thousand taken at Port Hudson, and therefore we listened hopefully to rumors of exchange, and coined a few of our own, and remained prisoners of war.

Within the prison-camp, affairs had not grown brighter. There was increased sickness with despondency and (for so small a party) many deaths. Two Massachusetts officers had died early. Then the consumptive lieutenant’s light had flickered, and with fitful changes grown more and more dim, until it softly expired. A week later, as some of us were awaiting impatiently the breakfast-whistle of our cook, an officer ran hurriedly past to the guard-line, and calling to the surgeon, said, “Come quickly, Doctor, Lieutenant Hayes is dead!” The merry-hearted Irishman lay in his hammock in the composure of an easy sleep. His light had gone out in a single instant. Later, our friend, Mr. Parce, grew weaker. An order came to send the “citizen prisoners” to Mexico; it did not revive him. His strength waned, but his placid cheerfulness was still undisturbed. “It is a bad sign,” said one of his friends, “if he were only cross and fretful, we might hope.” The sign did not pass away; and with the prospect of home and liberty held before him he died. We knew that at this rate, another year would leave very few survivors to be carried from the camp.

One gloomy evening, as we sat pondering and talking over our affairs, rumor came in and told us a new tale. It said that the prisoners were to be _paroled_ and sent forthwith to the Federal lines. The rumor was confirmed within a day or two by Major Barnes; but when the paroling officer came, it appeared that it was not altogether true; the seamen and privates were to be paroled; the officers were to be sent to Camp Ford.

It behooved us now to find ways and means for carrying our remaining effects to their new abode. By the aid of Major Barnes we succeeded in chartering two wagons for fifteen hundred dollars. We also secured an old hack to carry Mrs. Stratford and four sick officers at fifty dollars apiece. Some of us strove hard to purchase a poor horse or cheap pony that would carry us at any gait. In this race honor compels me to confess that the effrontery of the navy completely distanced the army. Early one morning the camp rang with cries of “Here’s yer mule.” Through the admiring throng appeared an animal of that description towed in by Captain Dillingham. It was a peculiar animal—small, old, ugly, vicious, and one-eyed. The Captain had bought him on our joint account, and had paid for him one hundred and fifty dollars in the currency of the Confederate States of North America. This alarmingly low price was due to the recent loss of his left optic, causing a dangerous sore, which, the vendor thought, would not prove fatal before we reached Camp Ford. The example was speedily followed by Captain Crocker of the “Clifton,” who bought another mule, and by Captain Johnson of the “Sachem,” who bought a third, and by Surgeon Sherfy of the “Morning Light,” who bought an old “calico” horse that the sailors immediately named “Quinine.” The army, either from excess of modesty or excess of poverty, did not succeed, I regret to say, in buying anything.

“Can we ride there on a mule bare-back?” was the question. “Decidedly not,” was the answer.

Yet a good saddle in Texas would cost as much as a good horse. In this state of doubt we were relieved by purchasing of a contraband an old wooden “tree” with a strap or two and a piece of raw-hide hanging to it. It bore about the same relation to a saddle that a pair of old wheels do to a cart. But we went to work. And here again the army was eclipsed by the navy. I had been a cavalry officer, and thought I knew a thing or two about broken saddles, and accounted myself fertile in such expedients, but the Captain borrowed a sailor’s needle and palm-thimble; brought out an old marlin-spike and some rope, and stitched and spliced with a neatness and rapidity that threw me in the shade. Trunk straps were speedily transferred and changed into girths, some rope was spliced and lashed around a wooden shoe till it became a stirrup, and pieces of raw-hide were bound to the “tree” till it fairly grew to be a saddle.

As the time of departure approached another subject engrossed our attention. Eating continued to be the chief thought and passion of our lives. Whatever could be bought to eat we bought. Our stoves ran literally night and day in baking hard-tack; and we, duly instructed by a professional cracker-baker, pounded dough till our arms ached.

There was still another subject of interest to many. A large part of the officers belonged either to the navy or to new regiments. They were entirely innocent of having slept out a night in their lives, and knew nothing of marches and bivouacs. The fuss which they made about this expected movement was in the highest degree amusing to those who, by virtue of a year or two’s service, dubbed themselves veterans. _They_ looked on with smiles as they saw the others making good blankets into poor shelter-tents, and winked to each other when they heard the new men confidently assure one another that they could stand it now, even if there should be a wet night upon the march.

After some delay there came in five or six impressed wagons and a squadron of stalwart men mounted on large, well-fed horses. They were chiefly stock breeders from the prairies, and boasted of being the best mounted troop in Texas. All of these men owned the horses they rode, and many brought with them a led horse and servant. They were supposed to be men of unquestionable secession sentiments, and were employed chiefly in hunting down conscripts and guarding prisoners.

On the ninth of December our seamen and privates left us, and we were notified to be ready on the eleventh. Our two wagons came down—a quantity of yapon was gathered and dried—a last baking of biscuit was made, and our stoves were duly incased in open boxes with beckets so as to be readily loaded and unloaded.

A move is always interesting; after months of dreary idleness it is exciting. Happy did we seem, and happy did we feel as on the cold, foggy morning we marched down the “wood road,” crossed the little brook, and left Camp Groce at last behind us. The new Captain—a tall, powerful Texan, with a determined eye and stern, compressed lips—evidently understood his business. He kept us well together, managed his own men with few words and great judgment, and watched the column with close vigilance. The one-eyed mule behaved with gravity and decorum, never showing any unnecessary signs of life or unseemly gayety, except once when he slipped his bridle and ran away like a deer.

Before three o’clock we went into camp on a little brook called “Kane’s Creek.” Thanks to the autumn rains, there was some water in the “creek,” and thanks to the December frosts, it was clear and cold. The proceedings of our naval friends were a new chapter in my experience of bivouacs. Notwithstanding the clear sky and roaring camp-fires, edifices called shelter-tents were erected, with an immense amount of consultation and anxiety. Heavy mattresses were unpacked from the wagons and lugged to the tents. Stoves were unloaded and put up under trees, where they soon smoked and steamed as did the excited cooks who hovered around them. So elaborate, indeed, was the dinner of our mess, that the short winter day closed ere Lieutenant Dane doffed his apron, and summoned us to our seats around the camp-fire. By its light I saw a sirloin of roast beef, a large piece of corned, sweet potatoes, corn bread and butter, flap-jacks and sauce, tea, coffee and cake.

“What are you doing?” asked somebody, as I drew out my pencil and note-book. “I thought you never took notes; it was only an hour ago you were telling me that a note-book spoils a good traveller.”

“I am noting down this bill of fare. After my rough experience in our army of the West, this dinner seems too ridiculous to be believed.”

“I suppose you will publish it in the newspapers when you get out?”

“Yes, I rather think I shall.”

“Well, it’s the last of the pepper,” said the caterer, “so mind and put it down.”

“Yes, by all means.”

“And they say we can buy no sugar at Tyler,” said another; “so mind and put _it_ down.”

“Certainly; anything else?”

“There’s some salt, and there’s a hard-tack. Perhaps you think they are luxuries. And here’s a candle, moulded in the neck of a bottle—hadn’t you better mention it?”

“I think I had—the mould was so ingenious. You remember I invented it myself.”

“You haven’t exposed the fact that it’s our last pound of coffee, treasured up for this journey?”

“Certainly not.”

“Nor that the tea grew in Texas?”

“No.”

“Don’t—a few such secrets exposed will destroy the whole effect of the bill. And now, if the dinner isn’t too much for you, let us box up the stove, while those delicate young gentlemen wash the dishes.”

So we boxed up the stove, and washed the dishes, and lit our pipes, and sat looking in the glowing camp-fire. And then our three naval Captains crawled into a tight little shelter-tent, where they suffocated and perspired, and caught cold. The army part of the mess spread their blankets and lay down, with their feet against a smoking log, their heads resting on their knapsacks, and their eyes watching the stars, which twinkled them asleep.

The bugle called us long before daylight to prepare our breakfast and re-load the wagons. I cannot pay Captain Davis a better compliment, than by saying that for five successive mornings we moved off at precisely 6–45, and then for six successive mornings at precisely seven. This day the road ran over some fine rolling country, occasionally clean and park-like, with stately trees sprinkled here and there, and entirely free from young wood and underbrush. The weather was delightful, but we went into camp before two o’clock, after a march of only fourteen miles.

The next morning as we started, a cold gust of north wind struck us. It was not a “norther,” but a sudden change of weather from warm to cold. All the morning we breasted it, and it blew keener and keener as the day advanced. Early in the afternoon we encamped in an open wood, which gave but poor shelter from the piercing gale. The little stream that formed our watering place was coated with ice, and the ice grew thicker with each hour. We set ourselves at the work of unloading the wagons and the heavier work of chopping wood for the large camp-fire that must burn all night. The stove went up and puffed and steamed as usual, and all endeavored to impress upon the mind of our amateur _chef_ that this extreme cold was only an additional reason that we should eat.

“While we were fresh from a sharp walk, with the blood stirred by the active labors of the camp, we were comfortable enough. When we first threw ourselves down before the fire all aglow, saying we were thankful that the work was done, we still felt indifferent to the cold north wind. But presently it crept in, and sent a shivering chill over the frame. Then the nervous energy relaxed, and one felt great need of a warm room where he could hide himself from the blast, and fall asleep if only for an hour. The dinner and the hot tea that accompanied it braced us up somewhat, and fitted us for bed. Our three naval friends again crawled into their shelter-tent, where (inasmuch as it was at a prudent distance from the fire) they nearly froze to death. The remainder of the mess used the shelter-tent, a large tree and the stove box as a wind-break, and put their feet almost in the fire. For some hours we all slept soundly, as men must who have marched and worked since long before day. But although the blankets were drawn over our heads and the wind-break seemed to afford ample protection, the cutting air pushed its way in. It crawled through the hair and curled itself round the neck, and sent the same shivery chills over the body. I rose and warmed myself by rolling a couple of large logs on the fire, and prizing them into their places. The scene around me was wild in the extreme, for every mess had built a large fire, and the flames of these leaped and roared in the blast, and sent large sparks flying through the tree-tops; while in the fiery light, picturesque figures could be seen crouching over the embers or throwing fresh wood into the flames.”

The bugle again called us up, while the stars were yet shining, to find the dodger we had baked over night, and the cold beef we had put by for breakfast, frozen harder than paving stones. Close seated by the fire, we ate a moody breakfast, each one declaring that he had not slept one hour during the night, and that he wanted to turn in again. Instead of doing so, we took the road, now solid as a rock. The horses had to stamp through the ice to drink, and the “Sunny South” seemed frozen hard as the hills of the Adirondack.

Passing through Huntsville, we found ourselves upon a sandy road, and travelling through dull woods, whose weary sameness lasted with hardly an interruption for one hundred and fifty miles. Toward evening we encamped beside a deep ravine. The clouds gathered darkly overhead, and the rain began to fall. It bore all the appearances of one of our cold November storms, and we anticipated a tempestuous night. But then came one of the phenomena of the Texan climate. With darkness the rain stopped; and the stars seemed to disperse the clouds. But with daylight the clouds returned, and as we re-commenced the march, the rain came down heavily. The matter was made worse by our immediately descending to the “Trinity bottom,” a rich, alluvial plain, three miles in width, composed of the greasiest of mud. When we had dragged ourselves across this, we were suddenly stopped by the Trinity, a narrow stream, deep channelled between precipitous clay banks. A road was cut down each bank, and the usual scow and rope-ferry appeared at the bottom. The prisoners who first arrived on foot were immediately carried over. They scrambled up the opposite bank and instantly made a fire, around which they closely huddled. As the wagons arrived, they were hurried aboard of the scow, for every moment made matters worse. A crowd of men surrounded each wagon as it landed, pushing, pulling, yelling, and in various ways “encouraging the mules.” Those extraordinary animals pulled and strained and slipped; now down, now up again, exhausted, and then renewing their efforts, until slowly and inch by inch every wagon was carried to the top of the bank. The scow covered with mules and white-topped wagons, the struggling teams, the shouting men, the howling of the wind, the beating of the rain, all made up a romantic picture. But the toil we paid for it was extreme, and the crossing of this narrow river cost us two hours of time.

We stopped at two houses after crossing, to make some purchases. At the first, the lady of the house (a rather stout female, with a coarse voice and red face) had lost neither children nor relatives in the war, but nevertheless cherished a holy hatred of Yankees. When she learnt that we were of that despised race, and had come into her house to buy something, her wrath became terrific. It even overpowered the irresistible effrontery of the navy. Two of our Captains, who between them had never failed to win the Texan fair, assayed her, but the humor of the one and the blandishments of the other were sent spinning about their ears. “Josiah,” she said to her abashed husband, while she quivered with rage, “don’t sell them anything, the nasty beasts, I didn’t know I hated them so. Don’t sell the beasts a thing. Corn-meal is too good for them.” He, poor man, said “no,” but when our two naval commissaries got him alone, they made mince-meat of his scruples in no time. He hurriedly shovelled a bushel of potatoes into their bag, received his five dollars, and begged them to leave by the side door, as most convenient and least exposed to observation.

At the other of these houses, the woman had lost two sons in battle. When she learnt that some of her visitors were enemies and prisoners, she only hastened to express her pity. She spread her simple board with all that her larder contained, and made them sit down. Of some little articles, such as milk and butter and eggs, she literally gave them all she had. Other things that they wished to purchase, she sold—she offered to give, but they forced the money upon her. And when they rose to go, she expressed again her sympathy, and hoped that God would be with them, and comfort them, and send them deliverance.