Chapter VII: Letter VI

INTRODUCING THE MACKEREL BRIGADE, DILATING ON HAVELOCKS AS FIRST MADE BY THE WOMEN OF AMERICA, ILLUSTRATING THE STRENGTH OF HABIT AND WEAKNESS OF "SHODDY," AND SHOWING HOW OUR CORRESPONDENT INDULGED IN A HUGE CANARD, AFTER THE MANNER OF AN ENLIGHTENED DAILY PRESS.

WASHINGTON, D.C., June 15th, 1861.

The members of the Mackerel Brigade, now stationed on Arlington Heights to watch the movements of the Potomac, which is expected to rise shortly, desire me to thank the women of America for supplies of Havelocks and other delicacies of the season just received. The Havelocks, my boy, are rather roomy, and we took them for shirts at first; and the shirts are so narrow-minded, that we took them for Havelocks. If the women of America could manage to get a little less linen in the collars of the latter article, and a little more into the other departments of the graceful garment, there would be fewer colds in this division of the Grand Army.

The Havelocks, as I have said before, are roomy--very roomy, my boy. Villiam Brown, of Company 3, Regiment 5, put one on last night, when he went on sentry-duty, and looked like a broomstick in a pillow-case, for all the world. When the officer of the night came round and caught sight of Villiam in his Havelock, he was struck dumb with admiration for a moment. Then he ejaculated:

"What a splendid moonbeam!"

Villiam made a movement, and the sergeant came up.

"What's that white object?" says the officer to the sergeant.

"The young man which is Villiam Brown," says the sergeant.

"Thunder!" roars the officer, "tell him to go to his tent, and take off that night-gown!"

"You're mistaken," says the sergeant. "The sentry is Villiam Brown, in his Havelock, which was made by the wimmen of America."

The officer was so justly exasperated at his mistake, that he went immediately to his head-quarters, and took the Oath three times running, with a little sugar.

The Oath is very popular, my boy, and comes in bottles. I take it medicinally myself.

The shirts made by the women of America are noble articles, as far down as the collar; but would not do to use as an only garment. Captain Mortimer de Montague, one of the skirmish squad, put one on when he went to the President's Reception, and the collar stood up so high, that he couldn't put his cap on, while the other departments didn't quite reach to his waist. His appearance at the White House was picturesque and interesting, and as he entered the drawing-room, General Scott remarked, very feelingly:

"Ah! here comes one of our wounded heroes."

"He's not wounded, general," remarked an officer, standing by.

"Then, why is his head bandaged up so?" asked the venerable veteran.

"Oh!" says the officer, "that's only one of the shirts made by the patriotic wimmen of America."

In about five minutes after this conversation, I saw the venerable veteran, the wounded hero, and the officer taking the Oath together.

The Seventy-ninth, Highlanders, came to town early last week, and are the finest body of Scotchmen that were ever half _kilt_ by uniform alone. My heart warmed to them when I first saw them; and, with arms outspread, I greeted the gallant fellow nearest to me. With a tear of gratified pride in his eye, he exclaimed:

"Auld lang syne and Scots who ha'e; but gang awa' wi' Heeland laddie thegither o' John Anderson my Jo; and, moreover, we'll tak' a right gude willie wacht for muckle twa and braw chiel."

I told him I thought so myself.

I'm sorry to say, my boy, that some members of this splendid regiment are badly off for trowsers, and shock my modesty tremendously. They probably forgot them in their hurry to get to the war, and the Union Pretence Committee ought to send them out an assortment of peg-tops at once. "Not that I hobject to the hinnocent hamusements of the Highlanders, but that decency and propriety _must_ be preserved within the limits of the army"--as the British show-man observed.

I took a trip down to Alexandria the other night, to see how the Fire Zouaves were getting along, and came pretty near getting into trouble with one of Five's screamers. He was on guard; and when he challenged me, the pass-word slipped my memory.

"Drop that ere butt," says he, bringing his musket to a charge, "or I'll give yer a taste of the old masheen. Who--wha--what are yer coughin' at--sa-a-ay?"

I was frightened, my boy, and had just commenced the appropriate prayer of "Now I lay me down to sleep," when suddenly an idea struck me, and I acted on it immediately.

"Hello!" says I, "Johnny, didn't you hear the old Hall kettle strike for the Fourth District? Come along with me and help to get the old dog-cart on a jump, or Nine's roosters will get the rail-road track and have the old butt in Christie street before we can swing the old masheen over a pig's whisker."

"Bully for you!" says he, dropping his musket, all in a quiver, and commencing to roll up his pantaloons. "I've got a bet on that ere fire; and ef I don't take the starch out of that ere Nine's feller what wears good clothes and don't do nothing--you may just take my boots."

It was all the force of habit, you see; and if I hadn't stopped that Zouave, I really believe he'd have run clean into the bosom of all the first families, looking for the Fourth District and Nine's feller!

The Mackerel brigade have got their new uniforms, and they are not the martial garments it would do to get fat in. High private Samivel Green put his on, partially, yesterday; but, it's a positive fact, my boy, that by the time he got his coat buttoned, his pantaloons were all worn out. I managed to get on one of the uniforms myself, and the first time I went into the open air all the buttons blew off.

* * * * *

I've just returned from visiting the most mournful sight that ever made a man feel as though he'd been peeling onions all the week, and grating horse-radish on Sunday. It was the first dying scene of one of the "Pet Lammers," down at Alexandria, and, as one of Five's chaps remarks, it was enough to make the eye of a darning-needle weep, and bring tears to the cheek of the Greek slave. Jim was the only name of the sufferer, and if he ever had any other, it had slipped his memory, though his affectionate relatives sometimes called him "Shorty," by way of endearment. He was out on picket-guard the night before, when the Southern Confederacy attempted to pass him. He challenged the intruder, and called to his comrades for help; but, before the latter could arrive, the Southern Confederacy drew a masked battery from his pocket, and fired six heavy balls through the head of the unfortunate Zouave, nearly fracturing his skull, and breaking several panes of glass. The cowardly miscreant then fled to an adjacent fence, closely followed by Sherman's Artillery.

Upon discovering that he was wounded, Mr. Shorty examined the cap on his musket, and stood it carefully against a tree, buttoned his jacket to his neck, and asked a comrade for a chew of tobacco. Too full of emotion to speak, the comrade handed a gentlemanly plug to the dying man, who cut about half an ounce from it, placed it thoughtfully in his mouth, and then stuffed his handkerchief carefully in the hole in his forehead made by the balls.

"Is any of my brains hanging out?" he asked of another of his comrades.

"No, Shorty," answered the other, bursting into tears; "you never had any to hang out."

After this response, the dying man paused for a moment to spit in the eyes of a dog that was smelling around his heels, and then proceeded with his comrades in the direction of the hospital, or the house used for that purpose.

As they were passing the quarters of the officer with whom I was spending the night, the expiring Zouave stopped to twist the tail of an old darkey's cat, which made such a noise that the officer's attention was attracted, and he called the whole party into his room. I at once noticed that the top of Mr. Shorty's head was completely gone, and that one of his eyes was half-way down the back of his neck. Upon entering the room he took a pipe from the mantel and commenced to smoke it, giving us, at the same time, a history of Nine's Engine and the first "muss" he was ever engaged in. After finishing the pipe, and requesting me to wrap him up in the American flag, he spit on one of my boots, and then died. I append a short biographical sketch.

THE LATE PRIVATE SHORTY.

Mr. James Shorty, the gallant Zouave who was shot last night by the
Southern Confederacy, was born some years ago in a place I am not
aware of, and graduated with high honors in the New York Fire
Department. He was universally beloved for his genial manner of
taking the butt, and never hit a feller bigger than himself. In the
year 1861, he entered the United States army as a private Zouave,
and was in it when the fate of war deprived the country of his
beloved presence. His remains will be taken to the first fire that
occurs.

* * * * *

Poor Shorty! I knew him well, my boy, and shall never forget how ready he always was to take a cigar from

Yours, mournfully,

ORPHEUS C. KERR.

P.S.--Since writing the above, I have heard that no such occurrence took place at Alexandria. The alarm was occasioned by the fall of a bag of hay in one of the officers' quarters, the noise being mistaken for the firing of a battery. Mr. Shorty, it seems, does not belong to the Zouaves, at all, and is still in New York.

O. C. K.