Chapter XXIX: Letter LXXII

REPORTING THE LATEST SMALL STORY FROM "HONEST ABE," AND DESCRIBING
THE MOST MERCENARY BAYONET CHARGE ON RECORD.

WASHINGTON, D. C., October 4th, 1862.

Our Honest Abe, my boy, may lack these brilliant qualities which in the great legislator may constitute either the live-oak sceptre of true patriotism or the dexter finger of refined roguery, as the genius of the age pivots on honesty or diplomacy; but his nature has all the sterling characteristics of the heartiest manhood about it, and there is a smiling sun in his composition which never sets. That he is in his anecdotage, my boy, is a fact

"Which nobody can deny;
Or, if they do, they lie!"

yet even his anecdotes have that simple sunlight in them which is, perhaps, a greater boon to the high place of a nation in the dark hour, than the most weird and perpetual haze of crafty wisdom could be.

There was a dignified chap here from New York on Monday; a chap who has invented many political conventions in his time, and came here for the special purpose of learning everything whatsoever concerning the present comparative inactivity of the able-bodied Mackerel Brigade.

The Mackerel Brigade, my boy, has done little more than skirmish on the festive borders of the well-known Southern Confederacy since the great metaphysical victory in which it gained such applause and lost a few muskets, and the dignified convention chap called upon the Honest Abe to learn the meaning of the present situation.

Rumor states that it was the Honest Abe's hour of fragmentary leisure when this inquiring chap perforated the White House; and that he was sitting with his boots on the window-sill, carving a pine toothpick from a vagrant chip.

"Mr. President," says the dignified chap, affably, "such is the agony of the public mind in consequence of the present uncertainty in military affairs that I feel it my duty, as a humble portion of that Mind, to respectfully request of you some information as to the reason for the cotemporary Mackerel inactivity."

"Hem!" says the Honest Abe, combing his locks with his right hand, and placing a small bit of the chip in the right corner of his Etruscan mouth: "Perhaps I cannot better answer your question, neighbor, than by relating a small tale:

"There was a man out in Iowa who owned a large farm, on which he raised everything but the interest of his purchase-money, and it cost him so little to send his crops to the market that he was all the time wishing he could find the crops to send. Now, this man was very tenacious of his rights," says the Honest Abe, putting the argument with his jack-knife--"he was very tenacious of his rights; and when a squatter-sovereign from Missouri came and squatted right on one of his best pieces of land, he determined to whip that squatter-sovereign within an inch of his life, and then send him trooping. So he goes down one day to where the squatter had run up a shingle house," says the Honest Abe, brushing a chip from his right knee, "he goes down there, and says he to the squatter: 'If you don't make tracks from here in twenty-four hours, you varmint, I'll make you smell thunder and see chain-lightnin'.' The squatter threw away the axe with which he was thumping down a maple log for a door-post, and says he: 'This is a free country, stranger; and if you'll come to a place where the grass is thick enough to make a tidy tumble, we'll have it out at once.' This put the old man's dander right up," says the Honest Abe, pulling down his vest; "this put his dander right up, and says he: 'Grass be darned! Here's a spot of ground as bare as the top of Governor Chase's head, and I'll jest trouble you--y' old varmint you--to find how soft it is for a night's lodgings.' After this speech there was no more to be said; so the two geniuses repaired to the bare spot, and squared away at each other like all possest. The old man was great on the science of the thing," says the Honest Abe, using the toe of one boot as a boot-jack to pull the other half-way off--"the old man was great on the science of boxing; but the squatter had the muscle, and in about two winks the old 'un was packing the gravel. Up he got again, very ricketty in the shoulder-blades, and came to call like a grizzly in bee-time, striking out with a bang up science, and would have triumphed gloriously if he hadn't suddenly gone to gravel again, with all his baggage. On this occasion, he righted with both his elbows out of joint, and says he: 'You're as good as chawed up--y' old varmint, you--but I'll come back here next spring, and have it out with you on this same spot.' The squatter agreed to that, and they parted for the time.

"Now the story of this drawn-fight got abroad, you see," says the Honest Abe, working the blade of his jack-knife with his thumb--"it got abroad; and one day a neighbor went to the old 'un, and says he: 'There's one thing about that big fight of yours, Uncle Billy, I can't understand. What made you put off the end of the show till next spring?'

"'Have you seen the cantankerous spot where we fit?' says the old 'un, moving his shoulders uneasily.

"'Truelie,' says the neighbor.

"'Well,' says the old 'un, craftily, 'I'm just waiting _till that thar spot has a trifle of grass on it_.'"

At the conclusion of this natural little narrative, my boy, the dignified conventional chap hurried from the White House scratching his head: and I really believe, my boy--I really believe, that his sensitive soul detected an analogy not gushingly flattering to national strategy and the President of the United States for 1865.

Soon after hearing of this, I met him at Willard's, and says I: "Well, my sagacious Mirabeau, what is your final opinion of our Honest Abe?"

He merely paused long enough to swear at a button which happened to burst from the neck-band of his shirt just then, and says he: "The Honest Abe is a well-meaning Executive, enough. He's a well-meaning Executive," says the dignified chap, with an air of slightly-irritated good-nature; "but I wish he'd do something to save his country, instead of telling small tales all the time."

Our President is an honest man, my boy, and the glass in his spectacles isn't exactly made of the paper they print telegrams upon.

Learning that the Mackerel Brigade was still awaiting abject peace propositions from the exhausted Confederacy, on the borders of Accomac, I scaled the outer walls of my Gothic steed, Pegasus, on Wednesday, and sped thither on the metaphorical wings of retarded lightning. A wisp of hay was clinging to the wiry mane of the architectural animal, my boy, and this I used to delude the spirited steed from making those sudden stops in which he invariably indulges whenever a passing acquaintance hails us with the familiar salutation of "Hey!--where are you bound?" The charger has evidently a confused idea of the word "Hey," my boy.

Upon gaining the outskirts of Accomac, I met Company 3, Regiment 5, Mackerel Brigade, just coming out to make a bayonet-charge upon one of the Confederacy's earthworks not far away. I might have let the warriors pass by unheeded, my boy, as I was deeply ruminating upon strategy; but as they came nearer, I noticed among them a file of red noses dragging along a Mackerel, who was tearing and groaning like a madman. In fact, the chap became so violent just then, that Captain Villiam Brown precipitately dropped his canteen and halted the company.

I looked at the devoted and nearly-sober beings clustered about the struggling chap, and says I:

"Has mutiny reared his horrid front, my veterans? What ails our gymnastic friend?"

A Mackerel, largely patched in several departments of his attire, shaded his voice with a crab-like hand, and says he: "That is Jakey Mogs, which got a letter from his virchoose femly just the instant we was ordered to fix bayonets, and he's gone cracked because the Captain can't let him leave for home in a big rush."

Here the refractory chap burst furiously from those who were holding him, fell upon his knees before the captain, and says he, as he cried like a woman: "For God's sake, Cap, _do_ let me go home just this once, and I swear to God I won't stay there more than just one minnit! My old woman wrote this herself (tearing the letter from his ragged breast), and she says our little Tom is dying. He's a-dying--O good Lord! it's too much! Please let me go, my dear, good Cap, and I won't be gone an hour; and I'll bring you back the pootiest little bull-tarrier you ever see; and you can shoot me for desertion--honor bright! My Tommy's a-dying, I tell you, and she's wrote for me to come right away. Just an hour, Cap, for God's sake!--only _half_ an hour, and I'll come back and be shot--honor bright!"

As the wild words came pouring out of the poor fellow's working soul, there fell a breathless hush upon all his comrades; the line of bayonets seemed to me to reflect the soft light of the afternoon with a kind of strange quiver, and though the Captain turned his head sternly away from the suppliant, there was not that firmness in the arm circling to his hip which drives home the sword of the strong.

"Take the being under guard," says Villiam, hoarsely; "for he _must_ go."

At the word, the rude father sprang to his feet, with a tigerish glare in his eyes, dashed the letter to the ground, tore his bowie from its sheath; and as, with the howl of a wild beast, he made a furious thrust at one of those who approached to secure him--Nature broke in the tempest, and he fell into the arms of a comrade, in a fit. They sent him back, then, to camp, and Company 3, Regiment 5, moved forward once again, as though nothing had happened.

Alas! my boy, when this whole war is the sensitive nerve of a vast nation, and vibrates a thrill of mortal agony to a million of souls at each jar the very air receives from a shot, what matter is it if a single heart be broken.

I pondered this deeply as I followed Company 3; nor did I heed the affable remarks occasionally volunteered by Captain Villiam Brown until we gained the edge of the field wherein was located a company of bushwhacking Confederacies, as was supposed, behind a scientific mud-work. Captain Bob Shorty and Captain Samyule Sa-mith were already on the ground to witness the bayonet charge; and it was well that they had provided bits of smoked glass to view it through, as the glaring brilliancy of the anticipated feat might have proved hurtful to the naked eye. As I took my place with them, my boy, I could not but admire the rapidity with which Captain Villiam Brown kicked some of his beings into a straight line before the foe's front, and at the same time addressed them after the manner of a great commander:

"Comrades," says Villiam, his voice quivering finely with uncontrollable valor, "the eyes of future centuries are looking down upon you on this present occasion, and your distracted country expects you to propel the gleamy steel. Ah!" says Villiam, taking another hasty look at his notes, "the distracted country has great confidence in bayonet charges, which are quite valuable on account of their scarcity in this unnatural war. My fellow-beings," says Villiam, allowing several Mackerels to get in front of him, that he might more readily direct their movements, "we will now proceed to charge bayonets."

From our point of vantage, we saw that serried host sweep on, my boy, their movements being exceedingly rapid for several yards; when they went slower, and finally stopped.

Captain Samyule Sa-mith eyed them intensely through his glass, and says he: "It appears to me that there is temporary inactivity in the ranks, and I can see some manly heads turned the wrong way."

Captain Bob Shorty frowned until his left eyebrow contracted a delicate streak of smoke from _his_ glass, and says he: "You speak like one of feeble mind, Samyule. The legs, not the head, are the portions of the human frame to be watched in a baynit charge."

Taught by this remark, I gazed at the nether continuations of our country's hope and pride, and my glass told me that many of them were working in their sockets as though belonging to wholly irresponsible parties. Were those devoted men about to change their base of operations and entrap Stonewall Jackson's whole force again, without waiting to receive a shot?

It was a moment of dreadful suspense.

Then did the matchless genius of Villiam Brown arise to the full demands of the breathless occasion, in one of those subtle appeals to human nature's great undercurrent which leads men as children often are led. In the rear of the Confederacy's work was the slanting side of a precipitous hill, and to this hill-side he had secretly dispatched the paymaster of the _corps_, by a circuitous route, with a package that looked as though it might contain Treasury Notes under his arm. Just at this awful juncture, when the fate of the day hung by a hair, that paymaster made his appearance on the hill-side above the mud-work, and put on his spectacles to make himself more plainly visible.

"Comrades," says Villiam, pointing to the celestial figure, "yonder is the disbursing genius of the United States of America. Charge baynits, and let us be paid off."

Though the whole Confederacy had been in the way at that moment, my boy, it would not have delayed the charge. Forward went Company 3, Regiment 5, with mercenary celerity, capturing the hostile work with great success; and finding therein a Confederate letter, stating that the Confederacy could not so far demean itself as to fight a force whose leader had not been educated at West Point.

There is a point, my boy, _beyond_ which the Confederacy cannot hope to offer successful resistance to our arms, and recent events would seem to indicate that it is West Point.

Yours, formally,
ORPHEUS C. KERR.