The idea of writing a novel probably first occurred to Goodrich in July 1862 while employed by the Arkansas State Treasury Department. Fears of a Union army occupation in Little Rock had driven the Treasury to temporarily relocate operations to Hot Springs, Arkansas. Here, after long hours of issuing Treasury Warrants, Goodrich occupied his time reading popular novels such as The Pickwick Papers, Arabian Nights, and Gilbert Gurney. But one in particular that fired his imagination was The Prairie Guide, better known as The Rose of the Rio Grande, by Newton Mallory Curtis. The setting for Curtis’ novel, published in 1847, was the Mexican War.
This unpublished work by Goodrich lies dormant in the archives of the Arkansas History Commission — a suitable resting place. The portion of the novel presented here — Chapter XXI — was completed in March 1867. Goodrich mentions it briefly in his diary entry of April 8, 1867:
I have done considerable writing this year and last fall – more than would fill a good size volume and probably as good as most of the trash that is published under the name of stories.
Certain events and personalities mentioned by Goodrich in this unpublished work have some basis in reality. Though Goodrich wrote of “Col. S.” in his novel, this is undoubtedly a reference to Arnold Von Syberg with whom he was intimately familiar and who did, indeed, serve as an officer in the Confederate Service as Chief of Engineers. After the war, Goodrich claimed that he had been awarded a Lieutenant’s position with Syberg’s Engineers. He used this commission for his convenience when trying to avoid conscription in 1863.
The other personalities appear to be a composite of characters and are entirely fictitious. Goodrich places himself in the novel as “Lt. Herbert Leland” and even has his character kill “Lt. P. Q. Rector” in a duel. Though Rector is clearly a fictitious character, Goodrich may have chosen the surname in a not so thinly veiled attempt to get back at Henry Rector after being pistol-whipped by the enraged former Governor in an event Goodrich captured in his diary in May 1863.
Chapter XXI
Dark clouds had been for some time looming up in the southern hemisphere, gloomy and threatening. Its distant artillery could be distinctly heard wafting on the wings of the breeze which was the forerunner of the tempest to follow and then was to follow the struggle between life and death, liberty and slavery. The horrors as well as the glories which ever spring from war were again to be realized here, the greatest war on record, the bloodiest struggle in the annals of history – not a Napoleonic battle which in one day decided the fate of nations, but a wide battle line extending from one shore of the East to the other on the West, on land and one sea, one serried line of bristling bayonets, of frowning cannon. It was not a war in which its horrors were made attractive by the gaudy paraphernalia, of long plumes, and glittering epaulets and magnificent costumes. Grim visaged war did not deign to smooth his wrinkled brow in these that delight the fancy and infuse a foamy sort of valor which wags out as rapidly as it arose when the occasion which gave its origin had ceased to exist, or become familiar by constant association. I cannot look back to those times and review the history of some of the unrecorded deeds of the dead as well as the living without emotions, bordering on the enthusiasm which I then felt, such excitement never existed.
After the proclamation of war, the enthusiasm bordered on frenzy. There was the collecting of militia, drilling and arming night and day, bonfires and speeches, illuminations and night marches and parades. People flocked from the country to the town and the streets were crowded and blocked up by motley groups of soldiers, horsemen and foot, sabers and bayonets rattled together. The old ensign was pulled down, or left half-hoisted, while the delicate fingers of the gentler sex were weaving colors to be given to the bands in which a brother, a husband, or a lover was to be found. The first ball was thrown, the first cannon fired on a distant scene in which this grand pageant was to begin.
The storm was to be fierce, the demon passion of hate, revenge, the long pent up wrath of injured rights, was bursting out, and the countenance of men on the evidence of the struggle within them. The artillery rattled through the streets and hastened onward to the frontier. Cavalry swept along with rattling sabers and fiery strong steeds. The infantry marched, or crowded the steamboats or railway carriages, ammunition of all sorts came rolling and thundering down the streets. The clangor of the trumpet, the squeak of the fife, and the roll of the drum were distinctly heard over the roar of the multitude and the clatter of hoofs. All was conducted with order and regularity. The people and soldiers mingled together, mostly uniforms and fantastic accouterments blended together, cavalry and footman and artillery all commingled, but the call of the trumpet separated them.
A few sick and wounded had returned from the first scene of conflict. They related in glowing terms their own valor and heroism, the courage and generosity of their leaders, and the rapacity, vindictiveness, and cruelty of their invaders. The hate already existing was raised to the highest pitch and flaming over. Men now went forth with determined looks, sullen and angry brows. They foresaw the long continued struggle, the war to the knife, fighting hand to hand, bayonet to bayonet, knife to knife. In one must rule in the death of the other and many left with no sanguine hope of seeing again the dear ones at home, of seeing again or kissing the lips of her who had plighted him her maiden troth, yet lived to be united to her while others who dreamed of a few weeks of absence fell on the first field and lie mingled their bones in the commemorated plain.
Hearthstones were to be desolated; mothers bereaved of their offsprings, wives into widows, and children orphans. The whole land was to be mourning, crepe not only the badge of sorrow and the loss of some, in every family, but the evidence of the many willingly offered up in their country’s cause. Maidens wept long and sincerely for the one whose heart she last pressed to her bosom, the absent and who would never return. The mother pined and died over the shock which the stiff and livid form of the youngest and dearest son gave her, when they placed his body shattered and rented by the cannon ball down before her. This terrible woe, at that time, was not felt. Some families grieved, but the sorrow did not extend beyond the limits of the home circle. There was too much excitement for sorrow or sour pity to find a place in the breast. This military madness, thirst for glory, or love of liberty – an endearing term, but how blasphemed? – in the smoke and blood of the carnage field.
This frenzy, this high-wrought madness almost – it could not have been pure enthusiasm – had seized upon everyone in all classes of society. The school boys drilled and wore the favored cockade. The favorite song was played and sung, and shouted and whistled. The juvenile games were deserted and neglected for the mimic scenes of the camp or the more stirring incidents of a pitched battle. Rude fortifications were built and defended and stormed in the true Napoleonic spirit. Martial music became the rage. The theaters were crowded nightly and the new banners were unfurled, and the Prima Donna appeared and sang the new national anthem with the colors about her soldiers and waist, and the lone star glittering on her breast amidst the enraptured shouts and cheers of the multitude, the waving of handkerchiefs of the loveliest of women. What heart so weak and feeble and cowardly that would forgo the smiles and sweet accents of such? Who so base to incur their frown and contempt as to forsake the cause thus blessed by their presence, by their prayers and by their enthusiasm. The coward became infused with momentary courage and he buckled on the armor and prepared for the struggle; a saber gash or a bullet wound was preferable to the sneer and contempt that played upon the rosy lip and cheek of the fair beauty.
Business became stagnated and houses crashed, but that caused no notice in the general excitement. Speculators sought out the army and grew rich on the necessities of the individuals. Like leaches, they never quit their hold till the last drop was sucked or they had been filled to repletion. Such Jew traffickers were found everywhere, accredited and relied upon in trust-worthy positions, who trafficked in the bones of the dead [going so] far as to send an enemies bones to a heart-broken mother that she might lay them away in the family vault where soon she must be laid that she might be close by his side. Corruption already began to exist. War was but another name for robbery….
The fictitious Lt. Herbert Leland, with destiny in his own hands.
Amid all this furor and madness I could not escape untouched. The enthusiasm seized upon me and I found myself as belligerent as the others and thirsting to display military zeal as the most rabid. My character and standing was such in the community, my acquirements acknowledged on all sides both in civil as well as in military, [and known] as being a graduate from one of the best institutions in the country, made people believe – and in short they settled it – that I should receive a responsible position. This flattered my vanity and I saw a new field before me — full of dangers, privations, and perhaps a sudden and unrecorded death – but a feeling came over me which overbalanced all the terrors, almost inspiration, and it seemed as if I saw the future marked out for me, my path clear. Not the prayers of a mother nor the tears of a mistress could now tear me from my purpose. My destiny was in my own hands, the reins of the steed were in my own hands, and it would be my own fault if they did not arrive at the appointed goal.
The fictitious Col. A. S. -- a handsome man, a favorite of the fair sex.
The army had not become consolidated. Each state had control of its volunteers and the Governors appointed the field officers. These officers thus appointed were afterwards either confirmed or broke by the general congress, and the power existed in the president and his ministers to appoint or revoke. I thus received a commission as lieutenant on the staff of a colonel of engineers. My chief was a German graduate of a military institution with distinction. Colonel Syberg was a military looking man, every inch, tall and elegantly formed, and splendidly put together. He was a handsome man and spoke our language with a purity which few Germans ever attain. He was a favorite with the fair sex and one or two liaisons had been exposed, more to the credit of the parties than to their shame. He had distinguished himself in Germany and in the plains of Mexico – Monterrey, Acapulco, and the storming of the chief city, as well as the sieges he won at the hearts of the dark-eyed beauties of pure Castilian blood.
We received an ovation in which we both dressed in our gaudy uniforms and sashes woven by fair hands. Modesty forbids me to speak further of myself than that the fair ones said that I never looked better than in my uniform and beautiful dress sword, presented by one fairer and dearer to me than all, dangling at my heels. The ladies sang the national anthem and one Miss B gave a pretty speech [in which] she told us to fight as well for our liberties as for the fair and frail ones at home, whom circumstances had denied the privilege of buckling on the sword or shouldering the musket. I was requested by the colonel to return our thanks, which I did in such effecting terms that I brought tears to the eyes of the gentle listeners. “Liberty,” I said, “was a watchword which had pounded in the blast of the trumpet, in the notes of the song, and roused nations to throw off the yoke of despotism. In this beautiful land of ours, its voice has echoed from every hilltop and from every vale, has risen upon our hearts as is the sacred watchword of our patriots. That same spirit from which we, in this land, have caught our inspiration, has swept over the vine-clad hills of Italy, France, and Germany. Its spirit has been cherished in some but in others, it has been lost and tyranny still rules. Its heroes are dead. The voice of duty and liberty no longer animates the bosoms of their degenerate sons, no longer bids them break from the thralldom of despotism. The sun of disenthralled freedom is rapidly sinking in the West, and the mantle of death envelops them in chains, in tears, and in blood. Our liberty, once lost here, will be lost forever. In the language of Henry III, the chains which are intended to bind us are forging in the land of the Puritans. Shall we let the oppressors crush us? And plant his unhallowed heel upon our prostrated necks? Never! While the sun rises and sets, while the rain descends in refreshing showers, while the roses bloom in our valleys and on our hilltops, we will learn courage and honor from them, and like the phoenix rise from the ashes that strew the plains. If we prove recreant to these principles, if we must succumb with pusillanimity to the oppressor’s rod, grant that like Napoleon we may slumber on his storm beaten isle ‘dark and lone, amid the ocean’s everlasting lullaby.’ Liberty may be dear, freedom may be greatly denied, but when in them we see reflected the forms of those we love, the bright eyes and budding lips of those we but lately clasped to our breasts, the smiles of friends, and the approving blush of those who have plighted us their troth, will more than recompense us for the dangers by flood and by field. We will see them again in visions of the battlefield. Their forms will cheer us on our weary march and by the camp fires by night.”
Whatever might have been the nature of my oratory, I nevertheless joined the smiles and approbation of the females and their smiles will often turn a head stronger than my own. To gain their approval was as much a passion as that of glory, and one was flattered with the hope that should he return home armless or legless, the bright smile and laughing tongue would drive away care and more than replace the lost member by their care and solicitude. But how many were disappointed, painfully chagrined. But human nature is the same the world over and womenkind are fickle and coquettish. They are romantic. They dream of the heroism of the field, of the clattering carnage of the dying and the dead that blacken the field, and they picture their hero [unscathed] – a chevalier of beauty and grace. A stumpless arm or a wooden leg, a grim scar on the cheek or the forehead soon dispels the charm which their fancy had conjured up. What was love and imagination is suddenly cooled and turned into pity and compassion but nothing stronger or softer. Love never returns and her affections flitter about like the bee from flower to flower, and seeks another more favored by fortune. My affections had not been fixed upon any particular one, all were agreeable and pleasing, and one or two only that I selected as particular stars and whom had I been compelled to marry, I might have selected as my partner through life and sued for the bestowal of that which without compulsion I should have seen pass to others with no feelings of jealousy or a pang.
The colonel and his staff were ordered to a distant point on the river to superintend some fortifications and the drilling of recruits. It was not a point considered in immediate danger or one at all subject to any probable attack, but a point of rendezvous where stores and ammunition could be collected and where recruits could be instructed in tactics. My dreams heretofore had been filled with bright visions of the field before me, battlefields to be sure, with their blood and carnage, their black swollen bodies among which I rode unfearing and unscathed. A different picture was now presented to my dreaming sight. The night before we were to leave the city, I had nearly spent in completing my arrangements. I had not then acquired that military tact and expediteness which all such occasions require. The colonel had completed his arrangements and was in bed snoring long before I had half completed mine. But at last the work was done and I sat down wearied with the work, the brain toiled to get order out of so much irregularity. Such and such things were to be laid away and others to be taken with me for reference or study, such letters to be delivered, and such and such correspondents to be answered and others to be dropped. While thinking over these, I fell asleep in the old arm chair and did not awake until broad daylight when the stentorian voice of the colonel, “What! Sitting up all night” aroused me from my slumber. My sleep had not been tranquil nor refreshing and I yawned and rose from my inconvenient couch with more pain than pleasure, with more lassitude and drowsiness than when I took it several hours before. Consciousness brought back my dreams which were horrid.
Colonel Syberg was an old campaigner. He could sleep on the field, his arm for a pillow – which were to be the scenes of the morrow’s deadly conflict – as soundly as on the bed in his quiet house. But it was not so with me. Events were transpiring and the mine was building whose explosion would shake the world. Scenes, which I had never witnessed, when death or mangled body at least was the probable issue, scenes to be sure whose dreaming visions would infuse into the breast mortal order, and that other most brilliant of hopes, military renown, but these could not stifle the feelings that would arise before this visionary pageant could assume the outlines even of possibility, misery, sickness, or an ignominious death might start from this picture and become the reality. Of this nature were my dreams and so oppressive had they been that I arose gloomy and [with] a heavy weight upon my heart.
The band soon appeared and struck up the air which had been so much parodied but nevertheless national, which has been the cause of much sectional animosity, been the anthem to lead armies to victory, and degraded to fulfill the office of the “Rogue’s March.” This real military song, echoed by a thousand throats with the music of the band, and breakfast which soon followed, dispelled all the gloom that had settled upon me during my short and disturbed sleep. This change in my feelings was probably partly due to the stiff horn of brandy and sugar, which the Colonel had administered to me, and a flask, ribbed with willow twigs, he presented to me already filled remarking that such was a necessary accompaniment to the soldier and campaign. It was a rationalizer to hot brains, and took out the false heroics, and put one on his proper level.
The fictitious Sgt. Jim Sheridan, the whiskey-loving scion of Irish parentage.
We set off for the scene of our trials and labors on board of a steamboat without any escort or followers but one orderly, and he was an Irishman – true son of Erin’s Isle – jolly and mirthful, with no cowardly blood in his veins. He had one failing, which the best of men often possess, ministers of the gospel not excepted, and that was his love for the whiskey bottle, or rather its contents. Rotgut, strychnine, or The Killing at Forty Rods, was all the same to him and went down his throat with the same relish and gusto as if it had been the purest stuff ever manufactured in his native vales. Originally he had a rubicund face, and a rosy nose, but the deleterious mixtures he had of late years taken into his stomach, had taken the plumpness out of his face and the blushing tints from his nose, and left in their place a thin cadaverous countenance and a sharp and attenuated nose. But his spirits were unchanged. If his countenance showed sickness and long standing disease, the twinkle of the eyes, that peculiar light which belongs only to the naturally jolly or mirthful, immediately changed the first impression. Such a man was Jim Sheridan and we were happy in our selection. He always asserted and of course it must be true, that he was related to the great orator Sheridan. But I could see but little similarity except it might be a shade of the great comic writer’s wit had descended to this poor and whiskey-loving scion of Irish parentage. He possessed a kind of dry humor almost impossible to represent, a manner, and a look, a certain inflection of voice, which gave the turn and expression to his thoughts and witticisms, which I cannot describe.
Our passage down the river was rapid. At the various landings, crowds of men, women and children flocked down to hear the news from the capitol. I saw one herculean woodsman with a fur cap – a raccoon’s tale for its plume, a red shirt and deer-skin leggings, leaning on his rifle with a long bowie knife by his side – that knife which some of the battalions in some of the terrific infantry charges afterward knew so well how to use. He looked with a smile on the rabble about him. He smiled at their wonder. His whole life had been a campaign in the woods or sort of skirmish engagement or like the picket duties of the armies. The time was coming when such men would become necessary, where hardihood and courage were the requirement.
The farmers sons, tanned by the heat of sun and hardy from the labor of the plow, gentlemen sons just from school and college, city youths who never knew what labor was, all joined and flocked to the standard of the insurgents – healthy youths to be sure but from their habits and manner of living, seemed at first to be wholly unfit to contend with the hardier sons of the North. But the issue proved they were equal, if not superior, and at last were totally overthrown by numbers. Many of these never saw a field of battle, never heard the roar of cannon so delightful to warrior’s ears, [but were] stricken with disease of the camp, more fatal than the canister shot, [and] breathed out their life in an inglorious hospital [where they] were hurried away in an unadorned coffin without the firing of a platoon even over their hastily made graves. Mothers wept that their children had so ingloriously fallen, and fathers mourned that their offspring’s had not been stronger or more lucky. That backwoodsman, for I must return to him, as he is a specimen of a class who did good service and with whom at one time I was intimately connected – just such another person was John Harris or sergeant as his rank was, a scout who was afterward connected with staff duties along with the Colonel and myself. As he comes after, we will not introduce him here.
It was springtime when we steamed down the high river. The air was fresh, bracing and balmy. The leaves had put forth, and the sweet scented flowers just budding shed a fragrance delightful and ravishing to the senses, which only a southern clime can give. The sky was clear, but the clearest day may be followed by the deadliest of storms. Those were days to recall the mind back to youthful scenes and thin fondest memories, and it was with a feeling indescribable that I sat and viewed the passing scenery and mingled them with those of my youth – that home on the banks of a northern stream.
All was commotion and loud talking, ranting and cursing about liberty, and slavery, and bragging about one’s personal courage and heroism. Every town we stopped at had its crowds of eager citizens thirsting to believe them [capable of] military glory. The arsenals of the state, guarded by a few regular soldiers, had been taken by the armed citizens, accoutered in all sorts of arms and all sorts of uniforms. The fair bourges of Paris in the bloody Reign of Terror did not send forth a more motley band from their sinks of corruption and dens of vice. Many, it is true, were actuated with pure motives, honorable in thought and deed, but many, likewise, felt only the passion of hate [and] saw in the coming storms [the] means to defraud, to commit deeds of darkness and iniquity, and some who boasted loudly of their loyalty and courage shrunk like curs in the rear when called upon to help bear the burdens of the field. Their conscription followed. But this happened some time after these boys had flocked into towns and registered their names as members of companies of infantry, batteries, or squadrons of cavalry.
We at last arrived at our destination. A brigade or so had already accumulated there, but there was neither order nor discipline. They had not yet learned the duties of a soldier, nor the officers the power to enforce obedience. A private was on an equality with the Colonel. The majority, I have no doubt, were mere beardless boys. There was bustle and confusion worse than confounded. Jim remarked in his usual dry way,
“By Jasus, I wondher if the enemy intends to fight babies at all, the bludy canibals. Leftenant, ye’d better take off your regimentals and begun school at the top of the drum. There wuld be better sucking at the breast of their dear mamma’s they’ve left at home than be after shouldering a bayonet, and digging this dirty ground. A blind dog in the quarry is all the same.”
“Oh Jim, “ said the Colonel, “Vat you talk about, don’t you see dat they vill no schoot dese boys. Dey be shamed to schoot men shilden, den ve schoot him all de same. Do you know?”
“Ach,” said Jim with extreme disgust, “by the holy St. Patrick, ye’ll have to hire men to hold the musquets for them then shure.”
There was an order in the camp & much bustle. There were hucksters with vegetables, chickens and eggs, butter and milk, which they were dealing out in small quantities at enormous prices to the eager soldiers. They had not yet become used to a soldier’s hard fare and scanty rations, and had there been a candy shop and cake stall, they would have parted with their last dime, before they left a relic behind. The Colonel and myself and orderly Jim, being dressed in the full national uniform of the regular army, and the superior military air of the colonel attracted all eyes to us. Quarters had been already provided for us. Thither we pushed our way amid the astonished stare f the multitude. Once established, the orderly was sent to look about and find the commander, if any, of the forces. Jim soon came back and reported that he had asked several and they didn’t know.
But one more intelligent than the others, or better informed, told him,“It’s Square Flournoy, I reckon. They call him old ‘Fuss and Feathers’ but I reckon he makes as good a gineral as any one would. I used to work for him, I did.”
“And may I take the liberty,” queried Jim, “to ask your honor where that same Square Flournoy resides?”
The fellow looked somewhat astonished, and did not answer. Jim saw his dilemma, and immediately dropped from his heroics.
“Where may the Square be now?”
“Over there, “ said the man, pointing to a little house at the outskirts of a copse of wood.
Jim thanked him and was turning on his heal to depart when the man hollered to him and said, “Partner, you’d jest better look out right sharp for the Square keeps some damned bloody hounds about his place.”
Jim did not care a straw for bloodhounds and started for the place. He stalked boldly to the door and knocked, but the noise roused the canine animals from below the floor and they pitched for him. Jim was both a pugilist and a ring fighter. His legs were encased with strong and long cavalry boots, armed with long and powerful Mexican spurs. He kept the fierce animals at bay and finally sent them howling to their skulking place. As the door had not been opened during the fray, he opened it himself and walked in.
Brigadier General A. J. Flournoy -- the fictitious Fuss n' Feathers of Goodrich's imagination
The first room he entered was empty except here and there, hanging against the wall, were several chapeaus heavily ornamented with long and magnificent plumes, coats with magnificently shining epaulets, holsters and pistols, and sabers, and last – what could not escape the eyes of Jim – spurs, even as grand and extensive as his own. Indeed, spurs so large in proportion to common man, that when mounted upon ordinary steeds, both rider and horse would dwindle into comparative insignificance within those spurs. “Fuss and Feathers” shot through his mind and the application of the terms seemed well deserved. After pondering on these a few moments, he strode to the door on the other side and opened it.
There was a bevy of stripling officers dressed in a style to accommodate themselves to the gorgeous tastes of their chief, some lounging on settees, with their feet cocked, Yankee style upon the top of a chair, some smoking and others singing snatches of Dixie, while a Buck negro sat on a barrel in regimentals, as gaudy as the others, playing “Yankee Doodle” on a crazy fiddle. Old Fuss and Feathers had issued an order from his headquarters declaring that to be played for the Rogue’s March. The ebony performer was endeavoring to get the hang of the thing. But I doubt if in the strains his eye caught even a faint glimpse of freedom, for there was no inspiration in his gaze, not prophetic wisdom to flow from his lips.
It might have been a General’s Headquarters, but Jim could discover no desk or writing materials. All orders must have been given by word of mouth. There was silence when Jim entered, all eyes turned toward him. He presented to their eyes an entirely new style of cavalier. Jim was mannerly. He threw himself into his best military attitude and performed his best salute. His native tact carried him through.
“Gentlemen and fellow soldiers, “ Jim began. “I was told that Square Flournoy commanded these men about here, and that he put up at these quarters. Being in search of the same honorable gentleman, I took the bould liberty of coming to all here, but I came damned near committing bloody murder before getting in.”
“Murder! How’s that?” shrieked out a beardless youth and small of statue, who looked as if he was unwell from smoking his first cigar.
“Oh, your bloody dogs came on me like a charge of wild cavalry and I, like a good soldier and a good Catholic, could not do otherwise than sustain the assault. It isn’t in the Colonels – that’s my chief – and the little leftenant – that’s our ad-de-geng, as they call him, and Jim Sheridan – that’s meself – I say it isn’t in our tactics at all to retreat before a flying enemy, and I charged your bloody bull dogs and sent them flying dead and wounded, howling and yelping like the devils in hell underneath your honorable quarters.”
A man then got up from a bunk and stretched himself up, rather tall, several inches above Jim even, grizzled head of shock hair with a girth of paunch truly amazing. He spoke in a tone which intended to be majestic.
“I am that person whom my beloved followers, from their devotion and love and veneration call me by the old familiar title of Square Flournoy. Understand sir, that my rank and title is Brigadier General A. J. Flournoy.”
Pat interrupted, “And who may he be they call Old Fuss and Feathers? And is that an endearing term attached to any high qualities of command in the person they are applied to?”
This remark caused some to giggle and others to groan. But the General hushed it with a snap of his fingers.
“Young man, “ he began, “I, Brigadier General A. J. Flournoy, am that same person whom my men out of pure regard call Old Fuss and Feathers. You see I am strict to live up to the regulations. If we are soldiers, we are not farmers. If we are warriors, we are not gay gallants treading in the misty rounds of the ____ dance. If we are brave and noble officers, we are no longer mere men to be talked to and addressed like others, but immeasurably lifted above all in uniform. We must have a badge of distinction, and when that badge makes a man look better, who is to blame? For myself, there is not a more warlike personage than myself when uniformed and mounted. I am the delight and wonder of my men. The only cause of serious complaint than I can make is the want of looking glasses sufficiently large enough for me to see satisfactorily my whole form tout ensemble, at one glance. I am compelled to look, if I look at all, at individual and separate ports, and I see just enough to aggravate me and long to see more. When on my charge, I have no doubt that I would make a capitol model for an equestrian statue, like that they have down in New Orleans of Washington or Clay, or somebody else. What think you, Charley?” checking a youth under the chair who appeared to be his A.A.G. and Chief of Staff.
Charley, if he was no fool, had been in the General’s service long enough to understand his foibles and he was beginning a panegyric which might have had no end, as he was extremely voluble and delighted to hear himself talk rather than listen to others if Jim had not cut him short.
“Well, your honor, it is my duty and I am deputized to perform the same to your face and in your presence, and duty I have heard it said by wiser men than myself, and I am no fool…”
The youthful chief of staff, assuming a patronizing air, “I suppose you wish to volunteer with us?”
“Devil a bit saving your honor’s presence,” said Jim, “I am the escort for some gentlemen who wish to see you, I believe on particular business, but what that may be you will find out when you see them.”
“Show them in by all means,” said the general. “I will be happy to see them.”
Jim retreated but he had not performed the half of his business. The note from these Headquarters requesting Brig. Genl. A. J. Flournoy to report to these Headquarters immediately, signed A. Syberg, Col. Engineer’s Corp, had not been delivered, nor had he mentioned it. Brig. General Flournoy was only a militia general. Though they had some authority at first, they were all broke, and officers were appointed by the general government. Fuss and Feather’s authority was annulled. He had no more right to command than one of his privates. My colonel was to take supreme command and Fuss was to return from the field of his peacock glory.
Jim returned to our quarters and he told such a pitiful story of his fight with the bull dogs that we believed he had not performed his commission. Our arrangements were completed. We sauntered in the direction of Feather’s quarters with Jim with his jangling spurs performing an nu tuned diapason at his heels. We were lucky to find the vain-glorious militia general at his door with his extensive staff, all dressed in the extreme of military fashion of the other days — a style which had now come to be considered both foppish and useless. The colonel, I believe, had seen the general some years before but whether he did or not, he walked up to him exclaiming:
“How do you do ole Square Flournoy? Happy to see you looking so well. Ah ha! The old uniform on, Ve do vase not any more.”
“But I look well in it, don’t I?” asked the general.
“You look very well considering that you are a got tam schlect narr.”
It was well that the general did not understand German, but as it was, he took this as a compliment and asked us to come in. We were shown into the apartment which Jim had but lately quitted and took seats on settees. The general took out a box in the corner, a tall black bottle and a leaky gourd and asked us if we would take something. The colonel began but half of the liquor leaked out before getting to his throat. The operation was several times performed before he thought he had taken a sufficient dram. I saw how much liquor had been wasted and declined to take any. The general was going to put the bottle away when Jim called out:
“I say, Square, just pass that potun over this way. My throat needs watering.”
“There’s water out there in the bucket,” said the youthful chief of staff.
“Divil a bit of water for me, but saving the presence of these gentlemen here, I think that a bit of that same water would not hurt you.” Jim took the bottle and discarded the gourd. His voice was stopped in the supped gurgles which followed. He had nearly taken a pint.
The general then said, “I suppose, gentlemen, you wish to join my command. None better in the field. Men hearty and well drilled, officers intelligent and gentlemanly, duty light and plenty of rations, and I don’t think we will have a chance to show our courage in the field for some time — and that I like, for I would not prefer to have my splendid uniform riddled by the enemy bullets, though my men are spoiling for a fight. Come, join us. You will not find a better, and probably you may all get a corporal’s commission if you understand the tactics properly, but by the way, they are the dog-gondest stuff that I ever tried to learn.”
The colonel said that he did not intend to join his command, but – he was going on to explain in what manner, but the general did not give him time. I jumped up, overturning the barrel upon which I sat and grasping the colonel by the hand, the bottle was again introduced, and all were requested to join in the toast, “To the recruit!”
The gourd was entirely dispensed with and a succession of gurgles followed by an intermission which was caused by the passing of the bottle from one to the other, indicated that the toast was largely drank, if not so well relished by some of the party. As Jim afterward remarked, “Nobody but a rale downright ninny, a braying, muling jackass, could have mistaken us for mere soldiers, our uniforms for those of a privates, a divil of a bit of common sense had that same equine or Gineral Fuss with the feathers to him.”
Jim was about right. The cloud was arising which was to burst with a thunder clap. The colonel was only playing, like a cat with the mouse, it intends soon to strangle. The strangulation followed, but death was not an early process.
We were invited to accompany the general and staff to visit the works. If his uniform was one of the general’s hobbies, his earth embankments, which he called fortifications, were another. They were his pets. But all I could see was a bank of earth about ten feet high and two or three thick, so steep on the inner side where his own soldiers were to be placed that it was impossible to get over without the assist of scaling ladders, while the outer side exposed to the enemy was so sloping that nothing was presented to obstruct its ascent. Certainly the general had mistaken the position in which the enemy would come & cut off his own retreat except in the bosom of the river. His flanks were open and unprotected. I saw a sardonic smile on the dark and weather beaten face of the German Kentucky colonel who had at least seen the fortifications of the great Friedrich and knew something of his tactics, had been at the storming of Monterey and Acapulco, and I never forgot the smile and its expression of utter contempt.
There was once a general in the Mexican War who was ordered to fortify and threw up his embankments on the wrong side of his force. Fuss & Feathers must have been of some kin to that illustrious person. The Colonel passed over the works in silence. With a glance he saw the prominent features of the position and how it could be made an impregnable point.
The general said, “Come, it’s time for parade.” Just then we heard a base drum beating to a military step. The men were running hither and thither. In about a half hour, the brigade was in double line, as straight as a letter “g.” The brigade numbered about three thousand boys and a few men scattered here and there, like school masters amid his selected flock. There was a platform in front of the line about ten or a dozen feet in height reached by a ladder. The general and staff marched thither. We all mounted the platform and stood facing the long line.
“Magnificent!” the general exclaimed. I glanced along the line. Some were sitting down, their firelocks by their side, some held them at shoulder arms, or trail, in all imaginable positions. Some were smoking and eating. I saw one captain with the point of his sword sticking in the ground, a huge pie in his left hand, at which he had taken a bite and the crescent edges extended from ear to ear. Maple sugar and slop bear had been introduced extensively in the camp, and then deleterious effects were witnessed in the stooping forms of several. A little way to the rear. I was lost in astonishment looking at these irregularities when I was aroused by the stentorian voice of the general:
“Come to order, gentlemen. Come to order!” he bawled out like a strained stump speaker. Those eating slipped the relics of their hurried feast into their pockets and lazily took their places. A quarter of an hour was consumed in this task, at which general looked with all the complacency and benignity of a father at his frolicsome children. Captains, lieutenants, sergeants and corporals stood in front. The general then called out, “Present arms!” Some did, others did not. It was a mixed affair. “Shoulder muskets!” followed with a like success. Then the general was somewhat at a loss. He scratched his head. The chief of staff whispered to him. “Oh yes, I have it now” I heard the general say. “Advance behind four steps, front row.” The evolution was being formed amid confusion and laughter and oaths, before it was completed and the general called out, “Stop boys. Get into two rows and do that over again better.”
Root Hog or Die
Just then the band coming up and forming into line on the far right blurted out in the soul inspiring and intensely military air, “Root hog or die.” Some of the the youth laughed immoderately. The general waxed most. He yelled out, “Helloo you thar, stop that dog goned noise or I’ll have every one of you court martialed. I’ll be damned if I don’t!”
Order was somewhat restored. The general ordered then, “First rank, forward march, double quick four feet just!” It was performed satisfactorily to him it seemed for some took their position as if they were dragging a ton of iron behind them. He followed, “Hind rank, do the same!” Then was a collision and a mixture worse than confounded, as the rear rank had gone the short distance at a charging pace and upset many of them in the front and sent them sprawling and their bayonets clattering to the ground.
The general did not seem to notice the disorder. In fact, the excitement of the parade, or the whiskey he had drunk, had somewhat discomfuddled his brain. Waving his hands high over his head he exclaimed at the top of his voice, “Bravo! My boys. Hurray for the men of the First Brigade.” No sooner said than a most unmitigated yell arose, the juvenile notes of the majority being mingled with the more manly screech of the elders.
The cry was raised, “Give us a speech, old dad.”
“Blow away old Fuss!”
“Shake your tail old feathers” mingled with the others not very complimentary, “Damnation, the old porpus is drunk!”
He would have made a speech if his chief of staff had not dissuaded him from his purpose. His voice was again heard above the din. “Order arms. Break ranks. G-e-t-t.” and the band at that moment striking up, “I Had a Little Nigger” ended the glorious parade.
The colonel waited till tomorrow to open his communication. He wished to let the general sleep one one more night deluded with the unfounded belief that he was a great warrior. From the pinnacle upon which he was lifted to day to the filthy dust the fall was to precipitate, and the shock might effect him too much. He did not dislike the appellation of Fuss and Feathers, content that under the cover of these names, the genius which was to make him famous in military science should lie concealed and wait for the proper occasion for exertion. But most probably he did not dream that there was any reproach in the terms. Vanity shuts the eyes of persons to their own faults and seals them against the criticism and connections of others, and what is worse, always turns the ridicule of others into contempt or to their own praise and glory.
We passed the evening with the general in his quarters and I found that he loved the bottle about as well as his uniforms. The colonel drew him on to see if he possessed any adequate ideas concerning the military character. He had ideas certainly, but divested of their Faustian garb, they degenerated into chimerical nonsense. The chief of staff was very gracious to me. He, in a sort of confidential way unbosomed himself to me. He was scarcely twenty, he said, and I thought he was scarcely fifteen. He had volunteered in a country company, when people were so thinly scattered that the whole company could not meet to drill before it joined its regiment. A platoon came together. “I was astonished,” he said, “with the number and thought we could do great things when we came together in the company. I believed we could go any where, when we all came together in the regiment and brigades. I thought then that we could whip everything before us — our enemies and the whole world.”
He was right, to the untutored and every body else, a great concourse of people, especially when all dressed alike and armed with bristling and glistening bayonets, a large drove of cattle, or a herd of buffalo on the western prairie or a flock of wild geese on the wing reaching with its flanks the opposite poles of the heavens, are all production of the like sentiments.
The general was very communicative on many topics. On the general history of war and warriors, he could expotrate with more effect than on the realities that were present. The colonel had made some remarks on the great military talents of Alexander, Caesar, and Napoleon, and that the first and the last were comparatively young men when they made their greatest victories. The names were enough to call up some remnants of stump speeches and the general broke loose, “Strange as it is never the less it is true, that we find in historical personages caprice and anomaly. For instance, take the two gentlemen you have mentioned, but more particularly Brutus and Napoleon, who carried on such grand exploits together, who swept over the fertile plains of Africa, devastating as well as irrigating the earth with the blood of Asiatic nobles, and when at last they stood together on the banks of the Ganges, like Moses of old when he viewed the promised land, from Pisgah’s height extending their arms aloft to high Jupiter above, Brutus exclaimed in the voice of concentrated eloquence, “The die is cast.” Mark that moment of silence which followed, deep, long and awful, when Napoleon cried in accents whose pathos and originality have never been surpassed, “Et tu Brutus?”
The general was red in the face and out of breath. Then was silence. He took a drink and changed the subject. “They say,” he continued, “that my plumes are a turkey’s. So be it.” And he brought his fist with a tremendous thwack down upon the settle that it knocked off the back and bloodied his hand. “The turkey is a glorious bird. Others can fly more swiftly, others can sing more sweetly, and others scream more loudly, but what other bird of the sylvan forests or the grassy plain, of the entangled valley or precipitous hills, has more domestic qualities than the turkey? What other bird can you find that is more the friend and companion of man, the rich man, and the poor man than the turkey. Yes, I am proud to wear the plumes of the turkey, if it is not the emblem of our country, it should be!”
Some one hesitatingly suggested that the eagle was the national emblem. The general was visibly indignant. He turned all colors but white, and blurted out, “Hush up! I do despise any one that is so ig’nant. I say it is the turkey and nothing but a turkey. If it ain’t a turkey, I’ll eat it.” The affair did not seem to be settled as one suggested that it was a goose as it had not any wattles. “How is that general, turkey’s have wattles and there are no wattles on the figure or picter? Well then they forgot to put ‘em in, or they were cut off.”
The thing seemed to be fairly settled now on all sides, and as it was growing late, the colonel, myself, and Jim bid them good night and wandered back to our quarters for the night. I slept well, and soundly. A soldier’s life was getting to be somewhat accustomed to me. The colonel and Jim did, for I arose before day[break] and both were still snoring. Having dispatched our breakfast, being composed of such poultry and early vegetable as was exposed for sale by the huckster vendors. We sat off to perform the duties of the day and assume command.
The Colonel showed the General his orders, which commissioned him to take command of the forces rendezvoused at this point, and that the so-called General A. J. Flournoy no longer has any any right or authority to command the post, and the authority which created him a general of militia has no longer any force or character in the premises, and that he give unmolested position to Colonel A[rnold] S[yberg], the within named person, by order of the President and Sectretary of War. the general would not believe it. He stormed and swore, and cursed the president and every body else. He swore he would lead out his men and fight the whole nation, he’d be damned if he didn’t. It was outrageous that a man of his standing should be broke, yes a man of his iniversal genius should be cashiered and another take his place whom he supposed nothing more that a recruit was preposterous and highly indignant. Yes, by dash. I’ll kill their pig for them, I will. The boys won’t fight under anyone but myself. I’ll tell them not to, by dash. He ordered his adjutant to go out and order the men on parade. The Brigade was assembled. he donned his full regimentals and mounted the platform in front of the line. He made a speech in which anger and vituperation and his own praise were intermingled that I believe the boys were glad when he was done and that he had been superseded. They retired without even a cheer. The General felt it and his vanity was considerably cut down by the omission. He was going to see the President in person and that afternoon he took passage on a boat down the river with all his barn yard feathers, his gamecock gloves, and his showy staff of un-bearded youth. Fuss and Feathers was never more heard of in military history. He was disappointed in reaping military honors and retired to the seclusion of his domestic hearth to cultivate with paternal kindness turkeys and such other birds which he loved so well.
We found the Brigade with a disposition to become soldiers, but completely demoralized from the effects of bad government. the men knew nothing of the tactics and their officers not much more. We had to begin with the officers to teach them something before we could have a respectable squad drill even. It was a laborious task but at last we had the satisfaction to know that we had the best drilled brigade on the river. Colonel A. S. commanded the Brigade all the summer with only the rank of a colonel, and myself — his aid — with only the rank of a lieutenant, and that at a time when brigades and major generals were as thick and plentiful as blackberries, or the persimmons in our native woods.
The summer lengthened on apace. The Manassas battle had been waged and the foe repulsed. Springfield had become celebrated and General Lyons had spent his blood in the cause he espoused. We had been moved farther up the river to a far stronger fortified place, at Columbus — a place so well fortified that we could not be dislodged by any attack by any numbers however great. How the Colonel was attached to the staff of General Polk, and I was enrolled as a supernumerary aid-de-camp. Our entire Brigade was encamped on the opposite side of the river. The enemy, desirous of bringing on a battle, moved down the river with their armament and attacked us with his gunboats and a superior land force in our unprotected camp. The gunboats could do but little injury as our heavy pieces of artillery at Columbus could sweep the river for miles, and kept the gunboats not then so impregnable as they were hereafter.
I was dispatched to the scene of battle with orders when it first began. It was a bold measure of the part of the Federal Commander. It was his design to capture the troops encamped there and thence form a nucleus wherein he could annoy us at Columbus. the river at this point was thickly studded with heavy timber and thick undergrowth. The Brigade that sustained the assault of the enemy and finally drove them up the river was the Colonel’s, and mostly composed of boys and young men, but persons who had been used to the sports of the field, the rifle and the shotgun. Their ardor and zeal stood them in place of physical endurance. As soon as the enemy had secured a landing commenced the assault. the boys were ordered to make a charge which they did with hurrahs and yells which helped to render the shock when the two armies met to be insupportable to the enemy. It was the first battle I ever was in, and thought it was but a skirmish compared to later ones in which I was a participant, yet I felt the emotions of the occasion to the utmost. I was burning with ardor and most probably would have been slain in the first struggle had I not been restrained by the strict order from the commanding general not in any way to expose my person.
There was a Regiment lately attached to the Brigade which had received the sobriquet of the Louisiana Tigers and it well deserved the name. It was composed entirely of the rough and unsettled rovers of the river, the almost villains of the cities. They were all arrived to maturity and all wore heavy whiskers to a man. The Regiment reminded me of Campbell’s “whiskered randour” or the wilder Cossack of the Don. They generally carried bowie knives, more to cut their meat and eat with than for any other purpose. One day in a frolic they practiced throwing them and lodging them in a tree a rod or so distant. This practice done more as a past-time, was followed up finally with zeal, and the knife could be sent with almost unerring aim to its object. there was a preacher in this Regiment and if he never uttered an oath the sound of them was familiar. He was the chaplain and though the men did not respect his calling, they had great respect for him.The regiment in the charge got far in advance of their fellows. The enemy was protected in a heavy woods. The Tigers rushed in upon them, the parson keeping up with them, sometimes leading and hurrahing. They were received by the Federals crouching behind fallen timber with a terrific and deadly broadside. They staggered for a moment, and rushed on with demonic yells. They rushed upon the enemy and fought hand to hand. Many were more familiar with the use of the bowie knife than the bayonet, and dropping the latter, they grappled hand to hand. The parson had received a would in the arm, but brandishing a sword in the other he rushed on with the others. Above the din could be heard his voice, “Give ‘em hell, boys! Give them hell.” His profanity was not noticed until the excitement of the battle was over. That charge drove the enemy from their position and they retreated. We had advanced several miles from our first position and suspecting an ambush, order was given to discontinue the pursuit. The good effects of this battle were incalculable. The enemy gave up entirely of forcing an opening down this river. They were foiled in their attempt. I received the approbation of the general, though I had done nothing but obey his orders strictly and was made his aid-de-camp and my name was forwarded for promotion, and it was a long time coming though it came at last.
This little battled infused courage and ardor in the soldiers, and besides entire confidence in their officers. Most of the men who fought and commanded were entirely ignorant of the literature and the art of war. Few, if any, of the officers were military graduates. What they had learned was gt at the moment. There is always something to be condemned in our troops, neither undergoing the fatigue of long marches, nor standing with fortitude to their duties on the field. Their initiation in this case deserved all the praise which belongs to veterans. That Brigade, though decimated, all its original regimental officers laid low on battle fields, retained its name, participated in the battles of Island No. Ten, Shiloh, and Chickamauga, and the few men of the old Brigade who were spared out of their number, before separating for their respective homes after the surrender, met and drank a health to the first officers who had first taught them the art of war. The tost and thanks were forwarded to the Colonel and myself. The youths had grown into whiskered, hardy and sunbrowned men. The life and activity and hardships of the campaign had developed their muscles and they had attained such a knowledge of the world and men as few who have not weathered it through long years of war, disease, and the bullets blast, ever acquire.
The fictitious Lieut. P. Q. Rector - a member of First Families of Virginia
Better prospects were open to me. Without vanity, I knew that I possessed military ability, though it might be small. And as for personal courage, I knew I had a proper share, for I had tried myself in that. Sometime before the battle opposite Columbus, there was a Virginian of the same rank as myself connected with the staff on active duty. He was a pompous, vain aristocrat. He prided on his descent from the F.F.V.’s [First Families of Virginia], and took occasion to snub all those whom he though beneath him in social rank. We got along very well at first, until I grew tired and disgusted with his vanity and self adulation. My dislikes I cannot, unless with a great effort, keep concealed from the object disliked. He noticed the change in my behavior and then he commenced exercising the diabolic spirit he possessed. He had ample opportunities to wreak his revenge upon me as I was but a supernumerary. This petty tyranny was not permitted to pass unnoticed by eyes which I did not suspect were observing the facts, and they were those of the general himself.
At last this grew so provoking that I could not put up with it. No man of spirit would. I took occasion to remonstrate with the man, but with no effect. He said I was at his command, below him in fact, in rank, though my commission was dated before his, and he meant to harass me as much as he was able. I asked him why. “I hate you,” he hissed out as if he could wish then to destroy me by his envenomed sting. I told him he would repent soon of having angered me too far. I did not know what to do and did not wish to be implicated in a disgraceful squabble, and I resolved to bear uncomplaining rather than incur any disgrace, but I was not permitted to do this. This lieutenant, whose name was Rector, spread about that I was an arrant coward and a poltroon and he even went so far as to speak disparagingly of me to the general. But he did not know whether he had made any impression or not. The friends of Rector had secured him his situation — it was not from any ability on his part. He was a fine looking person and could ride a horse well. Those were his only qualifications. he had that sort of courage which hate and selfishness give, in higher sentiments ever reposed in his bosom.
It soon came to my ear that he had called me a coward and such like terms. Jim was with me. He had exercised toward me a fatherly interest. He cursed Rector with all the venom of his Irish eloquence. Jim suggested the idea of shooting him, in fair play. I did not choose to be the trespassing party. Taking Jim as a witness, I repaired to the room of Rector, and accused him of the language he had used. He snarlingly replied that he did use those words and he would not have used them had he not seen that they were exactly appropriate. His sneer offended me more than his words. I walked up to him and seizing him by his mustache, and holding him firmly in his seat, I uttered with all the wrath concentrated in my voice, “You damned coxcomb. You are a liar” and I spit in his face. “Take that, and dare to call me coward again.” One or two of his boon companions were in the room but my action was so sudden that I had taken them by surprise. I retired to my quarters expecting every moment to hear from him. The next day one of his friends brought me a note. It was penned in evident agitation, but the insult he could not pass un-resented, after what he had said. He was obliged to challenge me. If I had a bad opinion of him before, it was still lessened by the note I received neither elegantly worded nor correctly spelled. It was in these words:
Sir,
I am compelled to treet in a proper maner the insult you offered to my dignity a few days since. I have waited this length of time hopping that you would have seen the folly and disrespect of your action and sent me a propper appology for your strange and unwarrantable conduct. But as you have failed to make this amende honorable, I shall take the liberty to challenge you to fight. The bearer of this note is my second, and with whom can ast. — P.Q. Rector, Lieut. A.A.D.
I requested the person to remain seated till my return as I wished to look for my second. I repaired to Col. Syberg immediately, related the occurrence, and asked him what to do. “Fight him, of course. I’ll be your second.” We returned and I sat down and penned the following note. If I had felt gloomy, my spirits were revived by the pleasant manner of the Colonel.
Lieut. P. Q. Rector, Sir,
I have received your note of today. You do me injustice to suppose that I intended to apologize for my conduct. Do you think, sir, that I would stoop to ask forgiveness of the viper that I crushed for endeavoring to sting me? I accept your challenge. Colonel Syberg is my second and to him I leave the arrangement of my share of the transaction. Herbert Leland, Lieut. & A.D.C.
A Duel at Sunrise, by Artist Fred Ray
The seconds met. The arrangements were completed. We were to meet on the morrow before sunrise at a point on the river two miles below, with pistols — Navy six shooters — with two loads at a distance of ten paces, with the privilege of shooting the second if neither were touched in the first fire. The morning was grey and chilly. The Colonel mixed me a strong brandy toddy. We met. Rector fired just a moment before the word was given. I heard the ball whiz and a tingling sensation at the tip of my ear. Angered at this diabolical manner, I raised my pistol and fired. rector fell to rise no more. He had got his deserts, and when I thought I would be disgraced, I again received the approbation of the General.
I cannot look back to those days with any feeling of regret, especially to that duel. It is true a man’s blood is on my hands, but he himself brought about the means for his own destruction. His passions wove the net in which he was fatally entangled. I knew that I was in the right. I had strong and sufficient provocation in doing what I was that morning but I felt sad and oppressed after. The deed was done, but this gloominess was soon dispelled by the congratulations of my friends. I had put the end to epithets coward and poltroon in the most effective way and I was praised for my courage and firmness, my good eye and correct shot. And after receiving the notice of the General in such a marked manner, I became a hero in their eyes from that day. My part in the battle which followed only strengthened the outlines of the character they had attached to me. I heard some of the vulgar say, who were canvassing my actions, that I could not be hit. But I did not want them to try it. These remarks strengthened the impression with me ad probably made me bolder, if not rasher, but in action my thoughts were quick and resolution taken, and plans formed the rapidity of thought. This quality had saved me in many times of trouble and brought me safe from difficulties which seemed almost insurmountable.
The boys in the camp were terribly attacked with disease. It was not a healthy point and a more congenial location was sought for to which the sick and wounded could be sent. There were enough to load several large steam boats. I was sent in charge of them down the river. The whole boat was turned into a hospital and that too of the worst class, and most filthy vermin were not less plentiful. The stench was overpowering and insupportable. This was the most grievous task I had to perform, and instead of a pleasure, it became my disgust and abhorrence. The men lay on the floor of the cabin and deck wrapped in their blankets and the night and day war filled with our continual bedlam of groans, screams, and coughing. It was dangerous to walk across the deck, climbing over the prostrate bodies and slipping on the phlegm that literally covered it. Hell, one said, was a paradise to this. Words cannot adequately describe the scene. There were two thousand huddled together on this boat which was none of the largest. We were two days on the river and no food of any sort was prepared or given to the men, nor medicine administered to the sick and almost dying. I thought at the time that my duty there rather belonged to a surgeon than to a lieutenant and an aide, but I never would again purchase a furlough at such a price. At last we arrived at the point on a bluff appointed for the hospital and disembarkation began. It was late at night before all were comfortably stowed away in their respective wards. Ambulances or carriages of any sort had to be procured from the Quarter Master and they were more lager to fill their own pockets than to attend to the wants of the sick. As I was fully commissioned to order and arrange, I did it with some spirit. When I saw that they were inclined to be dilatory, I wished to get rid of my charge. I was sick at the sight. I often wished that I could dip them all into the waters of the river and wash them clean. I returned to my bed late at night weary and heart sick. I arose in the morning somewhat refreshed, but I could not dispel that feeling which the scenes before had raised.
The fictitious Capt. H.E. Handers -- college chum and classmate of Lt. Leland
At the breakfast table, I saw a young man in the uniform of a cavalry officer. His countenance was familiar, except his whiskers and long black mustache. The sight gradually called up memories of older days, and I soon recognized my classmate and chum in college, H.E. Hander. The last that I had heard of him he was attending medical lectures in the city of New Orleans and I thought a surgeon’s uniform was more natural than a cavalry man’s. He had not noticed me. I did not gaze at him, but glanced occasionally to see if he had noticed me. He left the breakfast room before I had half finished my meal, but as I was not hungry, I rose soon after and followed. He was standing at the bar looking over some cigar as he used to do. I walked up and slapped him on the shoulder and said, “Hello old chum, up to your college tricks of trying to [get] the best cigar in the whole pack?” He jumped as if struck or pinched. “Damnation, Herbert, is that you?” and he grasped my hand with an old fashined tug. We were both society men and we exchanged “the friendly grip.” “Well, I thought you was on the other side,” H. said. I answered, “And I thought you would have been a doctor.” “I am a Captain in a cavalry regiment and I prefer that to a surgeon’s commission.” “I am First Lieutenant and Aid-de-Camp to General Polk, with every prospect in the world for promotion.”
He called for something to drink. I said not right after breakfast. Any time, he said. If you were a cavalry man, you would soon learn to take what you wanted whenever you could get it. We are not in college now and we can’t cultivate any such finical tastes. A soldier eats when he fights and sometimes fights for what he eats, eats lying down, or in his saddle and his stomach never gets so disarranged so that he cannot stand a horn even after breakfast. My scruples were overcome, and we sat down to drink peach brandy and talk over old times, and more particularly the present, and the prospects before us. He had heard of the duel I had fought but he never suspected that Leland, the victor, was his old chum and classmate. I learned this with satisfaction, that his regiment would be attached to General Polk’s command and his Company as Polk’s body guard. This was an agreeable piece of news to me. I knew that there would be two, at least, of tried friends near me, Col. S. and Capt. Handers. The latter, I knew, would stand by me through thick and thin, as we had already done in more cases than one when we had been engaged in college antics which deserved expulsion if the culprits could have been found out.
Capt. H. and I took a troll over to town. I was glad that I had taken the furlough even with its drawbacks. I resolved to enjoy my short respite to the full in company with my friend. Our light potations had made us light-hearted and merry. We felt as if the years had been taken away and we trod again the College Green with buoyant spirits and bright hopes. We were the only two out of our class who were engaged in the cause we had espoused. Where were the others? What of our possibility of meeting in circumstances, though opposed to each other, where friendship would be put to the test, or generosity and forbearance demanded on the occasion. They were conjectures, nor did we think any would be realized.
We strolled over town visiting the hospitals, and seeing the men that I had the charge of. The ladies were very attentive to their wants. In every ward I saw these angels of mercy ministering to the wants of the sick and the wounded. Every one was filled with heavy, lazy, and loutish stewards, ward masters and nurses, much better fitted and more able for the field than many who shouldered their muskets and marched over prairie, morass and thicket. Like others, they wished to exercise their full authority and enjoy their better and easier lot, their superior table fare unmolested and unseen by the common herd over which they had control. There was a steward of the principal hospital who…had pained on the top of a box and placed over the door to his domain — that is the kitchen: “No patience aloud in the cooke room. If they air, they shall be expelled, signed Robinson, Stewart, C.S.A.”
I said I saw some angels of mercy visiting the sick. I do not, nor can say that all the women were such angels. Some, it is true, hated the name of Yankee and puritan with demonic hate. There was no compassion, no pity in the flames that glowed with increasing fury in their breasts. They were those who under a beautiful exterior concealed the devil beneath, those whom a man may love for their personal charms, but soon learn to hate after marriage when his passion is satisfied, and he looks for fondness and reciprocal love, he finds but coldness, selfishness, and ungovernable temper. Their vengeance was deeper and stronger than affection. They would gladly see their offspring fall in the struggle even if it did not purchase the redemption they sought, but had wreaked vengeance and destruction on particular persons. Such women — I cannot call them ladies — had visited the hospitals and left their full oder behind.
Capt. H. and I stood by the bed side of a boy, but who had acted manfully in the last fight. He was a generous, modest youth, whom I had taken a liking to from the first when Col. S. had assumed command at the rendezvous camp. He was eager to learn the duties of a soldier and as scrupulous in their performance. he moved wit the stoical indifference which older ones might envy. But he had been stricken by disease in the camp and it was necessary to remove him. He would rather die in camp than leave his comrades. he became gloomy and his disease which would have yielded to rest and quiet, was augmented by his impatience to rejoin his messmates. We were talking to him, cheering him up as well as we could, promising to visit him every day as long as we remained in town, and that he should return with us if the doctor thought expedient.
The fictitious young nurse who accused the sick soldiers of "playing off."
We heard the rustling of silk behind us, and turning, we saw a beautiful woman approaching. Our hats were lifted with a soldier’s politeness and military courtesy. She approached the bedside and ejaculated, “Oh, how young!” “But he makes a good soldier, Madam” I said. “So they all say, but the majority wish they were at home sitting in their mother’s lap.” “Madam, you do many of our bravest and best men injustice.” She did not reply, but looking at the flushed cheek of the boy, that fever glow which she mistook for ruddy health, she said, “I don’t believe that half are so sick as they pretend. they are playing off. I have not seen a downright sick person in the house, and here is one I am sure is nt sick except homesick and sick of camp, and afraid of being shot. He is playing off.” “Excuse me Madam, but by leave to differ from you most damnably.” I grasped Capt. H. by the arm and pulled him away. The lads eyes were turned with astonishment upon the woman. He had raised himself upon his elbows when she began and gazing at her a moment with wild eyes, it seemed with the determination to recollect her he fell back on his pillow with a sigh. The woman was astonished. She had evidently missed her mark. But she would not recall it by a word of excuse. I don’t know whether she thought I was very impolite or not nor did I care. If I had been compelled to remain by her I should have insulted her more and thereby had another affair on my hands, either with her brother, lover, or husband. She was young and in the bloom of health. Six years after [this incident], I saw her but she did not recognize me. The form was emaciated, the color had fled from her cheek, the fullness from her lips and the luster from her eyes. Had she suffered as they had whom she accused of playing off, I wondered. I did not seek to know her or to enquire. I had seen suffering enough not to be excited to pity or compassion even by the tears of a lovely woman when she had done so much which could excite neither admiration nor respect. There was no bond of union to draw us together, no chord in our natures which would beat in unison. She might be for ought I knew, like the viper which decays by the venom it had distilled for others, and was pining away because her personal hate and vengeance had not been completely satiated. A long walk and the conversation of H. restored me to my usual equanimity. Nothing had been said of the occurrence, but when retiring for the night H. merely said, “Women have some damned queer ideas. If she had kept her mouth shut, I should have fallen in love with her and in all probability asked her to marry me before the day was over, provided she was not already married.” “Yes,” I replied, “the more beautiful they are, the less able are we to comprehend them. I suppose our passions are excited and our reason and judgment less clear and decided than when we do not have such a vision of flesh and blood floating before our eyes and a pretty girl.”
At that time the southern theatres were at their height wherever there was any force. The halls were crowded with officers and men and beautiful women. The star was a general favorite. She sang the national anthem with ardor enthusiasm. Officers loved the actresses, and they reciprocated that unsanctioned love. Women fell in love with the actors and boldly solicited the opportunity to gratify and satiate that passion. Middle aged matrons whose time and nuptial joys had not diminished the glowing flames, again felt the fires burning which the bed of the honeymoon had partially subdued and they like the looser ones enjoyed the stolen roses with no more danger of the thorns than they. Many a liaison began in the gallery box and consummated that very night. Many maidens once fair, were so no longer. The retreat of the femmes du pave was deserted except by the lowest, for there was a richer harvest, brighter roses and purer lips to obtain. Few failed to surrender more to the uniform than to the person beneath. All was decorum in the galleries, but one could observe that the moans were like those that characterized the age of Louis the XV of France — all soft, effeminate, luxurious, in short, licentiousness, but concealed by their gauzy covering, which only excited because it only half disclosed what should have been hid.
H’s ideas of woman’s character were elevated and noble. No man could entertain higher notions of her purity and angelic grace than he. But he was disgusted with the sight presented to his eyes, pained and indignant. he was anxious to leave the theatre before the close of the performance, but I was interested and prevailed upon him to remain. We hurried out before the masses began to crowd the aisles and passed into the street. He took a long breath and heaved a deep sigh. “Voltaire, somewhere says,” he began, “that put together all the vices of ages and they will not come up to the mischiefs and enormities of a single campaign. I never fully believed it but I do now, when I see so much before a campaign has really begun.”
His regiment was to go up the river on the morrow and before retiring, we drank together one or two more glasses of punch, such as we called in college a gay, but modest debauch. My chum gradually recovered his good nature from the exhilarating effects of the good old whiskey. the scenes of the night were entirely forgotten in the brighter memories of youth and in the follies of wit. H was always a good story teller. He possessed that in action and tome which are the essentials concomitant in a good anecdote relater. We began to talk of the theatre, so far as the acting was concerned. he told a story of a Mick who was stage struck and made his debut in the town of his adoption. I shall not undertake to relate it in his words, and it would be impossible for me to convey the idea of the unmitigated ridicules which he displayed both in his words and tones. This Mick was brought up to the last a follower of St. Crispin. From making shoes, he rose to the office of selling them. He then, being about thirty years old began his studies, such as the higher mathematics without troubling himself about addition, which he did not know. He could scarcely read but he took to Shakespeare. H. had taught himself to read with some decency. He passed through many steps of retrogression in knowledge, but may in progression according to his idea, but finally he came upon the his heels as proprietor of a one-horse saloon.
[This Mick] was [?] in his speech with his “ifs” and his “ands” and his many “do you sees” and his worse “understands” and by treating [his patrons to whiskey] had congregated a crowd of loafers about him who flattered and praised him till he actually thought he was a second Curran, a second Shakespeare, come to enlighten the world and astonish it by the fecundity and variety of his knowledge. He grew more corpulent in body and more flatulent in speech. He was short in stature, bald-headed, and had small, onion-shaped eyes. Some one-horse actors came to town, found him out, drank his whiskey, and flattered him, without any others pay. They persuaded him to enact the character of Hamlet. He looked on the stage in the dress like a turbot that is all belly. Nothing could be said of his rendering the character. It was irrevocably damned. His voice was husky, his right hand was elevated to his nose and it appeared that he was taking snuff. He appeared again. The audience hissed him and after the performance he had the audacity to make them a speech and delivered himself at some length in his peculiar manner. He told them he could act Hamlet or anything. “Some call me a fool, but I can beat them all to pieces in the argument. I can kill their pig. Why do every body talk of Edwin Booth in Hamlet? Don’t you know that I can beat Booth in Hamlet all to nothing? This is what I think. Booth is the prettiest Hamlet that ever was. I am superior to Booth in every thing. I can sit down and write a business letter in blank verse. I am perfect in composition though speaking is my forte. I feel within me that I am far superior to any eho ever appeared as Hamlet. I know it. I can paraphrase the most beautiful speeches of Hamlet or any other, off hand, a diction just as grand as the original, and even better when I feel in the humor, and defy all the lawyers and preachers to beat me in Hamlet or surpass me in argument.”
The fictitious Mick who regaled his patrons with Hamlet performances.
Amid the ridiculing cheers of the audience, he retired. Some hurrahs for the “learned pig” while others yelped out in an excessively Irish brogue, “Eein ma voumeen erin go bragh.” The last I saw him he was still keeping a saloon but his disease of Shakespeare on the brain was in no wise cured. His paunch had become Falstaffian in dimensions, his head more bald, and his eyes smaller. The platform behind the bar was the stage which he most generally delivered himself to his admiring audience who drank his whiskey without ever thinking of paying for it.
With a parting glass, H. and I separated for the night. He would be away before I had half finished my sleep. I got up in the morning, sleepy still, and spitting cotton from my mouth. A stiff horn was necessary to set me right, or even give me an appetite for my breakfast. Our small and gay debauch had been too big for me.
[Editor's Note: The story about Mick, the saloon keeper who fashioned himself a great Shakespearean actor undoubtedly pokes fun at Goodrich' acquaintance, Mike Egan, whom he often called Mick. Egan did, indeed, operate a saloon in Little Rock during the mid-1860's and it does appear that he attempted acting. In a diary entry on 25 February, 1866, Goodrich wrote: "Tomorrow Mike Egan appears on the stage." One can only conjecture how much of this story was concocted by Goodrich's imagination. Perhaps it is at least partially true.]
