<h2 id="id00400" style="margin-top: 4em">CHAPTER XI</h2>
<h5 id="id00401">DALTON</h5>
<h4 id="id00402" style="margin-top: 2em">GENERAL JOSEPH E. JOHNSTON</h4>
<p id="id00403">General Joseph E. Johnston now took command of the army. General Bragg
was relieved, and had become Jeff Davis' war adviser at Richmond,
Virginia. We had followed General Bragg all through this long war.
We had got sorter used to his ways, but he was never popular with his
troops. I felt sorry for him. Bragg's troops would have loved him,
if he had allowed them to do so, for many a word was spoken in his behalf,
after he had been relieved of the command. As a general I have spoken of
him in these memoirs, not personally. I try to state facts, so that you
may see, reader, why our cause was lost. I have no doubt that Bragg ever
did what he thought was best. He was but a man, under the authority of
another.</p>
<p id="id00404">But now, allow me to introduce you to old Joe. Fancy, if you please,
a man about fifty years old, rather small of stature, but firmly and
compactly built, an open and honest countenance, and a keen but restless
black eye, that seemed to read your very inmost thoughts. In his dress
he was a perfect dandy. He ever wore the very finest clothes that could
be obtained, carrying out in every point the dress and paraphernalia of
the soldier, as adopted by the war department at Richmond, never omitting
anything, even to the trappings of his horse, bridle and saddle. His
hat was decorated with a star and feather, his coat with every star and
embellishment, and he wore a bright new sash, big gauntlets, and silver
spurs. He was the very picture of a general.</p>
<p id="id00405">But he found the army depleted by battles; and worse, yea, much worse,
by desertion. The men were deserting by tens and hundreds, and I might
say by thousands. The morale of the army was gone. The spirit of the
soldiers was crushed, their hope gone. The future was dark and gloomy.
They would not answer at roll call. Discipline had gone. A feeling of
mistrust pervaded the whole army.</p>
<p id="id00406">A train load of provisions came into Dalton. The soldiers stopped it
before it rolled into the station, burst open every car, and carried off
all the bacon, meal and flour that was on board. Wild riot was the order
of the day; everything was confusion, worse confounded. When the news
came, like pouring oil upon the troubled waters, that General Joe
E. Johnston, of Virginia, had taken command of the Army of Tennessee,
men returned to their companies, order was restored, and "Richard was
himself again." General Johnston issued a universal amnesty to all
soldiers absent without leave. Instead of a scrimp pattern of one day's
rations, he ordered two days' rations to be issued, being extra for
one day. He ordered tobacco and whisky to be issued twice a week. He
ordered sugar and coffee and flour to be issued instead of meal. He
ordered old bacon and ham to be issued instead of blue beef. He ordered
new tents and marquees. He ordered his soldiers new suits of clothes,
shoes and hats. In fact, there had been a revolution, sure enough.
He allowed us what General Bragg had never allowed mortal man—a
furlough. He gave furloughs to one-third of his army at a time, until
the whole had been furloughed. A new era had dawned; a new epoch had
been dated. He passed through the ranks of the common soldiers, shaking
hands with every one he met. He restored the soldier's pride; he
brought the manhood back to the private's bosom; he changed the order
of roll-call, standing guard, drill, and such nonsense as that. The
revolution was complete. He was loved, respected, admired; yea, almost
worshipped by his troops. I do not believe there was a soldier in his
army but would gladly have died for him. With him everything was his
soldiers, and the newspapers, criticising him at the time, said, "He
would feed his soldiers if the country starved."</p>
<p id="id00407">We soon got proud; the blood of the old Cavaliers tingled in our veins.
We did not feel that we were serfs and vagabonds. We felt that we had a
home and a country worth fighting for, and, if need be, worth dying for.
One regiment could whip an army, and did do it, in every instance,
before the command was taken from him at Atlanta. But of this another
time.</p>
<p id="id00408">Chaplains were brought back to their regiments. Dr. C. T. Quintard and
Rev. C. D. Elliott, and other chaplains, held divine services every
Sabbath, prayer was offered every evening at retreat, and the morale of
the army was better in every respect. The private soldier once more
regarded himself a gentleman and a man of honor. We were willing to do
and die and dare anything for our loved South, and the Stars and Bars
of the Confederacy. In addition to this, General Johnston ordered his
soldiers to be paid up every cent that was due them, and a bounty of
fifty dollars besides. He issued an order to his troops offering
promotion and a furlough for acts of gallantry and bravery on the field
of battle.</p>
<p id="id00409">The cloven foot of tyranny and oppression was not discernible in the acts
of officers, from general down to corporal, as formerly. Notwithstanding
all this grand transformation in our affairs, old Joe was a strict
disciplinarian. Everything moved like clockwork. Men had to keep their
arms and clothing in good order. The artillery was rubbed up and put in
good condition. The wagons were greased, and the harness and hamestrings
oiled. Extra rations were issued to negroes who were acting as servants,
a thing unprecedented before in the history of the war.</p>
<p id="id00410">Well, old Joe was a yerker. He took all the tricks. He was a commander.
He kept everything up and well in hand. His lines of battle were
invulnerable. The larger his command, the easier he could handle it.
When his army moved, it was a picture of battle, everything in its place,
as laid down by scientific military rules. When a man was to be shot,
he was shot for the crimes he had done, and not to intimidate and cow the
living, and he had ten times as many shot as Bragg had. He had seventeen
shot at Tunnel Hill, and a whole company at Rockyface Ridge, and two
spies hung at Ringgold Gap, but they were executed for their crimes.
No one knew of it except those who had to take part as executioners of
the law. Instead of the whipping post, he instituted the pillory and
barrel shirt. Get Brutus to whistle the barrel shirt for you. The
pillory was a new-fangled concern. If you went to the guard-house of
almost any regiment, you would see some poor fellow with his head and
hands sticking through a board. It had the appearance of a fellow taking
a running start, at an angle of forty-five degrees, with a view of
bursting a board over his head, but when the board burst his head and
both his hands were clamped in the bursted places. The barrel shirt
brigade used to be marched on drill and parade. You could see a fellow's
head and feet, and whenever one of the barrels would pass, you would hear
the universal cry, "Come out of that barrel, I see your head and feet
sticking out." There might have been a mortification and a disgrace in
the pillory and barrel shirt business to those that had to use them,
but they did not bruise and mutilate the physical man. When one of them
had served out his time he was as good as new. Old Joe had greater
military insight than any general of the South, not excepting even Lee.
He was the born soldier; seemed born to command. When his army moved it
moved solid. Cavalry, artillery, wagon train, and infantry stepped the
same tread to the music of the march. His men were not allowed to be
butchered for glory, and to have his name and a battle fought, with the
number of killed and wounded, go back to Richmond for his own glory.
When he fought, he fought for victory, not for glory. He could fall back
right in the face of the foe as quietly and orderly as if on dress parade;
and when his enemies crowded him a little too closely, he would about
face and give them a terrible chastisement. He could not be taken by
surprise by any flank movement of the enemy. His soldiers were to him
his children. He loved them. They were never needlessly sacrificed.
He was always ready to meet the attack of the enemy. When his line of
battle was formed it was like a wall of granite. His adversaries knew
him, and dreaded the certain death that awaited them. His troops were
brave; they laughed in the face of battle. He had no rear guard to
shoot down any one who ran. They couldn't run; the army was solid. The
veriest coward that was ever born became a brave man and a hero under his
manipulation. His troops had the utmost confidence in him, and feared no
evil. They became an army of veterans, whose lines could not be broken
by the armies of the world. Battle became a pastime and a pleasure,
and the rattle of musketry and roar of cannon were but the music of
victory and success.</p>
<h4 id="id00411" style="margin-top: 2em">COMMISSARIES</h4>
<p id="id00412">Before General Joseph E. Johnston took command of the Army of Tennessee,
the soldiers were very poorly fed, it is true, but the blame was not
entirely attributable to General Bragg. He issued enough and more than
enough to have bountifully fed his army, but there was a lot of men in
the army, generally denominated commissaries, and their "gizzards,"
as well as fingers, had to be greased. There was commissary-general,
then corps commissary, then division commissary, then brigade commissary,
then regimental commissary, then company commissary. Now, you know were
you to start a nice hindquarter of beef, which had to pass through all
these hands, and every commissary take a choice steak and roast off it,
there would be but little ever reach the company, and the poor man among
the Johnnies had to feast like bears in winter—they had to suck their
paws—but the rich Johnnies who had money could go to almost any of
the gentlemen denominated commissaries (they ought to have been called
cormorants) and buy of them much nice fat beef and meal and flour and
sugar and coffee and nice canvassed hams, etc. I have done it many
times. They were keeping back the rations that had been issued to the
army, and lining their own pockets. But when General Johnston took
command, this manipulating business played out. Rations would "spile"
on their hands. Othello's occupation was gone. They received only one
hundred and forty dollars a month then, and the high private got plenty
to eat, and Mr. Cormorant quit making as much money as he had heretofore
done. Were you to go to them and make complaint, they would say, "I have
issued regular army rations to your company, and what is left over is
mine," and they were mighty exact about it.</p>
<h4 id="id00413" style="margin-top: 2em">DALTON</h4>
<p id="id00414">We went into winter quarters at Dalton, and remained there during the
cold, bad winter of 1863-64, about four months. The usual routine of
army life was carried on day by day, with not many incidents to vary the
monotony of camp life. But occasionally the soldiers would engage in
a snow ball battle, in which generals, colonels, captains and privates
all took part. They would usually divide off into two grand divisions,
one line naturally becoming the attacking party, and the other the
defensive. The snow balls would begin to fly hither and thither, with
an occasional knock down, and sometimes an ugly wound, where some mean
fellow had enclosed a rock in his snow ball. It was fun while it lasted,
but after it was over the soldiers were wet, cold and uncomfortable.
I have seen charges and attacks and routes and stampedes, etc., but
before the thing was over, one side did not know one from the other.
It was a general knock down and drag out affair.</p>
<h4 id="id00415" style="margin-top: 2em">SHOOTING A DESERTER</h4>
<p id="id00416">One morning I went over to Deshler's brigade of Cleburne's division to
see my brother-in-law, Dr. J. E. Dixon. The snow was on the ground,
and the boys were hard at it, "snow balling." While I was standing
looking on, a file of soldiers marched by me with a poor fellow on
his way to be shot. He was blindfolded and set upon a stump, and the
detail formed. The command, "Ready, aim, fire!" was given, the volley
discharged, and the prisoner fell off the stump. He had not been killed.
It was the sergeant's duty to give the <i>coup d'etat</i>, should not the
prisoner be slain. The sergeant ran up and placed the muzzle of his gun
at the head of the poor, pleading, and entreating wretch, his gun was
discharged, and the wretched man only powder-burned, the gun being one
that had been loaded with powder only. The whole affair had to be gone
over again. The soldiers had to reload and form and fire. The culprit
was killed stone dead this time. He had no sooner been taken up and
carried off to be buried, than the soldiers were throwing snow balls as
hard as ever, as if nothing had happened.</p>
<h4 id="id00417" style="margin-top: 2em">TEN MEN KILLED AT THE MOURNERS' BENCH</h4>
<p id="id00418">At this place (Dalton) a revival of religion sprang up, and there was
divine service every day and night. Soldiers became serious on the
subject of their souls' salvation. In sweeping the streets and cleaning
up, an old tree had been set on fire, and had been smoking and burning
for several days, and nobody seemed to notice it. That night there was
service as usual, and the singing and sermon were excellent. The sermon
was preached by Rev. J. G. Bolton, chaplain of the Fiftieth Tennessee
Regiment, assisted by Rev. C. D. Elliott, the services being held in the
Fourth Tennessee Regiment. As it was the custom to "call up mourners,"
a long bench had been placed in proper position for them to kneel down
at. Ten of them were kneeling at this mourners' bench, pouring out their
souls in prayer to God, asking Him for the forgiveness of their sins,
and for the salvation of their souls, for Jesus Christ their Redeemer's
sake, when the burning tree, without any warning, fell with a crash right
across the ten mourners, crushing and killing them instantly. God had
heard their prayers. Their souls had been carried to heaven. Hereafter,
henceforth, and forevermore, there was no more marching, battling,
or camp duty for them. They had joined the army of the hosts of heaven.</p>
<p id="id00419">By order of the general, they were buried with great pomp and splendor,
that is, for those times. Every one of them was buried in a coffin.
Brass bands followed, playing the "Dead March," and platoons fired over
their graves. It was a soldier's funeral. The beautiful burial service
of the Episcopal church was read by Rev. Allen Tribble. A hymn was sung,
and prayer offered, and then their graves were filled as we marched sadly
back to camp.</p>
<h4 id="id00420" style="margin-top: 2em">DR. C. T. QUINTARD</h4>
<p id="id00421">Dr. C. T. Quintard was our chaplain for the First Tennessee Regiment
during the whole war, and he stuck to us from the beginning even unto the
end. During week days he ministered to us physically, and on Sundays
spiritually. He was one of the purest and best men I ever knew. He
would march and carry his knapsack every day the same as any soldier.
He had one text he preached from which I remember now. It was "the
flying scroll." He said there was a flying scroll continually passing
over our heads, which was like the reflections in a looking-glass,
and all of our deeds, both good and bad, were written upon it. He was a
good doctor of medicine, as well as a good doctor of divinity, and above
either of these, he was a good man per se. Every old soldier of the
First Tennessee Regiment will remember Dr. C. T. Quintard with the
kindest and most sincere emotions of love and respect. He would go off
into the country and get up for our regiment clothing and provisions,
and wrote a little prayer and song book, which he had published, and gave
it to the soldiers. I learned that little prayer and song book off by
heart, and have a copy of it in my possession yet, which I would not
part with for any consideration. Dr. Quintard's nature was one of love.
He loved the soldiers, and the soldiers loved him, and deep down in
his heart of hearts was a deep and lasting love for Jesus Christ, the
Redeemer of the world, implanted there by God the Father Himself.</p>
<h4 id="id00422" style="margin-top: 2em">Y'S YOU GOT MY HOG?</h4>
<p id="id00423">One day, a party of "us privates" concluded we would go across the
Conasauga river on a raid. We crossed over in a canoe. After traveling
for some time, we saw a neat looking farm house, and sent one of the
party forward to reconnoiter. He returned in a few minutes and announced
that he had found a fine fat sow in a pen near the house. Now, the plan
we formed was for two of us to go into the house and keep the inmates
interested and the other was to toll and drive off the hog. I was one
of the party which went into the house. There was no one there but an
old lady and her sick and widowed daughter. They invited us in very
pleasantly and kindly, and soon prepared us a very nice and good dinner.
The old lady told us of all her troubles and trials. Her husband had
died before the war, and she had three sons in the army, two of whom had
been killed, and the youngest, who had been conscripted, was taken with
the camp fever and died in the hospital at Atlanta, and she had nothing
to subsist upon, after eating up what they then had. I was much
interested, and remained a little while after my comrade had left.
I soon went out, having made up my mind to have nothing to do with the
hog affair. I did not know how to act. I was in a bad fix. I had heard
the gun fire and knew its portent. I knew the hog was dead, and went on
up the road, and soon overtook my two comrades with the hog, which had
been skinned and cut up, and was being carried on a pole between them.
I did not know what to do. On looking back I saw the old lady coming and
screaming at the top of her voice, "You got my hog! You got my hog!"
It was too late to back out now. We had the hog, and had to make the
most of it, even if we did ruin a needy and destitute family. We went on
until we came to the Conasauga river, when lo and behold! the canoe was
on the other side of the river. It was dark then, and getting darker,
and what was to be done we did not know. The weather was as cold as
blue blazes, and spitting snow from the northwest. That river had to be
crossed that night. I undressed and determined to swim it, and went in,
but the little thin ice at the bank cut my feet. I waded in a little
further, but soon found I would cramp if I tried to swim it. I came out
and put my clothes on, and thought of a gate about a mile back. We went
back and took the gate off its hinges and carried it to the river and put
it in the water, but soon found out that all three of us could not ride
on it; so one of the party got on it and started across. He did very
well until he came to the other bank, which was a high bluff, and if
he got off the center of the gate it would capsize and he would get a
ducking. He could not get off the gate. I told him to pole the gate up
to the bank, so that one side would rest on the bank, and then make a
quick run for the bank. He thought he had got the gate about the right
place, and then made a run, and the gate went under and so did he,
in water ten feet deep. My comrade, Fount C., who was with me on the
bank, laughed, I thought, until he had hurt himself; but with me, I
assure you, it was a mighty sickly grin, and with the other one, Barkley
J., it was anything but a laughing matter. To me he seemed a hero.
Barkley did about to liberate me from a very unpleasant position.
He soon returned with the canoe, and we crossed the river with the hog.
We worried and tugged with it, and got it to camp just before daylight.</p>
<p id="id00424">I had a guilty conscience, I assure you. The hog was cooked, but I did
not eat a piece of it. I felt that I had rather starve, and I believe
that it would have choked me to death if I had attempted it.</p>
<p id="id00425">A short time afterward an old citizen from Maury county visited me.
My father sent me, by him, a silver watch—which I am wearing today—
and eight hundred dollars in old issue Confederate money. I took two
hundred dollars of the money, and had it funded for new issue, 33 1/3
cents discount. The other six hundred I sent to Vance Thompson, then
on duty at Montgomery, with instructions to send it to my brother, Dave
Watkins, Uncle Asa Freeman, and J. E. Dixon, all of whom were in
Wheeler's cavalry, at some other point—I knew not where. After getting
my money, I found that I had $133.33 1/3. I could not rest. I took one
hundred dollars, new issue, and going by my lone self back to the old
lady's house, I said, "Madam, some soldiers were here a short time ago,
and took your hog. I was one of that party, and I wish to pay you for
it. What was it worth?" "Well, sir," says she, "money is of no value to
me; I cannot get any article that I wish; I would much rather have the
hog." Says I, "Madam, that is an impossibility; your hog is dead and eat
up, and I have come to pay you for it." The old lady's eyes filled with
tears. She said that she was perfectly willing to give the soldiers
everything she had, and if she thought it had done us any good, she would
not charge anything for it.</p>
<p id="id00426">"Well," says I, "Madam, here is a hundred dollar, new issue, Confederate
bill. Will this pay you for your hog?" "Well, sir," she says, drawing
herself up to her full height, her cheeks flushed and her eyes flashing,
"I do not want your money. I would feel that it was blood money."
I saw that there was no further use to offer it to her. I sat down by
the fire and the conversation turned upon other subjects.</p>
<p id="id00427">I helped the old lady catch a chicken (an old hen—about the last she had)
for dinner, went with her in the garden and pulled a bunch of eschalots,
brought two buckets of water, and cut and brought enough wood to last
several days.</p>
<p id="id00428">After awhile, she invited me to dinner, and after dinner I sat down by
her side, took her old hand in mine, and told her the whole affair of the
hog, from beginning to end; how sorry I was, and how I did not eat any
of that hog; and asked her as a special act of kindness and favor to me,
to take the hundred dollars; that I felt bad about it, and if she would
take it, it would ease my conscience. I laid the money on the table and
left. I have never in my life made a raid upon anybody else.</p>
<h4 id="id00429" style="margin-top: 2em">TARGET SHOOTING</h4>
<p id="id00430">By some hook, or crook, or blockade running, or smuggling, or Mason and
Slidell, or Raphael Semmes, or something of the sort, the Confederate
States government had come in possession of a small number of Whitworth
guns, the finest long range guns in the world, and a monopoly by the
English government. They were to be given to the best shots in the army.
One day Captain Joe P. Lee and Company H went out to shoot at a target
for the gun. We all wanted the gun, because if we got it we would be
sharpshooters, and be relieved from camp duty, etc.</p>
<p id="id00431">All the generals and officers came out to see us shoot. The mark was put
up about five hundred yards on a hill, and each of us had three shots.
Every shot that was fired hit the board, but there was one man who came
a little closer to the spot than any other one, and the Whitworth was
awarded him; and as we just turned round to go back to camp, a buck
rabbit jumped up, and was streaking it as fast as he could make tracks,
all the boys whooping and yelling as hard as they could, when Jimmy
Webster raised his gun and pulled down on him, and cut the rabbit's head
entirely off with a minnie ball right back of his ears. He was about
two hundred and fifty yards off. It might have been an accidental shot,
but General Leonidas Polk laughed very heartily at the incident, and I
heard him ask one of his staff if the Whitworth gun had been awarded.
The staff officer responded that it had, and that a certain man in
Colonel Farquharson's regiment—the Fourth Tennessee—was the successful
contestant, and I heard General Polk remark, "I wish I had another gun to
give, I would give it to the young man that shot the rabbit's head off."</p>
<p id="id00432">None of our regiment got a Whitworth, but it has been subsequently
developed that our regiment had some of the finest shots in it the world
ever produced. For instance, George and Mack Campbell, of Maury county;
Billy Watkins, of Nashville, and Colonel H. R. Field, and many others,
who I cannot now recall to mind in this rapid sketch.</p>
<h4 id="id00433" style="margin-top: 2em">UNCLE ZACK AND AUNT DAPHNE</h4>
<p id="id00434">While at this place, I went out one day to hunt someone to wash my
clothes for me. I never was a good washerwoman. I could cook, bring
water and cut wood, but never was much on the wash. In fact, it was an
uphill business for me to wash up "the things" after "grub time" in our
mess.</p>
<p id="id00435">I took my clothes and started out, and soon came to a little old negro
hut. I went in and says to an old negress, "Aunty, I would like for you
to do a little washing for me." The old creature was glad to get it,
as I agreed to pay her what it was worth. Her name was Aunt Daphne,
and if she had been a politician, she would have been a success. I do
not remember of a more fluent "conversationalist" in my life. Her tongue
seemed to be on a balance, and both ends were trying to out-talk the
other—but she was a good woman. Her husband was named Uncle Zack,
and was the exact counterpart of Aunt Daphne. He always sat in the
chimney corner, his feet in the ashes, and generally fast asleep.
I am certain I never saw an uglier or more baboonish face in my life,
but Uncle Zack was a good Christian, and I would sometimes wake him up
to hear him talk Christian.</p>
<p id="id00436">He said that when he "fessed 'ligin, de debil come dare one nite, and say,
'Zack, come go wid me,' and den de debil tek me to hell, and jes stretch
a wire across hell, and hang me up jes same like a side of bacon, through
the tongue. Well, dar I hang like de bacon, and de grease kept droppin'
down, and would blaze up all 'round me. I jes stay dar and burn; and
after while de debil come 'round wid his gun, and say, 'Zack, I gwine to
shoot you,' and jes as he raise de gun, I jes jerk loose from dat wire,
and I jes fly to heben."</p>
<p id="id00437">"Fly! did you have wings?"</p>
<p id="id00438">"O, yes, sir, I had wings."</p>
<p id="id00439">"Well, after you got to heaven, what did you do then?"</p>
<p id="id00440">"Well, I jes went to eatin' grass like all de balance of de lams."</p>
<p id="id00441">"What! were they eating grass?"</p>
<p id="id00442">"O, yes, sir."</p>
<p id="id00443">"Well, what color were the lambs, Uncle Zack?"</p>
<p id="id00444">"Well, sir, some of dem was white, and some black, and some spotted."</p>
<p id="id00445">"Were there no old rams or ewes among them?"</p>
<p id="id00446">"No, sir; dey was all lams."</p>
<p id="id00447">"Well, Uncle Zack, what sort of a looking lamb were you?"</p>
<p id="id00448">"Well, sir, I was sort of specklish and brown like."</p>
<p id="id00449">Old Zack begins to get sleepy.</p>
<p id="id00450">"Did you have horns, Uncle Zack?"</p>
<p id="id00451">"Well, some of dem had little horns dat look like dey was jes sorter
sproutin' like."</p>
<p id="id00452">Zack begins to nod and doze a little.</p>
<p id="id00453">"Well, how often did they shear the lambs, Uncle Zack?"</p>
<p id="id00454">"Well, w-e-l-l, w—e—l—l—," and Uncle Zack was fast asleep and snoring,
and dreaming no doubt of the beautiful pastures glimmering above the
clouds of heaven.</p>
<h4 id="id00455" style="margin-top: 2em">RED TAPE</h4>
<p id="id00456">While here I applied for a furlough. Now, reader, here commenced a
series of red tapeism that always had characterized the officers under
Braggism. It had to go through every officer's hands, from corporal up,
before it was forwarded to the next officer of higher grade, and so it
passed through every officer's hands. He felt it his sworn and bound
duty to find some informality in it, and it was brought back for
correction according to his notions, you see. Well, after getting the
corporal's consent and approval, it goes up to the sergeant. It ain't
right! Some informality, perhaps, in the wording and spelling. Then
the lieutenants had to have a say in it, and when it got to the captain,
it had to be read and re-read, to see that every "i" was dotted and "t"
crossed, but returned because there was one word that he couldn't make
out. Then it was forwarded to the colonel. He would snatch it out of
your hand, grit his teeth, and say, "D—n it;" feel in his vest pocket
and take out a lead pencil, and simply write "app." for approved.
This would also be returned, with instructions that the colonel must
write "approved" in a plain hand, and with pen and ink. Then it went to
the brigadier-general. He would be engaged in a game of poker, and would
tell you to call again, as he didn't have time to bother with those small
affairs at present. "I'll see your five and raise you ten." "I have a
straight flush." "Take the pot." After setting him out, and when it
wasn't his deal, I get up and walk around, always keeping the furlough
in sight. After reading carefully the furlough, he says, "Well, sir,
you have failed to get the adjutant's name to it. You ought to have the
colonel and adjutant, and you must go back and get their signatures."
After this, you go to the major-general. He is an old aristocratic
fellow, who never smiles, and tries to look as sour as vinegar. He looks
at the furlough, and looks down at the ground, holding the furlough in
his hand in a kind of dreamy way, and then says, "Well, sir, this is
all informal." You say, "Well, General, what is the matter with it?"
He looks at you as if he hadn't heard you, and repeats very slowly, "Well,
sir, this is informal," and hands it back to you. You take it, feeling
all the while that you wished you had not applied for a furlough, and
by summoning all the fortitude that you possess, you say in a husky and
choking voice, "Well, general (you say the "general" in a sort of gulp
and dry swallow), what's the matter with the furlough?" You look askance,
and he very languidly re-takes the furlough and glances over it, orders
his negro boy to go and feed his horse, asks his cook how long it will be
before dinner, hallooes at some fellow away down the hill that he would
like for him to call at 4 o'clock this evening, and tells his adjutant to
sign the furlough. The adjutant tries to be smart and polite, smiles a
smole both child-like and bland, rolls up his shirt-sleeves, and winks
one eye at you, gets astraddle of a camp-stool, whistles a little stanza
of schottische, and with a big flourish of his pen, writes the major-
general's name in small letters, and his own—the adjutant's—in very
large letters, bringing the pen under it with tremendous flourishes,
and writes approved and forwarded. You feel relieved. You feel that the
anaconda's coil had been suddenly relaxed. Then you start out to the
lieutenant-general; you find him. He is in a very learned and dignified
conversation about the war in Chili. Well, you get very anxious for the
war in Chili to get to an end. The general pulls his side-whiskers,
looks wise, and tells his adjutant to look over it, and, if correct,
sign it. The adjutant does not deign to condescend to notice you.
He seems to be full of gumbo or calf-tail soup, and does not wish his
equanimity disturbed. He takes hold of the document, and writes the
lieutenant-general's name, and finishes his own name while looking in
another direction—approved and forwarded. Then you take it up to the
general; the guard stops you in a very formal way, and asks, "What do you
want?" You tell him. He calls for the orderly; the orderly gives it to
the adjutant, and you are informed that it will be sent to your colonel
tonight, and given to you at roll-call in the morning. Now, reader,
the above is a pretty true picture of how I got my furlough.</p>
<h4 id="id00457" style="margin-top: 2em">I GET A FURLOUGH</h4>
<p id="id00458">After going through all the formality of red-tapeism, and being snubbed
with tweedle-dum and tweedle-dee, I got my furlough. When it started out,
it was on the cleanest piece of paper that could be found in Buck
Lanier's sutler's store. After it came back, it was pretty well used up,
and looked as if it had gone through a very dark place, and been beat
with a soot-bag. But, anyhow, I know that I did not appreciate my
furlough half as much as I thought I would. I felt like returning it to
the gentlemen with my compliments, declining their kind favors. I felt
that it was unwillingly given, and, as like begets like, it was very
unwillingly received. Honestly, I felt as if I had made a bad bargain,
and was keen to rue the trade. I did not know what to do with it; but,
anyhow, I thought I would make the best of a bad bargain. I got on the
cars at Dalton—now, here is a thing that I had long since forgotten
about—it was the first first-class passenger car that I had been in
since I had been a soldier. The conductor passed around, and handed me
a ticket with these words on it:</p>
<p id="id00459"> "If you wish to travel with ease,<br/>
Keep this ticket in sight, if you please;<br/>
And if you wish to take a nap,<br/>
Just stick this in your hat or cap."<br/></p>
<p id="id00460">This was the poetry, reader, that was upon the ticket. The conductor
called around every now and then, especially if you were asleep, to look
at your ticket, and every now and then a captain and a detail of three
soldiers would want to look at your furlough. I thought before I got to
Selma, Alabama, that I wished the ticket and furlough both were in the
bottom of the ocean, and myself back in camp. Everywhere I went someone
wanted to see my furlough. Before I got my furlough, I thought it
sounded big. Furlough was a war word, and I did not comprehend its
meaning until I got one. The very word "furlough" made me sick then.
I feel fainty now whenever I think of furlough. It has a sickening sound
in the ring of it—"furlough!" "Furloch," it ought to have been called.
Every man I met had a furlough; in fact, it seemed to have the very
double-extract of romance about it—"fur too, eh?" Men who I knew had
never been in the army in their lives, all had furloughs. Where so many
men ever got furloughs from I never knew; but I know now. They were like
the old bachelor who married the widow with ten children—he married a
"ready-made" family. They had ready-made furloughs. But I have said
enough on the furlough question; it enthralled me—let it pass; don't
want any more furloughs. But while on my furlough, I got with Captain
G. M. V. Kinzer, a fine-dressed and handsome cavalry captain, whom all
the ladies (as they do at the present day), fell in love with. The
captain and myself were great friends. The captain gave me his old coat
to act captain in, but the old thing wouldn't act. I would keep the
collar turned down. One night we went to call on a couple of beautiful
and interesting ladies near Selma. We chatted the girls until the "wee
sma' hours" of morning, and when the young ladies retired, remarked that
they would send a servant to show us to our room. We waited; no servant
came. The captain and myself snoozed it out as best we could. About
daylight the next morning the captain and myself thought that we would
appear as if we had risen very early, and began to move about, and
opening the door, there lay a big black negro on his knees and face.
Now, reader, what do you suppose that negro was doing? You could not
guess in a week. The black rascal! hideous! terrible to contemplate!
vile! outrageous! Well, words cannot express it. What do you suppose he
was doing? He was fast asleep. He had come thus far, and could go no
further, and fell asleep. There is where the captain and myself found
him at daylight the next morning. We left for Selma immediately after
breakfast, leaving the family in ignorance of the occurrence. The
captain and myself had several other adventures, but the captain always
had the advantage of me; he had the good clothes, and the good looks,
and got all the good presents from the pretty young ladies—well, you
might say, "cut me out" on all occasions. "That's what makes me 'spise
a furlough." But then furlough sounds big, you know.</p>
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