It was Sunday morning, about sunrise, when Lieutenant Duncan appeared at the door, and informed us that we must start immediately. There was an instantaneous springing up—a hurried toilet—a rapid rolling of blankets, and a hastily-snatched breakfast of bread and coffee. I remarked, with more unconcern in my manner than I really felt, that I supposed Lieutenant Stevenson would remain. The lieutenant’s countenance fell, and, looking another way, he said, nervously, “Orders have come to move all immediately, and I have no alternative.” It was my unpleasant task, therefore, to go down and announce to the wounded officer that he must go. In addition to his painful wound, he was suffering from an attack of fever. His exhausted appearance frightened me, though I talked quite boldly of the good effects of change of air, and the advantages of continuing with us. A clumsy plantation wagon rumbled to the door, and the new guard, mounted on wild-looking Texan horses, drew up around it. The old guard, like good fellows, helped us quite cordially in carrying out our baggage; and they shook hands and bade us good bye, with a 58warmth that savored much less of rebel enemies than of countrymen and friends. Some newly arrived prisoners were brought from the Court House, and we started. As we moved off, one of them seized me by the hand with many expressions of surprise. At first I did not recognize him, but, after a moment, discovered that he was Captain Frederick Van Tine, of my former regiment, and learnt that he, with two Massachusetts officers, was captured on the Mississippi, and, for the last week, had been confined in the jail at Thiboudeau.
Up the main street of Franklin we marched two by two, the guard strung along on each side, their rifles unslung and their eyes watching us, as if they somewhat feared an immediate escape. The loafers of Franklin of course turned out to stare at us, and made remarks rarely complimentary; the women looked at us from the door-steps as we passed, some triumphantly, and a few in pity. At the head of this inglorious procession it was my place to walk; but the new prisoners revealed the hitherto concealed news, and I felt proud and happy over the long delayed result of Vicksburg and Port Hudson.
Beside our own party, and the three officers from the Mississippi, were a number of “citizen prisoners,” and an unfortunate deserter whom they had caught at Brashear. Of these civilians, a dozen were Irishmen and they immediately placed themselves at the head of the column, and proceeded to walk and talk with a zeal that nobody attempted to equal. A move is always animating, even when it is toward captivity; but our 59excitement was short-lived. Hardly had we passed from the shadow of the town, when the convalescents felt the effect of the burning, fever-kindling sun. It was a serious business for some of us. One hundred and eighty miles distant flowed the Sabine, and we were to march there, over open prairies and in the middle of the Southern summer.
Before a mile was travelled over, I could see the effect of the fearful heat in others, and feel it on myself. Faces grew flushed; coats were stripped off, and the perspiration poured in streams. Yet it was a matter of honor not to give up. For my own part, I was smarting with mortification at the disgrace of Brashear, and resolved, and re-resolved, to walk till I fell dead, before one of these Southern soldiers should say that a Yankee Colonel had given out.
At the head of the guard rode a good-looking young fellow, tall and sinewy, and with the merriest face I have ever seen in a Southerner. I had some doubts, at first, whether he was a private or a Captain, but found that he was a corporal. He was mounted on a compact little bay, called, in Texas, a pony; a long revolver was stuck in his belt; a lariat rope loosely coiled hung on the saddle-bow; his bright Springfield rifle was balanced across the pommel, and with his broad hat and heavy, jangling Spanish spurs, he formed a brilliant picture of a Wild Texan. As some little changes and arrangements were wanting and the lieutenant was not in sight, I addressed myself to the corporal, and asked if he 60would order a halt for a moment. “Why to be sure I will,” was his very ready reply, followed up with the order, “Now, halt here, men, and let these prisoners put their little tricks on the wagon; there is no need of their packing them.”
“We took advantage of the halt to lash some sticks to the sides of the wagon and to spread upon them our blankets, so as to form an awning over Lieutenant Stevenson. But the sun beat down hotter and hotter. At the next halt, one of us took a canteen from the end of the wagon—the water was hot, so incredibly hot that the others were called up to feel it, and all agreed that its heat was painful. My first impression was, that this intense burning heat would blister us. But the damp Louisiana atmosphere caused floods of perspiration, pouring over the exposed face and hands, and soaking quickly through every garment. Faces grew more and more flushed; conversation flagged and soon ceased. Those who, at the beginning, rattled away cheerfully, walked in moody silence near each other, occasionally exchanging distressed looks, but rarely, if ever, speaking a word.”
About mid-day the expected shower of the rainy season came down on us furiously. We drew up under some trees, and stood close against the leeward side of their trunks, until it blew over. The different characteristics of the three parties who were gathered there immediately developed. The Irishmen laughed, hullabaloed, pushed each other out in the rain, and treated 61the affair as a capital joke. The Northerners shifted their positions, and attempted improvements, while the rain was at the worst—grumbled a great deal, and hurled fierce denunciations at, what they called, their “luck.” The Southerners silently unrolled their blankets, folded them around their shoulders, looked upward at the storm with their usual sad indifference of expression, made no attempts to better their condition, and waited apathetically till it was over.
A prairie spread out for several miles immediately beyond our sheltering trees, and the road curved around its outskirts. It was a prairie, but a tame one; interspersed with fields; pastured by cattle; surrounded by houses, and looking like any dull, uninteresting plain. Its grass, however, was thick and wet, and its sticky black mud soon loaded our boots and almost glued us fast. The coolness of the air quickly vanished, and the sun, more burning than ever, re-appeared. We dragged on wearily, very wearily, casting wistful glances at the grove on the other side, which rose very slowly, and, for a long time, seemed as distant as when we started. At last, however, we manifestly drew nearer; the chimneys of a house could be distinguished in the foliage, and the guard cheered us with the assurance that it was the house at which we were to halt. Every one made a last effort, and after half an hour’s exertion, we dragged ourselves out of the muddy prairie and into a plantation yard, bordering on the Teche.
We sat there waiting for the wagon, and watching a 62small drove of hogs that had come down the bank of the bayou, and, half immersed, were greedily eating the green scum that covered the water. The lieutenant had bought provisions at the house, and hired the contrabands to cook for us. The dinner finally appeared, consisting of a large kettle of boiled beef, and a quantity of corn bread in the shape of little rolls. It did not impress us favorably; but the guard seemed to think it excellent—perhaps because boiled beef was a rarity—perhaps because the corn bread was a superior article, (I was not a judge of it then); and one, with charming simplicity, said, “If we do as well as this, it will do!” To which rhapsody one of my disgusted friends was obliged to respond, with a faint and sickly smile, “Yes, yes; it is very nice.”
The place of bivouac that night was in the grass-covered yard, or rather field, of one of the finest plantations on the Teche. The owner soon appeared, accompanied by his son, his son-in-law, and a friend. He was an old gentleman, dressed with the scrupulous taste and neatness of a Frenchman, and treated us with as much politeness and as little kindness as could very well be united. The son-in-law regaled us with a description of the manner in which some of our troops had plundered his house, and burnt his furniture; and the friend sat himself down, and opened with the invariable remark, “We consider this a most unnatural war, sir;” which he followed up with the invariable question, “When do you think there will be peace, sir?” To these I gave 63my invariable replies, that we also thought it a most unnatural war, and that there would be peace whenever the Southern soldiers chose to go home and take care of their own affairs. The gentleman seemed very much disgusted at the idea of having peace on such simple and easy terms, and said solemnly, that he couldn’t allow himself to believe it.
There was a large open shed beside us, but the ground was covered with fleas, and we preferred the wet grass and heavy dew of a Louisiana night, to these pests of a tropical climate. But few slept well. For a long time I felt too tired to close my eyes, and awoke repeatedly, aching in every part. When daylight dawned we rose so stiff and sore that we could hardly move, and with renewed apprehensions made ready for another day. Lieutenant Stevenson showed such increased exhaustion that the Confederate officer took me aside and said, that he would not be guilty of carrying him beyond New Iberia.
We started, not at daylight, as was intended, but a long time after the sun was up. With all such parties there are many petty causes of delay, and it requires an iron-handed commander to bear them down, and carry his party off at the appointed hour. Lieutenant Duncan was too good-natured for this, and instead of coercing us, he, on the contrary, told us to choose our own time, and not to start till we were ready. The delay brought down the burning sun again upon us, and the pain and weariness of this second day much exceeded those of the first.
64As we thus toiled along, the road, which was running between un-inclosed fields, approached a tall rail fence. Three or four of us were walking a few yards in advance of the guard, when we heard the corporal shout from behind, “Take care of the bull! Take care of the bull!” I looked ahead and saw nothing very alarming: a large red bull was drawing himself up, and lashing his sides with his tail. After a moment or two, however, he started toward us, shaking his head and breaking into a low, deep bellow. He was a magnificent animal, with long, low, spreading horns, and moved in a full, square trot that many a horse might envy. There was a scramble at once for the fence which stood very nearly midway between us and the bull. What the result might have been I think somewhat doubtful, had not the gallant corporal, on his bright little bay, rushed past us on a gallop. The pony was a herding pony and understood his business. Like a spirited dog, he flew straight at the bull until they nearly touched, then wheeling he kept alongside, watching him closely and sheering off whenever the long horns made a lunge toward himself. The pony did this of his own accord, for, as he wheeled, his rider held the rifle in his left hand and was drawing the long revolver with his right, and these Texan horses are rarely taught to wheel from the pressure of the leg. A finer picture of intelligent instinct than this pony presented could hardly be painted: his ears erect, his eyes flashing, and his whole soul in the chase. The corporal was not slower than his horse. He brought the long revolver up; a shot flashed, and the poor beast received a 65heavy wound. This diverted his attention from us, for, with a loud bellow, he wheeled toward the corporal. But the pony’s eye was on him, and, quicker than spur or rein could make him, he also wheeled, and scoured off, across the plain faster than any bull could go. The corporal brought up the rifle, and there was a second flash—a second wound, for the bull staggered, and then walked slowly and proudly away. Occasionally he stopped, turned defiantly round, uttered deep bellowings, and shook at us his splendid horns.
The incident afforded us a little excitement, and led me into a conversation with the corporal, who narrated anecdotes of the wonderful intelligence of herding ponies. The heat, the dust, the glaring sun, and increasing pain and weariness at length stopped even a conversation on so interesting a topic as horses are and ever will be, and I was fain to drag myself along without expending an ounce of strength on any object beyond the dusty road. We entered upon the last two miles, and saw Iberia in the distance. The road ran between hedges twenty feet high—it was filled with a long column of dust—not a breath of outer air disturbed it, and the sun shone directly down from his noon-day height. I felt myself grow weaker and weaker as we advanced through this green boiler. The perspiration poured into my eyes and blinded me—my head whirled round—my feet stumbled and dragged, so that every step seemed almost the last. While in this critical state, a couple of pretty Louisiana “young ladies” stopped their 66carriage, and greatly refreshed me by expressing the hope that we should be hung at the end of the lane, and the opinion that hanging was quite as good treatment as nigger-thieves deserved. Such was the power of this well-timed stimulus, that I kept on for more than a mile, and at last found that I was in the midst of the little town of New Iberia.
We halted in the shade of some large trees. There seemed to be an unusual number of vagabonds in New Iberia, who congregated closely round us, and asked impudent questions (generally as to how we liked the war now), until it occurred to our guards that this might be annoying to us, and then they very promptly drove the Iberian loafers back. One cowardly-looking, black-eyed little rascal, however, was very desirous of finding an officer of the Twenty-first Indiana amongst us that he might kill him, and repeatedly hinted that he had a great mind to kill one of us anyhow. But one of the guard quieted him by the suggestion that if he wanted to kill a Yank, he’d find plenty of them over on the Mississippi, and that he’d better go there instead of skulking round in the rear—anyhow, he’d better stop insulting prisoners, or he’d have a right smart chance to kill a Texan—dog-goned if he wouldn’t.
Soon after this, an officer of the Provost Guard appeared. The roll of the “citizen prisoners” was called over, and all but six marched off to the jail. We were put in motion, and marched to the outskirts of the town, where we halted beside a saw-mill standing on the bank 67of the Teche. The lieutenant then brought a surgeon, who speedily pronounced in favor of receiving Lieutenant Stevenson, and directed that he should be taken at once to his hospital.
During the afternoon, our kind and courteous French friend, Lieutenant Solomon, appeared, to take us to the hospital, and thence to his own house. I asked Lieutenant Duncan for a guard, and he politely sent one of his men with us. One of my officers walked with me to the hospital. It was in a church, and at its extreme end we found Lieutenant Stevenson. He looked wretched, and my hopes sank as I saw him. The church was crowded with Confederate sick, and he was the only prisoner there. Yet there was no alternative. We knew that if he were carried along, a sadder parting would soon ensue. Faintly hoping that we should again see him, and inwardly praying that he might find the friends he sorely needed, we bade him farewell.
The French lieutenant rejoined us in the street, and led the way to his own house. He wished, he said, to present us to Madame, and offer us some slight refreshment, which was not good, but was better than we might enjoy again. We soon reached his house, and were presented to Madame, who received us with the grace and politeness of a French lady. The slight refreshment, doubtless, was preparing, and we were comfortably waiting to enjoy it, when a patriot soldier of the Confederacy, with the villainous look peculiar to those of Louisiana, stuck his gun and then his head in the room, and said sulkily, that the Provost Marshal 68wanted us. Our worthy lieutenant accompanied us, saying, “Oh, surely it must be a mistake; somebody has told him you are making an escape. He will let you return to my house, and you shall stay all the afternoon.” Arrived at the Provost Marshal’s, the Louisiana patriot left us on the sidewalk, and stepped in to inform the august official that we were in waiting. That magnate immediately came forth—a youthful, swarthy, small-sized, unwashed Louisianian, with a consequential air, and a vagabond face. “Take these fellows back to your camp,” he said, addressing our Texan guard. “I won’t have prisoners running about my town.” As he said this, he honored us with a vicious stare, and then banged back into his office.
There was no resisting this eloquence, so back we went. Our guard, who had been very silent, became very talkative. He swore pardonable oaths at the Louisianians in general, and the Provost Marshal in particular. As to the former, he said they were all a disgrace to the South; and as to the latter, that if ever he got a chance, he’d scalp him—dog-gone if he wouldn’t. In camp, his excitement extended to the rest. Our gallant friend, the corporal, was especially indignant.
“What,” he said, “he spoke so right before you, without your having insulted him. The dog-gone little puppy. If I’d been there, I’d have slapped his face, and then run for Texas. There’s just such ducks everywhere, and most of all in Louisiana. Dog-gone them—I’d like to shoot the whole of them.”
Our wounded honor being soothed by these chivalric 69sentiments, and a shower of rain coming up about the same time, we retired to the saw-mill, where we selected soft planks, swept away the saw-dust, and made ready for the night. About dark, Lieutenant Duncan returned, with anger and mortification glowing in his face. He had not been able to get fresh mules or a good wagon, or full rations, or even a wagon cover, for prisoners, and he was vexed and wrathful at the refusals he had met. “I tell you what it is, though, gentlemen,” he said, “you shall be taken care of, and have the best this country can give you, if I take it out of their houses with my revolver. It’s not so in Texas, gentlemen. There our people haven’t got much, but they will give you what they have.” In fact, the good lieutenant was so chagrined and mortified, that I had to assure him that we were not children, and would rather undergo a little extra hardship, than put him to further trouble. But while affairs were gliding in this harmonious and humane channel within the saw-mill, some wicked imp suggested to our friend, the Provost Marshal, the feasibility of his bestowing on us another kick. Hardly had the lieutenant wiped the perspiration from his brow, and looked around for a dry plank on which to sleep, when a second Louisiana patriot, dirtier even than the first, appeared. He delivered an order to the lieutenant. It was to pack up and be off instantly—he, the Provost Marshal, wouldn’t have prisoners camping in his town over night.
We accordingly packed up and went off, not more than a hundred yards (for the saw-mill was on the 70boundary of the town), and stopped at an abandoned barn, just beyond the Provost Marshal’s jurisdiction. The barn was dirty—the ground around it muddy—the fleas were hale and hearty—and these little circumstances added a great deal of force to the thanks which the guard lavished on the Provost Marshal. Yet we looked forward with hopefulness to the morrow, for then we were to turn off from the Teche, and leaving civilization and the hateful Louisianians behind us, strike off, undisturbed, on the free prairies.