It is not a pleasant thing to be a prisoner; I never enjoyed it, and never made the acquaintance of any prisoner who said that he did. True is it that you have but few cares and responsibilities. In the prisoners’ camp you take no heed of what you shall eat, or what you shall drink, or wherewith you shall be clothed. If the rations come, you can eat them; and if they do not, you can go without; in neither case have your efforts any thing to do with the matter. Your raiment need not trouble you; for there vanity has no place, and rags are quite as honorable as any other style of dress. You are never dunned by importunate creditors, and if, by possibility, you were, it would be a sufficient bar in law and equity to say that you would not pay. There you are not harassed by pressing engagements, or worried by clients or customers. There you have no fear of failure, and may laugh at bankruptcy. And yet, with all these advantages, no man ever seeks to stay in this unresponsible paradise. “The dews of blessing heaviest fall
Where care falls too.”
95I found that there was a horrible sense of being a prisoner—of being in somebody’s possession—of eating, drinking, sleeping, moving, living, by somebody’s permission; and worst of all, that somebody the very enemy you had been striving to overcome. There was a feeling of dependence on those who were the very last persons on whom you were willing to be dependent. There was a dreary sense of constraint in your freest hours, of being shut in from all the world, and having all the world shut out from you.
In the first days of imprisonment the novelty carried the new prisoners along, and buoyed them up. Then came a season of work, when they built cabins and made stools and tables; and then, a restless fit, when they felt most keenly the irksomeness of the life, and made foolish plans to escape, which (so the “old prisoners” said) had been tried before and failed. Then the “new prisoners” would grow quiet and sad. The most of them would become idle, inert, neglectful of their dress and quarters, peevish and listless, despondent of exchange, yet indifferent to all present improvement. A few (about one in ten) would struggle to make matters better; they would take hopeful views of affairs and perform active work on things around them.
For a day or two after our arrival at Camp Groce we lay by, idle and weary. As I thus looked on, and saw the listless despondency of the “old prisoners,” I discovered quickly that those were happiest who were busiest. Experience since has confirmed me in the value 96I early set on occupation. Those labors which the rebels have imposed on our men—the chopping of wood—the building of houses—the cooking of rations—have been, I think, the prisoner’s greatest blessings. Our active northern minds chafe at enforced idleness, and the freshly caught Yankee, or Hoosier, after the work of cabin building is done, and the rough tables and stools are made, becomes dejected and then sick; and yet while he was doing the work at which he growled, both soul and body bore up easily. It is no wonder then that I said to my lieutenant, “This will never do for us, Sherman, we must be busy.”
We turned over a new leaf, therefore, for the following day. The Captain of the “Morning Light” joined us and pledged himself to provide and devise quantities of work. With the first gleam of light one of us rose, and from a little private hoard abstracted a small handful of coffee. These sailor prisoners, I early found, had no idea of going without while the Confederacy could supply them for either love or money (they did not care much which); and they inspired the rest with a little of their own easy impudence.
Accordingly on the door-post hung one of the last coffee-mills that the shops of Houston had held, and in the galley (as they called the kitchen) stood a stove—the only one, probably, in any Texan camp. The first riser then kindled a fire in the stove, if it was not already there, and ground and made the coffee. Then bearing it to the sleepers’ bunks, he quickly roused them with 97the cheerful salutation of “Here’s your coffee—your fine hot coffee!” When a tin mug of coffee is the only luxury of the day it rises in importance and becomes great. We sipped it slowly and discussed it gravely. One thought that if it were strained a fourth time it would be stronger—the maker, on the contrary, thought that straining it again would take the strength out; a second insisted that it ought to boil—but the maker maintained that boiling dispelled the aroma and sent it flying through the air. The coffee ended before the argument; and then after rinsing out our mugs and restoring them to their private pegs, we took down our towels and started for the “branch.” We descended the hill by a little path that was nearly hidden in tall weeds and led to some thick bushes and trees that grew along the “branch.” The chain of sentinels around the camp consisted of broad-hatted Texans, sitting at irregular intervals on stumps and logs, and generally engaged in balancing their rifles on their knees. One of these, Captain Dillingham hailed in a patronizing way, in return for which attention the sentry halted us.
“I reckon,” he said, “you can’t go no further jist yit awhile.”
“Halloo,” said the Captain, “what’s the matter now?”
“Well, there be three down there now, and the orders is not to let no more down to once.”
“Orders?” said the Captain, indignantly: “who cares for orders! What difference does it make to Jeff Davis 98whether there are three prisoners or six washing themselves?”
“Well, I reckon it don’t make an awful sight of difference,” the sentry admitted.
“Of course it doesn’t,” said the Captain, following up the concession. “The idea of making us wait here because there’s somebody down there!”
“Well, I reckon you might as well go on,” yielded the sentry: “I reckon you won’t run off this morning;” and on we went.
The “branch” was a little brook, sometimes running over sand-bars, sometimes filtering through them, and occasionally settling into pools, which were our bathing places. It was a happy relief to be out of sight of the barracks and alone. We clung to this under all sorts of difficulties and restrictions—sometimes going out with a patrol—sometimes squeezing through on parole, and holding fast to it, until we left Camp Groce in the cold weather of December.
The bath being taken, we walked leisurely back, wondering that so few sought this relief from the misery of prison. At the barracks our sailor cook had prepared the breakfast, which was set out on the long table. He blew his boatswain’s whistle, and all members of the mess hurried at the call. I had felt poor when I arrived at Camp Groce. I had expected to broil beef on sticks, and bake dodger in a dodger pot, and live on my ration as the Texans did. I was amazed at the extravagance I beheld, and when Captain Dillingham, with a sailor’s 99heartiness, invited me to join the navy mess, I hinted to him that probably I should become insolvent in a fortnight, if I did. The Captain laughed at the idea. He said there was plenty of money in Texas—he had never seen a country that had so much money—and it was the easiest thing to get it—anybody would lend you all you wanted—the only fault he had to find was, that after he got it he couldn’t spend it. Now, making reasonable allowances for nautical exaggeration, this was true. Sometimes a secret unionist—sometimes a Confederate officer fairly forced his money upon us. They took no obligation, save the implied one of our honor; and the manner of payment, and the specie value of their Confederate funds, they left entirely to ourselves. To spend this money was a harder task. To change this easily gotten spoilt paper into something of real intrinsic worth was to acquire wealth.
When breakfast was finished, I took up a little French volume of ghost stories (which I read over five times carefully in the course of the next five months), and spent on it and some military works the next four hours. “Prisoners have nothing to do but to eat;” so at the end of four hours we had our breakfast over again. When “dinner,” as it was called, was finished, the Captain stoutly asserted that a load of wood must be got, and somebody must volunteer to get it. The Captain volunteered, so did Lieutenant Sherman and myself, so did another officer cheerfully, and two more tardily; but the mass of closely confined prisoners were too weak and 100too dejected, and they shrunk back from the effort that this work would cost them, preferring to stay idle and listless in their horrid prison. Those of us who volunteered, seized a couple of dull old axes, and proceeded to head-quarters.
“We are going out for wood to cook with,” said the Captain to the lieutenant that we found there, “and we must have an arbor to keep the sun off those sick fellows, or they’ll all die, and you’ll have nobody to exchange. Wake up one or two of your men, and send them out with us.”
The lieutenant reckoned he could not, he hadn’t a man to spare, all were on guard who hadn’t gone off to a race. The Captain pointed to the axes and said, “we were all ready to go.” This struck the lieutenant as a powerful reason, and he reckoned he would let a nigger hitch up the mules, and then let us go without any guard, but we must not go across the “branch.” The Captain replied that we would not go a great way across the “branch;” but he was fond of liberty, he said, and would not be circumscribed by “branches.” The lieutenant insisted on the “branch,” there had been orders given to that effect, he reckoned. The Captain did not care anything about orders—what difference could it make to Jeff Davis, he asked, whether we cut wood on this side of the “branch” or the other. The lieutenant could not answer this question, so he said, coaxingly, “Well, you won’t go a great ways on the other side, will you?”
101This little difference being thus compromised, we mounted an old rickety “two-mule wagon,” and drove down the “wood road,” till a sentry, sitting on a stump, reckoned we had better stop. Stop! what should we stop for? He reckoned he’d orders to let nobody out. Orders! Why, we had just been up to head-quarters, and got orders to go out, and also the wagon; what more could he want. Then why had not the lieutenant sent down a man to tell him; it was no way to do business. The Captain said the wagon was pass enough as long as the mules would travel, and that we were going out for wood, which he thought altered the case; if he, the sentry, doubted it, there were the axes. The sentry looked at the axes, and could not doubt the evidence of his eyes, so he let us out.
The sun went down, and then began a long evening. There was nothing to do but to sit in the dark and talk of nothing. Then there was a detail made of two for the sick watch, and finding that I was “on,” I went to bed. In the morning there had been several late sleepers who wondered why people got up early and ran a coffee-mill. As a matter of course these individuals now wondered why people went to bed early and wanted to sleep. The topics, too, which they chose were exactly the topics that always keep you awake; and if by chance you forgot them long enough to fall asleep, then there would be a furious argument on some important matter; and if that did not waken you, then some other man (who, like yourself, turned in at taps,) would lose patience and roar out, “taps,” “lights out,” “guard-house,” etc., etc.
102In small assemblages men may wake up and fall asleep when they please, but in camps and barracks, where many men of different habits are brought together, there must be some uniform rule for all. The Confederates never enforced military usage upon us, much to the regret of all who were accustomed to it, and a few very early and very late individuals, some of whom sat up till after taps, and others of whom turned out before reveille, were an endless annoyance to each other and to all. I think no officer of experience ever ran this gauntlet without inwardly resolving that, if ever he got back to his own command, stillness and darkness should rule between taps and reveille; that with daylight every blanket should go out, and every tent be put in order; that every shaggy head should be clipped, and all the little regulations which weak-minded recruits think to be “military tyranny,” should be most rigorously enforced.
But as I tossed around and made these resolves, the little sailor who was acting as hospital steward came in with both hands full of prescriptions. We had two excellent and faithful surgeons at Camp Groce, Dr. Sherfy of the “Morning Light,” and Dr. Roberts of the Confederate service. They kept their little office outside of the lines, came round on their second visit in the afternoon, and during the evening made up their prescriptions. This evening the first watch took the prescriptions from the hospital steward, and received the directions. It was Lieut. Hays, of the 175th N. Y., a happy, generous, warm-hearted Irishman, youthful and with 103the humor and drollery of his race. He was always making fun when others were dull, and making peace when they were angry. Soon I heard him going round among the sick. “I will listen,” I thought, “and find out what I have to do when my watch comes.”
“Here’s your medicine now, Mr. Black,” I heard him say, “wake up and take it.”
“What is it?” asked the sick man.
“Oh! it’s blue pills to touch your liver; come, take it, and don’t be asking questions.”
“How many of them are there?” inquired the patient after swallowing several.
“There are just seven of them, but what’s that to you? it won’t do you any good to know it.”
“Why, the doctor said he would send me six. Perhaps you are not giving me mine.”
“Just you take what’s sent to you. If you don’t take the whole seven, they won’t touch your liver a bit; six would be of no use at all.”
The man with the untouched liver swallowed the pills, and soon I heard the first watch rousing another sick man with the same formula of “Here’s your medicine now, wake up and take it—it’s blue pills to touch your liver.”
“How many of them are there?” asked this patient.
“There are just six of them—what’s the use of your knowing?”
“Why, the doctor said he would send me seven—perhaps these are not mine.”
104“No matter, six are just as good as seven, and seven are just as good as fifty. All you need do is to take what I give you, and it will touch your liver all the same.”
Much enlightened by this mode of distributing doses, and re-assuring patients, I went to sleep, and slept till one A.M., when the first watch called me, and I took my turn. It was rather dreary, sitting in the dark and cold, occasionally giving a man his medicine or a drink, and wishing for daylight. There was one poor fellow, also a lieutenant of the 175th, fast going in consumption. His constant cough, his restless sleep, his attenuated form, bright eye and hectic cheek, all told of the coming end. Yet with him there was nothing to be done but wait and watch.
Now this, of itself, was not such a bad sort of day; but there was a month of such days; and then another month, and then a third, and then many more. What wonder that the strongest resolutions failed!
Then death came in among our little company, and came again and again. Then sickness increased under the August sun. The long moss that hung down from the trees and waved so gracefully on the breeze, had betokened it long before it came, and the uncleaned camp and listless life made the prediction sure. It went on until all but one had felt it in some shape or other, and there were not enough well to watch the sick. It never left us, and down to our last day at Camp Groce the chief part of our company were frail and feeble and dispirited.
105Near to the barracks stood a little shanty of rough boards, divided by a plank partition into two rooms. One of these had been assigned to Mr. Stratford and his wife, and the other after several weeks came into the possession of Col. Burrell of the 42d Mass., Dr. Sherfy, Capt. Dillingham and myself. After living amid the sickness, the discord, and the misery of the barracks, this room measuring ten feet by twelve, promised to four of us a quiet and retirement that amounted almost to happiness. We went to work upon our little house with all the zeal of school-boys, and positively look back upon it with affection. It boasted doors, but neither windows nor chimney. Its walls were without lath and plaster, and through innumerable chinks let in the wind. The Captain and I also messed with Mr. and Mrs. Stratford; so we had a double interest in the shanty, and when we had built ourselves bunks and swung a shelf or two, we went to work on our other half.
“What shall I do for a blanket line?” was one of the first questions I had asked after our arrival.
“Let me lend you mine,” said an officer of the “Morning Light,” “we sailors always hang on to our ropes.”
“I will take it this morning, with thanks; but I want something of my own. If there is anything I despise, it’s a soldier’s blanket in his tent after reveille.”
“We are not so particular here, I’m sorry to say,” said my friend; “and unless you can find a line among the sailors, you won’t find one in Texas.”
“I am going out in the woods this afternoon, with 106Mr. Fowler,” I answered, “and will try to get one there.”
Now, Mr. Fowler, the acting Master of the “Morning Light,” was an old sailor, who had hardly been on shore for forty years. But in his early boyhood he had watched the Indians at their work, and caught from them, as boys do, some of their simple medicines and arts. For years and years these facts had slept undisturbed in his mind. If any one had asked him, he would have said they were forgotten; but now, under the pressure of our wants, they, one by one, came back. With this long-time worthless knowledge, Mr. Fowler was now busily and usefully employed. He made Indian baskets of all shapes and sizes, and even bent his ash-slips into fantastic dishes. He made Indian brooms and fly-brushes, and wooden bowls, and wove grape-vine and black-jack into high-backed, deep-seated, sick-room chairs. Where others saw only weeds or firewood, he found remedies for half our diseases; and when the surgeon’s physic gave out, Mr. Fowler’s laboratory was rich in simples.
We went out on parole that afternoon, Mr. Fowler carrying his basket, and I, an axe. He called attention to the fact that these pecan nuts would be ripe by-and-by, and that those persimmons would be worth coming after when the frost should have sugared them, and he filled his basket as he walked and talked. Before long, we saw some clean black-jack vines hanging from the top-most branches of a tree. We tugged and strained 107a few minutes, and then a splendid vine came down, not thicker than a lady’s finger at the root, yet forty feet in length. It was flexible as a rope, and as I coiled it up, I said to Mr. Fowler, “I have got my blanket line.”
Having cut an ash stick for a broom, and a pecan log for an axe handle, we went back to camp, where, soon after, Mr. Fowler was busily engaged in pounding his ash stick to loosen the splints, and I, at work on the severest manual effort of my life, viz., whittling with a soft-bladed penknife, out of flinty pecan wood, an orthodox American axe-helve.
Some weeks passed, and then one of those events occurred which are doubly mortifying if you are then on the wrong side of the enemy’s lines. I was lying ill in my bunk when an excited individual rushed into the barracks and made me better by the announcement, that the train had brought up great news from Houston. Blunt was coming down through the Indian Territory with his rough borderers, and all the troops in Texas were to be hurried northward to repel the invasion. For several days and nights trains ran by our camp loaded with soldiers who howled horribly to our guards, who howled, horribly back to them. The Houston Telegraph came filled with orders of General Magruder, directing the movement of his forces, and naming twenty-seven different battalions that were to hurry forward immediately. The General did not publish such orders ordinarily, and this one looked like haste, excitement and alarm.
108One night, about ten o’clock, an engine was heard hurrying up the road. As usual it stopped at the water-tank near our camp. In ten minutes important news had leaped from the engine to head-quarters; from head-quarters to the guard-house, and from the guard-house straight through the line of sentries into our bunks. The news was this: twelve Yankee gun-boats, twenty-four large transports, and six thousand men lay off Sabine.
The next day the train confirmed the news. We learnt, too, that union men, in Houston, were bold and defiant, and talked openly of a change of masters. Our guards were in a ferment. They talked with us freely, and confessed that there were not three hundred troops between Houston and Sabine. “Your folks will seize the railroad and march straight on to Houston,” they said, “and then Galveston will have to go, and like as not you’ll be guarding us within a week.” “What splendid strategy,” said everybody. “Blunt has drawn all the forces in the State up to Bonham—there is nothing to prevent our coming in below; Magruder is completely out-generalled. We must forgive the two months of idleness since Vicksburg and Port Hudson fell.”
Another day came, and the excitement increased; another, and affairs seemed in suspense; a third, and there was a rumor that two gun-boats had been sunk, their crews captured, and that the “Great Expedition” was “skedaddling” (such was the ignominious term applied) 109back to New Orleans. There came yet another day, when we sat waiting for the train.
“The cars are late,” said one. “It is past three o’clock, and they should have been here at two.”
“That’s a good sign,” said another; “it shows they have something to keep them. When they come you will see Magruder is sending off his ordnance stores.”
“Then you don’t feel any fear about that rumor?”
“That rumor, oh no! It is the best sign of all. They never fail to get up such rumors when they are being beaten. Don’t you remember how, just before Vicksburg surrendered, we used to hear that Breckenridge had taken Baton Rouge, and Taylor was besieging New Orleans, and Lee had burnt Philadelphia?”
“Oh no,” said everybody, stoutly, “there is no danger. And how can there be? We know that there is nothing down there but a little mud fort, with fifty men in it, and six forty-two pounders. Our hundred-pound Parrots will knock it to pieces, and a couple of companies can carry it by assault. Oh no, all I am afraid of is, that we shall be run off, nobody knows where.”
The whistle sounded and we waited for the news. The track ran through a deep cutting, which at first hid the body of the cars from our sight, but a man stood on the roof of the foremost baggage car and waved his hat. Presently a howl was given by those of our guard who were waiting at the station.
“What can that mean?” said everybody. “Very strange! surely there can be no bad news for us.”
110The next moment, some one exclaimed, “Good heavens, what a sight! Look there!” I looked; the train was covered with the blue-jackets of our navy.
The officers of the “Clifton” and “Sachem” did not accompany their men. We heard that they were guilty of spiking their cannon, flooding their magazines, secreting their money, and other like offences, for which they were kept at Houston; later, however, they unexpectedly came up. A new Captain, who then commanded Camp Groce, ushered them in, and we welcomed them. The youngest of us then had been prisoners more than three months, and felt ourselves to be “old prisoners.” The Captain of the “Clifton” supped with us, and as he surveyed our little shanty, replete with black-jack lines, hat-racks of curiously twisted branches, knives, and spoons, and salt-cellars, neatly carved from wood, and pipes fashioned out of incomparable corn-cob, he said that these little luxuries made him feel sorry for us, for they showed him what straits we had been reduced to. I felt sorry for him as he said it, for the speech reminded me of the lessons reserved for him to learn. Later than usual we retired, excited with this unusual event. The barracks had just grown quiet, when the Captain in command suddenly re-appeared, his guard at his back. “The gentlemen who arrived to-day,” he said, in an agitated voice, “will please to rise immediately.” The new-comers rose, groped round for clothes and baggage in the dark; and as they dressed, asked what all this meant. The Captain vouchsafed no reply, but in a still 111more agitated voice, begged them to be as quick as possible. Whether they were going to be searched, or executed, or sent back to Houston, nobody could determine. They were marched off, and we, now wide awake, discussed the matter for some hours. The next morning disclosed our friends haplessly shivering around a small building, some three hundred yards distant. It appeared that strict orders had been sent up with the prisoners, directing that they should be confined separately, and hold no communication with us. The now unhappy Captain had not thought it worth while to read his orders until bed-time. Then he stumbled on the fiat of the stern Provost Marshal General, whose chief delight was to court-martial Confederate captains. Deeply dismayed, he had rushed to the guard-house for his guard, to the barracks for his prisoners, and executed the painful work of separation.
The Provost Marshal General had not enclosed subsistence in his order. In the absence of dodger-pots, the “old prisoners” had to take care of these new ones. We were not allowed to write or talk, to send messages or to receive them. The baskets, as they went and came, were searched, the dodgers broken open, and everything was done in a very military and terrible way. In a few days we received a present of pea-nuts from our friends. We were not fond of pea-nuts, and did not appreciate the gift. The basket travelled over as usual with their dinner, but carried no acknowledgment of the pea-nuts. In the afternoon Lieutenant Dane, of the signal corps, 112was seen approaching our lines with a prize—a prize that had neither predecessor nor successor—a leg of mutton. The lieutenant delivered the mutton across the line to one of us, and the notability of the event warranted him in saying before the guard:
“This is a present from Major Barnes. Did you get the pea-nuts we sent you this morning?”
“Yes, yes,” responded Captain Dillingham, on behalf of our mess; “yes, they’re very nice. We are much obliged to you.”
“Eat them,” said the lieutenant, “eat them. They won’t hurt you—eat them all.”
The Captain carried the leg of mutton in, and hurriedly took down the pea-nuts. We looked sharply at them, but saw nothing unusual. Why eat them all? “If they want us to do so, it must be done!” We proceeded to break the shells. Presently there was a shell—a sound and healthy shell—within which had grown a long, narrow slip of paper, rolled up tightly. It contained a single message, viz., that the covered handle of Mr. Fowler’s basket was in fact a mail-bag. From that time on, the watchful patrols would lift out the plates, and inspect the beef, and scrutinize the dodger, and then carry the mail-bag backward and forward for us.
With the increased number of prisoners, there had been a change in the command of the camp. The company of volunteers were relieved by a battalion of militia. To our surprise, the militia very far surpassed the volunteers, and did their business in a very soldierly 113way. The battalion was commanded by Lieutenant-Colonel John Sayles, a lawyer of considerable distinction in Texas. The Lieutenant-Colonel was a man of few words, very quiet, very kind, and rarely gave an order that did not effect an improvement.
On the Sunday after he assumed command, Colonel Sayles informed me in his quiet way, that there would be Divine service in the grove, and invited me and all the prisoners to accompany him. There had been a reverend gentleman preaching at Camp Groce the Sunday before I arrived, who had been seeking a chaplaincy, and had assumed what he supposed was a popular train of argument; as for instance, warning his beloved brethren that the chief horror of eternal punishment would be meeting the President of the United States there. I do not care to hear irreverent things said in the pulpit, nor do I think it the part of an officer to listen voluntarily to denunciations of his government, yet I felt assured that Colonel Sayles would not invite me to anything of that kind, and I thought I could best acknowledge his civility by accepting.
When the clergyman who officiated first caught sight of the prisoners, forming one-half of his audience, he evinced a little embarrassment. He alluded to this as he began his sermon, and spoke happily of the breadth of the Christian faith, extending to all conditions of men, and enabling enemies to stand together and worship at one altar. His prayer was chiefly an affecting and beautiful petition on our behalf. He spoke of the tender 114ties that were severed, and besought consolation for our distant dear ones, who must be now in anxiety watching our fate. He prayed, too, that “we their captors and keepers, may have grace to treat them as becomes Christian soldiers, resisting the evil passions of our hearts and the evil counsels of wicked and cruel men.”
After the services were concluded, we were introduced to the clergyman, Mr. McGown, of Huntsville. He visited us in our quarters, ministered to our sick, and was always one of our most welcome visitors. He had been with Houston in the war of Texan independence, and was one of the heroes of San Jacinto. His acquaintance with the General had been intimate, and he entertained us with many interesting anecdotes of him and tales of the former war.
These anecdotes of General Houston then possessed for us unusual interest. When some of the older prisoners had been sent to the State Prison at Huntsville, they were halted a few minutes on the outskirts of the town. As they waited there, a tall, imposing old man approached and asked, who was the United States officer highest in rank. Captain Dillingham was pointed out to him as the senior naval officer. Walking up to him and extending his hand, he said, in a deep, emphatic voice, “My name is Houston, sir. I have come to say to you, gentlemen, that I do not approve of such treatment for prisoners of war. No prisoner of war shall ever be put in a jail with my consent.”
The death of General Houston occurred just before I 115reached Texas. Many stories were told of his great personal power, and strange incidents of his wondrously romantic life. The forebodings of his celebrated letter were all realized before he died, for his oldest son was in the ranks—his warmest friends and supporters were scattered and slain, and ruin and desolation brooded over the State which he had established and so long directed and controlled. He was guarded in the expression of his political sentiments, but occasionally addressed the troops, speaking from the Texan point of view. He never took the oath of allegiance to the Confederate Government. A short time before his death travellers were required to have a Provost Marshal’s pass, and to procure a pass they must take the oath. The General had neither taken the oath nor procured a pass. He set out, however, on a journey and proceeded till one of the provost guard halted him and demanded his pass.
“My pass through Texas,” said the old man, in his sternest tone, “is San Jacinto.”
The Texan soldier looked at him for a moment. “I reckon,” he said, “that pass will go as far in Texas as any a Provost Marshal ever wrote. Pass an old San Jacinto.”
Colonel Sayles was soon succeeded by Major James S. Barnes of the same battalion. The Major was a Georgian by birth, an old Texan by residence, and a man of great general information, and so far as we were concerned, in every thought and word and deed a perfect Christian gentleman. He told stories with a graphic 116simplicity I have never heard excelled, and was so pleasantly reasonable and so enticingly good-natured that even our wayward sailors consented to be led by a landsman, and allowed that he was as good a man as a rebel could be. One day as the Major passed through the barracks chatting with the well and cheering up the sick, he hinted at the uncertainty of exchange and at coming “northers,” and advised us to prepare for the worst by building ourselves chimneys and fire-places. He promised to provide an old negro chimney-builder to engineer the work and teams to haul the material. The dwellers in the shanty quickly availed themselves of the offer. But nothing could induce those in the barracks to go and do likewise. So weak and dispirited were all that the difficulties appeared insurmountable. When the frost came and found them still prisoners, they piled sand on the floor, and making fire upon it sat there and shivered, while the smoke floated over them and found its way out through the holes in the roof.
We, who were wise betimes, cut our logs in the woods, dug up our clay on the neighboring hill-side, and waited the arrival of “Uncle George.” This uncle came in time, and led the work. A hole was cut in Mr. Stratford’s room—the logs were notched and crossed, the chimney splints were split and laid up, and the whole was properly cemented together, and daubed over with rich clay mortar.
Hardly was the chimney complete, when one of the guard announced that he reckoned there’d be a norther; 117the beeves, he said, were making for the timber. In Texas it is an established fact that nobody can tell anything about the weather, so we gave little heed to the prediction. Early in the afternoon, however, some one said that the norther was in sight. The day was warm; the sun was bright; birds were singing, and the leaves still were green. There was nothing to indicate a change save a black cloud rapidly rising in the north. Our men were sitting round in their shirt-sleeves, whittling and working as usual, and every thing continued pleasant. The black cloud, however, bore swiftly down upon us. As it drew near, we saw an immense flock of turkey-buzzards driven before it, whirling in the air and screaming wildly. A moment later the breeze struck us. It felt not unlike the gust that precedes a thunder-shower, but as I watched the cloud I found that I had suddenly grown cold. I had heard fearful stories of these northers, and read of a hardy Vermonter, who, scorning a cold that merely skimmed the ponds with ice, had ventured out in one; and how his blood congealed, and he was carried back by his horse insensible. I saw that all the men had gone in, and that the sentries had wrapped themselves in their blankets. Within the shanty I found our little fire-place bright and its owners sitting in a close circle around it. But the cold seemed to beat directly through the walls, and the wind blew a steady blast. We passed all the long evening closely crouched around the fire, warming first one side and then the other, talking of home and pitying the poor wretches in 118the barracks. When bed-time came we carried hot stones with us into our bunks and hurried to bed before we should be chilled. I wrapped myself in my double army blanket with which I had braved ice and snow and then rolled myself in my buffalo. I thought it sufficient for an Arctic winter, but ere morning the horrible cold crept in and penetrated to the very bones. As I moved about to try and make my blood circulate, Colonel Burrill spoke and said that he was so cold that he feared he was dying. The Colonel had been quite ill, and this startled me; so I rose, threw a coat or two upon him, and then drawing the blankets over his head, tucked them tightly in and left him to take the chances of suffocation or freezing. I went back to my own couch and shivered away till morning. The cold drove us all out early, and we met again around our fire-place. A sailor boy brought up a hot breakfast, for cooking over a hot stove that morning was a high privilege which no one threw away. He told us that one of his shipmates lay frozen in his bunk, and that they had just found him there dead. During the morning we suspended our blankets from the rafters so as to form a little tent immediately around the fire, and there in darkness we sat the live-long day. Another dismal evening followed and another bitter night. Then, after thirty-six hours of fury, the norther went down and we ventured to crawl out and resume our work.