AN INSPECTION.
A few days ago orders came to get ready for inspection the next
afternoon. All was now hurry and bustle, cleaning up camp, arms, equipments and
clothing, and putting everything in order. The artillerists worked like
beavers, cleaning up the gun carriages and limbers, using all the grease in the
kitchen to brighten them up. The old brass guns were polished up and shone like
mirrors and we were congratulating ourselves on being highly complimented.
At the appointed time, Lieut. Col. Moulton and Capt. Rawlston of
somebody's staff put in an appearance. The captain was the inspecting officer;
a very airy, pompous young gentleman, with a remarkable faculty of making his
weak points conspicuous
When the companies fell in, he noticed the artillery detail did not
fall in and inquired the reason. Col. Moulton replied that they were expecting
to be inspected as artillery. The captain said he knew nothing about that, he
was sent here to inspect this detachment as infantry and every man must fall
in. Now that was all right enough, only it placed me at a disadvantage, for I
had taken no thought or care of Spitfire since my promotion and it was looking
pretty bad. But I had no time to clean it up, and I must say it was a sorry
looking piece to take out for a show. But as bad as it looked, I had the utmost
confidence in its shooting qualities, in fact I have never lost confidence in
Spitfire but once, that was when I dropped it in the creek at Goldsboro.
We were marched out and paraded, and after the inspecting officer had
“sassed” Col. Moulton and nearly all the other officers, he commenced his job.
He found right smart of fault, but didn't find a really good subject until he
came to me. He looked me over, and taking Spitfire gave it a very careful and
thorough inspection. Handing it back he very gravely informed me that he had
inspected the whole army of the Potomac and had never before seen a rifle
looking so bad as Spitfire, and still further complimenting me by saying I was
about the roughest looking sergeant he had ever seen. I nodded assent,
venturing the remark that I had been in the artillery detail while here and my
rifle had been somewhat neglected, but I had a gun on the Malakoff that could
knock the spots off the sun. He allowed that that was insolence and any more of
it would subject me to arrest. Imagine the indignation of the chief of
artillery on being threatened with arrest by an infantry captain. My first
impulse was to call my command, lash him to the muzzle of the gun on the
Malakoff and give him rapid transit over the tops of the pines, but better
thoughts soon succeeded and I forgave him, thinking that perhaps he was doing
as well as he knew how. The inspection over, he had not long to stay, as the
boat was waiting for him. I noticed the officers didn't pet him very much and I
don't believe he got more than one drink.
MISS CARROLL.
Three or four miles out here, through the woods, lives a Mr. Carroll.
He has two sons in the 1st North Carolina union volunteers, stationed up in
Washington. He makes frequent visits up there to see the boys and is often
accompanied by his daughter, a rather good-looking young lady of about 20 years
of age. It sometimes happens that they get here early in the morning and have
to wait an hour or so for the boat, and will sometimes stop an hour on their
return before going home. At these times they are guests at headquarters and a
few of us, without the fear of the captain before our eyes, will happen in to
have a chat with the old gentleman and his daughter. She expressed a great
fondness for literature and claims to be “the only really literary young lady
in these yere parts." We occasionally fit her out with such story papers
and magazines as we may have lying around, for which she expresses great
pleasure.
She one day inquired if we had read a certain piece of poetry in one of
the magazines we had given her. She was told we had and thought it very nice.
We inquired if she was pleased with it. She replied she thought it was
“Splendid! beautiful!" We asked if she was fond of poetry. She said, she
was excessively fond of it and read a great deal; in a sly, blushing kind of
way, she hinted that she sometimes tried her hand at composing. “Ah, indeed;
would you favor us with a few specimens, some day when you come over? We should
be pleased to look at them.” She promised she would, and the next time she came
she brought a composition entitled “Lines to the Union Boys. They were the
merest doggerel, but we were loud in their praise and told her that by reading
poetry and practising composing she would excel; that when the cruel war was
over and we had retired to the peaceful pursuits of life in our far northern
homes, we hoped to be reminded of her occasionally, by seeing some of her
productions in print. She seemed a good deal pleased with such flattering
encomiums, but thought she would hardly attain to that distinction. I thought
so too.
I asked if she would allow me to take a copy of the lines during her absence up town, and she kindly consented. Below is the copy :
I suppose you have herd of Swift creek
An the victory there was won
The yankee boys was wide awake
An they made them rebels run.
CHORUS:
Farewell Father an Mother
An a true sweetheart
An the girls we leave in pain
Oh dont forget those yankee boys they are coming back again.
An when the yankees did come in
The guerrillas took to flight
An tore down the bonna blue flag
An hoisted the stars an stripes.
When South Carolina did secede
An surely did go out
The yankee boys must have bin asleep
They had not whipt her back
I take my stand in Richmond
An Swift creek Il persue
I do not care for Whitford*
Nor none of his cowardly crew
The gurrillas hates the Buffalows†
But they dont care for that
If they dont shut their mouths an let them alone
They will make them clere the track
There is good many men in this war
By the names of Hill
An if the yankees dus get them
They will larn them how to drill
There is good many men here
By the name of Whitford two
An when the yankees does get them
They will put them rebels through
The secesh girls look mighty loansum
Walking the road in there homemade homespun
The Union girls dont look sad
Walking the road in there yankee plad
An when the war is ended
The guerrillas they will say
They rather fight the devil
Than the boys that gains the day
Hold your toungs you secesh ones
An see what will be don
The yankees boys are bound to go
The whole hog or none
The Union men looks mighty grand
With there cork heel boots au their gloves on their hands
The secesh men looks mighty mean
Going through the woods an never are seen.
CHORUS, &c.
Now whatever fault can be found with the above lines, there can
certainly no fault be found with their loyalty.
WAITING TO BE RELIEVED.
We keep a small camp guard during the night and this duty is assigned
to the artillery detail, each gun's company taking its turn, which brings us on
every third night. There are only four posts, the guns and magazine, and as they
only go on at tattoo and come off at reveille, the duty is not very arduous.
The guard is divided into two reliefs, one going on the first part of the night
and the other the latter part; the duty is simply to keep their ears open for
any disturbance among the pickets out in the woods and alarm the camp. The
reliefs sleep in their quarters and are called when wanted. The sergeant or
corporal on duty occupies a small wall tent, in which a candle is kept burning
through the night. Having my choice of time and it not making any difference to
the corporal, I take the latter part, as I prefer sleeping the first part. I
have a splendid corporal, I think the best in the service; we go along
together, and agree first rate. He is willing to do all the work and I am
willing he should. He posts the first relief and then keeps his eyes open until
it is time to post the second relief, when he posts them and then comes and
calls me, when I relieve him. My work is now all done; all I have to do is to
lie down and go to sleep or busy myself with my reading or writing, and call
off the relief at reveille. If I am too busy to attend to that duty (which I
generally am), they take the responsibility of relieving themselves, which is a
great help to me and relieves me of a great burden of care.
One night while on this duty the officer of the day came in and
inquired if I would like to take a stroll and make a round of the pickets. I
replied that I should. We started out making the round and not being in a hurry
did not get back till daylight. I laid down and went to sleep, feeling that
everything was all safe and quiet on the Pamlico. About 7 o'clock I was called
up and told I was wanted at the magazine. I went out and there stood Charlea, a
Roman sentinel amid the wreck of worlds. I admired his fidelity, but I really
couldn't commend his judgment and no explanation or excuses of mine availed in
the least; he was going to be relieved officially, and after he had got through
with me I don't think there were many more cuss words left in him. I certainly
felt relieved if he didn't.
THE ROVER.
Capt. Foss somewhere picked up an old boat and with Jed's assistance
put it in good repair, rigged up a sail, rated it A 1, and named it the Rover.
The captain is skipper and Jed sailing master. She is a long, clipper-built
craft, with a large spread of canvas in a carrying capacity of ten or twelve
persons. With a spanking breeze she walks up and down the river like a thing of
life and makes nothing of sailing right around the little steamer Undine. She
makes frequent trips to Rodman's and occasionally to town. The captain selects
the party he wants to take out and I am sometimes honored with an invitation.
We usually run alongside the gunboat that lays here and take aboard the second
assistant engineer, who is a genial, good-natured old fellow, full of his fun
and stories, and then put for Rodman's. We stop there an hour and start for home.
On the return trip, the old engineer's inventive powers will be a good deal
quickened and he will suggest various alterations in the rig and sail of the
craft, which will improve her sailing qualities, all of which Jed readily
accepts and is going to forth with adopt, but the next day the improvements are
all forgotten and never thought of again until another return trip from Rodman's.
A few days ago a small party of us made a halt at Rodman's and found Sergeant
Martin in command. He did the honors, showing us about the camp and extending
hospitalities in a manner that would have done credit to a prince. To my notion
Sergeant Martin has got the correct idea of holding a command, not to go dry
himself nor let his friends.
BIG JIM.
Big Jim, is he is called, is a character; genial, charitable,
good-natured, humorous and generous to a fault. He is quite a theatrical
character and loves to deal in romance and tragedy, and he caters to the mirthful
and fun-loving among the boys. He does not amount to much as a soldier, but
that is more his misfortune than from any unwillingness. He is of enormous
proportions and very fat, tipping the scale at 250 pounds. He is sorely
troubled with chafing when drilling or on the march, and for that reason is
excused from pretty much all duty. He is a sort of independent corps, doing
duty when he feels like it; he will often go out in the woods and relieve a man
on picket who happens to be taken sick. He sometimes has a feeling come over
him that he would like to get away from the noise and bustle of the camp, and
be alone by himself. At such times he takes his rifle and goes to the little
point, some 100 rods down the river, where there is a picket post. Here he will
stay two or three days at a time, caring for no company except at night, and
amuses himself with fishing, reading and writing. He has become so enamoured of
this kind of life, that he has taken the contract to do the picket duty at that
post and has made it his permanent residence, coming up to camp only two or
three times a week to see the boys and get his rations. He has opened a trading
post down there, and trades with the natives who touch there as they come in
their boats from up the bay or cove which sets back from there. He has built
himself a log house, and a sign over the door reads “Cash paid for coon skins,”
of which and other peltries he has collected quite a quantity, and intends
sending them to Boston markets.
* Whitford was a Guerrilla captain.
† Buffaloes were North Carolina Union volunteers.
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