Jerrolaman went out this afternoon and picked nearly a peck of blackberries. Berries of various kinds are very abundant. The fox-grape is also found in great plenty, and as big as one's thumb.
The Indianians are great ramblers. Lieutenant Bell says they can be traced all over the country, for they not only eat all the berries, but nibble the thorns off the bushes.
General Reynolds told me, this evening, he thought it probable we would be attacked soon. Have been distributing ammunition, forty rounds to the man.
My black horse was missing this morning. Conway looked for him the greater part of the day, and finally found him in possession of an Indiana captain. It happened in this way: Captain Rupp, Thirteenth Indiana, told his men he would give forty dollars for a sesesh horse, and they took my horse out of the pasture, delivered it to him, and got the money. He rode the horse up the valley to Colonel Wagner's station, and when he returned bragged considerably over his good luck; but about dark Conway interviewed him on the subject, when a change came o'er the spirit of his dream. Colonel Sullivan tells me the officers now talk to Rupp about the fine points of his horse, ask to borrow him, and desire to know when he proposes to ride again.
A little group of soldiers are sitting around a camp-fire, not far away, entertaining each other with stories and otherwise. Just now one of them lifts up his voice, and in a melancholly strain sings:
Somebody —— “is weeping
For Gallant Andy Gay,
Who now in death lies sleeping
On the field of Monterey.”
While I write he strikes into another air, and these are the words as I catch them:
“Come back, come back, my purty fair maid!
Then thousand of my jinture on you I will bestow
If you’ll consent to marry me;
Oh, do not say me no.”
But the maid is indifferent to jintures, and replies indignantly:
“Oh, hold your tongue, captain, your words are all in vain;
I have a handsome sweetheart now across the main,
And if I do not find him I’ll mourn continuali.”
More of this interesting dialogue between the captain and the pretty fair maid I can not catch.
The sky is clear, but the night very dark. I do not contemplate my ride to the picket posts with any great degree of pleasure. A cowardly sentinel is more likely to shoot at you than a brave one. The fears of the former do not give him time to consider whether the person advancing is friend or foe.
SOURCE: John Beatty, The Citizen-soldier: Or, Memoirs of a Volunteer, p. 41-3
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