Pegasus Recovered –
the Dog Bologna – Repudiation of Captain Villiam Brown’s Proclamation – the Sambory
Guard – Advance on Richmond
(From the N. Y.
Sunday Mercury.)
Rejoice with me, my boy, that I have got back my gothic
steed, Pegasus, from the Government chap who borrowed him for a desk. The splendid architectural animal has just enough
slant from his backbone to his hips to make a capital desk, and then his tail
is so handy to wipe pens on. In a moment
of thirst he swallowed a bottle of ink, and some fears were entertained for his
life, but a gross of steel pens and a ream of blotting paper immediately
administered caused him to come out all write.
In a gothic sense, my boy the charger continues to produce
architectural illusions. He was standing
on a hillside the other day with his rear elevation toward the spectators, his
head up and ears touching at the top, when a chap who had been made pious by
frequent conversation with the contrabands, noticed him afar off, and says he to
the soldier, “What church is that I behold in the distance, my fellow worm of
the dust?” The military veteran looked
and says he, “It does look like a church, but it’s only an animated hay rack
belonging to the cavalry.”
“I see,” says the pious chap, moving on, “the beast looks
like a church because he’s been accustomed to steeple chases.”
I have also much satisfaction in the society of my dog,
Bologna, who has already become so attached to me that I believe he would
defend me against any amount of meat.
Like the Old Guard of France, he’s always around the bony parts thrown,
and like a bon vivant is much given
to whining after his dinner.
The last time I was at Paris my boy, this interesting animal
made a good breakfast off the calves of the General of the Mackerel Brigadier’s
leg’s, causing that great strategical commander to issue enough oaths for the
whole Southern Confederacy. “Thunder!”
says the General, at the conclusion of his cursory remarks, “I shall have the
hydrophobia and bite somebody. It’s my
opinion,” says the General, hastily licking a few grains of sugar from the
spoon he was holding at the time, “It’s my opinion, that I shall go rabid as
soon as I see water.”
“Then you’re perfectly safe, my conquering hero,” says I, “for
when you see water, the Atlantic ocean will be principally composed of brandy
pale.”
Speaking of Paris, it pains me, my boy, to say that Captain
Villiam Brown’s proclamation for the conciliation of Southern Union men has
been repudiated by the General of the Mackerel Brigade. “Thunder!” says the General, taking a cork
from his pocket in mistake for a watch key, “it’s against the Constitution to
open a bar so far away from where Congress sits.” And he at once issued the following:
PROCLAMATION
WHEREAS There appears in the public prints what
presumptuously pretends to be a proclamation of Captain Villiam Brown, Eskevire,
in the words following, to wit.
PROCLAMATION – The Union men of the South are hereby
informed, that the United States of America has reasserted hisself, and will
shortly open a bar-room in Paris. Also,
cigars and other necessaries of life.
By Order of
CAPT. VILLIAM BROWN, ESKEVIRE
And whereas, the same is producing much excitement among
those members from the border States who would prefer that said bar-room should
be nearer Washington in case of sickness, Therefore, I, General of the Mackerel
Brigade, do proclaim and declare that the Mackerel Brigade cannot stand this
sort of thing, and that neither Captain Villiam Brown, nor any other commander,
has been authorized to declare free lunch, either by implication or otherwise,
in any State, much less in a state of intoxication, of which there are several.
To persons in this State, now, I earnestly appeal. I do not argue, I beseech you to mix your own
liquors. You can not, if you would, be
blind to the signs of the times, when such opportunity is offered to see
double. I beg of a calm and immense
consideration of them (signs), ranging, it may be, above personal liquor
establishments. The change you may receive
after purchasing your materials will come gently as the dues from heaven – not rending
nor wrecking anything. Will you not
embrace me? May the extensive future not
have to lament that you have neglected to do so.
Yours, respectfully,
the
GENERAL OF THE MACKEREL
BRIGADE
(Green seal.)
When Villiam read this conservative proclamation, my boy, he
looked thoughtfully into a recently occupied tumbler for a few moments, and
then says he:
“There’s some intelleck in that. The General covers the whole ground. Ah!” says Villiam, preparing, in a dreamy manner,
to wash out the tumbler with something from a decanter, “the General so
completely covers the whole ground sometimes that the police departmink is
required to clear it.”
I believe him, my boy!
The intelligent and reliable contrabands, my boy, who have
come into Paris from time to time, with the valuable news concerning all recent
movements not taking place in the Confederacy were formed lately, by Villiam,
into a military company, called the Sambory Guard, Captain Bob Shorty being
deputed to drill them in the colored manual of arms. They were dressed in flaming read breeches
and black coats, my boy, and each chaotic chap looked like a section of stove
pipe walking about on two radishes.
I attended the first drill my boy, and found the oppressed
Africans standing in line about as regular as so many trees in a maple swamp.
Captain Bob Shorty whipped out his sleepless sword,
straightened it on a log, stepped to the front, and was just about to give the
first order, when, suddenly he started, threw up his nose, and stood paralyzed.
“What’s the matter, my blue and gilt,” says I.
He stood like one in a dream and says he:
“‘Pears to me I smell something.”
“Yes,” says I, “‘tis the scent of the roses that hang around
it still.”
“True,” says Captain Bob Shorty, recovering, “it does smell
like a cent, and I haven’t seen a cent of my pay for such a long time, that the
novelty of the odor knocked me.
Attention, company!”
Only five of the troops were enough startled by the sudden
order, my boy, to drop their guns, and only four stooped down to tie their
shoes. One very reliable contraband left
the ranks, and says he:
“Mars’r, hadn’t Brudder Rhett bett gub out de hymn before de
service commence?”
“Order in the ranks!” says Capt. Bob Shorty, with some
asperity, “Attention, company! – Order arms.”
The troops did this very well, my boy, the muskets coming
down at intervals of three minutes, bringing each man’s cap with them and
pointing so regularly toward all points of the compass, that no foe could
possibly approach from any direction without running on a bayonet.
“Excellent!” says Captain Bob Shorty, with enthusiasm. “Only, Mr. Rhett, you needn’t hold your gun
quite so much like a hoe. Carry Arms!”
Here Mr. Dana stepped out from the ranks, and says he: “Carry
who, mars’r?”
“Go to the rear,” says Capt. Bob Shorty, indignantly. “Present Arms!”
If Present Arms means to sick your bayonet into the next
mans side, my boy, the troops did it very well.
Splendid!” says Capt. Bob Shorty. “Shoulder Arms – Eyes right – double quick,
march! On to Richmond!”
The troops obeyed the order, my boy, and haven’t been seen
since. Perhaps they’re going yet, my
boy.
Company Three, Regiment 5 Mackerel Brigade, started for an
advance on Richmond yesterday, and by a forced march got within three miles of
it. Another march brought them within
five miles of the place, and the last dispatch stated that they had but ten miles
to go before reaching the rebel capital.
Military travel, my boy, is like the railroad at the West,
where they had to make chalk marks on the track to see which way the train was
going.
Yours on time,
ORPHEUS C. KERR
– Published in The Burlington Weekly Hawk-Eye,
Burlington, Iowa, Saturday, June 7, 1862, p. 1
