Diary of Gideon Welles: Wednesday, June 17, 1863

Had a telegram at ten last night from Mr. Felton, President of the Philadelphia & Baltimore Railroad, requesting that a gunboat might be sent to Havre de Grace to protect the Company's ferryboat and property. Says he has information that the Rebels intend going down the river to seize it.

I went forthwith to the War Department to ascertain whether there was really any such alarming necessity, for it seemed to me, from all I had been able to learn, that it was a panic invocation. Found the President and Stanton at the War Department, jubilant over intelligence just received that no Rebels had reached Carlisle, as had been reported, and it was believed they had not even entered Pennsylvania. Stanton threw off his reserve, and sneered and laughed at Felton's call for a gunboat. Soon a messenger came in from General Schenck, who declares no Rebels have crossed the Potomac, that the stragglers and baggage-trains of Milroy had run away in affright, and squads of them, on different parallel roads, had alarmed each other, and each fled in terror with all speed to Harrisburg. This alone was asserted to be the basis of the great panic which had alarmed Pennsylvania and the country.

The President was relieved and in excellent spirits. Stanton was apparently feeling well, but I could not assure myself he was wholly relieved of the load which had been hanging upon him. The special messenger brought a letter to Stanton, which he read, but was evidently unwilling to communicate its contents, even to the President, who asked about it. Stanton wrote a few lines, which he gave to the officer, who left. General Meigs came in about this time, and I was sorry to hear Stanton communicate an exaggerated account of Milroy's disaster, who, he said, had not seen a fight or even an enemy. Meigs indignantly denied the statement, and said Milroy himself had communicated the fact that he had fought a battle and escaped. While he (Meigs) did not consider Milroy a great general, or a man of very great ability, he believed him to be truthful and brave, and if General Schenck's messenger said there had been no fight he disbelieved him. Stanton insisted that was what the officer (whom I think he called Payson) said. I told him I did not so understand the officer. The subject was then dropped; but the conversation gave me uneasiness. Why should the Secretary of War wish to misrepresent and belittle Milroy? Why exaggerate the false rumor and try to give currency to, if he did not originate, the false statement that there was no fight and a panic flight?

The President was in excellent humor. He said this flight would be a capital joke for Orpheus C. Kerr to get hold of. He could give scope to his imagination over the terror of broken squads of panic-stricken teamsters, frightened at each other and alarming all Pennsylvania. Meigs, with great simplicity, inquired who this person (Orpheus C. Kerr) was. “Why,” said the President, “have you not read those papers? They are in two volumes; any one who has not read them must be a heathen.” He said he had enjoyed them greatly, except when they attempted to play their wit on him, which did not strike him as very successful, but rather disgusted him. “Now the hits that are given to you, Mr. Welles, or to Chase, I can enjoy, but I dare say they may have disgusted you while I was laughing at them. So vice versa as regards myself.” He then spoke of a poem by this Orpheus C. Kerr which mythologically described McClellan as a monkey fighting a serpent representing the Rebellion, but the joke was the monkey continually called for “more tail,” “more tail,” which Jupiter gave him, etc., etc.

SOURCE: Gideon Welles, Diary of Gideon Welles, Secretary of the Navy Under Lincoln and Johnson, Vol. 1: 1861 – March 30, 1864, p. 332-3

Letter From Orpheus C, Kerr

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

Capt. Villiam Brown Eskvire . . .

. . . in the New York Mercury, thus brings “alliteration’s artful aid” to the immortality of Floyd in verse:

Felonious Floyd, far-famed and falsifying,

Forever first from Federal forces flying,

From fabrications fanning Fortune’s fame,

Finds foul Fugacity facitious Fame.

Fool! facile Fabler!  Fugitive flagitious!

Fear of Futurity, Filcher fictitious!

Fame forced from Folly, finding fawners fed,

Feeds final failure – failure fungus-fed.

– Published in The Burlington Weekly Hawk-Eye, Burlington, Iowa, Saturday, April 5, 1862, p. 3

From Washington

From the Sunday Mercury.

EDITOR T. T.:– Sunshine has at last resumed specie payment, my boy, and every man that chooses can walk under golden beams once more.  The sacred soil is drying up as rapidly as an old maid after forty-two, and boot-blacks begin to quote at high figures.  The General of the Mackerel brigade is so blissful at having a polish on his boots once more, that he puts them on the mantle-piece every time he enters a room, and treads on all the toes he can find in the street.  The latter operation, has pronounced much profanity, especially among the chaplains.

Speaking of the chaplains, reminds me of a reverend veteran who attended the soul of Captain Bob Shorty yesterday, and found it in a high state of preservation.  Captain Bob Shorty rashly over estimated his power of endurance, and undertook to read Fremont’s defence.  When he got to the twenty-first column he was seized with vertigo, and only recovered to find himself taking the measure of a bedstead, with a chaplain standing by him.

“My friend,” says the parson, “I consider it my duty to tell you that you’re a very sick man, and I take this opportunity to remind you of your latter end.”

Captain Bob Shorty scratched his head and says he:

“Am I bound of the kingdom?”

“You may recover,” says the chaplain, “but now is the time to settle your worldly affairs, if you don’t.  Think of your wife and progeny.”

“My wife!” says Captain Bob Shorty, hysterically.  “Ah, there’s a woman for you!”

“Is she a worthy help-mate?” says the chaplain.

“Why,” says Captain Bob Shorty, she’s mate and Captain both in my ship.  She’s frugal” – says Captain Bob Shorty – “she’s amiable, she’s neat, and she’s got only one fault in the world.”

“Ah!” says the chaplain “only one fault?  Then she must be an uncommon woman.”

“Yes,” says Captain Bob Shorty, dreamily, “my wife’s only got one fault in the world – she loves another chap better than she does me.”

At this juncture, my boy, the chaplain was seized with a severe cough; but as soon as he recovered he assumed a very grave expression, and says he:

“My friend let me beseech you to forget worldly things for a moment, and think of something more needful.”

“Drive on,” says Captain Bob Shorty.

The chaplain gave a grievous snuff, and says he:

“Is there not something above all created things that you feel in need of now?  Suppose my friend, that you were out at sea in a terrible storm, with the thunder roaring and the lightning flashing, and the rain falling in torrents all around you, what would you do to make yourself feel peaceful?”

“You say the rain was falling in torrents?” says Captain Bob Shorty.

“Yea verily,” says the chaplain.

“I think,” says Captain Bob Shorty, reflectively – “I think I should call for an umbrella and something hot.”

Upon hearing this beautiful answer, my boy, the chaplain buried his face in his hands.

“So should I,” he murmured – “so should I.”

“Depend upon it, my boy, there is a bond of sympathy between all men, that no difference of education or circumstances can sever; and when some nice touch of nature causes it to contract, it seldom fails to bring men together on the common platform of whisky hot.

It would afford me great pleasure, my boy, to report a great victory for our cause in Virginia, but no such result is yet visible to the eye in a state of nudity.

The gunboats to break the rebel blockade have not started up the Potomac yet, owing to a mistake by the General of the Mackerel Brigade.

Some months ago, my boy, the General gave an order to the Eastern contractor for a couple of peculiarly made gunboats for this service; but happening to pass the White House, shortly after, saw what he took to be the models of two just such gunboats protruding out of one  of the windows.  Thinking that the President had concluded to attend to the matter himself, he immediately telegraphed the contractor not to go on with the job.

Quite recently, the contractor came here again, and says he to the General:

“I’d like to see the models of those White House gunboats.”

The General conducted him toward the White House, my boy, and the two stood admiring the models, which protruded from the window as usual.

Pretty soon a Western Congressman came along, and says the contractor to him: “Can you tell me sir, whether these models of gunboats up there are on exhibition?”

“Gunboats!” says the Western chap, looking up.  “Do you take those for gunboats?”

“Of course,” says the contractor.

“Why you durned fool!” says the Congressman, “Those are the President’s boots.  The President always sits with his feet out of the window when he’s at home, and those are ends of his boots.”

Without another word, my boy, the General and the contractor turned gloomily from the spot, convinced they had witnessed the most terrific feet of the campaign.

Yours, sedately,

ORPHEUS C. KERR.

– Published in The Burlington Weekly Hawk-Eye, Burlington, Iowa, Saturday, March 29, 1862, p. 1

Another Letter From Orpheus C. Kerr

(From the N. Y. Sunday Mercury.)

Yesterday, as I sat sipping the oath in my room, and attentively examining a mirror which reflected with life-like accuracy the young woman doing up her back hair in a room across the street, my page Mr. Mortimer Montague, introduced a fascinating youth, whose serpentine locks, big bouquet, and perishable gloves, made me think of a barber confounded with a tailor under pledge of compromise with a ladies shoemaker.

“Your name, sir?” says I, with a slight cough.

“Wykoff,” says he.

“Why cough?” says I; “why now can I help coughing, when my visitor puts on airs enough to give anybody a cold?”

“Joke,” says he, smiling like a Miss. gambler when he steps ashore at New Orleans with his pockets full of winnings.  “I come,” says he, “to sell you some information concerning McClellan’s plan for an advance to Manassas.”

“How did you get it, my Adonis?” says I.

“I am acquainted with one of the chambermaids at the White House,” says he, and she divulged the plan.”

The Beautiful stranger cleared his throat with a lozenge, and says he:

“The plan is this:  A secret circular is to be immediately issued to all the Brigadiers on the Potomac, informing them that a new bar-room has just been opened at Manassas with free lunch every day.  It is calculated that this exciting document will produce an immediate advance of the whole Potomac army to the point named, as the Brigadiers are all such strict temperance men that they would consider it their religious duty to immediately put the liquor out of the way.  Nothing, in fact, could prevent an immediate and irresistible advance under such circumstances.”

“Admirable young man!” says I, “If what you say be true, Manassas is doomed.  The South is destined to be speedily humiliated; for our Brigadiers will pitch’er and tumble’er about so, that whatever peace we may offer her she will be but too glad to goblet  up while she can.”

From this conversation, my boy, you can infer what you choose; but it seems sound.  The South will be whipped at her stronghold, even if it be the strong h’old ale.  A Britisher ventured to tell the General of the Mackerel Brigade the other day that he didn’t think the South could be beaten.

“The South,” says the General, suffering a bit of the lemon-peel to come to the front of his mouth, “The South! why my dear old Rosbif, we can liquor with out trying.”

I went down to Accomac early in the week my boy, having heard that Capt. Villiam Brown and the conic section of the Mackerel Brigade where about to march upon Fort Muggins, where Jeff. Davis, Beauregard, Mason, Slidell, Yancey and the whole rebel Congress were believed to be entrenched.  Mounted on my gothic steed Pegasus, who only blew down once in the whole journey, I repaired to Villiam’s department, and was taking notes of the advance, upon a sheet of paper spread on the ground, when the commander of the Accomac approached me, and says he:

“What are you doing, my bantam?”

“I’m taking notes,” says I, “for a journal that has such an immense circulation among our gallant troops that when they begin to read it in the camps, it looks, from a distance, as if there had just been a heavy snow storm.”

“Ah, says Villiam, thoughtfully, “newspapers and snow storms are somewhat alike, for both make black appear white.”  “But,” says Villiam, philosophically, “the snow is the more moral; for you can’t lie in that with safety, as you can in a newspaper.”  In the language of Gen. Grant at Donelson, says Villiam, sternly,  “I propose to move upon your works immediately.”

And with that he planted one of his boots right in the middle of my paper.

“Read this ere Napoleonic dockyment,” says Villiam, handing me a scroll.  It was as follows:

EDICK.

Having noticed that the press of the United States of America is making a ass of itself, by giving information to the enemy concerning the best methods of carrying on the strategy of war, I do hereby assume control of all special correspondents, forbidding them to transact anything but private business, neither they, nor their wives, nor their children, to the third and fourth generation.

I.       It is ordered that all advice from editors to the War Department, to the General commanding, or the Generals commanding the armies in the field, be absolutely forbidden; as such advice is calculated to make the United states of America a idiot.

II.     Any Newspaper publishing any news whatever, however obtained shall be excluded from all railroads and steamboats, in order that country journals, which receive the same news during the following year, may not be injured in cirkylation.

III.    This control of special correspondents does not include the correspondent of the London Times, who wouldn’t be believed if he published all the news of the next Christian era. –

By order of

VILIAM BROWN, Eskevire,

Capt. Conic Section Mackerel Brigade.

I had remounted Pegasus while reading this able State paper, my boy, and had just finished it, when a nervous member of the advance guard accidentally touched off a cannon, whose report was almost immediately answered by one from the dense fog before us.

“Ha!” says Captain Villiam Brown, suddenly leaping from his steed, and creeping under it – to examine if the saddle girth was all right – “The fort is right before us in the fog, and the rebels are awake.  Let the Orange County Company advance with their howitzers, and fire to the northeast.”

The Orange County Company, my boy, instantly wheeled their howitzers into position, and sent some pounds of grape towards the meredian, the roar of their weapons of death being instantaneously answered by a thunderous crash in the fog.

Compnay 5, regiment 3, Mackerel brigade, now went forward six yards at double quick, and poured in a rattling volley of musketry, dodging fearlessly, when exactly the same kind of volley was heard in the fog, and wishing that they might have a few rebels for supper.

“Ha!” says captain Villiam Brown, when he noticed that nobody seemed to be killed yet, “Providence is on our side, and the unnatural rebellion is squelched.  Let the Anatomical Cavalry charge into the fog into the fog, and demand the surrender of Fort Muggins,” continued Villiam, compressing his lips with mad valor, “while I repair to that tree back there, and see if there is not a fiendish secessionist lurking behind it.”

The Anatomical Cavalry immediately dismounted from their horses, which were too old to be used in a charge, and gallantly entered the fog, with their sabers between their teeth, and their hands in their pockets – it being a part of their tactics to catch a rebel before cutting his head off.

In the meantime, my boy, the Orange County howitzers and the Mackerel muskets were hurrying a continuous fire into the clouds, stirring up the angels, and loosening the smaller planets.  Sturdily answered the rebels from the fog begirt fort; but not one of our men had yet fallen.

Captain Villiam Brown was just coming down from the top of a very small tree, whither he had gone to search for masked batteries, when the fog commenced lifting, and disclosed the anatomical Cavalry returning at a double quick.

Instantly our fire ceased, and so did that of the rebels.

“Does the fort surrender to the United States of America?” says Villiam to the captain of the Anatomicals.

The gallant dragoon sighed, and says he:

“I used my magnifying glass, but could find no fort.”

“At this moment, my boy, a sharp sunbeam cleft the fog as a sword does a vail, and the mist rolled away from the scene in two volumes, disclosing to our view a fine cabbage patch, with a dense wood beyond.

Villiam deliberately raised a bottle to his face and gazed through it upon the unexpected prospect.

“Ha!” says he, sadly, “the garrison has cut its way through the fog and escaped, but Fort Muggins is ours!  Let the flag of our Union be planted on the ramparts,” says Villiam, with much perspiration, “and I will immediately issue a proclamation to the people of the United States.”

Believing that Villiam was somewhat too hasty in his conclusions, my boy, I ventured to insinuate that what he had taken for a fort in the fog, was really nothing but a cabbage enclosure, and that the escaped rebels were purely imaginary.

“Imaginary!” says Villiam, hastily, placing his canteen in his pocket.  “Why, didn’t you hear the roar of their artillery?”

“Do you see that thick wound yonder?” says I.

Says he, “It is visible to the undressed eye.”

“Well,” says I, “What you took for the sound of a rebel firing, was only the echo of your own firing, in that wood.”

Villiam pondered for a few moments, my boy, like one who was considering the propriety of saying nothing in as few words as possible, and then he looked angularly at me, and says he: –

“My proclamation to the press will cover all this, and the news of this here engagement will keep until the war is over.  Ah!” says Villiam, “I would not have the news of this affair published on any account; for if the Government thought that I was trying to cabbage in my Department it would make me the Minister to Russia immediately.”

As the Conic Sections of the Mackerel Brigade returned slowly to headquarters, my boy, I thought to myself:  How often does a man after making something his particular forte, discover at last that it is only a cabbage patch, and hardly large enough at that for a big hog like himself.

Yours, philanthropically,

Orpheus C. Kerr

– Published in The Burlington Weekly Hawk-Eye, Burlington, Iowa, Saturday, March 15, 1862, p. 2

Letter From Orpheus C. Kerr

The Border State Conservatives – Capt. Villiam Brown’s Administration in Paris – His Treatment of the Contraband Question.

Correspondence N. Y. Sunday Mercury

The conservatives from the border States, my boy, look upon the Southern States as a brother, whom it is our duty to protect against the accursed designs of the fiendish abolitionists, who would make this war one of bloodshed. – They ignore all party feeling, support the Constitution as it was, in contradistinction to what it is, and object to any confiscation measure calculated to irritate our misguided brothers and sisters in that beautiful land where

The Suitor he goes to the planter so grand,

And “Give me your daughter,” says he

“For each unto other we’ve plighted our loves,

I love her and so she loves me,”

Says he,

“And married we’re wishing to be.”

The planter was deeply affected indeed,

Such touching affection to see,

“The giving I couldn’t afford, but I’ll sell

Her for six hundred dollars to thee,”

Says he,

“Her mother was worth that to me.”

Which I quote from a sweet ballad I recently found among some Rebel leavings at Yorktown.

These conservative patriots, my boy, remind me of a chap I once knew in the Sixth Ward.  A high moral chap, my boy, and full of venerable dignity.  One night the virtuous cuss doing business the next door to him, having just got a big insurance on his stock, and thinking himself safe for a flaming speculation, set fire to his own premises and then called “Murder” on the next corner.  Out came the whole Fire Department, only stopping to have two fights and a scrimmage on the way, and pretty soon the water was pouring all over every house in the street except the one on fire.  The high moral chap stuck his head out of the window, and says he “This fire ain’t in my house, and I don’t want no noise around this here residence.”  Upon this, some of our gallant firemen, who had just been in a fashionable drinking shop, not more than two blocks off, to see if any of the sparks had got in there, called to the chap to let him into his house, so that they might get at the conflagration more easily. – “Never!” says the chap, shaking his nightcap convulsively, “I didn’t set fire to Joneses, and I can’t have no Fire Department running around my entries.”

“See here, old blue pills,” says one of the firemen, pleasantly, “if you don’t let us in, you own crib will go down to blazes in ten minutes.”

But the dignified chap only shut down the window, and went to bed again, saying his prayer backwards.  I would not accuse a noble Department of violence, my boy, but in about three minutes there was a double back action machine standing in that chap’s front entry, with three inch streams out of all the back windows.  The fire was put out with only half a hose company killed and wounded, and next day there was a meeting to see what should be done with the incendiary when he was caught.  The high moral chap was at the meeting very early, and says he

“Let me advise moderation in this here unhappy matter.  I feel deeply interested,” says the chap with tears “for I assisted to put out the conflagration by permitting the use of my house by the firemen.  I almost feel,” says the genial chap, “like a fellow fireman myself.”

At this crisis a chap who was assistant engineer and also Secretary to the Board of Education arose and says he

“What are yer coughin about, old peg top?  Didn’t me and the fellers have to cave in your door with a night key wrench – sa-a-ay?  What are yer gassin’ about, then?  You did a muchness – you did!  Yes – slightually – in  a horn. – Now,” says the gallant fireman, with an agreeable smile, “if you don’t jest coil in your hose, and take the sidewalk very sudden, it’ll be my duty as a member of the department, to bust yer eye.”

I commend this chaste and rhetorical remark, my boy, to the attention of Border State Conservatives.

Since the occupation of Paris by the Mackerel Brigade, affairs there have been administered with great intellectual ability by Captain Villiam Brown, who has been appointed Provisional Governor, to govern the sale of provisions.

The city of Paris, my boy, as I told you lately, is laid out in one house at present, and since the discovery, that what were at first supposed to be Dahlgren guns by our forces were really a number of old hats with their rims cut off, laid in a row, on top of the earthworks, the democracy have stopped talking about the general of the Mackerel Brigade for next president.

The one house, however, was a boarding house, and though all the boards left at the approach of our troops it was subsequently discovered that all of them, save one, were good Union men, and were brutally forced to fly by that one Confederate miscreant.

When Villiam heard of the fate of these noble and oppressed patriots, my boy, he suffered a tear to drop into the tumbler he had just poured, and says he

“Just Hevings! Can this be so?  Ah?”  Says Villiam, lifting a bottle near by, to see that no rebel was concealed under it, “I will issue a proclamation calculated to conciliate the noble Union men of the Sunny South, and bring them back to those protecting folds which our inedycated forefathers folded themselves.”

Nobody believed it could be done, my boy – nobody believed it could be done, but Villiam understood his species and issued to following

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

CAPTAIN VILLIAM BROWN, Eskevire.

‘There!’ says Villiam, ‘the human intellect may do what violence may fail to accomplish.  Ah!’ says Villiam, “mortal suasion is more majestick than any army with banners.”

In just half an hour after the above proclamation was issued, my boy, the hum of countless approaching voices called us to the ramparts.  A vast multitude was approaching.  It was the Union men of the South, my boy, who had read the manifesto of a beneficent Government, and were coming back to take the oath – with a trifle of sugar in it.

How necessary it is my boy, that men intrusted with important commands – Generals and Governors responsible for the pacification and welfare of misguided provinces – should understand just how and when to touch that sensitive chord to our common nature which vibrates responsively when man is invited to take something by his fellow man.

Scarcely had Villiam assumed his office and suppressed two reporters, when there were bro’t before him a fugitive contraband of the color of old meerschaum, and a planter from the adjacent county who claimed the slave.

“It’s me – that’s Misther Murphy – would be after axing your reverence to return the black crayture at once,” says the planter, “for its meself that owns him, and he runn’d away right under me nose and eyes as soon as me back was turned.”

“Ah!” says Villiam, blanancing a tumbler in his right hand.  “Are you a Southerner, Mr. Murphy?”

“yay sir,” says Mr. Murphy, “it’s that I am intirely.  Be the same token, I was raised and been in the shwate South – the South of Ireland.”

“Are you Chivalry?” says Villiam, thoughtfully.

“Is it Chivalry! – ah, but it’s that I am, and me father befoor me, and me childers that’s afther me.  If Chivalry was praties I could furnish a dinner to all the wur ruld, and have enough left to fade the pips.”

“Murphy is a French name,” says Villiam, drawing a copy of Vattel on International Law from his pocket and glancing at it, “but I will not dispute what you say.  You must do without your contraband, however, for slavery and martial law don’t agree together in the United States of America.”

‘Mr. Black,’ says Villiam, gravely, turning to the emancipated African, “you have come to the right shop for freedom.  You are from hence forth a free man and a brother in law.  You are now your own master,” says Villiam encouragingly, “and no man has a right to order you about.  You are in the full enjoyment of Heving’s best gift – Freedom!  Go and black my boots.”

The moral grandeur of this speech, my boy, so affected the Southern planter that he at once became a Union man, took the oath with the least bit of water in it, and asked permission to have his own boots blackened.

“O Liberty! Thou sacred name,

The bondsman’s hope, the poet’s dream,

From Pole to Pole extend the sway,

And travel through by steam.”

– Published in The Burlington Weekly Hawk-Eye, Burlington, Iowa, Saturday, May 31, 1862, p. 1

Letter From Orpheus C. Kerr

Triumph of Naval Architecture --- capture of Paris, &c., &c.

Correspondence of the N. Y. Sunday Mercury.

I have just returned, my boy, from witnessing one of the most tremendous battles of modern times, and shall see star-spangled banners in every sunset for six months to come.

Hearing that the Southern Confederacy had evacuated Yorktown, for the reason that the Last Ditch had moved on the first of May to a place where there would be less rent from our cannon, I started early in the week for the quarters of the valorous and sanguinary Mackerel Brigade, expecting that it had gone toward Richmond for life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.

On reaching the Peninsula, however, I learned that the Mackerel “corps damms” had been left behind to capture the city of Paris in co-operation with a squadron.

Reaching the stomping ground, my boy, I beheld a scene at once unique and impressive. – Each individual Mackerel was seated on the ground with a sheet of paper across his knees and an ink bottle beside him, writing like an inspired poet.

I approached Captain Villiam Brown, who was covering some bare spots on his geometrical steed Euclid with pieces scissored out of an old hair-trunk, and says I:

“Tell me, my noble Hector, what means this literary scene which mine eyes behold?”

“Ha!” says Villiam, setting down his glue pot, “we are about to engage in a scrimmage from which not one may come out alive.  These heroic beings,” says Villiam, “are ready to die for their country at sight, and you now behold them making their wills.  We shall march upon Paris,” says Villiam, “so soon as I hear from Sergeant O’Pake, who has been sent to destroy a mill dam belonging to the Southern Confederacy.  Come with me my nice little boy, and look at the squadron to take part in the attack.”

This squadron, my boy, consisted of one 28-inch row-boat, mounting a 12 inch swivel, and commanded by Com. Head, late of the canal-boat service.  It is iron-plated after a peculiar manner.  When the ingenious chap who was to iron-plate it commenced his work, Com. Head ordered him to put the iron plates on the inside of the boat, instead of the Outside, as in the case of the Monitor and Galena.

“What do you mean?” says the contractor.

“Why,” says the commodore, “ain’t them iron plates intended to protect the crew?”

“Yes,” says the contractor.

“Well, then, you poor ignorant cuss,” says the commodore, in a great passion, “what do you want to put the plates on the outside for?  The crew won’t be on the outside – will it?  The crew will be on the inside – won’t it?  And how are you going to protect the crew on the inside by putting iron plates on the outside?

Such reasoning, my boy, was convincing and the Mackerel Squadron is plated inside.

While I was contemplating this new triumph of American naval architecture, and wondering what they would say about it in Europe, an orderly rode up and handed a scrap of paper to Villiam.

“Ha!” says Villiam, perusing the message then passing it to me, “the veteran O’Pake has not deceived the United States of America.”

The message was directed to the General of the Mackerel Brigade, by boy, and read as follows:

“GENERAL: – In accordance with your orders, I have destroyed the mil d---m.  O’PAKE.”

“And now,” says Villiam, returning his canteen to his bosom and pulling out his ruffles, “the United States of America will proceed to capture Paris with great slaughter.  Let the Brigade form in marching order, while the fleet proceeds around by water, after the manner of Lord Nelson.

The Mackerel Brigade was quickly on the march, headed by the band, who played an entirely new version of “Hail Columbia” on his key-bugle.  Tramp, tramp, tramp! and we found ourselves in position before Paris.

Paris, my boy, was a city of two houses previous to the recent great fire, which destroyed half of it, and we found it fortified with a strong picket fence and counterscarp earthworks, from the top of which frowned guns of great compass.

The Mackerel Brigade was at once formed in line-of-battle order – the line being not quite as straight as an ordinary Pennsyvania railroad – while the fleet menaced the water-front of the city from Duck Lake on the maps, my boy, as it is only visible after a heavy rain.

Previous to the attack, a balloon, containing a Mackerel chap, and a telescope shaped like a bottle, were sent up to reconnoiter.

“Well,” says Villiam to the chap when he came down, “what is the force of the Confederacy?”

“I could only see one Confederacy, which is an old woman.”

“Scorpion!” says Villiam, his eyes flashing like the bottoms of two reversed tumblers, “I believe you to be an accursed abolitionist.  Go instantly to the rear,” says Villiam, Fiercely, “and read the Report of the Van Wyck Investigating committee.”

It was a terrible punishment, my boy, but the example was needed for the good of the service.

The Orange County Howitzers now advanced to the front, and poured a terrible fire in the direction of a point about half way between the nearest steeple and the meridian, working horrible carnage in a flock of pigeons that happened to be passing at the time.

“Splendid, my glorious Prooshians!” says Villiam, just escaping a fall from his saddle by the concussive start of Euclid, that noble war hose having been suddenly roused from a pleasant doze by the firing – “splendid, my artillery darlings.  Only,” says Villiam, thoughtfully, “as the sun is a friendly power, don’t aim at him so accurately next time.”

Mean time, Company 3, Regiment 5, had advanced from the right, and were just about to make a splendid bayonet charge by the oblique, over the picket fence and earthwork, when the concealed Confederacy suddenly opened a deadly fire of old shoes, throwing the Mackerels into great confusion.

Almost simultaneously, a large potato struck the fleet on Duck Lake, on the nose, so intensely exciting him, that he incontinently touched off his swivel, to the great detriment of surrounding country.

This was a critical moment, my boy: the least trifle on either side would have turned the scale and given the victory to either party.  Villiam Brown had just assumed the attitude in which he desired Frank Leslie’s Illustrated Artist to draw him, when a familiar domestic utensil came hissing through the lurid air from the rebel works, and exploding in two pieces at his feet.

“Ha!” says Villiam, eyeing the fragments with great pallor, “they have commenced to throw shells.”

In another moment that incomparable officer was at the head of a storming party; and as the fleet opened fire on the cabbage patch in the rear of the enemy’s position, an impetuous charge was precipitated in front.

Though met by a perfect hail of turnips, stove covers and kindling wood, the Mackerels went over the fence like a fourth proof avalanche and hemmed in the rebel garrison with walls of bayonets.

“Surrender to the Union Anaconda and the United States of America,” thundered Villiam.

“You’re a nasty, dirty creature,” responded the garrison, who was an old lady of venerable aspect.

“Surrender, or you’re a dead man, my F. F. Venus,” says Villiam majestically.

The old lady replied with a look of scorn, my boy, walked deliberately toward the road, and when last seen was proceeding in the direction of Richmond under a green silk umbrella and a heavy press of snuff.

Now it happened, just after we had formally taken possession of the city, while the band was playing partial airs and the fleet winding up his chronometer, that the General of the Mackerel Brigade made his appearance on the field, and was received with loud cheers by those who believed that he had brought their back pay with him.

“My children,” says the General, with a paternal smile, “don’t praise me for the achievement in which all have won such imperishable laurels.  I have only done me jooty.”

This speech, my boy, made a great impression upon me on account of its touching modesty. – War, my boy, is calculated to promote an amount of bashful modesty never equaled except in Congress, and I have known brigadiers so self-deprecatory that they lived in a state of perpetual blush – especially at the ends of their noses.

Yours, inadequately,

ORPHEUS C. KERR.

– Published in The Burlington Weekly Hawk-Eye, Burlington, Iowa, Saturday, May 24, 1862, p. 1

Orpheus C. Kerr's Letters

From the New York Sunday Mercury

There is a certain something about a sickroom, my boy, that makes me think seriously of may latter end, and recognize physicians as true heroes of the battlefield.  The subdued swearing of the sufferer on his bed, the muffled tread of the venerable nurse, as she comes into the room to make sure that the brandy recommended by the doctor is not too mild for the patient, the sepulchral shout of the regimental cat as she recognizes the tread of Lord Mortimer, the sergeant’s bull terrier, outside, all these are things to make the spectator remember that we are but dust, and  to return to dust is our destiny.

Early in the week, my boy, a noble member of the Pennsylvania Mud larks was made sick in a strange manner.  A draft of picked men from certain regiments was ordered for a perilous expedition down the river.  You may be aware, my boy, that a draft is always dangerous to delicate constitutions, and, as the Mud lark happened to burst into a profuse perspiration about the time he found himself standing in this draft, he, of course, took such a violent cold that he had to be put to bed directly.  I went to see him, my boy, and while he was relating to me some affecting anecdotes of the time when he used to keep a bar a member of the Medical Staff of the United States of America came in to see the patient.

The venerable surgeon first deposited a large saw, a hatchet and two pick axes on the table, and says he:

“How do you find yourself, boy?”

The mud lark took a small chew of tobacco with a melancholy air and says he:

“I think I’ve got the guitar in my head Mr. Sawbones, and am about to join the angel choir.”

“I see how it is,” says the surgeon, thoughtfully, “You think you’ve got the guitar, when it’s only the drum of your ear that is affected.  Well,” says the surgeon, with sudden pleasantness as he reached after his saw and one of the pick axes, “I must amputate your left leg at once.”

The mud lark curled himself up in bed like a wounded anaconda, and says he:

“I can’t see it in that light.”

“Well,” says the surgeon, in a sprightly manner, then suppose I put a fly blister on your stomach, and only amputate your right arm?”

The surgeon was formerly a blacksmith, my boy, and got his diploma by inventing some pills with iron in them.  He proved that the blood of six healthy men contained iron enough to make six horse shoes, and then invented the pills to cure hoarseness.

The sick chap reflected on what his medical adviser had said, and then says he:

“Your words convince me that my situation must be dangerous.  I must see some relative before I permit myself to be dissected.”

“Whom would you wish me to send for?” says the surgeon.

“My grandmother, my dear old grandmother,” says the mud lark, with much feeling.

The surgeon took me cautiously aside, and says he:

“My poor patient has a cold in his head, and his life depends perhaps on the gratification of his wishes.  You have heard him ask for his grandmother,” says the surgeon, softly, “and as his grandmother lives too far away to be sent for we must practice a little harmless deception.  We must send for Secretary Welles of the Navy Department and introduce him as the grandmother.  My patient will never know the difference.

I took the hint, my boy, and went after the Secretary, but the latter was so busy examining a model of Noah’s Ark that he could not been seen.  Happily however the patient recovered while the surgeon was getting his saw filed, and was well enough last night to reconnoiter in force.

The Mackerel Brigade being still in quarters before Yorktown, I am at leisure to stroll about the Southern Confederacy, my boy, and on Thursday I paid a visit to Cotton Seminary, just beyond Alexandria, where the Southern intellect is taught to fructify and expand.  This celebrated institution of learning is all on one floor, with a large chimney and a heavy mortgage up on it and a number of windows supplied with ground glass – or rather, supplied with a certain openness as regards to the ground.

Upon entering this majestic edifice, the master, Prex Peyton descended at once from the barrel on which he was seated and gave me a true Virginia Welcome.

“Though you may be a Lincoln horde,” says he in a manorial manner, “the republic of intellect recognizes you as only a man.  The Southern mind knows how to recognize a soul, apart from its outer circumstances for what says the logicians?  Dues est anima brutorem.  Take a seat on yonder barrel friend Hessian and you shall hear the wisdom of youthful minds.  First class in computation stand up!”

As I took a seat, my boy, the first class in computation came to the front, and it is my private impression, my boy – my private impression – that each child’s father was the owner of a rag plantation at some period of his life.

“Boys,” says the master, “how is the table of Confederate money divided?”

“Into pounds shillings and pence.”

“Right.  Now Master Mason repeat the table.”

Master Mason, who was a germ of a first family, took his fingers out of his mouth and says he –

“Twenty pounds of Confederate bonds make one shilling, twenty shillings make one penny, six pennies one drink.”

“That’s right my pretty little cherubs,” says the master.  “Now go  and take your seats, and study your bowie knife exercises.  Class in Geography stand up.”

The class in geography consisted of one small Southern Confederacy, my boy, with a taste for tobacco.

“Master Wise,” says the master, confidently, “can you tell me where Africa is?”

Master Wise sniffs intelligently, and says he:

“Africa is situated at the corner of Spruce and Nassau streets and is bounded on the north by Greeley, on the south by Slavery, on the east by Sumner and on the west by Lovejoy.”

“Very true, by bright little fellow,” says the master, “now go back to your chawing.”

“You see friend Hessian,” says the master, turning to me, “how superior Southerners are even as children to the depraved Yankees.  In my experience, I have known scholars only six years old to play poker like old church members and a pupil of mine euchred me once in ten minutes.”

I thanked him for his courtesy and was proceeding to the door, when I observed four boys in one corner with their mouths so distorted that they seemed to have subsisted upon a diet of persimmons all their lives.

“Venerable pundit,” says I in astonishment, “how come the faces of those offspring so deformed?”

“Oh,” says the master complacently, ”that class has been studying Carlyle’s works.”

I retired from Cotton Seminary, my boy, with a firm conviction of the utility of popular education and a hope that the day might come when a Professorship of Old Sledge would be created in the New York University.

Yours for a higher civilization.

ORPHEUS C. KERR

– Published in The Burlington Weekly Hawk-Eye, Burlington, Iowa, Saturday, May 10, 1862, p. 4

Letter from Orpheus C. Kerr

Captain Villiam and Captain Munchausen in a Duel.

From the New York Sunday Mercury.

Wet towels, soda water, and a few wholesome kicks in the rear having rendered company 3, regiment 5, Mackerel Brigade, sufficiently certain of their legs to march a polka in the space of an ordinary cornfield, Captain Villiam Brown placed himself at their head, and flanked by a canteen and an adjutant, the combined pageant was just about to move on a reconnoitering expedition as I came up.

“Ha!” says Villiam, hastily placing his shirt-frill over the neck of a bottle that accidentally peeped from his bosom. “I am about to lead these noble beings on the path of glory, and you shall participate in the beams.”

Without a word I turned his left wing; and as the band, which consisted of a fat Dutchman and a night-key bugle, struck up “Drops of Brandy,” we moved onward like the celestial vision of childhood’s dream.

Like the radiance of a higher heaven streaming through the golden-tinted windows of some grand old cathedral, fell the softened light of that April afternoon on budding Nature, as we halted before a piece of woods just this side of Strasburg. On the new leaves of the trees in front of us the sunshine coined a thousand phantom cataracts of specie, and in the vale below us a delicate purple shadow wrestled with the hill-reflected fire of the sun. Deep silence fell on Company 3, Regiment 5, Mackerel Brigade; the band put his instrument on the ring with the Key of his trunk, and Villiam softly reconnoitered through a spy-glass furnished with a cork. Suddenly the tones of a rich, manly voice swelled up from the bosom of the valley.

“”Hush!” says Villiam, sternly eyeing the band, who had just hiccupped – “’tis the Hymn of the Contraband.”

We all listened, and could distinctly hear the following words of the singer:

“They’re holding camp meeting in Hickory Swamp,
O, let my people go,
De preacher’s so dark dat he carry um lamp,
O, let my people go.
De brudders am singing this jubilee tune,
O, let my people go.
Two dollars a year for the Weekly Tribune,
O, let my people go!”

As the strain died away in the distance, the adjutant slapped his left leg.

“Why,” said he, dreamily, “that must be Greeley down there.”

“No!” says Villiam, solemnly, “it is one of the wronged children of tyranny warbling the suppressed hymn of his injured people. It is a sign,” says Villiam, trembling with bravery, “that the Southern Confederacy is somewheres around; for when you hear the squeak of the agonized rat,” said Villiam, philosophically, “you may be sure that the sanguinary terrier is on the war path.”

Scarcely had he spoken, my boy, when there emerged from the edge of the wood before us, a rebel company, headed by an officer of hairy countenance and much shirt-collar. This officer’s face was a whisker plantation, through which his eyes peeped forth like two snakes coiled up in a window brush. His dress was shoddy, his air was toddy, and a yard of valuable stair carpet enveloped his manly shoulders.

“Halt!” said he to his file of reptiles, whose general effect was that of a congress of rag-merchants just come in from a happy speculation in George Law muskets.

“Sir,” said the officer bowing in a graceful semi-circle, “I am somewhat in the first family way, own a plantation, drink but little water at home, and have the honor to be Captain Munchausen, of the Southern Confederacy.”

“Dost fence?” says Villiam, grimly drawing his sword.

“Fence!” says Captain Munchausen, also drawing his disguised crowbar. “Did’st ever hear, boy, or read of the great fencer of the olden time, the Chevalier St. George?”

“Often, says Villiam, in a tone that was as plainly the echo of a lie as is that of the delicate female eater of slate pencils, when she says that she could never bear pork and beans.

“Well, says Captain Munchausen, haughtily, “the Chevalier was so extremely jealous of my superior skill, that he actually went and died nearly a hundred years before I was born.”

“Soap,” says Villiam, like one talking in his sleep, “is sometimes made with powerful lie.”

By Chivalry!” says Captain Munchausen, cholerically; “I swear, I never told a single lie in all my life.”

“A single lie!” says Villiam, abstractly; “ah, no! For the lies of the Southern Confederacy are all married, and have large families.”

The domestic speech, my boy was too much for Munchausen. Asking one of the rag merchants to hold his three-ply overcoat, and carefully removing his fragmentary cap, that none of the cold potatoes should spill out of it, he planted the remains of his right boot slightly in advance of the skeleton of his left, and thundered:

“’Sblood!”

Quick as the lightning leaps along the cloud did Captain Villiam Brown send the great toe of his dexter foot to meet that of his foe; his Damascus blade lay across the opposing [beard], and he whispered:

“’Sdeath!”

It was a beautiful sight – by Minerva it was.

“Stop!” says Villiam, suddenly hauling in his weapon again; “It shall never be said that I took advantage of a foeman.”

As he uttered these memorable words, my boy, this ornament of the service plucked an infant demijohn from his fearless bosom and magnanimously passed it to his antagonist.

A soft commotion was visible in the whiskers of Captain Munchausen – the [illegible: subu_b?] of a smile as it were; a cavern opened in their midst, the vessel ascended curvilinearly thereto, and the sound was the trickling of water down a mountain gulch.

The adjutant took his seat on the sleeping body of the band, and with pencil and paper prepared to record the combat. The opposing champions faced each other, and as Villiam once more raised his blade he smiled horribly.

Then, my boy, was witnessed a scene to make old Charlemagne paladins dance High Jinks in their graves, and call all the Artesian knights to life again. “Carte et tierce! but it was a spectacle for Hector and Achilles. With swords pointed straight at each other’s noses did the valorous heroes skip wildly back and then as wildly forward. Slam! bang! crack! Smack! right and left! over and under! parry, feint, and premiere force! Now did they hop fierily along the opposite sides of the road, eyeing each other like demoniac Thomas Cats upon the moonlit fence. Ever and anon did they dart furiously to the center, cutting the blessed atmosphere to invisible splinters and staying imaginary legions.

But a crisis is at hand! In one of his terrible chops the cool and collected Villiam Brown brought his deadly weapon down full upon the knuckles of the enemy. But for the fact that Villiam’s sword was not quite as sharp as the side of an ordinary three-story house, Munchausen’s hand would never more have wielded trenchant blade. As it was, he hastily dashed his brand to the ground, and crammed his knuckles into his mouth, struck up an impassioned dance, and mumbled in extreme agitation:

“Golfire your cursed abolition soul!”

It was beautiful, my boy, to see how the calm Villiam Brown leaned upon his sword and smiled.

“Ah!” says Villiam, “so perish the foes of the Union, the Constitution, and the Enforcement of the Laws. I have bruised the Confederacy Adjutant!” says Villiam, in a sudden burst of pardonable exultation, “score one for the United States of America.”

Now, it happened, my boy, that as Villiam said this, he turned to where the Adjutant was sitting, and he bent down to give particular directions. His body was thus made to assume somewhat the shape of the letter U, the curve being sharply toward the enemy. In an instant Capt. Munchausen regained his sword, grasped it after the manner of a Flail, and, with a prodigious spank, applied it to the unguarded portion of my hero’s anatomy!

High sprang the almost assassinated Villiam into the air, with sparks pouring from his eyes and Union oaths hissing from his working jaws.

“Adjutant!” roared Captain Munchausen, “score one for the Southern Confederacy.”

No sooner had Villiam reached the ground and picked up the cork that had fallen from his bosom as he ascended, than he plunged rampagiously at his adversary, and aimed a blow at his head that must have taken it off had Capt. Munchausen been about a yard taller. As it was, the stroke mercilessly split the air and caused my hero to spin like a mighty top.

In vain did the shameless Confederate swordsman endeavor to get in a hit as Villiam went around; the sword of the Union man met at every turn, and right quickly was the avenging blade humming around his head again. Inspired with the strength of Hercules, the endurance of Prometheus, and the fire of Pluto, the gorgeous Villiam Brown went at his work once more, like a feller of great trees, and in another moment his awful blade twanged upon the foeman’s head.

Down went Captain Munchausen singing inverted psalms, with a whole nest of rockets exploding in his brain. Pale turned his rag merchants at the sight, and one of them immediately deserted to our side and swore he and always been a Union man.

Villiam leaned upon his blade, and kindly remarked:

“His head is broken; I heard it crack.”

“’Tis false!” says Captain Munchausen, gloomily; that is an old crack – I’ve had it ever since I was a boy.”

“Ah!” says Villiam, airily, “I’m afraid my blow has [canned] more than one funeral in the [insect] kingdom, for the cut went right through the hair. Have a comb?” says Villiam, pleasantly.

Captain Munchausen made no reply, my boy, but motioned for his men to bear him from the field. It was noticed, however, that as he was being carried into the wood, he asked a gentleman in remarkable tatters, to take him to the last ditch.

As the Southern Confederacy disappeared, captain Villiam Brown hammered his sword straight with a bit of stone, forced it into its scabbard, and turned majestically to Company 3, Regiment 5, Mackerel Brigade, several members of which were engaged in the athletic game of pitch-penny.

“Let the band be awakened,” says Villiam.

A Mackerel at once proceeded to break the slumbers of the orchestra, by shaking a bottle near his ear – that experiment having never been known to fail in the case of a pronounced musical character.

“Ha!” says Villiam, with much spirit, “we will march to the national airs of our distracted country.”

After sounding several cat-calls on his night-key bugle, in the manner of all great instrumentalists who wish to know about their instruments being in tune, the band struck up “Ale to the Chief,” and we marched to quarters like so many heroes of ancient Rum.

Shall treason triumph in our land, my boy, while there’s a sword to wave? I think not, my boy – I think not. Though Columbia did not rule the wave, her champions would see to it that she never waived the rule.

Yours for the Star Spangled,
Orpheus C Kerr

– Published in the Burlington Weekly Hawk-Eye, Burlington, Iowa, Saturday, April 19, 1862