The Color Guard, A Corporal’s Notes, James Kendall Hosmer

After the funeral, I felt much prostrated; but it was best to keep employed. Robert and I kept our familiar quarters, where at night we could be warm and dry: an important matter now; for at evening it grows very cold, and much rain falls. Water was convenient, too, for the washing which it was necessary to do; and I could pack at leisure the things I wished to send North. In a few days, all this was done. I took my farewell of the apartment where Ed. died, now stripped to its bare walls; and, not being quite in condition to go into the woods to camp, I accepted the doctor’s invitation, and spent a day or two last week in his private room. In one corner lay the stretchers, ready for the wounded men; in another, a patient sick of fever. By night, I could hear the shouts of the delirious patients from the corridors.

I saw three bodies lying together on the roof of the veranda of the building, overlooking the street. A little breath of air came; and the covering was turned down from the face of one, a member of our company,— his, and yet not his, — a fine fellow, a favorite of Ed.’s, at whose feet he now sleeps. One of the others belonged to us too, — a boy I knew well. He will never see again his pretty cottage-home under the trees by the Connecticut. The chaplain was sick the day of the funeral: so I conducted the service for these two at one time, after dark, under the moon. We were forced to bury them hurriedly, for it was late; and I fear with less of a feeling of solemnity than we once had at such occasions. I believe it is true, that the edge of sensibility grows dull through use, even in the case of these sad experiences. Funerals have been so frequent of late, sometimes three or four a day, that they lose their impressiveness in part.

Pray Heaven the sickness is spending itself! There are signs that it is so. It has raged, for the most part, among the youths under twenty, whose immature fibre appears to afford more congenial harbor for the pestilence than the frames of the older men. Almost all the deaths have been among the boys. The death-list is really not as large as is often the case in camps. We do not suffer as some Maine regiments are suffering close by us; but it is large enough to cast a shadow, and make us all feel the insecurity of life.

My record has been almost entirely of deaths and hospitals the last few weeks; but now let me turn from these things. We are, after all, not a gloomy set; though skies are so dull, and health so uncertain. The spirits of the men are often high, and there is much fun going forward. A great character in the camp is one Tibbs, a fellow with many crotchets in his brain, —too many for it to remain in a normal, healthy state, — and who really, perhaps, ought hardly to have been passed at the medical examination; but he is a fellow of infinite jest, and his pranks and sayings keep up the spirits of the regiment. He has wit; and when that fails, in his blunt talk, he blunders often into capital hits, hitting right and left, sparing no one, from the colonel down. The other day, a large hollow tree had been cut down, and a group of officers stood looking at the hollow. Tibbs came up beside them, and peered with his queer whiskered face into the hole. “That’s a big hollow, Tibbs,” said one of the group of officers. “Well, yes,” said Tibbs; “and next time we have the long roll, if ‘taint full of officers, I guess I’ll come here and hide.” By all odds, the most amusing thing I have seen since I became a soldier was Tibbs’s parody of Col. Birge, of the Thirteenth Connecticut, a veteran regiment, which often went through its admirable drill close by our camp, and whose commander at such times threw himself with unusual energy into his work. I heard great laughter and shouting on the parade-ground one morning, and, looking out, saw Tibbs mounted on a very lean and long-eared jackass, which he would cudgel until the animal gave up his obstinacy and went off at an ungainly gallop. Tibbs was excited by the motion, and roared his orders in all parts of the field. Now it was, “Close column by division, on second division, right in front!” Then whack would go the stick, and Tibbs, eager as if in battle, would gallop off to the other side of the field. “Head of column, to the left! ” “Deploy column on first company! ” &c., &c. It was an admirable caricature of the efficiency of Col. Birge, who was always at full gallop, keeping his regiment on the double-quick. Tibbs drilled his imaginary command for some time; when some one, perhaps a sergeant, shocked at the indecorum, started after him at full speed. But Tibbs’s time had not yet come. As the pursuer approached, Tibbs’s ungainly steed reared and brayed; and, while dodging his heels, the pursuer measured his length in the mud, leaving Tibbs the cavalier, in his shabby uniform, to go on caracoling, and shouting his orders.

Baton Rouge, Jan. 26.

Dear P., —This evening is really the first time when fatigue and work give me some respite, and I can begin to give you the sad particulars, — how our much-beloved Benjamin went from earth into the bosom of the Father. Tears and convulsive sobbing are now over with. I am calm, as I begin; and perhaps I can go through the detail with the gathering of no film and the trembling of no nerve. I am left here forlorn; my pride and joy taken from my side. It is evening now. I still am in the house where he died, — a deserted house now; its only tenants to-night being Robert Bodwell (the good fellow who helped me nurse him) and I. We are not in the room where he died, but just across the hall, in the chamber where we went after we had laid him out, that we might watch close at hand, and yet not intrude upon his solemn sleep in death. The clouds are dark, and the wind blows damp and chill from the northward, across the fresh turf upon his grave, then against these shutters. The last duty now is done. In the centre of the floor stands the box in which I have packed his things,—knapsack and cap, clothing and canteen, and soldier’s blanket, — all worn and marked as he wore and marked them; but they will be all the more precious for the stain upon the woollen, the hole in the garment, the rust upon the blade.

The first complaint of sickness which he made, I remember, was a fortnight ago this very day. We were ordered to stand under arms an hour before breakfast. It was raw and dark; and the companies, shivering and with empty stomachs, were severely drilled. I recall, that, when he came in, he sat down, — the new morning light showing his fatigue, — and said, “It was too much for him: the double-quick caused nausea, and almost made him vomit.” Still, through that day he was about his work, as usual, —at every drill, and calling the roll at night by his lantern’s light, wrapped in his blue overcoat. Tuesday he was too sick for duty. He complained of weakness and dizziness whenever he attempted to stand; but his spirits were good, and I never imagined it could be more than a temporary illness, he has been so constantly well, — “the stoutest fellow in the company,” as they said when he was sick. He lay still on the floor of the tent all day, — he and Sergeant Grosvenor, who was sick in the same way, — his rifle just at his head, polished, and ready for service; his constant companion, but henceforth to know him no more, except during one brief half-hour, when, in the midst of the uncovered and weeping regiment, it lay, with his belts and crimson sash, upon his coffin-lid. I remember he was full of jokes even then; and I did not notice, as others did, that his cheek was unhealthily flushed, and his breath too short. At night, as we lay side by side, I threw my arm around his neck, and remember now how hot and dry his face was, and how short his breath. Hannum, who is an experienced nurse, startled me in the morning. He thought Ed. might have a fever. He was plainly sick, and our company-officers sent for him to come at once to their quarters. That Wednesday morning, Ed. and I together left the tent, came slowly along the pleasant river-bank, with the plantations beyond, —his last little walk on earth, — climbed the stairs, and crossed the threshold of the room now so hallowed.

Daily he became weaker and weaker. He was soon unable to raise himself; and when, in the afternoon, the fever ran high, and it was time to bathe him, it was hard work to push up his solid young shoulders till he sat upright, and then hold him propped against my breast till he was arranged. Then the heat of the fever! I would pass the cloth, wet with cooling spirit, over his skin; and presently it would flame with red, as if, poor boy! his life within him, beleaguered by disease, threw out the crimson hospital-flag to win forbearance. He became delirious too, though not often wildly so; sometimes calling the company to “fall in,” sometimes crying out “to save the colors,” as if in battle; and I remember, too, he talked of all of you. Still, there was less of delirium than stupor. His hearing and sight grew dull, and his mind apathetic: yet I believe he always knew me; and he showed a touching confidence that I would do just what was best, which started the tears more than once.

The morning of the day before he died, I thought there was great improvement. His mind was clear, and he had passed a quiet night without an opiate. His pulse, I thought, was slower and stronger; and I moved about him light-hearted. He asked again, and again to be bathed. He was not very feverish; but the doctor had told me to let his inclinations guide me: so at length I yielded, and gave him a bath. Robert and I had found a bedstead in another room, broader than his bunk, which I thought would be so much more comfortable for him, that we took it. After his bath, he seemed so well, that we moved him to his new bed. Then I tucked him in all clean and sweet, ready for the doctor’s visit; feeling sure there would be encouragement. Ed, however, now began to show great exhaustion; and, when the doctor came, there was an ominous silence. I feared we had done too much, with the bathing and moving: but the doctor made light of them, saying he had seen some symptoms, the night previous, of a tendency to congestion of the lungs; which symptoms he now found much more -marked. After the doctor left, Ed. grew rapidly more weak, until, in my alarm, I sent for him again. He made use, at once, of violent tonics and stimulants, — quinine and brandy, — and had recourse to that expedient which always seems to me so desperate, — chest-blistering. We wrapped his feet, too, in cloths soaked in mustard-water. The extremities began to grow cold and clammy, and I felt that the dear boy’s hours were numbered, I went out a few minutes for the air, and wandered helplessly along the river-bank, overwhelmed with agony, — he sinking away from me into a gulf; and, though I reached and yearned after him with all my love, it was no cord that could support him or draw him back to me. About noon, the chill and torpor in which he had lain some hours gave way to fever and delirium. He laughed and shouted wildly with the crowd of phantoms who came trooping to him in his morbid dream, and clutched convulsively at the coverlid. While Ed. had been sinking, Mr. Grosvenor had been recovering; so that now both Robert and I could be constantly at his side. We gave him cooling drinks, and the powerful medicines the doctor had prescribed. Ed. showed no sign of pain; and, though delirious, recognized us when we spoke to him. His voice continued to have its strong, vigorous sound. I could hardly control myself sufficiently to keep at his bedside; but I choked back my grief. There was still hope: he was young and strong, and might, after all, rally; but his breathing was very bad, and his galloping heart could not keep its pace without soon being exhausted. In the evening, a friend I could trust came in, and insisted I should go to bed while he took my place; promising to call me if there should be any change. I lay down in this room where I am writing now, just across the hall from his chamber. Once or twice in the night I woke up, and could hear his voice, strong and firm, through the closed door.

The morning of the fatal Saturday, Jan. 24, came at last. I was in the room, refreshed by my night’s rest, at seven o’clock. “I am glad to see you again was his greeting,” spoken very earnestly. He was pale and wasted, though his eye and countenance had the old natural look. I lay down at his side, with my head by his pillow; a post I hardly left, except to give him medicine or nourishment, until the last. About eight, the doctor came, but saw little change from the night previous. He continued the same treatment, and still had hope. Ed. was uneasy, but in no apparent pain. He would ask to be moved or lifted, or suggest something he thought might give him comfort; but, if it was impracticable, he would give it up, yielding most sweetly and tenderly to every suggestion of mine. ” Oh! never mind; just as you say,” with a softness and trust in his tone and look, I cannot think of without a sob.

And now ten o’clock was approaching. I had thrown open the windows and blinds to receive the summer air of the day. The sun was just veiled by white vapor, the river flowed calm and full, and the sound of bugles and bands came in from the camps a mile away. I lay at his side as before. Mr. Grosvenor, a fine man and full of sympathy, now convalescent, sat before the fire with Robert. The sick man became more quiet, and his breathing changed. The hand of death was upon him. I hastily put a cup of brandy to his lips, which he swallowed with difficulty. I sent Robert at once for the doctor; and he had hardly left the room when the dear boy’s spirit went upward. There was no agony or spasm; one or two short, quick breathings, and all was over, — the minute-hand just pointing to the second minute after ten.

He went from earth calm in mind, and composed, — painless, fearless, hopeful to the end. He sent you no messages of love. I wish it had been otherwise; but the angels’ arms were around him ere we were aware. After all, perhaps it was as well there should be no parting pang,—no disappointment as his hopes fell; though I believe he would have faced his fate with all his noble courage, and with high faith and trust.

A short paroxysm of grief, and I was calm enough to go forward with what was to be done. The chaplain came in, full of the sympathy of a brother; so the doctor. An experienced nurse came over from the main hospital. I bathed the straight, sinewy limbs for the last time. We clothed his tall figure in the familiar soldier’s suit,—the brave young limbs and shoulders in their own loyal blue. I wiped his lips and cheeks, and smoothed his locks. I took from his finger his little ring. Presently the coffin came. I helped to bring it up stairs and lay it by him. The captain came in, and paid his tribute of tears above the corpse of his old right-hand man; then he, I, and a fellow-sergeant, lifted him gently; put his blouse, covered with a white cloth, for a pillow; then laid him tenderly in his coffin; smoothing softly his garments; brushing with reverent care every speck of dust away; putting in view his sergeant’s badge,—the diamond trebly underscored,—to which office he did honor.

As the day wore on, I went to the burying-ground, where lie the dead soldiers of our regiment, to choose the best spot for him. The ground lies a few rods east of the old United-States Arsenal Buildings, and was once a cemetery of the city, though now it is used for the interment of soldiers. Five or six fresh graves lay in a row,—Roberts, Thomson, Culver, and last our own Paine; large, high mounds, and at the head an oaken board with name, regiment, and date. The row begins near the fence, and runs northward. The fence is of wood, thickly covered with a climbing rose; a dense, luxuriant, beautiful vine, full of bright-green leaves, with the seed-vessels still remaining from the former blossoms. It wraps the palings so they can hardly be seen; then droops over upon the ground, and spreads its tendrils toward the soldiers’ graves. Just over the fence, outside, stands a thick, venerable tree (beech, I believe), whose limbs are swathed heavily with the funereal gray moss. From the foot of the graves, the ground goes downward in a rapid slope. The spot has not the beauty of a cemetery carefully cared for; but it is not unlovely. Perhaps it is not inappropriate, that a short distance off runs the line of intrenchments, through embrasures in which silent cannon watch day and night. I chose for the grave a spot left vacant close by the fence, where the vine could droop directly over it, and the rose-leaves could fall upon it, and the tree, with its mossy harps, could pour its sighing requiems above it. I marked the spot; and Sergeant Hannum, with four who loved him, presently had dug his resting-place.

The funeral was to be on Sunday, at noon. I sat, in the evening of the day he died, with Robert, when presently came steps on the stairs; then Capt. Morton, with Sergeant Warriner and Arthur Sprague, both fine singers, came in. They knew him, as the whole regiment had known him; and Capt. Morton, to do him honor, tendered the escort of his company, while the other two begged to be allowed to arrange a fine choir with appropriate music. I have not mentioned, that, during Ed.’s sickness, the camp of the regiment had been moved from the river-bank into a wood in the suburbs of the town. The tents had gone from the river-bank, and the officers had left the house; so that, during the last days of his life, Ed. and his watchers in the upper chamber were alone in the house.

Sunday came, fragrant and balmy. The heavens were full of clouds, like angels’ wings; no parching heat, but grateful air, inspired with all sweet odors. Spring birds sang in the trees. In solemn calm poured the great river before the windows where he slept. In good time, around the corner of the building, came young first Sergeant Bertram, Ed.’s familiar friend, marching at the head of the escort; all with burnished arms. They halt in front of the house. Bias Dickinson and Henry Morton come up stairs, and help me arrange on his coffin-lid his equipments. Lie there, eagle that he bore upon his broad breast; and there, shining badge with which he clasped his belt; now his well-kept gun, and here the sash and cap. For the last time I smooth his hair, compose his limbs and dress, that he may seem to his comrades truly to lie like a “warrior taking his rest.” Now replace the lid, and let eight of your strongest lift the burden.

“Slow; for it presses heavily:
It is a man ye bear!”

Down the stairway he had climbed a fortnight before, with halting feet, through the garden in front; now into his hearse. His guard of honor stand with arms reversed; half to march in front, half behind; broad platoons of young soldiers, with downcast faces. Across the parade-ground slowly now. How well it had known his vigorous foot-beat! Now through the rampart and the streets of the town, — the bells of the Catholic church meantime tolling for service, — past the frowning penitentiary, into the shade of trees, until, at length, we saw the tents of the regiment. A majestic temple we had brought him to. Magnolias, with broad, rich foliage, ever green, and trees hung with moss, formed lofty aisles with intersecting branches: and within one of these we placed him; trembling shadows passing upon his pall, his weapons and belts and badges of office lying on the lid. I could not trust myself to look around: but my eye fell upon field-officers, their eyes shaded with their hands; and from behind me, where our company was arranged, I heard the sound of much sobbing. How have you told me, comrades, that you loved him! Manly Rogers, happy-hearted Brown and Hannum, his fellow-sergeants,—from you, from captain and all, there is no dearth of sympathy.

The service begins. The chaplain, with a broken voice, reads the selections; then came the grand hymn, “Mourn not that his kin are far,” Warriner and Browning and young Cyrus Stowell and first Sergeant Arms of B. The notes rose and swelled, and mingled with sweet tree-whisperings and the sobs of soldiers. Their voices choked, and they had to wipe the tears away to see the words. “Warriner, let me have your copy.” Is it not a grand requiem for a young soldier? —

“Mourn not that his kin are far,
While we lay him in the grave;
For his fellow-soldiers are
Loving brothers of the brave.

And his tender mother here
Shrouds him as a warrior thus:
‘Tis his country, loved so dear, —
Mother, too, of all of us.

Sleeping soft, the youth shall lie
Calmly here beneath the sod,
Where, a living sacrifice,
He his body gave to God.

Now let martial music sound!
Beat the dead-march for the brave!
Lower him gently in the ground!
Fire a volley o’er his grave!”

And now the prayer is said. Captain, take his arms and belts. He is through with them. This little bunch of Southern lilies, fragrant as his memory, I have further use for. I take them into my hand from the pall. Now, Grider, the blacksmith, and Prime, stout Pocumtuc farmer, and the rest, take him in your arms again, and to his hearse. The wail of the dead-march and the painful throb of the muffled drum! I love him and magnify him; and it sounds to me like the agonized heart-beat of the genius of his country who had lost him. Slow through the glades of the forest: the sun of noon strikes down, as we reach the street, upon the shining arms of the escort, and the hundred young men, the mourners who march behind. Slowly and tenderly; and now the little hill is climbed, into the cemetery, and the dead-march ceases. Lay him here on this convenient tomb; the last prayer; then choir of youths, “Calm on the bosom of thy God.” How sweet! how soft! We have taken off his coffin-lid again: straight and tall he lies at full length. His head is turned a little to one side, and his lips wear a soft and natural smile.

“They that have seen thy look in death,
No more may fear to die.”

His brothers in arms march in order to take the last look: then it is my turn. Beautiful in death! The ghastliness of the fever is in great part gone. The features are emaciated somewhat, and the mouth rather more compressed than usual, giving to the nose a fine Roman curve; not enough to be unnatural, and yet wonderfully dignifying the face, — a faint foreshadowing of the fine mien and presence into which the boy might have matured. I know I am showing brotherly extravagance: but now the thought comes to me of the eager youth leading his charge; and, as heretofore, the passage comes into my mind, from Henry IV. I think it is, “I saw young Harry with his armor on; beautiful as the herald Mercury new-lighted on some heaven-kissing hill!” Something like that, I believe; so lithe of limb; so free and strong and jocund; a young winged god of the Greeks! I would rather have had him fall in battle; but I know him to be just as much a brave martyr to exposure and faithful work in the cause: and hereafter, if conflict is joined, and his old charge come face to face with the foe; when they stand with steady discipline, and overwhelm assault with rattling tide of fire, — to him be in part the honor, though he lie cold in death! I have my lilies in my hand, now upon the pillow right here by his cheek, one for each one of us; then a deep, warm kiss upon the brow, and the leave-taking is over. They held aside the climbing vine, and lowered him in his grave. Suddenly, at the word of command, a line of shining barrels was levelled over him, then a loud volley, telling through the camps and town afar that a soldier was at rest. Three times it was repeated, sending echoes far over the river and back into the forest to the outmost solitary vidette; then all was done.

To the Parsonage in B.

Dear P.,—We are lucky fellows. For a time, you know, Ed. and I were perfectly well and hearty; and, now that Ed. has had to give up for a while, he is probably better off than any sick man in the regiment, and is doing as well as we can expect. I wrote a day or two ago, that Ed. was sick; thinking he would be better at once. It turned out differently; and now he is slipping smoothly through a fever,—just about as comfortably off as he needs to be, with every thing so far going well. It does seem at a distance an awkward thing to be sick in camp, and generally, I suppose, it is a hard thing for a soldier to be taken down; but Ed. is singularly fortunate. The chaplain offered him a place in his room, which he thought would be more comfortable than the hospital; but the officers of the company were so urgent in their invitation, that Ed. decided to go to their room. So here we are to-night,—he playing patient; and I, nurse.

Grosvenor is sick too, — fine fellow,—the graduate of Amherst, whom I mention sometimes. He and Ed. have the room together; and the colonel has detailed me temporarily for hospital-service, to have special charge of this pair of sergeants. You know I am an old hand at nursing. I find I take to it again with real zest, like a fish to its pond. Ed. and Grosvenor are both sleeping quietly now, each on his bunk comfortably fitted up with a soft mattress of moss and all necessary coverings. The surgeon is skilful, and close at hand all the time; the hospital-stores contain all the necessary medicines; and, for comforts, you ought to see the pile of oranges and lemons on this table here! Oranges, not such half-ripened, pale fellows as you see North, but the “raal” article, pumpkins in color, and almost in size. Ed. has just been smacking his lips over some cold lemonade sucked up through a mint-julep straw, and is looking forward to beef-tea; a cupful of which, nicely made as can be by old Winders, the hospital cook, who takes an interest in us, stands on the bench yonder. Moreover, there is toast-water, fine loaf-sugar, choice tea, right here at hand, and gruel whenever it is wanted. Ed. sleeps on a feather pillow which I managed to get; and, as I said, sucks his nourishment through a mint-julep straw: not because he is obliged to, but because he prefers to take it easy, — lie flat on his back, or any way, and take his dinner, which, under the persuasion applied by means of the mint-julep straw, will pliantly mount any hill, or turn any corner, to find that “right spot” to which we like to have things go exactly. So you see Ed. is about as well off as he could be anywhere, all things considered; and, in some respects, better: for he has the mint-julep straw, — an article which savors of the “enemy,” and which, therefore, never did profane, and I presume would never be allowed to profane, the virtuous precincts of the manse; and yet an article (O our friends!) to be cherished for its magic mastery over lemonade and beef-tea. So you see Ed. is well doctored and well nursed. I am not afraid to say it. For myself, my health is perfect; and I take precautions to keep it so, so far as I can.

Ed. has waked up. He sends much love, and talks about Mark Tapley, the “jolly man;” who, when he was too sick to speak, wrote “jolly” on a piece of paper. That appears to be about his frame of mind.

Jan. 19.—One by one, all the phases of military life are passing before me. Camp and transport life I know,—picket and guard duty, and the routine of drill. For a month, this has been our life, — a tedious and uneventful season, whose incidents it is idle to record. The battle-field, so far, has kept aloof with its bloody terrors; but now I am face to face with a chapter of the soldier’s life, less hideous than the battle-field perhaps, yet full of sadness. Suddenly I come to see hospital-service; and, as I feel to-night, it is quite possible I may see much of it: for while there is so much sickness in the regiment, and I continue well, perhaps I can best employ myself in nursing. I am writing here at ten at night, in what the doctor calls my “ward;” a pleasant, airy chamber belonging to the officers of our company, who, however, with great kindness, have given it up to Ed. and Sergeant Grosvenor, who are here sick of fever. I snatch the intervals between the calls of my two patients to write. Two of our men sleep here on the floor, who are to watch part of the night. It will be an hour or two before I go to bed; and I may have an opportunity to write a good deal.

My first visit to the hospital put me face to face with its gloomiest spectacles. A mail had come, and it fell to me .to distribute to the patients their letters. I had been giving letters to well men, had my own pocket full, was happy myself, and had come from among men happy as men ever are; for I have discovered the secret of happiness to be hidden in mail-bags. I rushed up the stairs leading to the second story of the building, the rooms of which are used as part of the hospital. Two or three doors were before me. I opened the first, and found myself alone in the presence of a corpse. It was the body of a man who had died the night before. He lay in full soldier’s dress, decently brushed coat with military buttons,—his “martial cloak around him,” — and with a white cloth covering the face. He was buried in the afternoon; the regiment drawn up in a hollow square, solemnly silent, while the service was performed; then standing reverently while the body and its escort with the muffled drum moved to the burial. I have heard of the “wail” of the fife, but never made it real to myself until then, when across the parade-ground, down the street, then from the distance, came the notes of the “Dead March.”

In the next room to the one in which lay the corpse, the floor was covered with pale, sick men. Now they have rough bedsteads, “bunks;” but then there was nothing but the mattress under them, and sometimes only the blankets. One or two attendants, as many as could be spared from the regiment, had the care of the whole; but they were far too few. One poor man was in a sad way, with inflammatory rheumatism, which made it very painful for him to stir; and, at the same time, with dysentery, so that he required to be lifted every few minutes. Pale, forlorn men, away from friends, tended by nurses who have no special interest in them, and are overworked, —crouching, wrapped up in blankets over the fire, or stretched out on a floor. God pity the world if it has sights in it more melancholy than a military hospital!

The hospital of our regiment is only in part located in these rooms, of which I have been writing. Most of the patients (I am sorry to write, they are very numerous) are in a larger building, once a hotel, which lies a few rods outside the lines. Well do I know the road thither now, by night or day, by storm or sunshine; for, after the doctor’s visits, it is my work to go to the hospital-steward after the medicines and comforts for my sick men. How many times already have I climbed the steep clay bank of the parapet, then slid down into the ditch outside! — a hill of difficulty in bad weather, when one’s feet slip from under him in the slimy soil. The old bar-room of the hotel is now the hospital-kitchen and head-quarters of the surgeon and steward. Above the bar is a flaring gilt sign, “Rainbow Saloon;” and below it, along the shelves which once held the liquors, are arranged the apothecary stores of the regiment. The steward is constantly busy, — one of the hardest-worked men in the regiment, I believe; for he prepares pills and powders by the thousand, and the rattle of his pestle is almost constant.

In the rooms above lie the sick men, and in one apartment the surgeon is quartered. Every morning, just at light, “surgeon’s call” is beaten; and from each company a sergeant marches off at the head of a long line of sick men to be prescribed for. These are men unwell, but not so badly off as to be obliged to leave their ordinary quarters for the accommodations of the hospital.

Let us go up stairs into this second story. At the head of the staircase, the door of a room is ajar; and I see the bed on which generally is lying one of the sickest patients of the hospital, some man near to death, — a comfortable, canopied bed, a death-bed for numbers. To-night, poor Paine, of our company, who died a little while ago, has just been laid out there. An entry runs north and south, from which, on each side, open the doors of other sick-rooms, where men with fever and dysentery, with agues, and racking, lung-shattering coughs, lie stretched on mattresses. Here is one with ghastly fever-light in his eyes; there, one pale and hollow-cheeked. Wrapped to the chin in blankets, some are; some parched with the fire of disease,— their buttons and gay dress-coats, the finery in which they used to appear at dress-parade, hanging forlornly overhead.

The nurses, too, look jaded and worn: and no wonder; for, with a dismal contagion, the torpor and weariness in the faces about will communicate itself to the attendants and visitors, and the most cheerful countenance can hardly help becoming forlorn. Our chaplain and colonel (both good, energetic, and useful men) make it part of their daily duty to go to every couch, and befriend the poor fellows lying there; and their visits are the golden hours of the day at the hospital, — waited and prayed for. The doctor’s apartment is large. In one corner are piled up the “stretchers,” the cots with handles (half-bed, half-bier), which are meant to carry wounded men off the field. At daybreak, each day, this room is filled with the procession which answers the surgean’s call.

Now I am a nurse in the hospital; though in the room, my “ward,” I have only two patients, and can make things more comfortable than in most of the rooms. Only two patients: but they both have this terrible fever; and I fear (God knows how much!) for this young brother. Yet I must veil my apprehension. To-night, a letter must be sent North. My heart is sinking; but I must counterfeit light-heartedness, lest they take alarm.

Dec. 19.—In camp, within the memorable town of Baton Rouge. My clerkship at New Orleans was short-lived. I found my associates were to be very coarse men. I was to rub constantly with commissioned officers (many young and thoughtless, many of them high in rank), among whom, in my position, it would be hard to feel independence; and I might be subjected to treatment hard for a man of any spirit to endure, however Christian he might endeavor to be: all this in a strange city, with not a soul to go to for congenial companionship. I slept at night in a room appropriated to the head-quarters’ clerks, half filled up with a litter of confiscated furniture. Rising early, I packed my knapsack, and saw my superior as soon as possible; not to report for duty, but to tell him I preferred to remain with my regiment.

New Orleans I found a pleasanter city than I expected. Many streets have fine blocks, and a few buildings are really handsome. The business of the city must have been immense; though now, in thoroughfares lined with stores, and once, evidently from the look of the pavements, thronged with passers, one’s foot-step echoes hollow from deserted buildings. I was treated with invariable politeness when I came into contact with the inhabitants; though I wore my loaded revolver under my coat, and slept with it under my pillow, not knowing what might occur. On St. Charles and Canal Streets, I saw some of the ladies of the city, — at least, so I judged from their dress and faces, — but there was nothing insulting in dress or manner; and I was informed that demonstrations of that character had long since ceased. Many of these ladies were in deep mourning, probably for relatives killed in the Confederate service.

One needs to have a long purse in New Orleans. I believe this is always the case, but especially now, when, the river being closed, the city depends solely upon its environs and the sea for its supplies. Even the fruits, which we expected to procure very cheaply, cost as much as in New York, though orange-trees and the banana, with its heavy plume-like leaf, grew in almost every garden.

I proved it to be true, that there is no loneliness like that of being alone in a great city, full of strangers; and was as happy as I care to be, when I found I could depart. The “Illinois” had left, and, as I found out, had gone with the regiment still further up the river, — to Baton Rouge. I was to take a river-steamer, the “Iberville,” chartered by the Government, and about to carry up the river the famous Second Massachusetts Battery, Capt. Nims, which first became noted at this very point of Baton Rouge, in the battle of August, 1862. I bought some oranges, got my knapsack off with the help of a brother-corporal of the battery, and took my seat on the forward deck, just over the hubbub of the embarkation, to see the polished pieces, the fine stout horses, and the heavy caissons of ammunition. In this battery, the orders all are communicated by the bugle; whose call, horses as well as men understand.

I sit on deck beneath a June-like sun. A crowd have assembled on the Levee; in large part, of contrabands. Boys cry the papers with Gen. Butler’s farewell. My oranges are delicious; more sweet and ripe than we get them North. Behind me, in the river, lies the “Hartford,” with Admiral Farragut on board; the “Mississippi,” “Pensacola,” and the smaller gun-boats. In the distance, down stream, lie the two French warships, and the “Rinaldo ” flying the cross of St. George. Up stream lies a steamer with the flag of Spain, — swarthy watchmen on the paddle-boxes, the space over the forecastle crowded with sailors of the same hue. There are but few merchant-ships, and little appearance of commercial bustle. Big artillery-men (artillery-men always look strong), Boston boys in red-trimmed jackets, wheel the light cannons aboard the ship. These shining pieces are no dainty holiday affairs, that never go out of arsenals except on Fourth of July or after an election, and then only belch harmless discharges. Each one, on the average, has probably killed its score of men, and wounded perhaps two or three times as many. Smooth, elegant, polished, quiet, they stand on deck like elegant French swordsmen I have read of, who go with dainty rapiers, almost plaything-like, soft as silk, but dangerous as death.

By sunset, horses, men, and all, are aboard. Callighan and O’Toole are safe at hand, glad as I am to go to the regiment. The boat swings out just as Gen. Banks is leaving the “Hartford” from a visit of ceremony. His boat shoots forth rapidly, rowed by eight skilful oarsmen; and from the ports of the “Hartford,” now one side, now the other, roars the appropriate salute of thirteen guns, the tremendous report making the light scantling upper works of the steamer I am on quiver like jack-straws.

We are moving rapidly up stream, the city under its guard, the closed stores and crowd of negroes going rapidly behind, while sugar plantations on both sides come into view above. Battery-men tell stories of the Baton-Rouge fight, — how this one had a horse shot under him, and that one had a man killed at his side. As evening closes, the horizon before and behind is lit up with immense fires, consuming the dried and crushed stalks of the sugar-cane. Pat Callighan and their ” co-r-r-poral” sit under the stack on deck, the evening being cool; while an Irish sergeant of the First Louisiana, who has served in India, tells stories of the skill of the Sikhs at Sobraon and Chillianwallah.

Before daylight, the boat is at Baton Rouge. I roll out of my blankets on the cabin-floor, and go ashore. Climbing up the Levee, and finding there Company D just finishing breakfast, having slept on their arms all night, I feel happy enough to be once more among the fellows; and throw my knapsack down by Ed.’s, in one corner of a tent, with much more satisfaction than I should have taken in a carpeted parlor in New Orleans.

I hear of the warlike experiences of the day before. It seems that the transports (several of which were in company after leaving New Orleans) followed one another in close line, protected by gun-boats. During the night, which soon fell, word went out, that, the next day, there would probably be fighting. The rifles were got out of the boxes in the hold, loaded, and each man supplied with forty rounds of cartridges. There was some anxiety in the regiment (for we are almost entirely lacking in musket-drill), but, I believe, no unmanly fear. By morning, the ships were opposite Baton Rouge, held by a body of the enemy. The famous iron-clad “Essex” appeared, to re-enforce the squadron. Some twenty shell were fired, mostly by the “Essex;” the Fifty-second, for the first time, having the opportunity to hear the booming of guns of large caliber and the whistle of projectiles. The enemy retired immediately; whereupon our troops were at once landed from the transports, and posted within certain old intrenchments. These were thrown up last summer by Gen. Williams, and run zig-zag through the town, without respect to buildings, streets, or graveyards.

Dec. 16. —I am writing now among the great columns of the St. Charles Hotel, in New Orleans, in front, detailed for special duty at head-quarters, in a clerkship which Gen. Banks offered me this morning, and which I have accepted on trial. It will give me a place close by the general, and, I hope, a good opportunity for observation and to be useful. I left the ship last evening just at dusk, thinking I would settle the matter at once,—wait upon the general, present my letters of introduction and credentials, and see what he would do for me. The “Illinois” had hauled up to shore. I loaded my revolver, climbed down the wheel-house, and made my way up through the streets, toward the St. Charles Hotel, to seek my fortune. It was a hostile city: but the sense of insecurity which I had when I landed soon wore off; for people were invariably polite when I made inquiries; and, had they not been, soldiers of the Union passed me at every few rods; and not unfrequently I came upon sentinels posted in doorways, on sidewalks, before places of amusement. Occasionally I passed buildings which seemed very fine in the dusk; and at length the stately front of the St. Charles threw its glare over me, as I ascended through the gas-light into the rotunda. Shoulder-straps were innumerable among the tall columns, —double-breasted colonels and majors, with eagles and leaves, — and slimmer captains and lieutenants, with the single row of buttons.

The general was not in: so I was forced to wait until this morning, though I ran the risk of losing the “Illinois,” which might sail any hour, leaving me with my fate undecided. Soon after eight this morning, fortified with a good breakfast, I went again to the St. Charles. The general was at breakfast. I sent in my name on a card, with my documents, and waited. In half an hour, perhaps, an unpretending figure, in blowze and loose pantaloons, with felt hat and shuffling slippers, crossed the marble floor just in front of me. At first, I did not notice him. His appearance was less distingué than that of the least second lieutenant among the columns; in fact, I believe even the corporal outshone him in his freshly brushed dress-coat. As he passed opposite me, however, I saw it was the general going to his rooms.

He is out of sight now, and I wait to be summoned. Wait, wait. If he comes out again, I determine to waive ceremony, and present myself. Here he does come! Up, courage, before he is swallowed by shoulder-straps! I touch my cap, give my name. He is very polite, — “was looking for me;” and I presently feel at my ease. The iron-gray moustache over the mouth is a grim and formidable archway, but from under it proceed pleasant words. At present, he can only offer this clerkship. I may take it, and wait for something better to turn up. He leaves me to think about it; meantime inviting me into his parlor, where I sit among eagles and stars, who come and go.

Colonels of regiments just arrived are here to report. Major Varnum reports: —

“I am paymaster, sir. I have brought with me a million dollars.”

“Indeed!” (the general, with a pleasant smile and imperial bow:) “then we are all glad to see you, major.”

“Major So-and-so is coming with eight hundred thousand dollars more.”

“Ah! then we shall all be glad to see him, — almost as glad as to see you.”

The general withdraws. I make up my mind then; take out my paper, and read, while the adjutant-general and his clerks (who occupy this parlor for the time being) write and write. The general appears again, walks across the room, his hands behind him, and face bent down, in deep thought. He is just about to meet the municipal authorities of New Orleans, — an important interview. As he approaches my corner, he looks up, and smiles affably. I tell him briefly I will come on trial, — not to stay unless I choose. I am then introduced to the adjutant-general, and presently retire to the shadow of these great columns of the portico: but, before I go, I behold the general in full blaze,— double star on each shoulder, double row of buttons in front; the sash of his office about his waist, which the adjutant-general steps forward and adjusts. As I pass out, the civic dignitaries are entering, — a body of gentlemen of good bearing and substantial aldermanic appearance.

I have also an opportunity, just at night-fall, to contrast the setting with the rising sun. In the afternoon, I pass the handsome mansion occupied by Gen. Butler as his head-quarters. From the stoop I am hailed by name, and look up to behold Callighan and Pat O’Toole of our company, who have got lost, and come to the guard, before the door here at head-quarters, to be set straight. I go up on to the roomy stoop; and, as we stand talking by the sentry, two gentlemen come from within to the door, escorted by a third with portly figure and thin hair. It is the verge of evening, and I cannot see his face plainly. “Shall we say at half-past four, then?” It is Gen. Butler, making an engagement with his visitors for the next day. He goes in. I hear a door close, and through the blinds I can see him in an elegant parlor, alone, reading; the gas-light falling full on his large frame and rather sinister face.

Dec. 15. — Morning comes after a night almost sultry. The air is dead; and, although the stateroom window has been wide open, we all awake in a perspiration. Daylight drags the wolf out of his cavern, — the city out to view. We find we are rather below it; opposite a pretentious building, which, I believe, is the Marine Hospital. In the course of the morning, we weigh anchor, and sail up a mile or so; the straight streets opening up as we go slowly by, looking quiet, and, with the wharves and buildings along the Levee, forsaken by business. We pass the Cathedral; a fine structure, so far as I can see, with a square in front, and two buildings of a mediæval appearance on each side, — convents, perhaps; then long sheds and markets. At length we are opposite the Custom House, — which has the revenue-flag flying, — an uncompleted building of Quincy granite, which, they say, was proving too heavy for the soil, sinking downward, until they were forced to stop building.

Here are the great peace-keepers of the city. After passing two French War-steamers, we come to frigate after frigate, grim, dangerous, silent, our flag at the stern; with formidable batteries, all in perfect trim, and trained straight against the city. Blue tars crowd the decks; watchmen, with spy-glasses, are in the tops. Should secession grow rife again, and, in city or suburb, the watch behold the dust arising from an émeute which the soldiery could not repress, New Orleans would be blown into shreds and splinters. We cast anchor again. As the day goes by, we buy oranges, ripe and sweet, from boats which come alongside; while the hope of being landed during the day, held out in the morning, fades and fades.

Dec. 14. — We are in one of the passes of the Mississippi, on our way to New Orleans. It is Sunday again, — our third aboard the ship, — and a most lovely day to be introduced to Louisiana. It is a perfect summer day, with the bulging clouds and blue sky of a hay-day at home, though there is breeze enough to keep it from being oppressively hot. We only hope the “rebs” are as much in the dark as to our destination as the expedition itself and the people of the North generally.

We left Ship Island yesterday, — Saturday; having lain at anchor there since Thursday. Sergt. Hannum went ashore there, and came back smacking his lips, and telling great stories of a hoe-cake, with butter, which he bought of a contraband. He must have had a good supper, and became the pet and star of the non-coms for that evening, who made him repeat his story again and again, endeavoring, from the lusciousness of his descriptions, to realize the actual sensations which the palate of the lucky sergeant had experienced.

On Saturday morning, in came huge steamer after steamer; among them the “North Star,” the flag-ship, with Gen. Banks. Boats, with staff-officers, sped from vessel to vessel, —one to ours; and news presently came from the cabin, we were to sail again as soon as steam could be raised.

All day long, transports, laden with troops, were arriving, — the swift “Matanzas;” the immense “Arago;” at length the familiar “Atlantic,” in which I once took a voyage; she and her consort the “Baltic,” with others, large and small. The decks of all are dark with troops. We hear from some the drum and fife; from others the strains of a full band; and, from every regiment, cheer after cheer as they round the point of the island, pass in among the ships, and finally cast anchor. A gunboat comes up; lies-to off the point; and presently up at the fore goes a string of flags, one over the other, — at the top, a red and white checker; then a blue, bisected by a white line; then a red and white, the line of division between the two colors running diagonally from corner to corner. I turn my head toward the men-of-war lying in the harbor, and see that they, too, have strings of flags flying. They are talking with those gay, fluttering tongues across the intervening mile or two. What do they say? Presently the slate-colored hull, with the black guns looking from its sides, is cutting the water again, and she casts anchor among the fleet.

There is no lack of excitement to-day. By noon, there must be some twelve thousand troops at the anchorage, on steamers large and small.

The “North Star,” with the general, weighs anchor again, the blue flag of pre-eminence flying at the fore; then the “Spaulding;” then another and another; until, at length, our turn comes. Round go the wheels again: we pass the point, and are at sea, the “Arago ” following in our wake, and others, whose smoke only we can see, far in the rear of her.

Night falls. There are moving lights ahead, behind, and at each side, where the ships are finding their way. Word comes up from the cabin that we are bound for New Orleans, but not to stop; and we remain as much in the dark as ever about our final goal. It only leaks out that the colonel has said, “No one yet has named our true destination.” Ed. and I sit on deck, as night after night we have done. Arthur Sprague, Lieut. Haskell, and one or two others, pour out far over the sea some Saturday-night hymns, in which I am glad to join. There I sit, and into my mind come thoughts of the world’s great expeditions, — of Mardonius in a purple, Persian galley, with the other satraps and their master Xerxes sweeping down to where Themistocles and the fine of Athenian triremes waited for them at Salamis; then of the great Duke of Medina Sidonia leading his armada towards St. George’s Channel, while the Prince of Parma, on the Netherland coast, impatiently watched for the signal for launching forth with his brave Spanish infantry. Did the old Medean spearmen sit, I wonder, with dangling legs, looking as unromantic as Corporal Hardiker there, with his greasy pantaloons half up to his knee? or did bearded, old musketeers, in casques and burgonets, sing songs of Aragon and Leon, as we sing the songs of Yankee-land? My thoughts are not auspicious, I fancy; for almost every expedition that comes to mind, as I sit, goes out in a bad cause, and ends in disaster. I would not yield my cause for any that man ever upheld, though so many would class us with Persia and Spain in injustice. How full of romance are these seas, with their great associations, —Balboa and De Soto, galleons with glittering adventurers, buccaneers, mariners of Genoa and Portugal in gilded argosies!

Ed. and I go below, to wake up toward daylight, and find the engines still, and hear the hoarse shout of the gruff third mate, “Watch! ” as he heaves the lead. We are just off the Bar, at the mouth of one of the passes; and, when we come on deck, the pilot-schooner is flying from one to another among the fleet of steamers,— who, like us, are all lying-to, — putting her pilots here and there. We take on ours. In a moment the heaving sea is behind us, its blue a thing of the past; and we breast the sallow current of the Mississippi, with coarse, strange-looking sedges, ten feet high, on the banks; fish-huts here and there; spoonbills flying about in flocks; and, as I live, a pelican,— symbolic bird, —pocketing fish out of the river. The bank gradually begins to look more firm; though often the sea stretches away close at hand beyond the narrow ridge of earth, which is the only shore. Toward noon, we reach the famous forts, whose walls are low, but covered with formidable guns, one of which gives us a salute as we come up.

In the course of the afternoon, we pass a plantation, belonging, so the pilot says, to Judah P. Benjamin. It is one of the finest we see during the sail, with large sugar-houses, comfortable cabins, and a stately mansion. We go within a stone’s-throw of the groves and balconies, sweet with aromas and soft breezes as the haunts of Circe,—the nursery-spots of hideous treason. A crowd of negroes, of all sizes and both sexes, rush to the bank to shout, and wave their hands. The only expressions of joy we witness are from the blacks: indeed, they are almost the sole population remaining here. The mules in the cane-fields are driven by black drivers, and blacks are the only figures we see about the sugar-mills. The streets of negro cabins are often populous; but the master’s mansion, almost invariably, stands with no sign of life within its grove.

We go below for supper. When we return to the deck, night has fallen; and, in front, we can just begin to see the lights of New Orleans. To the right of the city, in the heavens, glares a conflagration, red, like a great light we saw the night of our arrival at Ship Island, said then to be toward Mobile, and perhaps the signal-fire of the enemy. Ed. and I sit on the paddlebox, watching the light, — the hostile city, in chains and under our cannon. Now we are close upon it. At our side lies the “North Star; ” when plunge goes the anchor, with its rattling chain, in twenty-five fathoms water. All is mystery about us, except that, through the night, the invisible city looks at us through its blinking lights,—eyes alone visible, like the wolf that Putnam followed into its cavern. The “United States,” the “Boardman,” and other vessels of the squadron, come up. The fine band of the Forty-first, on the “North Star,” play, “Twinkling stars are laughing, love,” and other pieces, to the delight of all the transports. One of our fellows offers to ” swap our band for yours; ” which goes for a great joke aboard the “Illinois,” we being rather lame in point of music, — a few drums and fifes, with a most limited repertoire of tunes. A certain creeper, the pest of camps from time immemorial, has made its appearance on the “Illinois,” as was to be expected; and been the staple horror of the latter part of the voyage. Of course, some one must yell out the inquiry, if the Forty-first know any thing about them. The answer comes pealing back across the water: “We’ve got ’em with U. S. marked on their backs.” So go the jokes through the evening.

Dec. 8. —I have had no heart or ability to make an entry in my journal for days and days; but, this morning, sea-sickness is gone, the sea is smooth, the weather is July for sun, with a soft, September wind breathing just astern. It is entirely comfortable for me to sit in my shirt-sleeves on the hurricane-deck. How sweet is this calm and soft air! The white lighthouse, at the southern point of Cape Florida, stands three or four miles to the west of us. We slide on rapidly over coral-reefs; the water blue as opal; a sail here and there on the horizon; and in the distance, like round, green bosses, the thickly scattered Keys of Florida, — studs of chrysoprase, with which this sumptuous southern sea fastens the opal covering down over its pearl-lit caves and coral groves. It is something rare, this coloring of the sea. I have just raised my eyes to look westward. Close at hand, the water is blue, with the ordinary deep-sea tinge; but just beyond, over a bar of snowy sand it must be, it is green as malachite, wonderfully clear and living.

Sunday morning, Brown, who rises early, came back to us with the news of a death in the regiment during the night. The soldier’s body lay upon the hurricane-deck, sewed up in his blanket, ready for its burial in the sea. “We do not reach Ship Island until Wednesday or Thursday of this week, and shall make no port before.

It is noon when the funeral takes place. I am lying in my berth, still weak, when I hear the voice of the chaplain, on the deck just over me, beginning the funeral service. I hurry up. They swing the American flag at half-mast just over the body, and as many of the regiment as it is safe to admit to that part of the ship stand around. The service is very impressive. A choir of soldiers sing a hymn; then a kinsman of the dead man lifts the plank; down it descends, weighted at the feet. Tropical fish play about the ship. The northern breeze, right from home, breathes over the ocean-grave; the clear-green sea closes above, — a sepulchre of emerald, — a sad and sudden end for the poor Shelburne boy.

The keel of the ship grates upon the bottom. The captain jumps to the wheel, and it is about immediately, until land fades again, and it is once more “one wide water all around us.” The sun sets gloriously behind this land of romance. A soft crimson haze hangs over the land, and smokes up zenithward like rich fume and vapor from old Ponce de Leon’s fountain of youth. A splendor of cloud and light is thrown upon the west, — tall buttressed pillars glowing in the light, as if the powers of the air had begun to paint there the proud escutcheon of the Spanish kings. In another moment, I shall behold the crowned shield and the rampant lions; but it fades, and now to the eastward rises the moon. The sky to-night is vapory, with fine, clear lines of azure running through the vapor, like veins, —veins how blue and deep! as if filled with the blue blood of the true Hidalgos of old Castile.

There has been no end to grumbling. We have all been sea-sick, and responsibilities which the disordered stomach ought to shoulder have been thrown on the food. This brings me to speak of what I have noticed again and again since we became soldiers,—that the first to complain are those who have come from the poorest circumstances. Those who at home have been forced to live on the coarsest food are now first and loudest in their outcries against the rations.

Before we left New York, McGill and I clubbed together to buy Prof. Cairnes’s book, — “The Slave Power;” a purchase I am glad enough we made. I have read the book attentively during the voyage, with great interest, and feel now doubly strong to fight for the Union cause. I respect England and her writers. I have been accustomed to defer very much to English thinkers; and though, in the exercise of my most conscientious judgment, I could not help thinking our cause was right, yet I have not been able to feel quite easy and satisfied when the voices of intelligent Englishmen seemed so generally against us. It was very cheering when the “National” came, a few months ago, with a fine article on our side; then the “Westminster,” with Mill’s strong presentation of our case. Now here is this new book, by a writer, to be sure, who seems to be only just rising into note, but evidently a man of very fine powers, and sure to wield a profound influence. How his analysis of the matter carries conviction with it! How plain it is that the hopes of civilization depend upon the triumph of the North! There is a grand sentence, which Cairnes quotes from De Tocqueville, to the effect, “that when a people are striving for independence, whether the effort has right or wrong on its side, depends upon what they want independence for, —whether to govern themselves, or to tyrannize over others.” “Down with slavery!” though I own my sympathies go as much or more with the suffering whites than the suffering blacks. I believe good has come, and is coming, to the black serf through his contact with the Anglo-Saxon, though it has been so rough and harsh; and probably the suffering of the race, great as it is, is not much greater than it would have been if they had remained in unenslaved barbarism. But how terrible is the corruption which slavery brings upon the master class! Thanks to this good book! Now Dixie — Ship Island — is full in sight; and I can put my foot confidently upon its sand if we come to land, buttressed in my feelings that I have right on my side, though I come armed against its owners.