March 13. —I have retreated to the outskirts of the camp this superb morning, and have mounted a stump, portfolio in hand, to record progress. I hope the general is not “up a stump” about his expedition; but here we still are. We have been under marching orders four or five days. The cause of the delay is said to be disagreement among the generals. It may or may not be that.
But impressive preparations have been made for some monster undertaking. Evenings, sometimes, I have gone with my hospital-pass down to the river-side to see Admiral Farragut’s fleet (capable, they say, of throwing four tons of iron a minute). The “Richmond” lies farthest up the stream, whose grim, dark broadside we have become so familiar with. Farther down is the “Mississippi,”—powerful, noble old frigate, which I remember being taken to see when I was a young child. She is a Cromwell among the fleet; never doing any thing but peaceful work all through early life on to middle age; then suddenly plunging into fiery warfare, and making an immortal name for herself. Stained and warty and wrinkled is her old hull, as was the face of Cromwell; moreover, painted a shade of gray, so that she looks hoary, —blistered from tropic exposures, scraped and scarred from ice-floes, but stanch yet to the keel, and perhaps the most reliable member of the squadron.
The “Hartford” lies below, whose battery I heard thunder at New Orleans. The “Essex ” is drawn close up in shore. I lean against the wheel of a powder-wagon, and look, at my leisure, at her formidable plating; her pipes rising from the hard shell like a pair of snail’s horns; the big guns showing their muzzles through the ports, like dogs that want to be petted. To her present fame, what new glory is she about to add? The mortar-vessels are stretched in a line below, and close to the Levee lies the trim gunboat “Kineo.”
It is late twilight now. I sit on the embankment, looking at the pale, yellow sky westward, between which and my sight intervene the masts and rigging of one of these mighty gladiators of the deep. She lies far enough distant to make it impossible for me to hear any sounds from her deck, except most faintly; but I can dimly see the back of the great eleven-inch Dahlgren above the bulwarks, — like a saurian crouching upon her deck, — and the watch on the forecastle, — a well-formed, square-shouldered sailor pacing to and fro. Twilight is deepening in the far heavens beyond, — a clear, pale space within a frame of clouds; just the back-ground upon which might be displayed such a heavenly sign as appeared to Constantine of old,—the flaming cross, the harbinger of victory. I see nothing but the bright evening-star, just over the head of the sailor on the forecastle.
Yesterday morning, we thought we were certainly off at last. Word came to be ready to fall in at nine o’clock. Every thing was prepared. I had my forty rounds in my cartridge-box, and twenty additional in my trousers-pocket. For the last, down came the shelter-tent. Bivins packed away his piece, and I mine; and, when the drum sounded, I was promptly with the color-guard. Bias Dickinson is once more at my shoulder. We thought we were off; but we were only to be reviewed. It was as brilliant as one can conceive. Two divisions, brigade beyond brigade; yet Austrian troops in white, or British troops in red, must be more brilliant. Our blue is but a dull hue; yet still ten thousand men together is a sight to behold, — in uniform, in regular formations, — lying long across a field, like wave behind wave, with a foam of bayonets lit up by sun’s rays cresting each.
Gen. Banks comes up with a multitudinous staff. Now is the time for splendid steeds, — coursers fitted for an Homeric chariot; the war-horse of Job, his neck clothed with thunder; arching necks, prancing limbs, fetlocks spurning the furrow; bays, blacks, and grays, prancing and rearing from well-filled bins (for each horse has had his nose in a government-crib). In full dress, in front of the whole, on his coal-black stallion, rides the general. The brigades, one behind another, see him from afar: the brigadiers bring swords to chin, then sweep the point through the air groundward; banners droop, drums (near and far away) roll a salute. The general removes his cap. He is splendid, — his staff behind him splendid, — glittering with bullion and lace, with buttons and steel. All is splendid; but the color-guard thinks it is tough work to look at a spectacle in heavy marching order.
Each half-hour puts a new pound into my knapsack; yet I feel like little Tom Brown when he goes to Rugby for the first time on the stage, riding at night, his legs dangling (too short to reach the support) and tingling in the cold. It hurts; but Tom finds a pleasure in enduring. It hurts me; but I find a kind of pleasure. Then, too, I have company enough in my misery; and do not care much, so long as the sergeant and Bias and Hardiker find it just as hard as I do.
Down the line, on a full canter, now come the general and his brilliant staff. See the bluff captains and commodores from the fleet! Bump, up and down! Winnowing the air may be graceful work for the wings of a swallow, but not for the elbows of a commodore. Trip goes a horse into a ditch, and an aide goes down. Down the front of the line, then behind. Then we must march by,—first Gen. Grover, commanding the division, in buff sash and yellow belt, with the division flag at his side, carried by an orderly, — red field, with a star of white; then the brigadier of the first brigade, with his flag (blue, white, and blue) behind him; then regiment behind regiment, drooping its “good-morning” to the general, in the dipping-colors, as the lines wheel and pass before him, receiving a wave of the cap in return, — horn and bugle, drum and fife, filling the air with glorious sound, —the great host with rhythmic foot-beat moving mightily onward. Now it is over. We march back to the old camp; and, for the first thing, reduce our baggage. We thought, before, we were peeled down to the last rind; but more still must go, or we shall never see Port Hudson. Most of the men resign woollen blankets: but I give up my overcoat; I can spare that best.
The other day I went to Edward’s grave, with a spade, to repair and re-turf the mound, which had sunk a little during the rainy weather. This week I have placed the cross, which is to stand at the head. It is simply of wood, painted white, with his name and office deeply carved into the horizontal bar; and, beneath, the date of his death. Of all the soldiers’ graves, none is so neat now, in its memorial, in its turf, or location, as his.
They write me, they hope I am still in the hospital; but I am not. There are plenty of invalid or convalescent soldiers, unfit for field-duty, who can tend the sick. I am well able to do soldier’s work. If it is God’s will, I shall some day go home. The time has come to the young men of this country, when the motto, “Death, or an honorable life,” tries more sharply the manhood of him who adopts it than once. Sometimes one can lead an honorable life, and run no risk. I could not be honorable without going into the army. The path of honor for me now is to go with the color-guard into the fire of the Port-Hudson batteries. I would have my life honorable, or go with Ed.
