menu_book Chapter 11

CHAPTER XI. GENERAL JOSEPH E. JOHNSON. General Joseph E. Johnson now took command of the army. General Bragg was relieved and had become Jeff Davis' war advisor at Richmond, Virginia. We had followed General Bragg all through this long war.

We had got sort of used to his ways, but he was never popular with his troops. I felt sorry for him. Bragg's troops would have loved him if he had allowed them to do so, for many a word was spoken in his behalf after he had been relieved of the command. As a general I have spoken of him in these memoirs, not personally.

I try to state facts so that you may see, reader, why our cause was lost. I have no doubt that Bragg ever did what he thought was best. He was but a man under the authority of another. But now allow me to introduce you to old Joe. Fancy if you please a man about fifty years old, rather small of stature, but firmly and

compactly built, an open and honest countenance, and a keen but restless black eye that seemed to read your very inmost thoughts. In his dress he was a perfect dandy. He ever wore the very finest clothes that could be obtained, carrying out at every point the dress and paraphernalia of the soldier, as adopted by the war department at Richmond,

never emitting anything, even to the trappings of his horse, bridle and saddle. His hat was decorated with a star and feather, his coat with every star and embellishment, and he wore a bright new sash, big gauntlets, and silver spurs. He was the very picture of a general. But he found the army depleted by battles, and worse, yea, much worse by desertion.

The men were deserting by tens and hundreds, and I might say by thousands. The morale of the army was gone. The spirit of the soldiers was crushed, their hope gone. The future was dark and gloomy. They would not answer roll call.

Discipline had gone. A feeling of mistrust pervaded the whole army. A trainload of provisions came into Dalton. The soldiers stopped it before it rolled into the station, burst open every car, and carried off all the bacon, meal, and flour that was on board.

Wild riot was the order of the day. Everything was confusion. Worse, confounded. When the news came like pouring oil upon the troubled waters that General Joe E. Johnson of Virginia had taken command of the Army of Tennessee, men returned to their companies.

Order was restored, and Richard was himself again. General Johnson issued a universal amnesty to all soldiers absent without leave. Instead of a scrimp pattern of one day's rations, he ordered two day's rations to be issued, being extra for one day. He ordered tobacco and whiskey to be issued twice a week.

He ordered sugar and coffee and flour to be issued instead of meal. He ordered old bacon and ham to be issued instead of blue beef. He ordered new tents and marquees. He ordered his soldiers new suits of clothes, shoes, and hats. In fact, there had been a revolution, sure enough.

He allowed us what General Bragg had never allowed mortal man, a furlough. He gave furloughs to one-third of his army at a time until the whole had been furloughed. A new era had dawned. A new epoch had been dated. He passed through the ranks of the common soldiers, shaking hands with everyone he met.

He restored the soldiers' pride. He brought the manhood back to the privates' bosom. He changed the order of roll call, standing guard, drill, and such nonsense as that. The revolution was complete. He was loved, respected, admired, yea, almost worshipped by his troops.

I do not believe there was a soldier in his army but would gladly have died for him. With him everything was his soldiers. And the newspapers, criticizing him at the time, said, He would feed his soldiers if the country starved. We soon got proud.

The blood of the old Cavaliers tingled in our veins. We did not feel that we were serfs and vagabonds. We felt that we had a home and a country worth fighting for, and, if need be, worth dying for. One regiment could whip an army, and did do it, in every instance, before the command

was taken from him in Atlanta. But of this another time. Chaplains were brought back to their regiments. Dr. C.T. Quintard and Reverend C.D. Elliott and other chaplains held divine services every Sabbath.

Prayer was offered every evening at retreat, and the morale of the army was better in every respect. The private soldier once more regarded himself a gentleman and a man of honor. We were willing to do and die and dare anything for our loved South and the stars and bars of the Confederacy.

In addition to this, General Johnson ordered his soldiers to be paid up every cent that was due them, and a bounty of fifty dollars besides. He issued an order to his troops offering promotion and a furlough for acts of gallantry and bravery on the field of battle. The cloven foot of tyranny and oppression was not discernable in the acts of officers

from general down to corporal as formerly. Notwithstanding all this grand transformation in our affairs, old Joe was a strict disciplinarian. Everything moved like clockwork. Men had to keep their arms and clothing in good order. The artillery was rubbed up and put in good condition.

The wagons were greased and the harness and hamstrings oiled. Extra rations were issued to negroes who were acting as servants, a thing unprecedented before in the history of the war. Well old Joe was a yerker. He took all the tricks.

He was a commander. He kept everything up and well in hand. His lines of battle were invulnerable. The larger his command, the easier he could handle it. When his army moved it was a picture of battle.

Everything in its place is laid down by scientific military rules. The man was to be shot. He was shot for the crimes he had done and not to intimidate and cow the living, and he had ten times as many shots as Bragg had. He had seventeen shots at Tunnel Hill and a whole company at Rocky Face Ridge, and two

spies hung at Ringgold Gap. But they were executed for their crimes. No one knew it except those who had to take part as executioners of the law. Instead of the whipping post he instituted the pillories and barrel shirt. Get Brutus to whistle the barrel shirt for you.

The pillory was a newfangled concern. If you went to the guard house of almost any regiment you would see some poor fellow with his head and hands sticking through a board. It had the appearance of a fellow taking a running start at an angle of forty-five degrees with a view of bursting a board over his head, but when the board burst his head and both

his hands were clamped in the bursted places. The barrel shirt brigade used to be marched on drill and parade. You could see a fellow's head and feet, and whenever one of the barrels would pass you would hear the universal cry, Come out of that barrel, I see your head and feet sticking out.

There might have been a mortification and a disgrace in the pillory and the barrel shirt business to those that had to use them, but they did not bruise and mutilate the physical man. When one of them had served out his time he was as good as new. Old Joe had greater military insight than any general of the South, not accepting even

Lee. He was the born soldier, seemed born to command. When his army moved it moved solid. Military, artillery, wagon train and infantry stepped the same tread to the music of the march.

His men were not allowed to be butchered for glory and to have his name in a battle fought with a number of killed and wounded go back to Richmond for his own glory. When he fought he fought for victory, not for glory. He would fall back right in the face of the foe as quietly and orderly as if on dress parade and when his enemies crowded him a little too closely he would about face and give them

a terrible chastisement. He could not be taken by surprise by any flank movement of the enemy. His soldiers were to him his children. He loved them. They were never needlessly sacrificed.

He was always ready to meet the attack of the enemy. When his line of battle was formed it was like a wall of granite. His adversaries knew him and dreaded the certain death that awaited them. His troops were brave. They laughed in the face of battle.

He had no rear guard to shoot down anyone who ran. They couldn't run. The army was solid. The various coward that was ever born became a brave man and a hero under his manipulation. His troops had the utmost confidence in him and feared no evil.

They became an army of veterans whose lines could not be broken by the armies of the world. Battle became a pastime and a pleasure and the rattle of musketry and roar of cannon were but the music of victory and success. Commissaries Before General Joseph E. Johnson took command of the Army of Tennessee the soldiers were

very poorly fed, it is true, but the blame was not entirely attributable to General Bragg. He issued enough and more than enough to have bountifully fed his army, but there was a lot of men in the army, generally denominated commissaries, and their gizzards as well as fingers had to be greased. There was Commissary General, then Corps Commissary, then Division Commissary, then Brigade Commissary,

then Regimental Commissary, then Company Commissary. Now you know, were you to start a nice hind quarter of beef, which had to pass through all these hands and every commissary take a choice steak and roast off it, there would be but little ever reached the company and the poor men among the Johnnys had to feast like bears in winter.

They had to suck their paws. But the rich Johnnys who had money could go to almost any of the gentlemen denominated Commissaries, thought to have been called cormorants, and buy of them much nice fat beef and meal and flour and sugar and coffee, nice canvassed hands, etc. I have done it many times.

They were keeping back the rations that had been issued to the army and lining their own pockets. But when General Johnson took command, this manipulating business played out. Rations would spile on their hands. Othello's occupation was gone.

They received only one hundred and forty dollars a month then, and the high private got plenty to eat, and Mr. Cormorant quit making as much money as he had heretofore done. Were you to go to them and make complaint, they would say, I have issued regular army rations to your company and what is left over is mine. And they were mighty exact about it.

Dalton We went into winter quarters at Dalton and remained there during the cold, bad winter of 1863-64, about four months. The usual routine of army life was carried on day by day with not many incidents to vary the monotony of camp life.

But occasionally the soldiers would engage in a snowball battle in which generals, colonels, captains and privates all took part. They would usually divide off into two grand divisions, one line actually becoming the attacking party and the other the defensive. The snowballs would begin to fly hither and thither with an occasional knockdown and sometimes

an ugly wound where some mean fellow had enclosed a rock in his snowball. It was fun while it lasted, but after it was over the soldiers were wet, cold and uncomfortable. I have seen charges and attacks and routes and stampeds, etc., but before the thing was over one side did not know one from the other. It was a general knockdown and drag-out affair.

Shooting a Deserter One morning I went over to Deschler's Brigade of Cleburne's Division to see my brother-in-law, Dr. J. E. Dixon. The snow was on the ground and the boys were hard at it, snowballing. While I was standing looking on a file of soldiers marched by me with a poor fellow

on his way to be shot. He was blindfolded and set upon a stump and the detail formed. The command Ready, Aim, Fire was given. The volley discharged and the prisoner fell off the stump. He had not been killed.

It was the sergeant's duty to give the coup d'etat should not the prisoner be slain. The sergeant ran up and placed the muzzle of his gun at the head of the poor, pleading and entreating wretch. His gun was discharged and the wretched man only powder burned, the gun being one that had been loaded with powder only.

The whole affair had to be gone over again. The soldiers had to reload and form and fire. The culprit was killed stone dead this time. He had no sooner been taken up and carried off to be buried than the soldiers were throwing snowballs as hard as ever as if nothing had happened.

Ten Men Killed at the Mourner's Bench A revival of religion sprang up and there was divine service every day and night. Soldiers became serious on the subject of their souls' salvation. In sweeping the streets and cleaning up an old tree had been set on fire and had been smoking and burning for several days and nobody seemed to notice it.

That night was service as usual and the singing and sermon were excellent. The sermon was preached by Reverend J.G. Bolton, chaplain of the 50th Tennessee Regiment, assisted by Reverend C.D. Elliott, the services being held in the 4th Tennessee Regiment. As it was the custom to call up mourners, a long bench had been placed in proper position for them to kneel down at.

Ten of them were kneeling at the mourner's bench, pouring out their souls in prayer to God, asking Him for the forgiveness of their sins and for the salvation of their souls for Jesus Christ, their Redeemer's sake. When the burning tree, without any warning, fell with a crash right across the ten mourners, crushing and killing them instantly, God had heard their prayers.

Their souls had been carried to heaven. Hereafter, henceforth, and forevermore, there was no more marching, battling, or camp duty for them. They had joined the army of the hosts of heaven. By order of the general they were buried with great pomp and splendor, that is, for those

every one of them was buried in a coffin. Brass bands followed playing the dead march, and platoons fired over their graves. It was a soldier's funeral. The beautiful burial service of the Episcopal Church was read by Reverend Alan Tribble. A hymn was sung and prayer offered, and then their graves were filled as we marched sadly

back to camp. Dr. C.T. Quintard Dr. C.T. Quintard was our chaplain for the 1st Tennessee Regiment during the whole war, and he stuck

to us from the beginning even unto the end. During weekdays he ministered to us physically, and on Sundays spiritually. He was one of the purest and best men I ever knew. He would march and carry his knapsack every day the same as any soldier. He had one text he preached from, which I remember now.

It was the Flying Scroll. He said there was a flying scroll continually passing over our heads, which was like the reflections in a looking-glass, and all of our deeds, both good and bad, were written upon it. He was a good doctor of medicine as well as a good doctor of divinity, and above either

of these he was a good man per se. Every old soldier of the 1st Tennessee Regiment will remember Dr. C.T. Quintard with the kindest and most sincere emotions of love and respect. He would go off into the country and get up for our regiment clothing and provisions, and wrote a little prayer and song book which he had published and gave it to the soldiers.

I learned that little prayer and song book off by heart, and have a copy of it in my possession yet, which I would not part with for any consideration. Dr. Quintard's nature was one of love. He loved the soldiers, and the soldiers loved him. And deep down in his heart of hearts was a deep and everlasting love for Jesus Christ,

the Redeemer of the world, implanted there by God the Father Himself. Is you got my hog? One day a party of us privates concluded that we would go across the Conosaga River on a raid. We crossed over in a canoe.

After traveling for some time we saw a neat looking farmhouse and sent one of the party forward to reconnoiter. He returned in a few minutes and announced that he had found a fine fat sow and a pen near the house. Now the plan we formed was for two of us to go into the house and keep the inmates interested,

and the other was to toll and drive off the hog. I was one of the party which went into the house. There was no one there but an old lady and her sick and widowed daughter. They invited us in very pleasantly, kindly, and soon prepared us a very nice and good dinner.

The old lady told us of all her troubles and trials. Her husband had died before the war and she had had three sons in the army, two of whom had been killed, and the youngest, who had been conscripted, was taken with the camp fever and died in the hospital at Atlanta. And she had nothing to subsist upon after eating up what they then had.

I was much interested and remained a little while after my comrade had left. I soon went out having made up my mind to have nothing to do with the hog affair. I did not know how to act. I was in a bad fix. I had heard the gunfire and knew its portent.

I knew the hog was dead, and went on up the road and soon overtook my two comrades with the hog, which had been skinned and cut up and was being carried on a pole between them. I did not know what to do. And looking back I saw the old lady coming and screaming at the top of her voice, You got my hog! You got my hog!

It was too late to back out now. We had the hog and we had to make the most of it, even if we did ruin a needy and destitute family. We went on until we came to the Conosaga River when, lo and behold, the canoe was on the other side of the river.

It was dark then and getting darker, and what was to be done we did not know. The weather was as cold as blue blazes and spitting snow from the northwest. That river had to be crossed that night. I undressed and determined to swim it, and went in, but the little thin ice at the bank cut my feet.

I waded in a little further, but soon found I would cramp if I tried to swim it. I came out and put my clothes on and thought of a gate about a mile back. We went back and took the gate off its hinges and carried it to the river and put it in the water, but soon found out that all three of us could not ride on it. So one of the party got on it and started a cross.

He did very well until he came to the other bank, which was a high bluff, and if he got off the center of the gate it would capsize and he would get a ducking. He could not get off the gate. I told him to pull the gate up to the bank so that one side would rest on the bank and then make a quick run for the bank.

We thought he had got the gate about the right place and made a run and the gate went under and so did he and watered ten feet deep. My comrade, Font C., who was with me on the bank, laughed. I thought until he had hurt himself, but with me, I assure you, it was a mighty sickly grin, and with the other one, Barkley J., it was anything but a laughing matter.

To me he seemed a hero. Barkley did about to liberate me from a very unpleasant position. He soon returned with the canoe and we crossed the river with the hog. He worried and tugged with it and got it to camp just before daylight. I had a guilty conscience, I assure you.

The hog was cooked, but I did not eat a piece of it. I felt that I had rather starved, and I believe that it would have choked me to death if I had attempted it. A short time afterward an old citizen from Murray County visited me. My father sent me, by him, a silver watch which I am wearing today and eight hundred

dollars in old-issue Confederate money. I took two hundred dollars of the money and had it funded for new issue, thirty-three and a third cents discount. The other six hundred I sent to Vance Thompson, then on duty at Montgomery, with instructions to send it to my brother, Dave Watkins, Uncle Aza Freeman, and J.E.

Dixon, all of whom were in Wheeler's Cavalry, at some other point I knew not where. After getting my money I found that I had a hundred and thirty-three dollars and thirty-three and a third cents. I could not rest. I took one hundred dollars, new issue, and going by my lone self back to the old lady's

house, I said, Madam, some soldiers were here a short time ago and took your hog. I was one of that party, and I wished to pay you for it. What was it worth? Well, sir, says she, money is of no value to me.

I cannot get any article that I wish. I would much rather have the hog. Says I, Madam, that is an impossibility. Your hog is dead and eat up, and I have come to pay you for it. The old lady's eyes filled with tears.

She said that she was perfectly willing to give the soldiers everything she had, and if she thought it had done us any good she would not charge anything for it. Well, says I, Madam, here is a hundred dollar, new issue Confederate bill. Will this pay you for your hog? Well, sir, she says, drawing herself up to her full height, her cheeks flushed and her

eyes flashing, I do not want your money. I would feel that it was blood money. I saw there was no further use to offer it to her. I sat down by the fire, and the conversation turned upon other subjects. I helped the old lady catch a chicken, an old hand about the last she had for dinner,

went with her in the garden and pulled a bunch of echelots, brought two buckets of water, and cut and brought enough wood to last several days. After a while she invited me to dinner, and after dinner I sat down by her side, took her old hand and mine, and told her the whole affair of the hog from beginning to end. I saw how sorry I was, and how I did not eat any of that hog, and asked her as a special

act of kindness and favor to me to take the hundred dollars, that I felt bad about it, and that if she would take it it would ease my conscience. I laid the money on the table and left. I have never in my life made a raid upon anybody else. Target Shooting

By some hook or crook or blockade running or smuggling or Mason and Slydell or Raphael Semmes or something of the sort, the Confederate State's government had come in possession of a small number of Whitworth guns, the finest long-range guns in the world, and a monopoly by the English government. They were to be given to the best shots in the army.

One day Captain Joe P. Lee and Company H went out to shoot at a target for the gun. We all wanted the gun, because if we got it we would be sharpshooters and be relieved from camp duty, etc. All the generals and officers came out to see us shoot. The mark was put up about five hundred yards on a hill, and each of us had three shots.

Every shot that was fired hit the board, but there was one man who came a little closer to the spot than any other one, and the Whitworth was awarded him. And as we turned around to go back to camp a buck rabbit jumped up and was streaking it as fast as he could make tracks, all the boys whooping and yelling as hard as they could when Jimmy Webster raised his gun and pulled down on him and cut the rabbit's head

entirely off with a mini-ball right back of his ears. He was about two hundred and fifty yards off. It might have been an accidental shot, but General Leonidas Polk laughed very heartily at the incident, and I heard him ask one of his staff if the Whitworth gun had been awarded. The staff officer responded that it had, and a certain man in Colonel Farquharson's regiment,

the 4th Tennessee, was the successful contestant, and I heard General Polk remark, I wish I had another gun to give. I would give it to the young man that shot the rabbit's head off. None of our regiment got a Whitworth, but it has been subsequently developed that our regiment had some of the finest shots in it the world ever produced.

For instance George and Mac Campbell of Murray County, Billy Watkins of Nashville, and Colonel H.R. Field, and many others who I cannot now recall to mind in this rapid sketch. Uncle Zach and Aunt Daphne While at this place I went out one day to hunt someone to wash my clothes for me. I never was a good washerwoman.

I could cook, bring water, and cut wood, but never was much on the wash. In fact it was an uphill business for me to wash up the things after grub time in our mess. I took my clothes and started out, and soon came to a little old Negro hut. I went in and said to an old Negress, Auntie, I would like for you to do a little washing

for me. The old creature was glad to get it as I agreed to pay her what it was worth. Her name was Aunt Daphne, and if she had been a politician she would have been a success. I do not remember of a more fluent conversationalist in my life. Her tongue seemed to be on a balance, and both ends were trying to out-talk the other,

but she was a good woman. Her husband was named Uncle Zach, and was the exact counterpart of Aunt Daphne. He always sat on the chimney corner, his feet in the ashes, and generally fast asleep. I am certain I never saw an uglier or more baboonish face in my life, but Uncle Zach was a good Christian, and I would sometimes wake him up to hear him talk Christian.

He said that when he fest Ligeon, the devil came there one night and said, Zach, come go with me. And then the devil take me to hell and just stretch a wire across hell and hang me up, just like a side of bacon, through the tongue. Well there I hang like the bacon, and the grease kept dropping down, and would blaze

up all around me. I just stay there and burn. And after a while the devil came round with his gun and say, Zach, I want to shoot you. And just as he raised the gun, I just jerked loose from that wire and I just fly to heaven. Fly, did you have wings?

Oh, yes, sir, I had wings. Well, after you got to heaven, what did you do then? Well, I just went to eatin' grass like all the balanced of the lambs. What, were they eatin' grass? Oh, yes, sir.

Well, what color were the lambs, Uncle Zach? Well, sir, some of them was white, and some black, and some spotted. Were there no old rams or ewes among them? No, sir, they was all lambs. Well, Uncle Zach, what sort of a lookin' lamb were you?

Well, sir, I was sort of specklish and brown like. Old Zach begins to get sleepy. Did you have horns, Uncle Zach? Well, some of them had little horns that looked like they were just sort of sproutin' like. Zach begins to nod and doze a little.

Well, how often did they shear the lambs, Uncle Zach? Well, well, well. And Uncle Zach was fast asleep and snoring and dreaming, no doubt, of the beautiful pastures glimmering above the clouds of heaven. Red Tape

While here I applied for a furlough. Now, Reader, here commenced a series of red tapism that always had characterized the officers under Braggism. It had to go through every officer's hands from corporal up before it was forwarded to the next officer of higher grade, and so it passed through every officer's hands.

He felt it was his sworn and bound duty to find some informality in it, and it was just brought back for correction according to his notions, you see. Well after getting the corporal's consent and approval it goes up to the sergeant. It ain't right. Some informality, perhaps, in the wording and spelling.

Then the lieutenant had to have a say in it, and when it got to the captain it had to be read and re-read to see that every I was dotted and T crossed, but returned because there was one word that he couldn't make out. Then it was forwarded to the colonel. He would snatch it out of your hand, grit his teeth and say, damn it, feel in his best

pocket and take out a lead pencil and simply write, A-P-P for approved. This would also be returned with instructions that the colonel must write, approved, in a plain hand and with pen and ink. Then it went to the brigadier general. He would be engaged in a game of poker and would tell you to call again as he didn't

have time to bother with those small affairs at present. I'll see your five and raise your ten. I have a straight flush. Take the pot. After setting him out and when it wasn't his deal I got up and walked around, always keeping

the furlough in sight. After reading carefully the furlough he says, Well sir, you have failed to get the adjutant's name to it. You ought to have the colonel an adjutant and you must go back and get their signatures. After this you go to the major general.

He was an old aristocratic fellow who never smiles and tries to look as sour as vinegar. He looks at the furlough and looks down at the ground holding the furlough in his hand in a kind of dreamy way and then says, Well sir, this is all informal. You say, Well general, what is the matter with it? He looks at you as if he hadn't heard you and repeats very slowly, Well sir, this is

informal and hands it back to you. You take it, feeling all the while that you wished you had not applied for a furlough and while summoning all the fortitude that you possess you say in a husky and choking voice, Well general, you say the general in a sort of gulp and dry swallow, What's the matter with the furlough?

He looks askance and he very languidly retakes the furlough and glances over it, orders his negro boy to go and feed his horse, asks his cook how long it will be before dinner, halos at some fellow away down the hill that he would like for him to call at four o'clock this evening and tells his adjutant to sign the furlough. The adjutant tries to be smart and polite, smiles both childlike and bland, rolls up his

shirt sleeves and winks one eye at you, gets a straddle of a campstool, whistles a little stanza of Schlattische and with a big flourish of his pen writes the major general's name in small letters and his own, the adjutant's, in very large letters bringing the pen under it with tremendous flourishes and writes approved and forwarded. You feel relieved, you feel that the anaconda's coil had been suddenly relaxed.

Then you start out to the lieutenant general, you find him, he is in a very learned and dignified conversation about the war in Chile. Well you get very anxious for the war in Chile to get to an end. The general pulls his side whiskers, looks wise and tells his adjutant to look over it and if correct sign it.

The adjutant does not deign to condescend to notice you, he seems to be full of gumbo or calf-tail soup and does not wish his equanimity disturbed. He takes hold of the document and writes the lieutenant general's name and furnishes his own name while looking in another direction, approved and forwarded. Then you take it up to the general.

The guard stops you in a very formal way and asks, what do you want? You tell him, he asks for the orderly. The orderly gives it to the adjutant and you are informed that it will be sent to your colonel tonight and given to you at roll call in the morning. Now reader, the above is a pretty true picture of how I got my furlough.

I get a furlough. After going through all the formality of red tapism and being snubbed with Tweedledum and Tweedledee, I got my furlough. When it started out it was on the cleanest piece of paper that could be found in Buck Lanier's Suttler's store.

When I came back it was pretty well used up and looked as if it had gone through a very dark place and been beat with a soot bag. But anyhow I know that I did not appreciate my furlough half as much as I thought I would. I felt like returning it to the gentleman with my compliments, declining their kind favors.

I felt that it was unwillingly given and as like begets like it was very unwillingly received. Honestly I felt as if I had made a bad bargain and was keen to rue the trade. I did not know what to do with it but anyhow I thought I would make the best of a bad bargain. I got on the cars at Dalton. Now there is a thing I had long since forgotten about.

It was the first first class passenger car that I had been in since I had been a soldier. The conductor passed around and handed me a ticket with these words on it. If you wish to travel with ease keep this ticket in sight if you please. And if you wish to take a nap just stick this in your hat or cap. This was the poetry reader that was upon the ticket.

The conductor called around every now and then especially if you were asleep to look at your ticket and every now and then a captain in the detail of three soldiers would want to look at your furlough. I thought before I got to Selma Alabama that I wished the ticket and furlough both were in the bottom of the ocean and myself back in camp.

Everywhere I went someone wanted to see my furlough. Before I got my furlough I thought it sounded big. Furlough was a war word and I did not comprehend its meaning until I got one. The very word furlough made me sick then. I feel fainty now whenever I think of furlough.

It has a sickening sound in the ring of it. Furlough. Furlough it ought to have been called. Every man I met had a furlough. In fact it seemed to have the very double extract of romance about it.

Fur-too-ay? Everyone who I knew had never been in the army in their lives all had furloughs. Where so many men ever got furloughs from I never knew but I know now. They were like the old bachelor who married the widow with ten children. He married a ready-made family.

They had ready-made furloughs. But I have said enough on the furlough question and it enthralled me. Let it pass. I don't want any more furloughs. So while on my furlough I got with Captain G.M.V.

Kinser, a fine-dressed and handsome cavalry captain whom all the ladies, as they do at the present day, fell in love with. The captain and myself were great friends. The captain gave me his old coat to act captain in but the old thing wouldn't act. I would keep the collar turned down.

One night we went to call on a couple of beautiful and interesting ladies near Selma. We chatted the girls until the wee small hours of morning. When the young ladies retired, remarked that they would send a servant to show us to our room. We waited.

No servant came. The captain and myself snoozed it out as best we could. About daylight the next morning the captain and myself thought we would appear as if we had risen very early and began to move about and, opening the door, there lay a big black negro on his knees and face.

Now, Reader, what do you suppose that negro was doing? You could not guess in a week. Black rascal. Hideous. Terrible to contemplate.

Vile. Outrageous. Well, words cannot express it. What do you suppose he was doing? He was fast asleep.

He had come thus far and could go no further and fell asleep. There is where the captain and myself found him at daylight the next morning. We left for Selma immediately after breakfast, leaving the family in ignorance of the occurrence. The captain and myself had several other adventures, but the captain always had the advantage of me.

He had the good clothes and the good looks and got all the good presents from the pretty young ladies. Well, you might say, cut me out on all occasions. That's what makes me spies of furlough. But then furlough sounds big, you know.

End of chapter 11 End of chapter 11