Active operations—along the whole northern frontier at least—were certainly suspended until spring; and both armies had gone into winter quarters. Military men agree that a winter in camp is the most demoralizing influence to which any troops can be subjected. To the new soldiers of the South it was a terrible ordeal—not so much from the actual privations they were called upon to endure as from other and more subtle difficulties, against the imperceptible approaches of which they could not guard. The Government had used every effort to make the men comfortable, and to supply them with all necessaries at its disposal; but still there were numerous articles it could not command.
The good caterers at home spared no pains, no exercise of ingenuity3, and no pinching from fireside supplies, to make the loved ones in camp comfortable. The country had not begun to feel the effects of actual want in any quarter; but increased demand had lessened4 supplies on hand and somewhat enhanced prices; so the men were comfortably clothed, fed with plain, but plentiful5 and wholesome6 food, and supplied with all the absolute necessaries of camp life. In addition to these, boxes of all sizes, shapes and contents came into the camps in a continuous stream; and the thousand nameless trifles—so precious because bearing the impress of home—were received daily in every mess from the Rio Grande to the Potomac. Still, as the winter wore on, news from the armies became gloomier and gloomier, and each successive bulletin bore more dispiriting accounts of discontent and privation, sickness and death. Men who had gone into their first fight freely and gaily8; who had heard the whistling of bullets as if it had been accustomed music, gave way utterly9 before the unseen foes10 of "winter quarters."
Here and there, a disciplinarian of the better sort—who combined philosophy with strictness—kept his men in rather better condition by constant watching, frequent and regular drills, rapid marches for exercise, and occasional change of camp. But this was the exception, and the general tone was miserable11 and gloomy. This could in part be accounted for by the inexperience of the men, and of their immediate12 commanders—the company officers—in whose hands their health and spirits were in no small degree reposed13. They could not be brought to the use of those little appliances of comfort that camp life, even in the most unfavorable circumstances, can afford—strict attention to the utmost cleanliness in their persons and huts; care in the preparation of their food, and in its cookery; and careful adherence14 to the simple hygienic rules laid down in constant circulars from the medical and other departments. Where men live and sleep in semi-frozen mud, and breathe an atmosphere of mist and brush smoke—and every one knows the wonderfully penetrating15 power of camp-fire smoke—it is not to be expected that their comfort is enviably great; especially where they have left comfortable homes, and changed their well-prepared, if simple, food for the hard and innutritious army ration1. But such creatures of habit are we that, after a little, we manage by proper care to make even that endurable.
Soldiers are like children, and require careful watching and constant reminding that these small matters—which certainly make up the sum of camp life—should be carefully attended to for their own good. Rigid16 discipline in their enforcement is necessary in the beginning to get novices17 properly started in the grooves18. Once set going, they soon become matters of course. But once let soldiers get accustomed to careless and slovenly19 habits, and no amount of orders, or punishment, can undo20 the mischief21. Unfortunately, the armies of the South began wrong this first winter, and the descent was easy; and they made the new road upon which they had entered far harder than necessary, by neglecting landmarks23 so plainly written that he who runs may read. Nostalgia—that scourge24 of camps—appeared in stubborn and alarming form; and no exertion25 of surgeon, or general, served to check or decrease it. Men, collected from cities, accustomed to stated hours of business and recreation, and whose minds were accustomed to some exercise and excitement, naturally drooped26 in the monotony of a camp knee in mire27, where the only change from the camp-fire—with stew28-pan simmering on it and long yarns29 spinning around it—was heavy sleep in a damp hut, or close tent, wrapped in a musty blanket and lulled30 by the snoring of half a dozen comrades.
Hale, sturdy countrymen, accustomed to regular exercise and hard work, with nothing to do all day but sun themselves and polish their bayonets, naturally moped and pined for the homes that were missing them so sorely. They, too, found the smoky blaze of the camp-fire but a sorry substitute for the cheerful hearth31, where memory pictured the comely32 wife and the sturdy little ones. The hardy33 mountaineer, pent and confined to a mud-bound acre, naturally molded and panted for the fresh breezes and rough tramps of his far-away "roost."
The general morality of the camps was good, but praying is a sorry substitute for dry homes and good food; and, though chaplains were earnest and zealous34, the men gradually found cards more exciting than exhortations35. They turned from the "wine of life" to the canteen of "new dip" with a spiteful thirst. There were attempts by the higher officers—which proved abortive—to discountenance gambling36; and the most stringent37 efforts of provost-marshals to prevent the introduction of liquor to camp reduced the quantity somewhat, but brought down the quality to the grade of a not very slow poison.
Being much in the numerous camps that winter, I was struck with the universal slouch and depression in ranks where the custom had been quick energy and cheerful faces. Through the whole army was that enervating38 moldiness, lightened only by an occasional gleam from those "crack companies" so much doubted in the beginning of the war.
It had been thought that the gay young men of cities, used to the sedentary life of profession, or counting-room—and perhaps to the irregularities of the midnight dinner and next-morning ball—that these men, steady and unflinching as they might be under fire—and willing as they seemed to undertake "what man dare" in danger or privation, would certainly break down under the fatigues40 of the first campaign.
They had, on the contrary, in every instance that came under my ken41, gone through that campaign most honorably; had borne the marches, the most trying weather and the greatest straits of hunger, with an elasticity42 of mind and muscle that had long since astounded43 and silenced their most active scoffers. Now, in the bitter depths of winter, they went through the dull routine of camp, cheerful and buoyant, at all times ready for their duty, and never grumbling44 at the wearing strain they felt to be necessity. When I say that in every Confederate camp the best soldiers of that winter were "crack companies" of the gay youths of the cities, I only echo the verdict of old and tried officers. Where all did their duty nobly, comparison were invidious; but the names of "Company F," the Mobile Cadets, the Richmond Blues45, and Washington Artillery46, stand on the record of those dark days as proof of the statement. Many men from the ranks of these companies had already been promoted to high positions, but they had not yet lost their distinctive47 characteristics as corps48 d' élite; and admission to their ranks was as eagerly sought as ever. A strange fact of these companies was frequently stated by surgeons of perfect reliability49: their sick reports were much smaller than those of the hardiest50 mountain organizations. This they attributed to two causes: greater attention to personal cleanliness and to all hygienic precautions; and the exercise of better trained minds and wills keeping them free from the deadly "blue devils." Numbers of them, of course, broke down at once. Many a poor fellow who would have achieved a brilliant future perished mid39 the mud of Manassas, or slept under the snowy slopes of the western mountains. The practice was kill or cure, but it was in a vast majority of cases, the latter; and men who stood the hardship thrived upon it.
The Marylanders, too, were a marvel51 of patience. Self-made exiles, not only from the accustomed comforts of home, but cut off from communication with their absent ones and harrowed by vague stones of wrong and violence about them—it would have been natural had they yielded to the combined strain on mind and matter. At midwinter I had occasion to visit Evansport and Acquia creek52. It had been bitter cold; a sudden thaw53 had made the air raw and keen, while my horse went to his girths at every plunge54. More than once I had to dismount in mire girth-deep to help him on. Suddenly I came upon a Maryland camp—supports to a battery. Some of the soldiers I had known as the gayest and most petted of ball-room and club; and now they were cutting wood and frying bacon, as if they had never done anything else. Hands that never before felt an ax-helve plied7 it now as if for life; eyes that were accustomed to look softly into
"The sweetest eyes that ever were,"
in the pauses of a waltz, now peered curiously55 in the reeking56 stew-pan. Many of their names recalled the history of days long gone, for their father's fathers had moved in stately pageant57 down its brightest pages; and blood flowed in their veins58 blue as the proudest of earth's nobility. They had left affluence59, luxury, the caresses60 of home—and, harder than all, the habits of society—for what?
Was it thoughtlessly to rush foremost in the delirious61 shock of battle; to carelessly stand unflinchingly where the wing of death flapped darkest over the glare of the fight; to stand knee-deep in Virginia mud, with high boots and rough shirts, and fry moldy62 bacon over fires of wet brush? Or was it that the old current in their veins bounded hotly when they believed a wrong was doing; that all else—home—luxury—love—life!—faded away before the might of principle?
It was an odd meeting with the crowd that collected about me and anxiously asked the news from Richmond, from abroad, but above all, from home. Bronzed and bearded, their huge boots caked with Potomac mud and rough shirts open at their sunburnt throats; chapped hands and faces grimy with smoke and work, there was yet something about these men that spoke63 them, at a glance, raised above the herd64. John Leech65, who so reveled in the "Camps at Cobham," would here have found a companion-piece for the opposition66 of the picture.
"Hello, old boy! any news from home?" yelled a whiskered sergeant67, jumping from a log where he was mending a rent in his pants, and giving me a hand the color of his favorite tan gloves in days lang syne—"Pretty tight work up here, you see, but we manage to keep comfortable!"—God save the mark!
"What do you think Bendann would give for a negative of me?" asked a splendid fellow leaning on an ax, the rapid strokes of which he stilled at my approach—"Not a half bad thing for a fancy ball, eh?" Charles street had no nattier68 man than the speaker in days gone; and the tailors had found him their pearl beyond price. But Hilberg's best was now replaced by a flannel69 shirt with many a rent, army pants and a jacket that had been gray, before mud and smoke had brought it near the unity70 of Joseph's best garment.
"I'd show well at the club—portrait of a gentleman?" he added lightly.
"Pshaw! Look at me! There's a boot for a junior assembly! Wouldn't that make a show on a waxed floor?" and little Charley H. grinned all the way across his fresh, fair face, as he extended a foot protruding71 from what had been a boot.
"D——l take your dress! Peel those onions, Charley!" cried a baldheaded man from the fire—"Don't your heart rise at the scent22 of this olla, my boy? Don't it bring back our dinners at the Spanish legation? Stay and dine with us—if Charley ever has those onions done—and you'll feast like a lord-mayor! By the way, last letters from home tell me that Miss Belle's engaged to John Smith. You remember her that night at Mrs. R.'s fancy ball?"
"Wouldn't mind having a bottle of Mrs. R.'s sherry now to tone up these onions," Charley said ruefully. "It would go well with that stew, taken out of a tin cup—eh, cookey?"
"We had lots better at the club," the cook said, thoughtfully stirring the mess on the fire—"It was laid in before you were born, Charley. Those were days, boys—but we'll drink many a bottle of it yet under the stars and bars!"
"That we will, old man! and I'll carry these boots to a junior assembly yet. But I would like a bottle of old Mrs. R.'s to drink now, faute de mieux, to the health of the Baltimore girls—God bless 'em!"
"That I would, too," said the sergeant. "But that's the hard part of it!"—and he stuck his needle viciously through the pants—"I always get savage72 when I think of our dear women left unpro——"
"No particular one, sergeant? You don't mean Miss Mamie on Charles street, do you? Insatiate archer73!" cried Charley.
"Do your cooking, you imp2! I mean my dear old mother and my sick sister. D——n this smoke! It will get in a fellow's eyes!"
When Miss Todd gave her picnic in the valley of Jehoshaphat and talked London gossip under the olives, it was an odd picture; it is strange to see the irrepressible English riding hurdles74 in the Campagna, and talking of ratting in the shadow of the Parthenon, as though within the beloved chimes of Bow; but it was stranger still to see those roughened, grimed men, with soleless boots and pants tattered75 "as if an imp had worn them," rolling out town-talk and well-known names in such perfectly76 natural manner.
And this was only a slice from any camp in the service. The gentlemen troops stood hardships better, and bore their troubles and difficulties with lighter77 hearts, than any of the mixed corps. It is true that few of them were left as organizations at the end of the war.
As the army increased, men of ability and education naturally sifted78 to higher place; but they wore their spurs after they had won them. They got their commissions when they had been through the baptism of blood and fire, and of mud and drudgery79 as well. They never flinched81. The dreariest82 march—the shortest rations—the deepest snow and the midnight "long roll"—found them ready and willing. History furnishes no parallel. The bloods of the cavalier wars rode hard and fought long. They went to the battle with the jest upon their lips, and walked gaily to the scaffold if need be. But they not only died as gentlemen—they lived as they died. Their perfumed locks were never draggled in the mire of the camp, and their silken hose never smirched but in the fray83. Light songs from dainty lips and brimming goblets84 from choice flacons were theirs; and they could be merry to-night if they died to-morrow.
The long rapiers of the Regency flashed as keen in the smoke of the fight as the jest had lately rung in the mistress' bower85; and how the blasé club man and the lisping dandy of Rotten Row could change to the avenging86 war god, the annals of the "Light Brigade" can tell.
But these lived as gentlemen. In the blackest hour, when none believed "the king should have his own again;" in the deadliest fray and in the snow-bound trench87, they waved the sword of command, and the only equality they had with their men was who should fight the furthest.
But here were gentlemen born—men of worth and wealth, education and fashion—delving side by side with the veriest drudge80; fighting as only gentlemen can fight, and then working as gentlemen never worked before!
Delicately bred youths who had never known rougher work than the deux temps, now trudged88 through blinding snows on post, or slept in blankets stiff with freezing mud; hands that had felt nothing harder than billiard-cue or cricket-bat now wielded89 ax and shovel90 as men never wielded them for wages; the epicure91 of the club mixed a steaming stew of rank bacon and moldy hard-tack and then—ate it!
And all this they did without a murmur92, showing an example of steadfast93 resolution and unyielding pluck to the hardier94 and tougher soldiers by them; writing on the darkest page of history the clear axiom: Bon sang ne peut mentir!
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1
ration
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| n.定量(pl.)给养，口粮；vt.定量供应 | |
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imp
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| n.顽童 | |
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ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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lessened
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| 减少的，减弱的 | |
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plentiful
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| adj.富裕的，丰富的 | |
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wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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7
plied
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| v.使用（工具）( ply的过去式和过去分词 )；经常供应（食物、饮料）；固定往来；经营生意 | |
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8
gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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foes
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| 敌人，仇敌( foe的名词复数 ) | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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reposed
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| v.将（手臂等）靠在某人（某物）上( repose的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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adherence
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| n.信奉，依附，坚持，固着 | |
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penetrating
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| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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novices
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| n.新手( novice的名词复数 )；初学修士（或修女）；（修会等的）初学生；尚未赢过大赛的赛马 | |
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grooves
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| n.沟( groove的名词复数 )；槽；老一套；（某种）音乐节奏v.沟( groove的第三人称单数 )；槽；老一套；（某种）音乐节奏 | |
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19
slovenly
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| adj.懒散的，不整齐的，邋遢的 | |
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undo
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| vt.解开，松开；取消，撤销 | |
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mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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scent
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landmarks
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| n.陆标( landmark的名词复数 )；目标；（标志重要阶段的）里程碑 ~ (in sth)；有历史意义的建筑物（或遗址） | |
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scourge
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exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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drooped
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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mire
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| n.泥沼，泥泞；v.使...陷于泥泞，使...陷入困境 | |
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stew
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| n.炖汤，焖，烦恼；v.炖汤，焖，忧虑 | |
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yarns
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| n.纱( yarn的名词复数 )；纱线；奇闻漫谈；旅行轶事 | |
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lulled
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| vt.使镇静，使安静（lull的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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comely
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| adj.漂亮的，合宜的 | |
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hardy
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| adj.勇敢的，果断的，吃苦的；耐寒的 | |
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zealous
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| adj.狂热的，热心的 | |
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exhortations
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| n.敦促( exhortation的名词复数 )；极力推荐；（正式的）演讲；（宗教仪式中的）劝诫 | |
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gambling
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| n.赌博；投机 | |
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stringent
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| adj.严厉的；令人信服的；银根紧的 | |
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enervating
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| v.使衰弱，使失去活力( enervate的现在分词 ) | |
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mid
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| adj.中央的，中间的 | |
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fatigues
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| n.疲劳( fatigue的名词复数 )；杂役；厌倦；（士兵穿的）工作服 | |
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ken
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| n.视野，知识领域 | |
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elasticity
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| n.弹性，伸缩力 | |
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astounded
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| v.使震惊(astound的过去式和过去分词)；愕然；愕；惊讶 | |
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grumbling
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| adj. 喃喃鸣不平的, 出怨言的 | |
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blues
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| n.抑郁，沮丧；布鲁斯音乐 | |
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artillery
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| n.(军)火炮，大炮；炮兵(部队) | |
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distinctive
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| adj.特别的，有特色的，与众不同的 | |
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corps
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| n.(通信等兵种的)部队；(同类作的)一组 | |
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reliability
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| n.可靠性，确实性 | |
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hardiest
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| 能吃苦耐劳的，坚强的( hardy的最高级 )； （植物等）耐寒的 | |
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51
marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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52
creek
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| n.小溪，小河，小湾 | |
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53
thaw
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| v.（使）融化，（使）变得友善；n.融化，缓和 | |
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plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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55
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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56
reeking
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| v.发出浓烈的臭气( reek的现在分词 )；散发臭气；发出难闻的气味 (of sth)；明显带有（令人不快或生疑的跡象） | |
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pageant
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| n.壮观的游行；露天历史剧 | |
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veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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affluence
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| n.充裕，富足 | |
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caresses
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| 爱抚，抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
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delirious
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| adj.不省人事的，神智昏迷的 | |
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moldy
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| adj.发霉的 | |
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63
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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herd
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| n.兽群，牧群；vt.使集中，把…赶在一起 | |
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leech
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| n.水蛭，吸血鬼，榨取他人利益的人；vt.以水蛭吸血；vi.依附于别人 | |
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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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sergeant
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| n.警官，中士 | |
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nattier
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| n.淡蓝色adj.整洁漂亮的( natty的比较级 )；潇洒的，灵巧的 | |
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flannel
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| n.法兰绒；法兰绒衣服 | |
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unity
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| n.团结，联合，统一；和睦，协调 | |
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protruding
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| v.（使某物）伸出，（使某物）突出( protrude的现在分词 )；凸 | |
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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archer
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| n.射手，弓箭手 | |
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hurdles
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| n.障碍( hurdle的名词复数 )；跳栏；（供人或马跳跃的）栏架；跨栏赛 | |
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tattered
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| adj.破旧的，衣衫破的 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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sifted
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| v.筛( sift的过去式和过去分词 )；筛滤；细查；详审 | |
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drudgery
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| n.苦工，重活，单调乏味的工作 | |
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drudge
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| n.劳碌的人；v.做苦工，操劳 | |
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flinched
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| v.（因危险和痛苦）退缩，畏惧( flinch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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dreariest
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| 使人闷闷不乐或沮丧的( dreary的最高级 )； 阴沉的； 令人厌烦的； 单调的 | |
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83
fray
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| v.争吵；打斗；磨损，磨破；n.吵架；打斗 | |
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goblets
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| n.高脚酒杯( goblet的名词复数 ) | |
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bower
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| n.凉亭，树荫下凉快之处；闺房；v.荫蔽 | |
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avenging
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| adj.报仇的，复仇的v.为…复仇，报…之仇( avenge的现在分词 )；为…报复 | |
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trench
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| n./v.(挖)沟，(挖)战壕 | |
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trudged
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| vt.& vi.跋涉，吃力地走（trudge的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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wielded
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| 手持着使用（武器、工具等）( wield的过去式和过去分词 )； 具有； 运用（权力）； 施加（影响） | |
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shovel
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| n.铁锨，铲子，一铲之量；v.铲，铲出 | |
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epicure
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| n.行家，美食家 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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steadfast
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| adj.固定的，不变的，不动摇的；忠实的；坚贞不移的 | |
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hardier
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| 能吃苦耐劳的，坚强的( hardy的比较级 )； （植物等）耐寒的 | |
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