My previous letters have had so much in them gloomy or painful, that this time I will choose a more pleasant subject, and give you an account of my First Foraging1.
Gipsy is the prettiest of horses. I should fail to describe my excursion, if I failed to describe Gipsy. Gipsy is one of those happy beings that everybody likes. No one ever quarrels with her. She has never been struck with a whip or touched by the spur, and knows not what either means. The soldiers all know Gipsy, and the Germans, who are always sociably2 inclined, generally say as they pass her, "Good morning, Shipsy;" at which Shipsy looks as pleased as anybody could. Gipsy is a small specimen3 of the[Pg 43] Black Hawk4 race, jet black in color, and almost as delicate and agile5 in form as a greyhound, with the mischievous6, restless eyes of a bright terrier.
Gipsy has several feminine traits of character—a good deal of vanity with a little affectation, and is withal something of a flirt7. Put on a common soldier's bridle8, and she goes very quietly; but change it for a handsome brass-mounted one, and Gipsy tosses her head as though the bridle were a new bonnet9. If you say, "Come here, Gipsy," Gipsy walks off the other way; if you call her very loudly, Gipsy pricks10 up her ears, and seems completely absorbed in some object half a mile off; but walk away, and Gipsy puts up a piteous whinny, for you to come back and make it up. When I am riding alone, Gipsy generally does pretty much as she pleases—now trotting11, now cantering, now dashing up hill on a gallop12, her ears always pricked13 up, and her bright eyes examining every object on the road. When we come suddenly out of the woods upon a fine prospect14, Gipsy stops and looks it over, with as much interest as though she were a landscape painter. If we come to a narrow stream, Gipsy (who greatly dislikes to wet her feet) stops again, looks deliberately15 up and down, selects the narrowest place, and then, without asking anybody's leave, proceeds there and bounds over. When thus riding without a companion, I find it very interesting to watch the beautiful intelligence of my little mare16.
On her arrival at Fort Henry, Gipsy was greatly [Pg 44]disgusted with Tennessee. For the clear, prairie fields of Missouri, she found nothing but thick woods, steep hills and muddy roads—no chance for her to run races or frolic here. For a week, the rain has fallen steadily17 on Gipsy; her water-proof blanket has kept her dry; but she is knee deep in mud, and has not lain down for three nights. No wonder she puts her ears back, and tries to look sulky. But an order has come for me to go with half the squadron and search for forage18. The saddle and bridle are brought from the tent, and Gipsy brightens up at the sight. The men are soon ready; the clouds break away; the sun comes out; Gipsy takes her place at the head of the column, and throws her heels joyously19 in the air, champing the bit and tossing the white foam20 over her jetty coat.
The road is but a bridle-path through woods. The path is narrow, and the men must ride "by file." Perhaps you do not know that "by file," means one behind the other; "by twos," two side by side; and "by fours," four side by side. The next formation is "by platoon," or a quarter of a company; and the next "by squadron," or an entire company. We emerge on a small farm, waste and desolate21. Straggling soldiers have broken into the house, and scattered22 about what few effects the rebel owner left. It is the first deserted23 house I have seen, and the sight is rather sad. Our road leads us again into the woods, and then brings us into the valley of the Tennessee, and follows the windings24 of the river. We pass several farms, small[Pg 45] and poorly cultivated, with rude timber houses, by which I mean houses of squared logs. The chimneys are always built entirely25 on the outside, and are generally of sticks and mud, instead of brinks and mortar26. Occasionally we halt to ask questions. The people are not surly, but they do not smile. This is the worst part of Tennessee, and it is plain they have sons and brothers among the prisoners of Fort Donelson. But at one house the man comes eagerly forward and his face lights; his wife, too, comes out, and says she almost hopes to see some face she knows. They have lived long here, but the man is from Eastern Tennessee, and the woman from Northern Alabama—those two remnants of the South that hung to the union till the last. He tells us that the country produces little besides pigs and corn. "It is pork and corn dodger," he says, "at breakfast, dinner and tea all the year round." I ask where they grind the corn, and he mentions a large mill now despoiled27 by its owner, who took himself off to Memphis, and a little mill some three miles distant, owned by the "Widow Williams." It is an object to have some corn meal, so I determine to visit the Widow Williams' mill. The road to the mill turns abruptly28 from the river, and goes up a brook29. We pass a few houses, scattered at intervals30 in the woods. The road is so much better than the other, that the men ride "by twos;" and so it should be, for it is the road from Dover to Paris. We pass one or two houses, whose owners are suspiciously young widows; in other words,[Pg 46] we suspect that their deceased husbands are fighting with the rebels. At last we come to the Widow Williams, whom we do not suspect; for she is a grey-haired matron, who has seen sorrow, and she sits on the rude piazza31 with a family around her. The girls look nervously32 at us, for we are the first troop of soldiers they have had halt. The widow rises as I ride up, and says, with a good deal of dignity, "Please to alight, gentlemen;" and I take her at her word, and order, "dismount." I ask her if she can grind us some meal, and she rises in our good opinion by saying, "Not to-day, this is Sunday." It is indeed; but very little like one to us; we had almost forgotten the day. I then buy a bushel of meal for my own men, and go down with the widow's eldest33 son, who is a lad of fifteen, to get the meal and view the mill—a tiny little affair, and two of the men, who are millers34, laugh when they see it. On coming back to the house, I find a group of the men have made themselves quite agreeable. They have come from the city, and doubtless are more refined and polished than any men these country girls have seen before. The youngest is some ten years old, named Martha, and I ask her if she is not afraid of us Northern mercenaries. Martha says no! and laughs at the idea; but when I ask her if we have not been called all sorts of names, and if she has not been told that we would burn her mother's house down, and cut her head off, Martha blushes, and the older sisters look confused. It is evident that we have had a very bad name here, and[Pg 47] that they are now ashamed to own it. But we have a long circuit to make; the meal is stowed away in the haversacks; Widow Williams invites us to call again, and assures us we shall be welcome; I pretend to arrest Martha, and carry her off as prisoner; at which she is a little frightened and the rest a good deal amused; and then "fall in," "mount," "march," and off we go.
Gipsy is the smallest horse in the regiment35, but to-day her feelings have been immense. She has borne herself as much like Gen. Washington's great charger as possible, and has champed the bit more fiercely and pranced36 more proudly than even he did. Her front is white with foam, and every look shows that she deems the head of the column her proper place. Whenever any horse has come within a respectful distance, Gipsy's heels have flown higher than his head, admonishing37 him, that whatever happens, she must be first. But the road, which has followed the bank, now crosses the brook. There is no friendly bridge to lift us over—the road leads down the bank, straight into the water. That water is wider than Sixth Avenue, and the recent rain has made it a roaring torrent—no one knows how deep, and it splashes and dashes fearfully. Gipsy looks up—looks down; no narrow place appears for her to bound over. Half of her airs and graces drop off at the sight. She hesitates a moment—the tramp of the horses behind tells her that she must decide quickly. She screws her courage up, and marches heroically down[Pg 48] the bank. The first plunge38, and the water dashes up on her breast—it is a foot higher on one side than the other, so swift is the current. It is cold and very wet—it roars louder than ever, and who can tell how deep it is ahead. Poor Gipsy! the last of the airs and graces are gone; so is her resolution. She wheels ingloriously round, and throws herself submissively behind the leading sergeant39's horse. Him she follows meekly40 through the stream; on the other side, she continues so for a few yards; then she steals a glance ahead. There is no more water with its horrid41 noise in sight. She gives a slight champ on the bit, and moves up beside the sergeant's horse. A good, long look assures her of a dry road ahead. She bounds past, the airs and graces fly back as swiftly as they flew away; and in five minutes she is as vain a little Gipsy as ever she was before.
But it is one o'clock—horses and men are hungry, and just beyond us is a house. We see chickens, cows, sheep and pigs, but no smoke rises from the chimney. We halt; the sergeant enters the open door; comes back and reports it just what we want—a deserted house. In a few minutes the horses are unsaddled and tied to the fence, munching42 the corn we find in two large cribs. The poor cows welcome us, for they have not been fed since their owner ran away, and are almost starved. My order to the men is to take nothing but food, and to injure nothing needlessly. The sheep are caught, pronounced too thin, and let loose. But the[Pg 49] chickens and pigs—after them there is a chase. There are shouts of excitement, intermingled with roars of laughter, as some brave pig charges between his pursuer's feet, and trips him up, and with the squeals43 and cacklings of the victims as they are caught. Within the house, we find a few things left, which the poor creatures probably overlooked as they hurried away. There is a jar of molasses on the shelf; a bag of dried peaches in the closet; a haunch of smoked venison, and a barrel of black walnuts44 in the garret. These last are a source of great entertainment for the men, who not only enjoy the most unusual luxury, but exult45 in the thought of a run-away rebel gathering46 nuts for them, and crack many jokes as they crack the shells. But the poor children, who picked them for their winter treat, now wandering homeless, and countryless, who can guess where! We have been so bred to respect private rights, that as I sit watching the men gather up the pigs and poultry47, and fill their sacks with corn, I have a slight fear that the former owner may appear and charge us with stealing the property which his treason has forfeited48 to the Government. But no owner appears. The horses have done their corn and the men their biscuit; the molasses has been emptied into canteens, and a large bundle of corn leaves tied to every saddle—we must start.
Down the Dover road we go a mile or two, then turn up another bridle-path, which crosses and recrosses a little rill some thirty times. Two men ride before[Pg 50] us, partly to accustom49 themselves to the duties of advance guard, partly to point out the intricate road. As we come round a turn, there are a farmer and his daughter (a young girl) on horseback before us. They have met the advance guard, and have stopped, and are looking back at them with fearful interest, completely absorbed in the sight. They do not even hear our approach, and I get near enough to hear the girl asking her father about these two Federal soldiers. The squadron is marching "by twos," and there is not room enough to pass. Ordinarily, private persons would have to get out of the way; but I think this a beautiful opportunity to be very polite, so I command "by file." Man and girl turn their heads as though a gun had gone off close to their ears. Such a look of fear and surprise I have never seen as in the poor girl's face. They are so hemmed50 in that they have to stand still until the whole column passes one by one, and the last we see of them they continue to stand there, looking back at us. It must seem like a vision, and they will have a tremendous tale to tell when they reach home. This road is so secluded51 that none of our soldiers have found it, and we cause a great stir in the few houses we pass. My men march silently, more like regulars than volunteers, and the inhabitants confess that they find in us an unexpected contrast to the noisy, yelling rascals52, who a few weeks before were plundering53 them, for the good of the Southern Confederacy.
[Pg 51]
The sun has gone down, and the moon has risen, and we are on the main road from Fort Donelson, and will reach our camp soon, and have a good supper, and rest sweetly in our tents after our day's ride. We think over what we will have for supper, and debate whether the pigs, or chickens, or corn-meal can be added to the rations54 we shall find in camp. We are reckoning like inexperienced soldiers. The uncertainty55 of legal, is nothing to the uncertainty of military life. In the law you can at least calculate on your breakfast, and a part of your bed; but in camp you can calculate on nothing. We approach Fort Henry, and plunge into the mud that environs our camp. We struggle through till we come to the trees where the horses should be tied, and to the little knoll56 where the tents should be pitched. We look around in vague astonishment—horses, and men, and tents have vanished; all is darkness and silence; our camp has gone. To come home and find your home absconded57, to leave your house in the morning and find it has walked away at the evening, is something new. Searching in the darkness for the new camp is folly58; there is nothing to be done but wait till to-morrow. It is very easy to say wait, but how are we to wait? If we had some beds to wait in, and some supper to wait for, it would be tolerable; but we were only going for a little while, so we left our blankets, and it was such a fine day that we did not take our overcoats. Who would have dreamt of the colonel playing us such a trick? At Fort Donelson I[Pg 52] learned the first lesson—"do not trust to your trunk;" now I have to learn the second—"do not trust to your camp." Hereafter I will not leave for half an hour without having my blanket rolled behind, and my overcoat strapped59 before. If I only had them now! But lamenting60 will do no good; something must be done. "Who has got any matches?" "Smith and Jones." "Then Smith and Jones light a fire." The fire soon blazes up and discloses a small pile, which the wagons61 have overlooked. There are a few blankets and overcoats, three plates, a couple of mess-pans, and one camp-kettle. A new discovery is made—some coffee and a sack of meat. "What kind?" "Pork." "Hurrah62! we're all right now." "No, salt beef." "Pshaw! What do they send salt beef to the army for? If it had only been pork, we could have toasted it on sticks, and fried it on plates, and broiled63 it on the coals, and have greased the pans with it; but this beef, we can do nothing with." But' we have the bushel of meal I fortunately bought, and the chickens. Pick the chickens, and cut them up; mix some meal and water, and make corn dodgers64, as the Tennessians do. There are the plates to bake it on, and we can try baking it in the ashes. But the coffee—everybody looks forward to it—no matter if it is poor and weak. Without milk, without sugar, and full of grounds, it is always the tired soldier's great restorative, his particular comfort. Our camp-kettle is set apart for it. The chickens must be stewed65 in pans and roasted on sticks. The [Pg 53]camp-kettle is sacred for the coffee. "Captain," says somebody, "this coffee is not ground, and we have no mill. What shall we do?" "What indeed shall we do?" We must have coffee, and some one hits on the remedy; we take the tough linen66 bag of a haversack, put the coffee in it, and pound it on a log. Somewhat to our surprise, we find that it is soon well ground, and in the course of half an hour we have as good coffee as usual. Chicken and corn dodgers come along more slowly, but after awhile we sit around the fire to eat them; and everybody declares that he has had enough, and that it is very good. From supper to bed. The corn forage that we brought for the horses must be used for blankets. Spread on the ground, it makes a comfortable mattress67. I have said that we had left our blankets; but, nevertheless, every man has one. Some years ago, a young cavalry68 captain, named McClellan, who (in my opinion) does all things quietly but well, observed that the padding of a saddle frequently got out of order, causing the poor horse a sore back, and requiring a saddler to put it in order again. He also remarked that the pad was of no other use than to play the part of cushion between the saddle and the horse's back. He thereupon introduced into the army what is now known as the McClellan saddle. It is made of wood, hollowed out so that on the one side it makes a comfortable seat for the man, and on the other conforms to the shape of the horse. A narrow slit69 is cut out over the backbone70, which not only saves the horse's spine,[Pg 54] but makes it much more cool and comfortable for him. And, finally, the padding consists of a horse blanket folded up. Thus, to the wise, judicious71 foresight72 of General McClellan, each of us is indebted for a blanket.
Lying on my cornleaf couch, and looking up at the clear sky, within the glow of our fire, is as pleasant a situation after a long ride as one could desire. I think it delightful73, and while thinking so, drop asleep. But there is one more lesson in store for us before daylight. After some hours, I am awoke by a tremendous noise. There are no stars now. The sky is black as ink—the darkness is such that we can see nothing but the half-burnt brands of the fires. The wind howls through the trees like a pack of wolves, and scatters74 our fires so that the coals fly over our heads, and fall on our blankets and beds. The rain is not come yet, but is coming—we shall be drenched75, and then have to sit up in the darkness and shiver till daylight. It is a dismal76 prospect. Pitter, patter on the leaves. Now we are in for it: the drops thicken; in a minute we shall be as wet as water. But Nature only means to give us a fright. The rain does not increase—the drops stop—the wind howls less loudly. Soon, through a rent in the clouds is seen a star, and then another. The rent grows larger, and every one takes a long breath, and says, "The storm has passed round." We lie down again, and wake up to find it a bright, frosty morning.
After an hour's ride, we have found the new camp. It is on a beautiful wooded slope, overlooking the river[Pg 55] and the fort, and on either side a clear, little rill trickles77 through the trees. Our tents are pitched on one, and the horses picketed78 on the other. None of us have ever seen so beautiful a camp before; and, as we dismount, the bugles79 blow the breakfast call.
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1
foraging
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| v.搜寻（食物），尤指动物觅（食）( forage的现在分词 )；（尤指用手）搜寻（东西） | |
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2
sociably
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| adv.成群地 | |
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specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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hawk
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| n.鹰，骗子；鹰派成员 | |
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agile
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| adj.敏捷的，灵活的 | |
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6
mischievous
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| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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flirt
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| v.调情，挑逗，调戏；n.调情者，卖俏者 | |
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8
bridle
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| n.笼头，束缚；vt.抑制，约束；动怒 | |
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bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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pricks
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| 刺痛( prick的名词复数 )； 刺孔； 刺痕； 植物的刺 | |
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trotting
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| 小跑，急走( trot的现在分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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gallop
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| v./n.(马或骑马等)飞奔；飞速发展 | |
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13
pricked
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| 刺，扎，戳( prick的过去式和过去分词 )； 刺伤； 刺痛； 使剧痛 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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mare
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| n.母马，母驴 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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forage
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| n.(牛马的)饲料，粮草；v.搜寻，翻寻 | |
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joyously
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| ad.快乐地, 高兴地 | |
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foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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windings
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| （道路、河流等）蜿蜒的，弯曲的( winding的名词复数 )； 缠绕( wind的现在分词 )； 卷绕； 转动（把手） | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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mortar
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| n.灰浆，灰泥；迫击炮；v.把…用灰浆涂接合 | |
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despoiled
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| v.掠夺，抢劫( despoil的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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piazza
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| n.广场；走廊 | |
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nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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millers
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| n.（尤指面粉厂的）厂主( miller的名词复数 )；磨房主；碾磨工；铣工 | |
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regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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pranced
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| v.（马）腾跃( prance的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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admonishing
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| v.劝告( admonish的现在分词 )；训诫；（温和地）责备；轻责 | |
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38
plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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sergeant
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| n.警官，中士 | |
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meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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42
munching
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| v.用力咀嚼（某物），大嚼( munch的现在分词 ) | |
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43
squeals
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| n.长而尖锐的叫声( squeal的名词复数 )v.长声尖叫，用长而尖锐的声音说( squeal的第三人称单数 ) | |
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44
walnuts
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| 胡桃（树）( walnut的名词复数 )； 胡桃木 | |
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45
exult
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| v.狂喜，欢腾；欢欣鼓舞 | |
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46
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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poultry
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| n.家禽，禽肉 | |
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forfeited
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| （因违反协议、犯规、受罚等）丧失，失去( forfeit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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accustom
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| vt.使适应，使习惯 | |
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50
hemmed
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| 缝…的褶边( hem的过去式和过去分词 )； 包围 | |
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51
secluded
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| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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52
rascals
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| 流氓( rascal的名词复数 )； 无赖； （开玩笑说法）淘气的人（尤指小孩）； 恶作剧的人 | |
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plundering
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| 掠夺，抢劫( plunder的现在分词 ) | |
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rations
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| 定量( ration的名词复数 )； 配给量； 正常量； 合理的量 | |
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uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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knoll
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| n.小山，小丘 | |
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absconded
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| v.（尤指逃避逮捕）潜逃，逃跑( abscond的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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strapped
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| adj.用皮带捆住的，用皮带装饰的；身无分文的；缺钱；手头紧v.用皮带捆扎(strap的过去式和过去分词)；用皮带抽打；包扎；给…打绷带 | |
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lamenting
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| adj.悲伤的，悲哀的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的现在分词 ) | |
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61
wagons
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| n.四轮的运货马车( wagon的名词复数 )；铁路货车；小手推车 | |
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hurrah
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| int.好哇，万岁，乌拉 | |
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63
broiled
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| a.烤过的 | |
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dodgers
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| n.躲闪者，欺瞒者( dodger的名词复数 ) | |
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stewed
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| adj.焦虑不安的，烂醉的v.炖( stew的过去式和过去分词 )；煨；思考；担忧 | |
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linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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mattress
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| n.床垫，床褥 | |
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cavalry
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| n.骑兵；轻装甲部队 | |
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slit
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| n.狭长的切口；裂缝；vt.切开，撕裂 | |
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backbone
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| n.脊骨，脊柱，骨干；刚毅，骨气 | |
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judicious
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| adj.明智的，明断的，能作出明智决定的 | |
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foresight
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| n.先见之明，深谋远虑 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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scatters
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| v.（使）散开， （使）分散，驱散( scatter的第三人称单数 )；撒 | |
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drenched
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| adj.湿透的；充满的v.使湿透( drench的过去式和过去分词 )；在某人（某物）上大量使用（某液体） | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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trickles
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| n.细流( trickle的名词复数 )；稀稀疏疏缓慢来往的东西v.滴( trickle的第三人称单数 )；淌；使)慢慢走；缓慢移动 | |
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picketed
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| 用尖桩围住（picket的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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bugles
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| 妙脆角，一种类似薯片但做成尖角或喇叭状的零食； 号角( bugle的名词复数 )； 喇叭； 匍匐筋骨草； （装饰女服用的）柱状玻璃（或塑料）小珠 | |
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