The Orpheus C. Kerr Papers, Series 2

  LETTER LXXII.

  REPORTING THE LATEST SMALL STORY FROM "HONEST ABE," AND DESCRIBING THE MOST MERCENARY BAYONET CHARGE ON RECORD.

  WASHINGTON, D. C., October 4th, 1862.

  Our Honest Abe, my boy, may lack these brilliant qualities which in thegreat legislator may constitute either the live-oak sceptre of truepatriotism or the dexter finger of refined roguery, as the genius ofthe age pivots on honesty or diplomacy; but his nature has all thesterling characteristics of the heartiest manhood about it, and thereis a smiling sun in his composition which never sets. That he is in hisanecdotage, my boy, is a fact

  "Which nobody can deny; Or, if they do, they lie!"

  yet even his anecdotes have that simple sunlight in them which is,perhaps, a greater boon to the high place of a nation in the dark hour,than the most weird and perpetual haze of crafty wisdom could be.

  There was a dignified chap here from New York on Monday; a chap who hasinvented many political conventions in his time, and came here for thespecial purpose of learning everything whatsoever concerning thepresent comparative inactivity of the able-bodied Mackerel Brigade.

  The Mackerel Brigade, my boy, has done little more than skirmish on thefestive borders of the well-known Southern Confederacy since the greatmetaphysical victory in which it gained such applause and lost a fewmuskets, and the dignified convention chap called upon the Honest Abeto learn the meaning of the present situation.

  Rumor states that it was the Honest Abe's hour of fragmentary leisurewhen this inquiring chap perforated the White House; and that he wassitting with his boots on the window-sill, carving a pine toothpickfrom a vagrant chip.

  "Mr. President," says the dignified chap, affably, "such is the agonyof the public mind in consequence of the present uncertainty inmilitary affairs that I feel it my duty, as a humble portion of thatMind, to respectfully request of you some information as to the reasonfor the cotemporary Mackerel inactivity."

  "Hem!" says the Honest Abe, combing his locks with his right hand, andplacing a small bit of the chip in the right corner of his Etruscanmouth: "Perhaps I cannot better answer your question, neighbor, than byrelating a small tale:

  "There was a man out in Iowa who owned a large farm, on which he raisedeverything but the interest of his purchase-money, and it cost him solittle to send his crops to the market that he was all the time wishinghe could find the crops to send. Now, this man was very tenacious ofhis rights," says the Honest Abe, putting the argument with hisjack-knife--"he was very tenacious of his rights; and when asquatter-sovereign from Missouri came and squatted right on one of hisbest pieces of land, he determined to whip that squatter-sovereignwithin an inch of his life, and then send him trooping. So he goes downone day to where the squatter had run up a shingle house," says theHonest Abe, brushing a chip from his right knee, "he goes down there,and says he to the squatter: 'If you don't make tracks from here intwenty-four hours, you varmint, I'll make you smell thunder and seechain-lightnin'.' The squatter threw away the axe with which he wasthumping down a maple log for a door-post, and says he: 'This is a freecountry, stranger; and if you'll come to a place where the grass isthick enough to make a tidy tumble, we'll have it out at once.' Thisput the old man's dander right up," says the Honest Abe, pulling downhis vest; "this put his dander right up, and says he: 'Grass be darned!Here's a spot of ground as bare as the top of Governor Chase's head,and I'll jest trouble you--y' old varmint you--to find how soft it isfor a night's lodgings.' After this speech there was no more to besaid; so the two geniuses repaired to the bare spot, and squared awayat each other like all possest. The old man was great on the science ofthe thing," says the Honest Abe, using the toe of one boot as aboot-jack to pull the other half-way off--"the old man was great on thescience of boxing; but the squatter had the muscle, and in about twowinks the old 'un was packing the gravel. Up he got again, veryricketty in the shoulder-blades, and came to call like a grizzly inbee-time, striking out with a bang up science, and would have triumphedgloriously if he hadn't suddenly gone to gravel again, with all hisbaggage. On this occasion, he righted with both his elbows out ofjoint, and says he: 'You're as good as chawed up--y' old varmint,you--but I'll come back here next spring, and have it out with you onthis same spot.' The squatter agreed to that, and they parted for thetime.

  "Now the story of this drawn-fight got abroad, you see," says theHonest Abe, working the blade of his jack-knife with his thumb--"it gotabroad; and one day a neighbor went to the old 'un, and says he:'There's one thing about that big fight of yours, Uncle Billy, I can'tunderstand. What made you put off the end of the show till next spring?'

  "'Have you seen the cantankerous spot where we fit?' says the old 'un,moving his shoulders uneasily.

  "'Truelie,' says the neighbor.

  "'Well,' says the old 'un, craftily, 'I'm just waiting _till that tharspot has a trifle of grass on it_.'"

  At the conclusion of this natural little narrative, my boy, thedignified conventional chap hurried from the White House scratching hishead: and I really believe, my boy--I really believe, that hissensitive soul detected an analogy not gushingly flattering to nationalstrategy and the President of the United States for 1865.

  Soon after hearing of this, I met him at Willard's, and says I: "Well,my sagacious Mirabeau, what is your final opinion of our Honest Abe?"

  He merely paused long enough to swear at a button which happened toburst from the neck-band of his shirt just then, and says he: "TheHonest Abe is a well-meaning Executive, enough. He's a well-meaningExecutive," says the dignified chap, with an air of slightly-irritatedgood-nature; "but I wish he'd do something to save his country, insteadof telling small tales all the time."

  Our President is an honest man, my boy, and the glass in his spectaclesisn't exactly made of the paper they print telegrams upon.

  Learning that the Mackerel Brigade was still awaiting abject peacepropositions from the exhausted Confederacy, on the borders of Accomac,I scaled the outer walls of my Gothic steed, Pegasus, on Wednesday, andsped thither on the metaphorical wings of retarded lightning. A wisp ofhay was clinging to the wiry mane of the architectural animal, my boy,and this I used to delude the spirited steed from making those suddenstops in which he invariably indulges whenever a passing acquaintancehails us with the familiar salutation of "Hey!--where are you bound?"The charger has evidently a confused idea of the word "Hey," my boy.

  Upon gaining the outskirts of Accomac, I met Company 3, Regiment 5,Mackerel Brigade, just coming out to make a bayonet-charge upon one ofthe Confederacy's earthworks not far away. I might have let thewarriors pass by unheeded, my boy, as I was deeply ruminating uponstrategy; but as they came nearer, I noticed among them a file of rednoses dragging along a Mackerel, who was tearing and groaning like amadman. In fact, the chap became so violent just then, that CaptainVilliam Brown precipitately dropped his canteen and halted the company.

  I looked at the devoted and nearly-sober beings clustered about thestruggling chap, and says I:

  "Has mutiny reared his horrid front, my veterans? What ails ourgymnastic friend?"

  A Mackerel, largely patched in several departments of his attire,shaded his voice with a crab-like hand, and says he: "That is JakeyMogs, which got a letter from his virchoose femly just the instant wewas ordered to fix bayonets, and he's gone cracked because the Captaincan't let him leave for home in a big rush."

  Here the refractory chap burst furiously from those who were holdinghim, fell upon his knees before the captain, and says he, as he criedlike a woman: "For God's sake, Cap, _do_ let me go home just this once,and I swear to God I won't stay there more than just one minnit! My oldwoman wrote this herself (tearing the letter from his ragged breast),and she says our little Tom is dying. He's a-dying--O good Lord! it'stoo much! Please let me go, my dear, good Cap, and I won't be gone anhour; and I'll bring you back the pootiest little bull-tarrier you eversee; and you can shoot me for desertion--honor bright
! My Tommy'sa-dying, I tell you, and she's wrote for me to come right away. Just anhour, Cap, for God's sake!--only _half_ an hour, and I'll come back andbe shot--honor bright!"

  As the wild words came pouring out of the poor fellow's working soul,there fell a breathless hush upon all his comrades; the line ofbayonets seemed to me to reflect the soft light of the afternoon with akind of strange quiver, and though the Captain turned his head sternlyaway from the suppliant, there was not that firmness in the armcircling to his hip which drives home the sword of the strong.

  "Take the being under guard," says Villiam, hoarsely; "for he _must_go."

  At the word, the rude father sprang to his feet, with a tigerish glarein his eyes, dashed the letter to the ground, tore his bowie from itssheath; and as, with the howl of a wild beast, he made a furious thrustat one of those who approached to secure him--Nature broke in thetempest, and he fell into the arms of a comrade, in a fit. They senthim back, then, to camp, and Company 3, Regiment 5, moved forward onceagain, as though nothing had happened.

  Alas! my boy, when this whole war is the sensitive nerve of a vastnation, and vibrates a thrill of mortal agony to a million of souls ateach jar the very air receives from a shot, what matter is it if asingle heart be broken.

  I pondered this deeply as I followed Company 3; nor did I heed theaffable remarks occasionally volunteered by Captain Villiam Brown untilwe gained the edge of the field wherein was located a company ofbushwhacking Confederacies, as was supposed, behind a scientificmud-work. Captain Bob Shorty and Captain Samyule Sa-mith were alreadyon the ground to witness the bayonet charge; and it was well that theyhad provided bits of smoked glass to view it through, as the glaringbrilliancy of the anticipated feat might have proved hurtful to thenaked eye. As I took my place with them, my boy, I could not but admirethe rapidity with which Captain Villiam Brown kicked some of his beingsinto a straight line before the foe's front, and at the same timeaddressed them after the manner of a great commander:

  "Comrades," says Villiam, his voice quivering finely withuncontrollable valor, "the eyes of future centuries are looking downupon you on this present occasion, and your distracted country expectsyou to propel the gleamy steel. Ah!" says Villiam, taking another hastylook at his notes, "the distracted country has great confidence inbayonet charges, which are quite valuable on account of their scarcityin this unnatural war. My fellow-beings," says Villiam, allowingseveral Mackerels to get in front of him, that he might more readilydirect their movements, "we will now proceed to charge bayonets."

  From our point of vantage, we saw that serried host sweep on, my boy,their movements being exceedingly rapid for several yards; when theywent slower, and finally stopped.

  Captain Samyule Sa-mith eyed them intensely through his glass, and sayshe: "It appears to me that there is temporary inactivity in the ranks,and I can see some manly heads turned the wrong way."

  Captain Bob Shorty frowned until his left eyebrow contracted a delicatestreak of smoke from _his_ glass, and says he: "You speak like one offeeble mind, Samyule. The legs, not the head, are the portions of thehuman frame to be watched in a baynit charge."

  Taught by this remark, I gazed at the nether continuations of ourcountry's hope and pride, and my glass told me that many of them wereworking in their sockets as though belonging to wholly irresponsibleparties. Were those devoted men about to change their base ofoperations and entrap Stonewall Jackson's whole force again, withoutwaiting to receive a shot?

  It was a moment of dreadful suspense.

  Then did the matchless genius of Villiam Brown arise to the fulldemands of the breathless occasion, in one of those subtle appeals tohuman nature's great undercurrent which leads men as children often areled. In the rear of the Confederacy's work was the slanting side of aprecipitous hill, and to this hill-side he had secretly dispatched thepaymaster of the _corps_, by a circuitous route, with a package thatlooked as though it might contain Treasury Notes under his arm. Just atthis awful juncture, when the fate of the day hung by a hair, thatpaymaster made his appearance on the hill-side above the mud-work, andput on his spectacles to make himself more plainly visible.

  "Comrades," says Villiam, pointing to the celestial figure, "yonder isthe disbursing genius of the United States of America. Charge baynits,and let us be paid off."

  Though the whole Confederacy had been in the way at that moment, myboy, it would not have delayed the charge. Forward went Company 3,Regiment 5, with mercenary celerity, capturing the hostile work withgreat success; and finding therein a Confederate letter, stating thatthe Confederacy could not so far demean itself as to fight a forcewhose leader had not been educated at West Point.

  There is a point, my boy, _beyond_ which the Confederacy cannot hope tooffer successful resistance to our arms, and recent events would seemto indicate that it is West Point.

  Yours, formally, ORPHEUS C. KERR.