CHAPTER XII.

THE RETURN TO THE STOCKADE.

Our leader had been half sick when he left Boston, and he now became quite ill, soon becoming so much worse that we thought he would die. The drinks which had preceded the killing of the hog had been about the last left in the demijohn, and he had emptied it before the pig was dressed. The march in the intense heat, with the bad whiskey, seemed to have a bad effect, and the next morning we halted to see what the result would be. Seeing that the man would surely die if not relieved, I got permission to hunt up a wagon and take the captain to a doctor, who, as I learned by inquiry, lived a few miles away.

Most of the men were "down upon" their commander, and all were indifferent to his sufferings, simply doing what he asked of them, and that, for the most part, with reluctance.

I got him in the wagon, and, with a guard to accompany me, took him to the doctor, who gave him medicine and got a neighboring farmer to take him into his house.

The sick man stuck to his carpet-sack throughout the trip, and, when he was taken to the house, he had his money with him. After he was put to bed, he pointed to his bank and told me to help myself, seeming to be very grateful for what I had done. Of course, I could not take money for any such service, and he would not have offered it had I not been a prisoner and in a position where the possession of money might avoid much hardship. He told the doctor that he would have died if it had not been for that d----d Yankee, and that he was very glad he had kept his promise by not killing us. He dwelt on the idea that, being a Marylander, I should not have forgotten myself so far as to be found on the wrong side.

We saw no more of the captain, but learned from the doctor that he was improving and would be all right as soon as the effects of the "pine-top" whiskey had been neutralized.

We were delayed for several days, and I got permission to go where I pleased, on the promise that I would not run away.

There was something inviting about the house near our camp, the home of the man named Floyd, whose hog our leader had killed, and one day Captain Fee and I went up to see if we could get some buttermilk. Our personal appearance was not prepossessing, as the entire apparel of each consisted of an old hat, a shirt which was much the worse for wear, a ragged pair of trousers and a well-worn pair of shoes. We had dressed up as well as we could, by washing our faces and hands, before starting for the house, but a modern tramp would have disdained our society, and the young girl who came to the door of the house in response to my knock was inclined to shut the door in our faces. We soon convinced her that we were harmless, and she then invited us to take our seats on the back porch in company with a crippled Confederate soldier, Mrs. Floyd and herself. We spent about half an hour in pleasant conversation, when we made known our errand.

Mrs. Floyd promptly offered to fill our canteens with buttermilk, requesting us to enter the parlor in the meantime and talk to her husband, who was confined to the room by sickness. This we did gladly, and found that Mr. Floyd had been a very sick man, but was now convalescent.

The sick man was quite glad to see us and hear what we had to say. The visit was being enjoyed very much when, looking through the open window, he saw the doctor coming, and advised us to leave the room and not let it be known that we had talked together, the doctor being a very strong Southerner and he a Union man. Accordingly, we slipped out of the back door as the doctor approached the front entrance.

The next day the wounded Confederate soldier came down to our camp with a bundle and a note from the young lady. The bundle contained a couple of shirts, and the note read as follows:

"These two shirts are from a friend, and are to be worn by the two who are the most destitute."

It is perhaps superfluous to add that I appropriated one of the garments, but the shirt was not superfluous.

The next day one of our guards, a boy about fifteen years of age, entered into conversation with me. After talking some time, he invited me to go with him to his father's house for dinner. Securing permission, I went.

His father's name was McMichael, and again I found a Union man, who was forced to be a Confederate or lose all he had in the world. We had a good dinner and an enjoyable chat. I learned that he had three boys in the Confederate service, the youngest, who had given me the invitation to dine, being in the home guard. His daughter was a school-teacher. The wife and this girl ate with us, and all seemed very anxious and joyous to learn of the successes of the Union forces, although the mother's eyes frequently filled with tears as something was said which recalled to her mind the risk run by her boys at the front. I cannot recall the memory of a meal which I enjoyed any better than the one I ate in that old farmhouse with those agreeable people.

While at dinner the parents seemed disturbed by thoughts of the possibility that their last boy would also be sent to the front, and it was then and there agreed between us that if such should be the case he would desert at the first opportunity and go to my home at Blakesburg, Iowa, where he should attend school until the war was ended. The proposal affected the parents and sister strongly when I made it, and in agreeing to it they united in thanking and blessing me for the happy thought and accompanying offer.

When the time came for me to leave it seemed like a parting with dear friends, and I often recall and see again that dear old lady's face, as, with tears in her eyes, she bade me "Godspeed."

By the time our march was resumed we had become very familiar with our guards, and, in fact, it was more of a picnic excursion than a march of guards with their prisoners.

Each of us slept at night with one of the soldiers, and we went on several midnight expeditions in company. One night we raided a farmhouse and stole a sack of sweet potatoes, sitting up half the night to roast them. Another night we confiscated a beehive and secured some delicious honey. We were continually playing jokes upon each other, and all hands were sorry when the time came to separate.

We fooled along, taking things very easily, and finally reached Camp Ford about thirty days after leaving Boston.

Our reception by the boys in the stockade was characteristic of men continually seeking to find something to do which would serve to kill time and prevent despondency.

When we were marched up to the gates we were recognized by many in the enclosure, and were hailed by shouts, jeers, sarcastic questionings and all sorts of welcomes.

"How are things up North? How did you leave the folks? Got any mail? Can't you stay awhile?" and many other similar queries were fairly showered upon us.

When we finally entered the enclosure the crowd was drawn up in line, like a lot of hackmen in front of a railroad station in a large city, and, amid much laughter and many jokes, we were hailed with:

"This way to the Palace Hotel!" "Have a cab?" "Cab or carriage, gents?" "_This_ way, gents, to the Ebbitt House, the best in the city!"

Our own men gathered about us, and soon dragged us off to our old quarters, where we were plied with question after question, and had to relate all our experiences in detail.

We now took up the stockade life once more, and there was but little variation in its routine.