LETTER II.

Pineville, August 29th, 1842. Dear Sir,

Jest as I spected, only a thunderin’ sight wurse! You know I said that we wer gwine to have a betallion muster in Pineville. Well, the muster has tuck place, and I reckon sich other doins you never hearn of afore.

I come in town the nite afore, with my regimentals in a bundle, so they couldn’t be siled by ridin’, and as soon as I got my breckfast, I begun rigin’ out for the muster. I had a bran new pair of boots, made jest a purpose, with long legs to ’em and a shaperdebraw, with one of the tallest kind of red fethers in it, a blu cloth regimental cote, all titivated off with gold and buttons, and a pair of yeller britches of the finest kind. Well, when I went to put ’em on, I couldn’t help but cuss all the tailors and shoomakers in Georgia. In the fust place, my britches like to busted and wouldn’t reach more’n half way to my jacket, then it tuck two niggers to git my boots on; and my coat had tail enuff for a bed-quilt, and stood rite strait out behind like a fan-tail pidgin—it wouldn’t hang rite no how you could pull it. I never was so dratted mad, specially when thar was no time to fix things, for the fellers were comin’ in in gangs and beginnin’ to call for me to come out and take the command. Eckspectation was ris considerable high, cause I was pledged to quip myself in uniformity to the law, if I was lected Majer.

Well, bimeby I went to the dore and told Bill Skinner and Tom Cullers to fix ther companys, and have ’em all reddy when I made my pearance. Then the fuss commenced. Thar wasn’t but one drum in town, and Bill Skinner swore _that_ should drum for _his_ company, cause it longed to that beat; and Tom Cullers swore the nigger should drum for _his_ company, cause he longed to his crowd. Thar was the old harry to pay, and it was gittin’ wurse. I didn’t know what to do, for they was all comin’ to me bout it, and shinin’ and disputin’ so I couldn’t hardly hear one from tother. Thinks I, I must show my thority in this bisness; so says I, “In the name of the State of Georgia, I cummand the drum to drum for me. I’s Majer of this betallion and I’s cummander of the musick too!” The thing tuck fust-rate; thar was no more rumpus bout it, and I sot the niggers a drummin’ and fifin’ as hard as they could split rite afore the tavern dore.

It was monstrous diffikil to git the men to fall in; thar hain’t been none of them deformed drunkerds down here yit, and the way the fellers does love peach and hunny is ’mazin’. Bimeby Bill Skinner tuck a stick and made a long strate streak in the sand, and then hollered out, “Oh, yes! oh, yes! all you as belongs to Coon-holler beat is to git in a strate line on this trail!” Tom Cullers made a streak for his beat, and the fellers begun to string themselves along in a strate line, and in about a quarter of a ower they wer all settled like bees on a bean-pole, pretty considerable strate. Arter a while they sent word to me that they was all reddy, and I had my horse fetched up to tother side of the tavern; but when I cum to him, the bominable fool didn’t know me sumhow, and begun kickin’ and prancin’, and cavortin’ about like mad. I made the niggers hold him till I got on, then I sent word round to the drummer to drum like blazes as soon as he seed me turn the corner, and to the men to be reddy to salute. My sword kep rattlin’ agin the side of my hors, and the fool was skeered so he didn’t know which eend he stood on; and kep dancin’ about and squattin’ and rarin’ so I couldn’t hardly hold on to him.

The nigger went and told the men what I sed; and when I thought they was all reddy, round I went in a canter, with my sash and regimentals flyin’ and my red fether wavin’ as graceful as a corn tossel in a whirlwind; but jest as I got to the corner ther was a fuss like heaven and yearth was cumin’ together. Rattlebang, wher-r-r-r-r went the drum, and the nigger blowed the fife rite out strate, till his eyes was sot in his hed—harra! hey-y-y! hurra! went all the niggers and everybody else—my horse wheelin’ and pitchin’ worse than ever, rite up to the muster—and, fore I could draw my breth, bang! bang! bang! de bang! bang! bang! went every gun in the crowd, and all I knowed was, I was whirlin’, and pitchin’, and swingin’ about in the smoke and fire till I cum full length rite smack on the ground, “in all the pride, pomp, and circumstances of glorious war,” as Mr. Shakspeare ses.

Lucky enough I didn’t git hurt; but my cote was split clear up to the coller, my yaller britches busted all to flinders, and my shaperdebraw and fether all nocked into a perfect mush. Thunder and lightnin’! thinks I, what must be a man’a feelin’s in a rale battle, whar they’re shootin’ in good yearnest! Cum to find out, it was all a mistake; the men didn’t know nothing bout military ticktacks, and thought I ment a regular forth of July salute.

I had to lay by my regimentals—but I know’d my caracter was at stake as a officer, and I tarmined to go on with the muster. So I told Skinner and Cullers to git the men strate agin and when they was all in a line I sorted ’em all out. The fellers what had guns I put in frunt, them what had sticks in the rare, and them what had no shoes, down to the bottum by themselves, so nobody couldn’t tramp on ther tose. A good menny of ’em begun to forgit which was ther rite hand and which was ther left; and sum of ’em begun to be very diffikil to manage, so I termined to march ’em rite out to a old field, whar they couldn’t git no more licker, specially sense I was bleeged to wear my tother clothes.

Well, arter I got ’em all fixed, ses I, “Music! quick time! by the rite flank, file left, march!” they stood fer bout a minit lookin’ at me—“by flank mar-r-r-ch!” ses I, as loud as I could holler. Then they begun lookin’ at one another and hunchin’ one another with ther elbows, and the fust thing I know’d they was all twisted up in a snarl, goin’ both ways at both ends, and all machin’ through other in the middle, in all sorts of helter skelter fashion. “Halt!” ses I, “halt! wher upon yeath is you all gwine!”—and thar they was, all in a huddle. They knowed better, but jest wanted to bother me, I do b’lieve.

“Never mind,” ses I, “gentlemen, we’ll try that revolution over agin.” So when I got ’em all strait agin, I splained it to ’em, and gin ’em the word so they could understand it. “Forward march!” ses I, and away they went, not all together, but two by two, every feller waitin’ ’til his turn cum to step, so fore the barefoot ones got started, I couldn’t hardly see to t’other eend of the betallion. I let ’em go ahead ’til we got to the old field, and then I tried to stop ’em; but I had ’em in gangs all over the field in less than no time. “Close up!” ses I, as loud as I could holler; but they only stood and looked at me like they didn’t know what I meant. “Git into a strait line again,” ses I. That brung ’em all together, and I told ’em to rest a while, before I put ’em through the manuel.

’Bout this time out cum a whole heap of fellers with sum candidates, and wanted I should let ’em address the betallion. I told ’em I didn’t care, long as they didn’t kick up no row. Well, the men wer all high up for hearin’ the speeches of the candidates, and got round ’em thick as flies round a fat gourd. Ben Ansley—he’s the poplarest candidate down here—begun to show by gittin’ on a stump, and takin’ his hat off rite in the brilin’ hot sun.

“Feller-citizens,” ses he, “I spose you all know as how my friends is fotched me out to represent this county in the next legislater—I am posed to counterfit money and shinplasters; I am posed to abolition and free niggers, to the morus multicaulis and the Florida war, and all manner of shecoonery whatsumever! If I’s leeted your respectable representation, I shall go in for good munny, twenty cents for cotton, and no taxes, and shall go for bolishin’ prisonment for debt and the Central Bank. I hope you’ll all cum up to the poles of the lection, and vote like a patriot for your very humble servant—Amen.”

Then he jumped down and went round shakin’ hands. “Hurra for Ben Ansley! Ansley for ever!” shouted every feller. “Down with the bank—devil take the shinplasters and all the rale-roads!” ses Captain Skinner. “Silence for a speech from Squire Pettybone!” “Hurra for Pettybone!”

Squire Pettybone was a little short fat man, what had run afore, and knowed how to talk to the boys.

“Frends and feller-citizens,” ses he, “I’s once more a candidate for your sufferin’s, and I want to splain my sentiments to you. You’ve jest hearn a grate deal ’bout the Central Bank. I ain’t no bank man—I’m ’posed to all banks—but I is a frend to the pore man, and is always reddy to stand up for his constitutional rites. When the Central Bank put out its munny it was good, and rich men got it and made use of it when it was good; but now they want to buy it in for less nor what it’s worth to pay ther dets to the bank, and they is tryin’ to put it down, and make the pore man lose by it. What does they want to put the bank down for, if it ain’t to cheat the pore man who’s got sum of it? If I’s ’lected, I shall go for makin’ the banks redeem ther munny in silver and gold, or put every devil of ’em into the penitentiary to makin’ nigger shoes. I’s a hard munny man and in favor of the Vetos. I goes for the pore man agin the rich, and if you ’lect me that’s what I mean to do.”

Then _he_ begun shakin’ hands all round. “Hurra for Squire Pettybone! hurra for the bank and the veto!” shouted some of the men—“Hurra for Ansley! down with the bank!” “Silence for Mr. Johnson’s speech!” “Hurra for Harrison!” “Hurra for the Vetos!” “Hurra for Jackson! I can lick any veto on the ground!” “Silence!” “Hurra for Ansley, no bank!” “Whar’s them vetos what’s agin Ansley—let me at ’em!” “Fight! fight! make a ring! make a ring!”—“Whoop!” hollered Bill Sweeny, “I’m the blossom—go it shirt-tail!” “Hit ’em Sweeny!”—“’Tention, Betallion!” ses I, but it want no use—they was at it rite in the middle and all round the edges, and I know’d the quicker I got out of that bilin’ the better for my wholsum. Thar they was, up and down, five or six in a heap, rollin’ over and crawlin’ out from under, bitin’ and scratchin’, gougin’ and strikin’, kickin’ and cussin’, head and heels all through other, none of ’em knowin’ who they hurt, or who hurt them—all the same whether they hit Ansley or veto, the blossom or Pettybone. The candidates was runnin’ about pullin’ and haulin’, and tryin’ ther best to stop it; but you couldn’t hear nothin’ but cussin’, and “bank” and “veto,” and “let me at ’em,” “I’m your boy,” “let go my eyes!” and sich talk for more’n twenty minits, and then they only kep ’em apart by holdin’ ’em off like dogs till they got dun pantin’.

It want no use to try to get ’em into line agin. Some of ’em had got manuel exercise enuff, and was knocked and twisted out of all caracter, and it would be no use to try to put ’em through the manuel in that situation. Lots of ’em had ther eyes bunged up so they couldn’t “eyes right!” to save ’em, so I turned ’em over to ther captains, accordin’ to law, and ain’t sponsible for nothin’ that tuck place after I left. No more from

Your frend, ’til deth, Jos. Jones.

P.S.—Miss Mary most fainted when she heard the noos ’bout my hoss throwin’ me. Don’t you think that’s a good sign?