Chapter 4
Upon discovering that he was wounded, Mr. Shorty examined the cap on his musket, and stood it carefully against a tree, b.u.t.toned his jacket to his neck, and asked a comrade for a chew of tobacco. Too full of emotion to speak, the comrade handed a gentlemanly plug to the dying man, who cut about half an ounce from it, placed it thoughtfully in his mouth, and then stuffed his handkerchief carefully in the hole in his forehead made by the b.a.l.l.s.
"Is any of my brains hanging out?" he asked of another of his comrades.
"No, Shorty," answered the other, bursting into tears; "you never had any to hang out."
After this response, the dying man paused for a moment to spit in the eyes of a dog that was smelling around his heels, and then proceeded with his comrades in the direction of the hospital, or the house used for that purpose.
As they were pa.s.sing the quarters of the officer with whom I was spending the night, the expiring Zouave stopped to twist the tail of an old darkey's cat, which made such a noise that the officer's attention was attracted, and he called the whole party into his room. I at once noticed that the top of Mr. Shorty's head was completely gone, and that one of his eyes was half-way down the back of his neck. Upon entering the room he took a pipe from the mantel and commenced to smoke it, giving us, at the same time, a history of Nine's Engine and the first "muss" he was ever engaged in. After finis.h.i.+ng the pipe, and requesting me to wrap him up in the American flag, he spit on one of my boots, and then died. I append a short biographical sketch.
THE LATE PRIVATE SHORTY.
Mr. James Shorty, the gallant Zouave who was shot last night by the Southern Confederacy, was born some years ago in a place I am not aware of, and graduated with high honors in the New York Fire Department. He was universally beloved for his genial manner of taking the b.u.t.t, and never hit a feller bigger than himself. In the year 1861, he entered the United States army as a private Zouave, and was in it when the fate of war deprived the country of his beloved presence. His remains will be taken to the first fire that occurs.
Poor Shorty! I knew him well, my boy, and shall never forget how ready he always was to take a cigar from
Yours, mournfully,
ORPHEUS C. KERR.
P.S.--Since writing the above, I have heard that no such occurrence took place at Alexandria. The alarm was occasioned by the fall of a bag of hay in one of the officers' quarters, the noise being mistaken for the firing of a battery. Mr. Shorty, it seems, does not belong to the Zouaves, at all, and is still in New York.
O. C. K.
LETTER VII.
RECORDING THE FIRST SANGUINARY EXPLOIT OF THE MACKEREL BRIGADE, AND ITS VICTORIOUS ISSUE.
WAs.h.i.+NGTON, D.C., June 20th, 1861.
I have just returned, my boy, with my fellow-mercenaries and several mudsills from a carnival of gore. I am wounded--my sensibilities are wounded, and my irrepressibles reek with the blood of the slain. These hands, that once opened the oysters of peace and toyed with the bivalves of tranquillity, are now sanguinary with the _red juice of battle_ (gus.h.i.+ng idea!), and linger in horrid ecstacy about the gloomy neck of a bottle holding about a quart. Eagle of my country, proud bird of the menagerie! thou art avenged!
At a late hour last evening, the Brigadier-General of the Mackerel Brigade (formerly a pract.i.tioner in the Asylum for Idiots) received intelligence from a messenger that a strong force of chickens were intrenched near Fairfax Court-House under the command of a rabid secessionist named Binks. The brigade was at once ordered over the bridge at a double-quick, the general throwing a strong force of skirmishers into the Potomac, and waving his sword repeatedly to show that he was a stranger to fear. Shortly after touching Virginia soil, the orderly sergeant reported an engagement, on the left flank, between private Villiam Brown and the man that puts his hair in papers. A consultation of officers was immediately called, and the order "About face" was given. So excited was our general by the event, that when the order to march was given he forgot all about the "About face" business, and we didn't know that we were
The Man that puts his hair in papers was wounded severely on one of his corns, and the Brigadier-General slid hastily down from the tree, and retired to the rear of an adjacent barn. A consultation of officers was immediately called, and it was determined to form our brigade into a square, and receive the charge of the enemy, who speedily appeared before the breastworks with a pair of tongs in his hands. Reaching forward with the horrid weapon, he pulled the nose of our returned Brigadier-General with it. A consultation of officers was immediately called, and it was determined that death was preferable to defeat.
Accordingly, the brigade was ordered to advance cautiously upon the enemy, while the orderly sergeant was sent to hara.s.s his rear, and turn his flank, if possible. Our brigadier-general attempted to lead the charge, but made a mistake about the direction again, and had galloped half a mile toward where we came from before he could be convinced of his mistake. Seeing us descending upon him, at last, like an avalanche, the enemy deployed to the right, and poured in a volley of "cusses,"
throwing our right column into confusion, and wounding the delicacy of our chaplain. A consultation of officers was immediately called, and it was determined to make one more dash. We were formed into the shape of a bunch of radishes, the brigadier-general retired a distance of two miles to encourage us, and we poured down upon the foe with irresistible force. His ranks were broken by the impetuosity of our charge, and he scattered and fled in dismay.
The engagement then became general, and in a little while we were on our victorious way to Was.h.i.+ngton again, with 150 rebel prisoners. Our captives were chickens, in excellent condition for dressing, and their appearance so delighted our brigadier-general--whom we found sharpening his sword on the bottom of his boot, some miles away--that a consultation of officers was immediately called, and it was determined to cook and eat them immediately, lest the President should administer the oath of allegiance to them, and discharge them in the morning.
Yours, victoriously,
ORPHEUS C. KERR.
LETTER VIII.
THE REJECTED "NATIONAL HYMNS."
WAs.h.i.+NGTON, D.C., June 30th, 1861.
Immediately after mailing my last to you, I secured a short furlough, and proceeded to New York, to examine into the affairs of that venerable Committee which had offered a prize of $500 for the best National Hymn.
Upon going into literary circles, my boy, no less than fifty acknowledged poets confidentially informed me, that the idea of bribing the muse to be solemnly patriotic was altogether too vulgar to be tolerated for a moment by writers of reputation; and a whole swarm of poets, never acknowledged by anybody, were human enough to say that $500 was not a small sum in these times; but they hadn't "come to that yet, you know."
One very poor Bohemian, my boy (whose scathing sarcasm at the expense of those degraded creatures who prefer wealth to intellect, has often delighted and improved the public mind), was so rash as to intimate that the importunities of his laundress might drive him to the desperate resource of competing for the prize; but he was quickly made to blush for the unworthy thought, by the undisguised contempt for his "dem'd lowness" displayed by a decayed young gentleman in a dirty collar and very new neck-tie, who lives in a two-pair back in Wooster street (fish b.a.l.l.s and a roll twice a day), and writes graphic sketches of fas.h.i.+onable life for the wholesale market.
And yet, notwithstanding all this high-mindedness, my boy, there is an immense amount of some sort of genius insidiously pitted against the contemptible $500. Astounding and distracting to relate, the committee announces the reception of no less than eleven hundred and fifty "anthems"!
The magnitude of eleven hundred and fifty "anthems" is almost more than one human mind can grasp. Allowing that each "anthem" is a quarter of a yard long, we have a grand total of two hundred and eighty-seven and a half yards of "anthem"; allowing that each "anthem" weighs half a pound (intellectually and materially), I find a gross weight of five hundred and seventy-five pounds of "anthem"!
Let the reflective mind consider these figures for a moment, and it will be stricken with a sense of the singular resemblance between Genius and other marketable commodities. Eleven hundred and fifty anthems are enough to prove that Genius has its private mercenary weaknesses as well as Trade, my boy, and that brains can be bought by the yard as well as calico. Genius may carry with it a seeming contempt for the yellow dross of common humanity; but--it has to pay its occasional washerwoman.
And all these "anthems" are rejected by the venerable committee! But must they _all_, therefore, be lost to the world? I hope not, my boy,--I hope not. Having some acquaintance with the discriminating rag-merchant to whom they were turned over as rejected, I have procured some of the best, from which to quote for your special edification.
Imprimis, my boy, observe this
NATIONAL ANTHEM.
BY H. W. L----, OF CAMBRIDGE.
Back in the years when Phlagstaff, the Dane, was monarch Over the sea-ribbed land of the fleet-footed Nors.e.m.e.n, Once there went forth young Ursa to gaze at the heavens-- Ursa, the n.o.blest of all the Vikings and hors.e.m.e.n.
Musing, he sat in his stirrups and viewed the horizon, Where the Aurora lapt stars in a North-polar manner, Wildly he started--for there in the heavens before him Fluttered and flew the original Star-Spangled Banner.
The committee have two objections to this: in the first place, it is not an "anthem" at all; secondly, it is a gross plagiarism from an old Scandinavian war-song of the primeval ages.
Next, I present a
NATIONAL ANTHEM.
BY THE HON. EDWARD E----, OF BOSTON.
Ponderous projectiles, hurled by heavy hands, Fell on our Liberty's poor infant head, Ere she a stadium had well advanced On the great path that to her greatness led; Her temple's propylon was shattered; Yet, thanks to saving Grace and Was.h.i.+ngton, Her incubus was from her bosom hurled; And, rising like a cloud-dispelling sun, She took the oil, with which her hair was curled, To grease the "Hub" round which revolves the world.
This fine production is rather heavy for an "anthem," and contains too much of Boston to be considered strictly national. To set such an "anthem" to music would require a Wagner; and even were it really accommodated to a tune, it could only be whistled by the populace.
We now come to a
NATIONAL ANTHEM.