Chapter 8
Says he:
"I reckon."
"And sixteen small children?"
Says he:
"There was only fifteen when last heard from."
"Soldier," says I, "were you to die before to-morrow, what would be your last request?"
Here I shed two tears.
"It would be," says he, "that some kind friend would take the job of walloping my offspring for a year on contract, and finding my beloved wife in subjects to jaw about."
"Soldier," says I, "I'm your friend and brother. Let me occupy a seat by your side."
And he didn't let me do it.
Just at this moment, something burst, and I found myself going up at the rate of two steeples and a shot-tower a second. I met a Fire Zouave on the way down, and says he:
"Towhead, if you see any of our boys up where you're goin' to, just tell them to hurry down; fur there's goin' to be a row, and Nine's fellers 'll take that ere four-gun hydrant from the seceshers in less time than you can reel two yards of hose."
As I was _very_ tired I did not go all the way up; but turned back at the first cloud, and returned hastily to the scene of strife. I happened to light on a very fat secesher, who was doing a little running for exercise. Down he went, with me on top of him. He was dreadfully scared; but says he to me: "I've =seen you before, by the G.o.ds!" I winked at him, and commenced to sharpen my sword on a stone.
"Tell me," says he, "had you a female mother?"
"I had," says I.
"And a masculine father?"
"He wore breeches."
"Then you _are_ my long lost grandfather!" says the secesher, endeavoring to embrace me.
"It won't do," says I; "I've been to the Bowery Theatre myself;" and with that I took off his neck-tie and wiped my nose with it. This action was so repugnant to the feelings of a Southern gentleman, that he immediately died on my hands; and there I left him.
It was my first personal victory in this unnatural war, my boy, and as I walked away I thought sadly of the domestic circle in the Southern Confederacy that might be waiting anxiously, tearfully, for the husband and father----him whom I had morally a.s.sa.s.sinated. And there he sprawled, denied even the simple privilege of extending a parting blessing to his children. Under ordinary circ.u.mstances, my boy, there's something deeply affecting in
THE DYING SOUTHERNER'S FAREWELL TO HIS SON.
My boy, my lion-hearted boy, Your father's end draws near; Already is your loss begun, And, curse it, there's a
I've sought to bring you up, my son, A credit to the South, And all your poker games have been An honor to us both.
Though scarcely sixteen years of age, Your bowie's tickled more Than many Southerners I know At fifty and three score.
You've whipped your n.i.g.g.e.r handsomely, And chewed your plug a day; And when I hear you swear, my son, What pride my eyes betray!
And now, that I must leave the world, My dying words attend; But first, a chew of n.i.g.g.e.rhead, And cut it near the end.
To you the old plantation goes, With mortgage, tax, and all, Though compound interest on that first, Will make the profit small.
The n.i.g.g.e.rs to your mother go; And if she wants to sell, You might contrive to buy her out, Should all the crops grow well.
I leave you all my debts, my son, To Yankees chiefly due; But--curse the black republicans!
That needn't trouble you.
A true-born Southern gentleman Disdains the vulgar thought Of paying, like a Yankee clerk, For what is sold and bought.
Leave that to storekeepers and fools Who never banked a card; We pay our "debts of honor," boy, Though pressed however hard.
Last summer at the North I bought, Some n.i.g.g.e.r hats and shoes, And gave my note for ninety days; Forget it if you choose.
The Yankee mudsills would not have Such articles to sell, If Southern liberality Had fattened them less well.
The Northern dun we hung last week Had twenty dollars clear, And that, my son, is all the cash I have to give you here.
But that's enough to make a start, And, if you pick your boat, A Mississippi trip or two Will set you all afloat.
You play a screaming hand, my son, And push an ugly cue; Oh! these are thoughts that make me feel As dying Christians do!
Keep cool, my lion-hearted boy, Till second ace is played, And then call out for brandy sour As though your pile was made.
The other chaps will think you've got The tiger by the tail; And when you see them looking glum, Just call for brandy pale!
I never knew it fail to make Some green one go it blind; And when the first slip-up is made, It's all your own, you'll find.
My breath comes hard--I'm euchred, boy-- First Families must die; I leave you in your innocence, And here's a last good-bye.
Shortly after the event I have recorded, I was examining the back of a house near the battle-field, to see if it corresponded with the front, when another Fire Zouave came along, and says he:
"It's my opine that you're sticking rather too thick to the rear of that house to be much punkins in a muss. Why don't you go to the front like a man?"
"My boy," says I, "this is the house of a predominant rebel, and I'm detailed to watch the back door."
With that the Zouave was taken with such a dreadful fit of coughing that he had to move on to get his breath, and I was left alone once more.
These Fire Zouaves, my boy, have a perversity about them not to be repressed. They were neck-and-neck with the rest of us in our stampede back to this city; and yet, my boy, they refuse to consider the United States of America worsted. Here is the version of
BULL RUN,
BY A FIRE ZOUAVE.
Oh, it's all very well for you fellers That don't know a fire from the sun, To curl your moustaches, and tell us Just how the thing _oughter_ be done; But when twenty wake up ninety thousand, There's nothin' can follow but rout; We didn't give in till we had to; And what are yer coughin' about?
The crowd that was with them ere rebels Had ten to our every man; But a fireman's a fireman, me covey, And he'll put out a fire if he can: So we run the masheen at a gallop, As easy as open and shut, And as fast as one feller went under, Another kept takin' der b.u.t.t.
You oughter seen Farnham, that mornin'!