by John McElroy
CHAPTER IX. SHORTY GETS A LETTER
BECOMES ENTANGLED IN A HIGHLY IMPORTANT CORRESPONDENCE.
A LIGHT spring wagon, inscribed "United States Sanitary Commission,"drove through the camp of the 200th Ind., under the charge of adignified man with a clerical cast of countenance, who walked alongside,looking at the soldiers and into the tents, and stopping from timeto time to hand a can of condensed milk to this one, a jar of jam toanother, and bunches of tracts to whomsoever would take them.
Shorty was sitting in front of the house bathing his aching feet.The man stopped before him, and looked compassionately at his swollenpedals.
"Your feet are in a very bad way, my man," he said sadly.
"Yes, durn 'em," said Shorty impatiently. "I don't seem to git 'em wellnohow. Must've got 'em pizened when I was runnin' through the briars."
"Probably some ivy or poison-oak, or nightshade among the briars.Poison-oak is very bad, and nightshade is deadly. I knew a man oncethat had to have his hand amputated on account of getting poisoned bysomething that scratched him--nightshade, ivy, or poison-oak. I'm afraidyour feet are beginning to mortify."
"Well, you are a Job's comforter," thought Shorty.{124}
"You'd be nice to send for when a man's sick. You'd scare him to death,even if there was no danger o' his dyin'."
"My friend," said the man, turning to his wagon, "I've here a nice pairof home-made socks, which I will give you, and which will come in nicelyif you save your legs. If you don't, give them to some needy man. Hereare also some valuable tracts, full of religious consolation and advice,which it will do your soul good to peruse and study."
Shorty took the gift thankfully, and turned over the tracts withcuriosity.
"On the Sin of Idolatry," he read the title of the first.
"Now, why'd he give that? What graven image have I bin worshipin'? Whatgods of wood and stone have I bin bowin' down before in my blindness?There've bin times when I thought a good deal more of a Commissarytent then I did of a church, but I got cured of that as soon as I got asquare meal. I don't see where I have bin guilty of idolatry.
"On the Folly of Self-Pride," he read from the next one. "Humph, theremay be something in that that I oughter read. I am very liable to gitstuck on myself, and think how purty I am, and how graceful, and howsweetly I talk, and what fine cloze I wear. Especially the cloze. I'llput that tract in my pocket an' read it after awhile."
"On the Evils of Gluttony," he next read. "Well, that's a timely tract,for a fact. I'm in the habit o' goin' around stuffin' myself, as thissays, with delicate viands, and drinkin' fine wines--'makin' my bellya god.' The man what wrote this must've bin{125} intimately acquaintedwith the sumptuous meals which Uncle Sam sets before his nephews. Hemust've knowed all about the delicate, apetizin' flavor of a slab o' fatpork four inches thick, taken off the side of the hog that's uppermostwhen he's laying on his back. And how I gormandize on hardtack baked inthe first place for the Revolutioners, and kept over ever since.That feller knows jest what he's writin' about. I'd like to exchangephotographs with him."
"Thou Shalt Not Swear." Shorty read a few words, got red in the face,whistled softly, crumpled the tract up, and threw it away.
"On the Sin of Dancing," Shorty yelled with laughter. "Me dance withthese hoofs! And he thinks likely mortification'll set in, and I'll lose'em altogether. Well, he oughter be harnessed up with Thompson's colt.Which'd come out ahead in the race for the fool medal? But these seem tobe nice socks. Fine yarn, well-knit, and by stretching a little I thinkI kin get 'em on. I declare, they're beauties. I'll jest make Si sickwith envy when I show 'em to him. I do believe they lay over anythinghis mother ever sent him. Hello, what's this?"
He extracted from one of them a note in a small, white envelope, on oneend of which was a blue Zouave, with red face, hands, cap and gaiters,brandishing a red sword in defense of a Star Spangled Banner which heheld in his left hand.
"Must belong to the Army o' the Potomac," mused Shorty, studyingthe picture. "They wear all sorts o' outlandish uniforms there. Thatred-headed woodpecker'd be shot before he'd git a mile o' the rebelsout here. All that hollyhock business'd jest be meat{126} for theirsharpshooters. And what's he doin' with that 'ere sword? I wouldn'tgive that Springfield rifle o' mine for all the swords that were everhammered out. When I reach for a feller 600 or even 800 yards away I kinfetch him every time. He's my meat unless he jumps behind a tree. But asfor swords, I never could see no sense in 'em except for officers to puton lugs with. I wouldn't pack one a mile for a wagonload of 'em."
He looked at the address on the envelope. Straight lines had beenscratched across with a pin. On these was written, in a cramped, mincinghand:
"To the brave soljer who Gits these Socks."
"Humph," mused Shorty, "that's probably for me. I've got the socks, andI'm a soldier. As to whether I'm brave or not's a matter of opinion.Sometimes I think I am; agin, when there's a dozen rebel guns pintedat my head, not 10 feet away, I think I'm not. But we'll play that I'mbrave enough to have this intended for me, and I'll open it."
On the sheet of paper inside was another valorous red-and-blue Zouavedefending the flag with drawn sword. On it was written:
"Bad Ax, Wisconsin,
"Janooary the 14th, 1863.
"Braiv Soljer: I doant know who you air, or whair you may bee; I only know that you air serving your country, and that is enuf to entitle to the gratitude and afl'ection of every man and woman who has the breath of patriotism in their bodies.
"I am anxious to do something all the time, very little though it may be, to help in some way the men{127} who air fiting the awful battles for me, and for every man and woman in the country.
"I send these socks now as my latest contribution. They aint much, but I've put my best work on them, and I hoap they will be useful and comfortable to some good, braiv man.
"How good you may be I doant know, but you air sertingly a much better man than you would be if you was not fiting for the Union. I hoap you air a regler, consistent Christian. Ide prefer you to be a Methodist Episcopal, but any church is much better than none.
"He be glad to heer that you have received these things all rite.
"Sincerely your friend and well-wisher,
"Jerusha Ellen Briggs."
Although Shorty was little inclined to any form of reading, and dislikedhandwriting about as much as he did work on the fortifications, he readthe letter over several times, until he had every word in it and everyfeature of the labored, cramped penmanship thoroughly imprinted on hismind. Then he held it off at arm's length for some time, and studiedit with growing admiration. It seemed to him the most wonderful epistlethat ever emanated from any human hand. A faint scent of roses came fromit to help the fascination.
"I'll jest bet my head agin a big red apple," he soliloquized, "thewoman that writ that's the purtiest girl in the State o' Wisconsin. I'llbet there's nothin' in Injianny to hold a candle to her, purty as Sithinks his Annabel is. And smart--my! Jest look at that letter. Thattells it. Every word spelled correckly,{128} and the grammar away up inG. Annabel's a mighty nice girl, and purty, too, but I've noticedshe makes mistakes in spelling, and her grammar's the Wabashkind--home-made."
He drew down his eyebrows, pursed his lips, and assumed a severelycritical look for a reperusal of the letter and judgment upon itaccording to the highest literary standards.
"No, sir," he said, with an air of satisfaction, "not a blamed mistakein it, from beginnin' to end. Every word spelled jest right, the grammarstraight as the Ten Commandments, every t crossed and i dotted accordin'to regulashuns and the Constitushun of the United States. She must bea school-teacher, and yit a school-teacher couldn't knit sich socks asthem. She's a lady, every inch of her. Religious, too. Belongs to theMethodist Church. Si's father's a Baptist, and so's my folks, but Ialways did think a heap o' the Methodists. I think they have a littlenicer girls than the
Baptists. I think I'd like to marry a Methodistwife."
Then he blushed vividly, all to himself, to think how fast his thoughtshad traveled. He returned to the letter, to cover his confusion.
"Bad Ax, Wis. What a queer name for a place. Never heard of it before.Wonder where in time it is? I'd like awfully to know. There's the 1stand 21st Wis. in Rousseau's Division, and the 10th Wis. Battery inPalmer's Division. I might go over there and ask some o' them. Mebbesome of 'em are right from there. I'll bet it's a mighty nice place."
He turned to the signature with increased interest.
"Jerusha Ellen Briggs. Why, the name itself is{129} reg'lar poetry.Jerusha is awful purty. Your Mollies and Sallies and Emmies can't holda candle to it. And Annabel--pshaw! Ellen--why that's my mother's name.Briggs? I knowed some Briggses once aEuro" way-up, awfully nice people.Seems to me they wuz Presbyterians, though, and I always thought thatPresbyterians wuz stuck-up, but they wuzzent stuck-up a mite. I wonderif Miss Jerusha Ellen Briggs--she must be a Miss--haint some beau? Butshe can't have. If he wuzzent in the army she wouldn't have him; and ifhe was in the army she'd be sending the socks to him, instead of to whomit may concern."
This brilliant bit of logic disposed of a sudden fear which had beenclutching at his heart. It tickled him so much that he jumped up,slapped his breast, and grinned delightedly and triumphantly at thewhole landscape.
"What's pleasin' you so mightily. Shorty?" asked Si, who had just comeup. "Got a new system for beatin' chuck-a-luck, or bin promoted?"
"No, nothin'! Nothin's happened," said Shorty curtly, as he hastilyshoved the letter into his blouse pocket. "Will you watch them beansbilin' while I go down to the spring and git some water?"
He picked up the camp-kettle and started. He wanted to be utterly alone,even from Si, with his new-born thought. He did not go directly to thespring, but took another way to a clump of pawpaw bushes, which wouldhide him from the observation of everyone. There he sat down, pulled outthe letter again, and read it over carefully, word by word.
"Wants me to write whether I got the socks," he{130} mused. "You jest betI will. I've a great mind to ask for a furlough to go up to Wisconsin,and find out Bad Ax. I wonder how fur it is. I'll go over to theSuiter's and git some paper and envelopes, and write to her this veryafternoon."
He carried his camp-kettle back to the house, set it down, and makingsome excuse, set off for the Sutler's shop.
"Le'me see your best paper and envelopes," he said to the pirate who hadlicense to fleece the volunteers.
"Awfully common trash," said Shorty, looking over the assortmentdisdainfully, for he wanted something superlatively fine for his letter."Why don't you git something fit for a gentleman to write to a lady on?Something with gold edges on the paper and envelopes, and perfumed? Inever write to a lady except on gilt-edged paper, smellin' o' bergamot,and musk, and citronella, and them things. I don't think it's goodtaste."
"Well, think what you please," said the Sutler. "That's all the kind Ihave, and that's all the kind you'll git. Take it or leave it."
Shorty finally selected a quire of heavy letter paper and a bunchof envelopes, both emblazoned with patriotic and warlike designs inbrilliant red and blue.
"Better take enough," he said to himself. "I've been handlin' a pickand shovel and gun so much that I'm afeared my hand isn't as light as itused to be, and I'll have to spile several sheets before I git it justright."
On his way back he decided to go by the camp of{131} one of theWisconsin regiments and learn what he could of Bad Ax and its people.
"Is there a town in your State called Bad Ax?" he asked of the first manhe met with "Wis." on his cap.
"Cert'," was the answer. "And another one called Milwaukee, onecalled Madison, and another called Green Bay. Are you studying primarygeography, or just getting up a postoffice directory?"
"Don't be funny, Skeezics," said Shorty severely. "Know anything aboutit? Mighty nice place, ain't it?"
"Know anything about it? I should say so. My folks live in Bad AxCounty. It's the toughest, ornerist little hole in the State. Run bylead-miners. More whisky-shanties than dwellings. It's tough, I tellyou."
"I believe you're an infernal liar," said Shorty, turning away in wrath.
Not being fit for duty, he could devote all his time to the compositionof the letter. He was so wrought up over it that he could not eat muchdinner, which alarmed Si.
"What's the matter with your appetite. Shorty?" he asked. "Haint bineatin' nothin' that disagreed with you, have you?
"Naw," answered Shorty impatiently; "nothin' wuss'n army rations. Theyalways disagree with me when I'm layin' around doin' nothin'. Why, inthe name of goodness, don't the army move? I've got sick o' the sight o'every cedar and rocky knob in Middle Tennessee. We ought to go down andtake a look at things around Tullahoma, where Mr. Bragg{132} is."
It was Si's turn to clean up after dinner, and, making an excuse ofgoing over into another camp to see a man who had arrived there, Shorty,with his paper and envelopes concealed under his blouse, and Si's penand wooden ink-stand furtively conveyed to his pocket, picked up thecheckerboard when Si's back was turned, and made his way to the pawpawthicket, where he could be unseen and unmolested in the greatestliterary undertaking of his life.
He took a comfortable seat on a rock, spread the paper on thecheckerboard, and then began vigorously chewing the end of the penholderto stimulate his thoughts.
It had been easy to form the determination to write; the desire to doso was irresistible, but never before had he been confronted with atask which seemed so overwhelming. Compared with it, struggling witha mule-train all day through the mud and rain, working with pick andshovel on the fortifications, charging an enemy's solid line-of-battle,appeared light and easy performances. He would have gone at either, onthe instant, at the word of command, or without waiting for it, withentire confidence in his ability to master the situation. But to writea half-dozen lines to a strange girl, whom he had already enthroned as alovely divinity, had more terrors than all of Bragg's army could induce.
But when Shorty set that somewhat thick head of his upon the doing ofa thing, the thing was tolerably certain to be done in some shape oranother.
"I believe, if I knowed whore Bad Ax was, I'd git a furlough, and walkclean there, rather than write a line," he said, as he wiped from hisbrow the sweat{133} forced out by the labor of his mind. "I always didhate writin'. I'd rather maul rails out of a twisted elm log any daythan fill up a copy book. But it's got to be done, and the sooner I doit the sooner the agony 'll be over. Here goes."
He began laboriously forming each letter with his lips, and still morelaboriously with his stiff fingers, adding one to another, until he hadtraced out:
"Headquarters Co. Q, 200th Injianny Volunteer Infantry, Murfreesboro, Aprile the 16th eighteen hundred & sixty three."
The sweat stood out in beads upon his forehead after this effort, but itwas as nothing compared to the strain of deciding how he should addresshis correspondent. He wanted to use some term of fervent admiration, butfear deterred him. He debated the question with himself until his headfairly ached, when he settled upon the inoffensive phrase:
"Respected Lady."
The effort was so exhausting that he had to go down to the spring,take a deep drink of cold water, and bathe his forehead. But hisdetermination was unabated, and before the sun went down he had producedthe following:
"i talk mi pen in hand 2 inform U that ive reseeved the SOX U so kindly cent, & i thank U 1,000 times 4 them. They are boss sox & no mistake. They are the bossest sox that ever wuz nit. The man is a lire who sez they aint. He dassent tel Me so. U are a boss nitter. Even Misses Linkun can't hold a candle 2 U.
"The sox fit me 2 a t, but that is becaws they are nit so wel, & stretch."{134}
"I wish I knowed some more real strong words to praise her knitting,"said Shorty, reading over the laboriously-written lines. "But after Ihave said they're boss w
hat more is there to say? I spose I ought to saysomething about her health next. That's polite." And he wrote:
"ime in fair helth, except my feet are" locoed, & i weigh 156 pounds, & hope U are injoying the saim blessing."
"I expect I ought to praise her socks a little more," said he, andwrote:
"The SOX are jest boss. They outrank anything in the Army of the Cumberland."
After this effort he was compelled to take a long rest. Then he communedwith himself:
"When a man's writin' to a lady, and especially an educated lady, heshould always throw in a little poetry. It touches her."
There was another period of intense thought, and then he wrote:
"Dan Elliott is my name, & single is my station, Injianny is mi dwelling place, & Christ is mi salvation."
"Now," he said triumphantly, "that's neat and effective. It tells hera whole lot about me, and makes her think I know Shakspere by heart.Wonder if I can't think o' some more? Hum--hum. Yes, here goes:
"The rose is red, the vilet's blue; ime 4 the Union, so are U."
Shorty was so tickled over this happy conceit that he fairly huggedhimself, and had to read it over{135} several times to admire itsbeauty. But it left him too exhausted for any further mental labor thanto close up with:
"No moar at present, from yours til death.
"Dan Elliott,
"Co. Q, 200th injianny Volunteer Infantry."
He folded up the missive, put it into an envelope, carefully directed toMiss Jerusha Ellen Briggs, Bad Ax, Wis., and after depositing it in thebox at the Chaplain's tent, plodded homeward, feeling more tiredthan after a day's digging on the fortifications. Yet his fatigue wasilluminated by the shimmering light of a fascinating hope.