by John McElroy
CHAPTER XI. SHORTY'S CORRESPONDENT
GETS A LETTER FROM BAD AX, WIS., AND IS ALMOST OVERCOME WITH JOY.
SHORTY had always been conspicuously lacking in the general interestwhich his comrades had shown in the mails. Probably at some time in hislife he had had a home like the rest of them, but for some reason homenow played no part in his thoughts. The enlistment and muster-rollsstated that he was born in Indiana, but he was a stranger in theneighborhood when he enrolled himself in Co. Q.
His revelations as to his past were confined to memories of things whichhappened "when I was cuttin' wood down the Mississippi," or "when I wasrunnin' on an Ohio sternwheel."
He wrote no letters and received none. And when the joyful cry, "Mail'scome," would send everybody else in the regiment on a run to theChaplain's tent, in eager anticipation, to jostle one another inimpatience, until the contents of the mailpouch were distributed, Shortywould remain indifferent in his tent, without an instant's interruptionin his gun cleaning, mending, or whatever task he might have in hand.
A change came over him after he sent his letter to Bad Ax, Wis. Thecry, "Mail's come," would make{151} him start, in spite of himself, andbefore he could think to maintain his old indifference. He was ashamed,lest he betray his heart's most secret thoughts.
The matter of the secure transmission of the mails between camp and homebegan to receive his earnest attention. He feared that the authoritieswere not taking sufficient precautions. The report that John Morgan'sguerrillas had captured a train between Louisville and Nashville, rifledthe mail car, and carried off the letters, filled him with burningindignation, both against Morgan and his band and the Generals who hadnot long ago exterminated that pestiferous crowd.
He had some severe strictures on the slovenly way in which the mail wasdistributed from the Division and Brigade Headquarters to the regiments.It was a matter, he said, which could not be done too carefully. Itwas a great deal more important than the distribution of rations. A manwould much rather lose several days' rations than a letter from home.He could manage in some way to get enough to live on, but nothing wouldreplace a lost letter.
Then, he would have fits of silent musing, sometimes when alone,sometimes when with Si in the company, over the personality of the fairstocking-knitter of Wisconsin and the letter he had sent her. He wouldtry to recall the exact wording of each sentence he had laboriouslypenned, and wonder how it impressed her, think how it might have beenimproved, and blame himself for not having been more outspoken in hisdesire to hear from her again. He would steal off into the brush, pullout the socks{152} and letter, which he kept carefully wrapped up ina sheet of the heavy letter paper, and read over the letter carefullyagain, although he knew every word of it by heart. These fits alarmedSi.
"I'm af eared," he confided to some cronies, "that rebel bullet hurtShorty more'n he'll let on. He's not actin' like hisself at times. Thatbullet scraped so near his thinkery that it may have addled it. It wasan awful close shave."
"Better talk to the Surgeon," said they. "Glancing bullets sometimeshurt worse'n they seem to."
"No, the bullet didn't hurt Shorty, any more than make a scratch," saidthe Surgeon cheerfully when Si laid the case before him. "I examined himcarefully. That fellow's head is so hard that no mere scraping is goingto affect it. You'd have to bore straight through it, and I'd want atleast a six-pounder to do it with if I was going to undertake the job.An Indiana head may not be particularly fine, but it is sure to beawfully solid and tough. No; his system's likely to be out of order. Yourapscallions will take no care of yourselves, in spite of all that I cansay, but will eat and drink as if you were ostriches. He's probablya little off his feed, and a good dose of bluemass followed up withquinine will bring him around all right. Here, take these, and give themto him."
The Surgeon was famous for prescribing bluemass and quinine for everyailment presented to him, from sore feet to "shell fever." Si receivedthe medicines with a proper show of thankfulness, saluted, and left.As he passed through the clump if bushes he was tempted to add them tothe{153} collection of little white papers which marked the trail fromthe Surgeon's tent, but solicitude for his comrade restrained him. TheSurgeon was probably right, and it was Si's duty to do all that he couldto bring Shorty around again to his normal condition. But how in theworld was he going to get his partner to take the medicine? Shorty hadthe resolute antipathy to drugs common to all healthy men.
It was so grave a problem that Si sat down on a log to think about it.As was Si's way, the more he thought about it, the more determined hebecame to do it, and when Si Klegg determined to do a thing, that thingwas pretty nearly as good as done.
"I kin git him to take the quinine easy enough," he mused. "All I've gotto do is to put it in a bottle o' whisky, and he'd drink it if there wuz40 'doses o' quinine in it. But the bluemass's a very different thing.He's got to swaller it in a lump, and what in the world kin I put it inthat he'll swaller whole?"
Si wandered over to the Sutler's in hopes of seeing something there thatwould help him. He was about despairing when he noticed a boy open a canof large, yellow peaches.
"The very thing," said Si, slapping his thigh. "Say, young man, gi' me acan o' peaches jest like them."
Si took his can and carefully approached his tent, that he might decideupon his plan before Shorty could see him and his load. He discoveredthat Shorty was sitting at a little distance, with his back to him,cleaning his gun, which he had taken apart.
"Bully," thought Si. "Just the thing. His hands{154} are dirty andgreasy, and he won't want to tech anything to eat."
He slipped into the tent, cut open the can, took out a large peach witha spoon, laid the pellet of bluemass in it, laid another slice of peachupon it, and then came around in front of Shorty, holding out the spoon.
"Open your mouth and shut your eyes, Shorty," he said. "I saw someo' the nicest canned peaches down at the Sutler's, and I suddenly gothungry for some. I bought a can and brung 'em up to the tent. Jest try'em."
He stuck the spoon out towards Shorty's mouth. The latter, with hisgunlock in one hand and a greasy rag in the other, looked at thetempting morsel, opened his mouth, and the deed was done.
"Must've left a stone in that peach," he said, as he gulped it down.
"Mebbe so," said Si, with a guilty flush, and pretending to examine theothers. "But I don't find none in the rest Have another?"
Shorty swallowed two or three spoonfuls more, and then gasped:
"They're awful nice, Si, but I've got enough. Keep the rest foryourself."
Si went back to the tent and finished the can with mingled emotions oftriumph at having succeeded, and of contrition at playing a trick on hispartner. He decided to make amends for the latter by giving Shorty anunusually large quantity of whisky to take with his quinine.
Si was generally very rigid in his temperance ideas, He stronglydisapproved of Shorty's{155} drinking, and always interposed all theobstacles he could in the way of it. But this was an extraordinarycase--it would be "using liquor for a medicinal purpose"--and hisconscience was quieted.
Co. Q had one of those men--to be found in every company--who can getwhisky under apparently any and all circumstances. In every companythere is always one man who seemingly can find something to get drunk onin the midst of the Desert of Sahara. To Co. Q's representative of thisclass Si went, and was piloted to where, after solemn assurances against"giving away," he procured a halfpint of fairly-good applejack, intowhich he put his doses of quinine.
In the middle of the night Shorty woke up with a yell.
"Great Cesar's ghost!" he howled, "what's the matter with me? I'msicker'n a dog. Must've bin them dodgasted peaches. Si, don't you feelnothin'?"
"No," said Si sheepishly; "I'm all right. Didn't you eat nothin' elsebut them?"
"Naw," said Shorty disgustedly. "Nothin' but my usual load o' hardtackand pork. Yes, I chawed a piece o' sassafras root that one of the boysdug up."
"Must've bin the sassafras root,
" said Si. He hated to lie, and madea resolution that he would make a clean breast to Shorty--at somemore convenient time. It was not opportune now. "That must've bin asockdologer of a dose the Surgeon gave me," he muttered to himself.
Shorty continued to writhe and howl, and Si made{156} a hypocriticaloffer of going for the Surgeon, but Shorty vetoed that emphatically.
"No; blast old Sawbones," he said. "He won't do nothin' but give mebluemass, and quinine, and I never could nor would take bluemass. It'sonly fit for horses and hogs."
Toward morning Shorty grew quite weak, and correspondingly depressed.
"Si," said he, "I may not git over this. This may be the breakin' out o'the cholera that the folks around here say comes every seven years andkills off the strangers. Si, I'll tell you a secret. A letter may comefor me. If I don't git over this, and the letter comes, I want you toburn it up without reading it, and write a letter to Miss Jerusha EllenBriggs, Bad Ax, Wis., tellin' her that I died like a man and soldier,and with her socks on, defendin' his country."
Si whistled softly to himself. "I'll do it. Shorty," he said, andrepeated the address to make sure.
The crisis soon passed, however, and the morning found Shorty bright andcheerful, though weak.
Si was puzzled how to get the whisky to Shorty. It would never do to lethim know that he had gotten it especially for him. That would have beenso contrary to Si's past as to arouse suspicion. He finally decidedto lay it where it would seem that someone passing had dropped it, andShorty could not help finding it. The plan worked all right. Shortypicked it up in a few minutes after Si had deposited it, and made quitean ado over his treasure trove.
"Splendid applejack," he said, tasting it; "little bitter, but thatprobably comes from their using{157} dogwood in the fires when they're'stilhn'. They know that dogwood'll make the liquor bitter, but they'retoo all-fired lazy to go after any other kind o' wood." He drank, andas he drank his spirits rose. After the first dram he thought he wouldclean around the tent, and make their grounds look neater than anybodyelse's. After the second he turned his attention to his arms andaccouterments. After the third he felt like going out on a scout andfinding some rebels to vary the monotony of the camp-life. After thefourth, "Groundhog," unluckily for himself, came along, and Shortyremembered that he had long owed the teamster a licking, and he feltthat the debt should not be allowed to run any longer. He orderedGroundhog to halt and receive his dues. The teamster demurred, butShorty was obdurate, and began preparations to put his intention intooperation, when the Orderly-Sergeant came down through the companystreet distributing mail.
SHORTY WANTS TO FIGHT GROUNDHOG 157]
"Shorty," he said, entirely ignoring the bellicosity of the scene,"here's a letter for you."
Shorty's first thought was to look at the postmark. Sure enough, it wasBad Ax, Wis. Instantly his whole demeanor changed. Here was something ahundred times more important than licking any teamster that ever lived.
"Git out, you scab," he said contemptuously. "I haint no time to foolwith you now. You'll keep. This won't."
Groundhog mistook the cause of his escape. "O, you're powerful anxiousto fight, ain't you, till you find I'm ready for you, and then you quietdown. I'll let you know, sir, that you mustn't give me no more o' yoursass. I won't stand it from you. You jest keep your mouth shet afterthis, if you know when you're well off."
The temptation would have been irresistible to Shorty at any othertime, but now he must go off somewhere where he could be alone with hisletter, and to the amazement of all the spectators he made no reply tothe teamster's gibes, but holding the{159} precious envelope firmly inhis hand, strode off to the seclusion of a neighboring laurel thicket.
His first thought, as he sat down and looked the envelope over again,was shame that it had come to him when he was under the influence ofdrink. He remembered the writer's fervent Christianity, and it seemedto him that it would be a gross breach of faith for him to open andread the letter while the fumes of whisky were on his breath. He had astruggle with his burning desire to see the inside of the envelope,but he conquered, and put the letter back in his pocket until he wasthoroughly sober.
But he knew not what to do to fill up the time till he couldconscientiously open the letter. He thought of going back and fulfillinghis long-delayed purpose of thrashing Groundhog, but on reflection thisscarcely commended itself as a fitting prelude.
He heard voices approaching--one sympathetic and encouraging, the otherweak, pain-breathing, almost despairing. He looked out and saw theChaplain helping back to the hospital a sick man who had over-estimatedhis strength and tried to reach his company. The man sat down on a rock,in utter exhaustion.
Shorty thrust the letter back into his blousepocket, sprang forward,picked the man up in his strong arms, and carried him bodily to thehospital. It taxed his strength to the utmost, but it sobered him andcleared his brain.
He returned to his covert, took out his letter, and again scanned itsexterior carefully. He actually feared to open it, but at last drew hisknife and carefully slit one side. He unfolded the inclosure as{160}carefully as if it had been a rare flower, and with palpitating heartslowly spelled out the words, one after another:
SHORTY READING THE LETTER 160]
"Bad Ax, Wisconsin,
"April the Twenty-First, 1863.
"Mister Daniel Elliott, Company Q, 200th Indiana Volunteer Infantry.
"Respected Sir: I taik my pen in hand toe inform you that I am wel, and hoap that you aire in joying{161} the saim blessing. For this, God be prazed and magnified forever."
"Goodness, how religious she is," said he, stopping to ruminate. "Howmuch nicer it makes a woman to be pious. It don't hurt a man much tobe a cuss--at least while he's young--but I want a woman to be awfullyreligious. It sets her off more'n anything else."
He continued his spelling exercise:
"I am verry glad that my sox reached you all rite, that they fell into the hands of a braiv, pious Union soldier, and he found them nice."
"Brave, pious Union soldier," he repeated to himself, with a whistle."Jewhilikins, I'm glad Bad Ax, Wis., is so fur away that she never heardme makin' remarks when a mule-team's stalled. But I must git a brace onmyself, and clean up my langwidge for inspection-day."
He resumed the spelling:
"I done the best I could on them, and moren that no one can do. Wimmen cant fite in this cruel war, but they ought all to do what they can. I only wish I could do more. But the wimmen must stay at home and watch and wait, while the men go to the front."
"That's all right. Miss Jerusha Ellen Briggs," said he, with moresatisfaction. "You jest stay at home and watch and wait, and I'll tryto do fightin' enough for both of us. I'll put in some extra licks infuture on your account, and they won't miss you from the front."
The next paragraph read:
"I should like to hear more of you and your{162} regiment. The only time I ever beared of the 200th Indiana regiment was in a letter writ home by one of our Wisconsin boys and published in the Bad Ax Grindstone, in which he said they wuz brigaded with the 200th Indiana, a good fighting regiment, but which would stele even the shoes off the brigade mules if they wuzzent watched, and sumtimes when they wuz. Ime sorry to hear that any Union soldier is a thief. I know that our boys from Wisconsin would rather die than stele."
"Steal! The 200th Injianny steal!" Shorty flamed out in a rage. "Themflabbergasted, knock-kneed, wall-eyed Wisconsin whelps writin' home thatthe Injiannians are thieves! The idee o' them longhaired, splay-footedlumbermen, them chuckleheaded, wap-sided, white-pine butchers talkingabout anybody else's honesty. Why, they wuz born stealin'. They neverknowed anything else. They'd steal the salt out o' your hardtack. They'dsteal the lids off the Bible. They talk about the 200th Injiannny! I'dlike to find the liar that writ that letter. I'd literally pound thehead offen him."
It was some time before he could calm him
self down sufficiently tocontinue his literary exercise. Then he made out:
"Spring's lait here, but things is looking very well. Wheat wintered good, and a big crop is expected. We had a fine singing-school during the Winter, but the protracted meeting drawed off a good many. We doant complain, however, for the revival brought a great many into the fold. No moar at present, but belave me
"Sincerly Your Friend,
"Jerusha Ellen Briggs."{163}
Shorty's heart almost choked him when he finished. It was the firsttime in his hfe that he had received a letter from any woman. It wasthe first time since his mother's days that any woman had shown theslightest interest in his personality. And, true man like, his impulseswere to exalt this particular woman into something above the meremortal.
Then came a hot flush of indignation that the Wisconsin men shouldmalign his regiment, which, of course, included him, to the mind ofsuch a being. He burned to go over and thrash the first Wisconsin man heshould meet.
"Call us thieves; say we'll steal," he muttered, as he walked toward theWisconsin camp. "I'll learn 'em different."
He did not see anybody in the camp that he could properly administerthis needed lesson to. All the vigorous, able-bodied members seemedto be out on drill or some other duty, leaving only a few sick mopingaround the tents.
Shorty's attention was called to a spade lying temptingly behind one ofthe tents. He and Si had badly wanted a spade for several days. Here wasan opportunity to acquire one. Shorty sauntered carelessly around to therear of the tent, looked about to see that no one was observing, pickedup the implement and walked off with it with that easy, innocent airthat no one could assume with more success than he when on a predatoryexpedition.