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God knows best, we could not at once stifle the bitterness of grief, for it seemed as if a mighty bulwark had been swept away. I had known Bishop Polk as a faithful and loving shepherd of souls, feeding his flock in green pastures, tenderly leading the weary and grief-stricken ones beside the waters of comfort. But when the peaceful fold was invaded, when threatening howls were arising on every side,--casting aside for a time the garb of a shepherd, he sallied forth, using valorously his trusty sword, opposing to the advance of the foe his own faithful breast, never faltering until slain by the horrid fangs which greedily fastened themselves deep in his heart. As I have already mentioned, I made during the winter and spring several visits to the front. At one time my husband, a member of Fenner's Louisiana Battery, was with his command in winter quarters at Kingston, whither I went to pay a visit and to inquire after the needs of the
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My little son (who had by this time joined me at Newnan) accompanied me. Kingston was at this time a bleak, dismal-looking place. I stopped at a large, barn-like hotel, from the gallery of which, while sitting with visitors from camp, I witnessed an arrival of Georgia militia, whose disembarkation from a train in front of the hotel was met by a noisy demonstration. They were a strange-looking set of men, but had
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warm wraps, sometimes tall hats, in all cases _good ones_. This, with the air of superiority they affected, was enough to provoke the fun-loving propensities of the ragged, rough-looking veterans who had collected to watch for the arrival of the train. As the shaking, rickety cars passed out of sight, these raw troops walked up to the hotel and there strode up and down, assuming supreme indifference to the storm of raillery which assailed them. Of course my sympathies were with the veterans, and I laughed heartily at their pranks. One of the first to set the ball in motion was a tall, athletic-looking soldier clad in jeans pants, with a faded red stripe adorning one leg only, ragged shoes tied up with twine strings, and a flannel shirt which undoubtedly had been washed by the Confederate military process (_i.e._, tied by a string to a bush on the bank of a stream, allowed to lie in the water awhile, then stirred about with a stick or boat upon a rock, and hung up to drip and dry upon the nearest bush or tied to the swaying limb of a tree).
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A shocking bad hat of the slouch order completed his costume. Approaching a tall specimen of
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who wore a new homespun suit of
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a gorgeous cravat, etc., the soldier opened his arms and cried out in intense accents,
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Another was desired to
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A big veteran, laying his hand on the shoulder of a small, scared-looking, little victim, and wiping his own eyes upon his old hat, whined out,
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I _say_, buddy, you didn't bring along no sugar-teats, did you? I'm got a powerful hankerin' atter some. An innocent-looking soldier would stop suddenly before one of the new-comers neatly dressed, peer closely at his shirt-front, renewing the scrutiny again and again with increasing earnestness, then, striking an attitude, would cry out,
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One, with a stiff, thick, new overcoat, was met with the anxious inquiry,
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Have you got plenty of _stuffing_ in that coat, about _here_ (with a hand spread over stomach and heart),
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Each new joke was hailed with shouts of laughter and ear-piercing rebel yells, but at last the
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Don't nobody go foolin' wid dat da mule ontwill I comes back. I jes gwine to step ober to de store yander 'bout some biziness fur de cap'n. Dat mule he feel mity gaily dis mornin'. Look like he jes tryin' hisseff when he fin' nuffin' behin' him but dis amperlants (ambulance) stid ob dem hebby guns. Off he went, leaving the mule standing without being tied, and looking an incarnation of mischief. The road to camp was newly cleared and full of stumps and ruts. As I stood upon the upper gallery awaiting the return of our Jehu, our little boy, taking advantage of the extra fondness inspired in the heart of his father by long absence, clamored to be lifted into the ambulance. This wish was gratified, his father intending to take the reins and mount to the driver's seat, but before he could do so the mule started off at headlong speed, with Georgie's scared face looking out at the back, and perhaps a dozen men and boys in hot pursuit. The mule went on to camp, creating great alarm there. The child in some miraculous manner rolled out at the back of the ambulance, and was picked up unhurt. This accident delayed matters a little, but in due time we arrived at the village of log-huts, called
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Camp, and, having paid our respects to the officers, repaired to the hut of my husband's mess. The dinner was already cooking outside. Inside on a rough shelf were piles of shining tin-cups and plates, newly polished. The lower bunk had been filled with new, _pine_ straw, and made as soft as possible by piling upon it all the blankets of the mess. This formed the chair of state. Upon it were placed, first, myself (the centre figure), on one side my husband, exempt from duty for the day, on the other my little boy, who, far from appreciating the intended honor, immediately
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down, and ran off on a tour of investigation through the camp. The mess consisted of six men including my husband, of whom the youngest was Lionel C. Levy, Jr., a mere boy, but a splendid soldier, full of fun and nerve and dash. Then there was my husband's bosom friend, J. Hollingsworth, or Uncle Jake, as he was called by everybody. Of the industrial pursuits of the mess, he was the leading spirit, indeed, in every way his resources were unbounded. His patience, carefulness, and pains-taking truly achieved wonderful results in contriving and carrying into execution plans for the comfort of the mess. He always carried an extra haversack, which contained everything that could be thought of to meet contingencies or repair the neglect of other people. He was a devoted patriot and a contented, uncomplaining soldier; never sick, always on duty, a thorough gentleman, kindly in impulses and acts, but--well, yes, there was one spot upon this sun,--he was a confirmed bachelor. He could face the hottest fire upon the battle-field, but a party of ladies--_never_ with his own consent. Upon the day in question, however, I was not only an invited guest, but the wife of his messmate and friend. So, overcoming his diffidence, he made himself very agreeable, and meeting several times afterward during the war, under circumstances which made pleasant intercourse just as imperative, we became fast friends, and have remained so to this day. John Sharkey, Miles Sharkey, and one more, whose name I have forgotten, comprised, with those mentioned above, the entire mess. The dinner was excellent, better than many a more elegant and plentiful repast of which I have partaken since the war. All the rations of beef and pork were combined to make a fricassee _à la camp_, the very small rations of flour being mixed with the cornmeal to make a large, round loaf of
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These delectable dishes were both cooked in bake-ovens outside the cabin. From cross-sticks, arranged gypsy-fashion, swung an iron pot, in which was prepared the cornmeal coffee, which, with