westward from new orleans stretches the opelousas railroad, and along this road we are now doing guard duty. guarding a railroad is the most unwelcome task that can be thrust on the colonel of a new regiment—scattering the companies, demoralizing the men, destroying the regiment, and therefore a colonel, under such circumstances, has a right to be a little discontented, and very cross.
i am a little discontented, and have wished a hundred times that i were back, writing on the sunny hill-side of camp lowe, enduring all the hardships of tennessee. from an unsoldierly point of view, there is nothing to complain of here. for the leaky tent, the muddy floor, the pork and “hard-tack” of the west, my large new tent has a double-fly and plank floor; and it is filled with tables, chairs, and other luxuries. up the neighboring bayou of la fourche, too, come miniature canal-boats, tugged along by little creole ponies, and laden with fish and oysters, which the swarthy french fishermen catch in the not distant gulf. the surrounding woods are filled with game that finds its way constantly to camp, and from every one of the large plantations 26that abound here, are brought vegetables, eggs and poultry. yet i do not relish this ease and indolence—the rough cavalry service suits me better, and i wish a hundred times a day that i were back in tennessee.
it is the spring-time of the year, yet there is but little of the reality of spring to us. the grass has long been green, the flowers are plentiful, the sun is hot and burning, but the leaves come leisurely along, and for a fortnight have only moved. these flowers, too, have generally no fragrance, though now and then there is one that overpowers us with its sweet, sickening odor, and the birds that fill the trees are songless, save the “merry mocking-bird,” who, like the perfume giving flowers, has more than his share of noise and song. there is, therefore, none of the glad bursting forth that makes so brief and beautiful our northern spring.
this is a muster-day in the army, and it is the forerunner of the pay-master. i have been busy since daybreak calling the rolls of the companies along the railroad, and i have now to ride twelve miles and muster one that is doing provost guard duty in the village of houma. it is not a pleasant ride to houma; the road runs along a bayou, as straight and stagnant as a canal. occasionally there comes a boat, freighted with a dozen barrels of molasses or a few hogsheads of sugar, furrowing its way through the green scum that covers the water, and breaking down the rank-growing weeds that choke the channel. the vagabond-looking ponies that drag it along, travel on the “levee,” which has the 27appearance of a tow-path, and makes the bayou look more than ever like a canal. this bayou is a hideous frog-pond, long drawn out, filled with black, slimy mud, and teeming with hideous reptiles. my horse starts as i ride beside it, and snuffs the tainted air nervously, for two turkey-buzzards fly up from the huge carcass of an alligator, and alight close beside me on the fence. two more remain on the alligator, gorged so that they cannot rise. their rough, dirty feathers remind one of the uncombed locks of a city scavenger. no one ever shoots them, but draws back and says, with unconcealed disgust, “what a foul bird that is.”
yet on the other side of the road, spreading back to the poisonous swamps in the rear, lie some of the rich plantations of louisiana. there are the sugar-houses, with their heavy brick chimneys, as large and clumsy as those of a foundry; and near by stand the planter’s house, the overseer’s house, the engineer’s house, and a little village of contraband cabins. the vast fields are cut up into square blocks by ditches, sometimes ten feet deep, reminding one of the graded lots in the outskirts of a city. on one side of each range of these blocks is a raised plantation road, which crosses the ditches on substantial bridges, and runs, perhaps for miles, arrow-like, as a railroad. it is probable that the plantation is surrounded by a levee, to keep the water out. the large ditches then empty into a canal, and at the end of this canal will be found a “pumping machine,” driven by a steam engine, which pumps the plantation dry and keeps 28it above water. such wealthful agriculture we have nowhere in the north.
the broad, dull thoroughfare on which i ride is an unpleasant contrast to the shaded bridle-roads of tennessee. yet it furnishes our only ride, and for twelve miles there is but one turn-off, or intersecting road, and not one hill or hollow. so far as the eye can reach in all directions—so far as one can ride on any road he may choose to take, is one weary, continuing, unbroken flatness. i feel a constant longing to mount a hill, and often have to repress an impulse to climb a tree, where i can look around and breathe a little freer air.
houma looks somewhat like a deserted village. the shops are shut, many of the houses empty, and the scowling people wear an idle, listless air. there is no love lost between them and the troops. some months ago a few sick soldiers of the twenty-first indiana were massacred not far from the village, and it was done by some of the most “respectable” planters. i believe all of the guilty parties escaped to the enemy’s lines, except one, and he, poor wretch, lived for months in the gloomy swamps near us, a frightened maniac. his body was lately found, showing that he had lain down, worn out and sick, and died alone in the dreary solitude.
in one of these deserted houses i find my officers established, and after finishing the muster of their company, i spend with them a pleasant evening and quiet night. another dull and solitary ride carries me back to my head-quarters, to await the wished-for coming of 29the pay-master. a regiment which has never been paid looks eagerly for that admired and much respected functionary. it understands not why there should be delays, and coins a rumor at least once a day, that he is on his way to camp. after many disappointments, one of these rumors assumes a substantial shape. a special train comes rushing up the railroad, consisting of an engine and a single car. the train shrieks that it will stop and does so: it bears only two passengers, and a heavy, mysterious, iron-bound box. they are the pay-master, his clerk, and his money chest.
the pay-master is smiling, and happy as a man who travels with a trunk full of smiles should be. he walks through the excited throng to my tent, and the mysterious box is borne by two soldiers in a reverent manner behind him. he takes it from them at the tent in a careless sort of way, and pulls and tumbles it about as if it were a common piece of vulgar wood—he does not even glance at it as he twists and turns the mysterious lock. from its depths he brings out our pay-rolls, and says in a complimentary manner that they are correct—that indeed he never paid a new regiment where they were more correct. he shakes his head despondingly, and adds that there are some regiments in this department that have never been paid—that have never got their rolls right, and he fears never will. our men are immensely relieved as these facts are whispered around, and acquire fresh confidence in their officers,—perhaps rather more than they ever had before.
30the rolls are sent back to the different companies, and the men assemble round each captain’s tent and sign them. the pay-master fortifies himself against the coming excitement with a little luncheon. meanwhile a table has been placed at the opening of a tent, within which are the mysterious box and clerk.
“now, colonel,” says the pay-master, “if you will be so good as to give the necessary orders, we will begin.”
the pay-master takes his place behind the table which bars the entrance to the tent and box; the first company falls in “by one rank,” faces “without doubling,” and in single file approaches the pay-master. the pay-master takes a pay-roll and calls a name; the clerk takes its “duplicate” and checks the name; the owner steps forward and answers to the name. the pay-master seizes a bundle of the precious paper and tears off the wrapper. the notes dance through his flying fingers, and flutter down before the owner of the first name. the pay-master carelessly seizes them, says “sixty-three dollars, forty-five cents,” and tosses them toward the owner, as though he wishes to be rid of the vulgar trash. the owner, much discomposed, carefully picks them up and hurriedly retires to the nearest bench, whereon he seats himself, and slowly counts and recounts the notes, at least five times. it is labor in vain; he cannot make them a dollar more, or a dime less than did the pay-master. those practised hands, though they count the money only once, and move 31with the swiftness of a magician’s wand, never make mistakes.
there is another day’s work before the pay-master, and a somewhat unusual one for him. four companies remain to be paid, and the special train has gone back to new orleans. we must travel, therefore, by a hand-car. the mysterious box is carried to the car, the clerk sits on it, keeping a bright look-out toward the rear, lest any pursuing locomotive should rush upon us ere we know it; the pay-master and i seat ourselves in front upon the floor, and half a dozen soldiers, who are both guard and engine, stow themselves away as best they can, and then seizing the crank, put our little vehicle slowly in motion.
it is very pleasant skimming along swiftly so close to the ground, with so little noise or jarring, with such an absence of smoke and dust, and with such a free, unrestrained view of everything around us. by far the pleasantest ride upon the rail that any of us have ever had, is this. we fly quickly across the wide plantation that adjoins the camp, and then enter the wood or swamp, whichever you prefer to call it.
“there will be no train coming along i hope,” said the pay-master, as he glanced at the narrow roadway and black, slimy water that came close to us on either side. “what should we do now, for instance?”
“tumble the hand-car into the swamp, and slide ourselves down the sides of the road, and lie quiet till the train has passed.”
32“ugh!” said the pay-master. “i do not like the idea of sliding myself into that water. look how black and slimy it is, and then that unhealthy green scum upon it. i should not wonder if it were full of snakes and alligators.”
“alligators! you may say that; look there!”
an immense alligator is seen stretched on a fallen tree, and dozing in the warmth of the april sun.
“may i give him a shot?” asks the sergeant of our guard, drawing his revolver.
“yes, if you can hit him.”
the sergeant slowly raises his pistol—the hand-car stops—bang! and the bullet strikes against the scaly side and glances off. the alligator slides from the log, and disappears in the inky water.
“i don’t care about making that gentleman’s acquaintance,” says the pay-master. “mr. clerk, please keep a sharp look-out behind for any stray locomotive that may be coming along, and the colonel and i will look out ahead. seven miles you say it is to the next station? well, i shall feel a little easier when we get there.”
the hand-car resumes its former speed, and we fly along through the deep shades and deeper stillness of the swamp. the rumbling of the car that we hardly heard in the open fields now echoes distinctly, and our voices almost startle us, they sound so very clear and loud. there are no fields or openings on either side, no firm ground to stand upon, and the trees rise out of the green-coated water.
33“stop! what’s that? there’s something ahead,” calls the pay-master; “is it an engine?”
“no, sir,” replies the sergeant, “it is the picket at moccason bayou.”
a mile or two ahead can be dimly seen something moving where the railroad track is lost among the over-hanging trees. then, as the car lessens the distance, can be distinguished the figures of three or four men, the gleam of their muskets and the blue uniform of the united states. the picket has turned out and is watching us. our engineer puts on a full head of steam, and our little special train rushes along faster than ever, until it is “braked-down” on the very bank of moccason bayou.
“these are your men, are they?” asks the pay-master.
“yes, they are here guarding the bridge.”
“then i will take an order from them authorizing me to pay the money to their captain.”
the pay-master writes the order, and looks around with curiosity at the picket station. we peer into the bayou, which is supposed to swarm with deadly moccason snakes, and then climbing on the car, resume our jaunt. we pay the two companies stationed at tigerville; we hearken to the commanding officer’s advice to stay and dine with him, and then, with a new hand-car and a fresh guard, we run twelve miles further up the road and pay the last company. an hour or two after dark this is accomplished, and we prepare to return. 34as we approach the car, one of the men meets us with a rumor that a division of the army is coming up the single track, and that doubtless we shall meet several trains where the swamp is darkest and the roadway narrowest. we investigate the rumor, and find that it is based on the fact that the trains ought to come, but no one really knows that they are coming. “what do you think, pay-master? you and the money chest must be taken great care of.” the pay-master thinks that if we had a lantern it would be safe. we procure a lantern, and hold a consultation. one of our guard is an experienced railroad builder; he knows the ways of hand-cars, and can tell afar off the sound of advancing trains. he promises to “brake-down” the hand-car in an instant, and to forewarn us of impending engines long before they can run into us.
we start, and the experienced man stands with his hand upon the brake, and an officer who has joined us takes his place in front, holding the lantern plainly in sight. away we go into the darkness of the swamp—a darkness so thick that you cannot see the man who sits beside you. for several miles the road runs straight as an arrow, and i sit behind with the pay-master, trusting those in front to keep a look-out. at length we come out of the swamp and enter an open plantation country, through which the road makes many turns. “ease off and then brake-down,” and the car lessens its speed and in a few moments stops. the experienced man goes forward, puts one ear close to the track, and announces 35that there is no train on the road within ten miles. we start again, and this time i stand up and post myself where i can have a clear view of the front.
“oh, colonel, sit down,” says the experienced man; “no use in your standing up. i’ll tell you the moment any train comes in sight.”
“i’m much obliged to you, but as the way is somewhat crooked from here to tigerville, i think i shall be quite as comfortable keeping a little look-out of my own, as sitting down and trusting it all to you.”
the hand-car runs merrily forward; the men, refreshed with our brief halt, are sending it along with increased speed, when through the trees and bushes, across a sharp curve of the road—a flash—a light, and the thunder of a coming train. “an engine.” “the cars.” “brake-down’ quick.” “they’re at full speed.” “they’ll be on us if you don’t hurry.” the experienced man tugs at the brake, the others start up and frantically endeavor to extricate their legs and arms (which everybody else seems to be sitting upon), the hand-car runs on as if it will never stop; the heavy engine glares on us with its great, glowing eye, and comes rushing forward in unabated haste. there is no time to waste in trifles; the officer in front springs from the car and runs down the road, waving the lantern with all his might; a couple of soldiers tumble themselves off, and one adroitly falls across the track, and lies there stunned; the experienced man strains away on his brake; the pay-master and i drop off behind, and seizing hold of the car, succeed in 36stopping it. the train seems but a few yards distant, crashing and thundering, and shaking the very ground we stand on. the pay-master, who has been the most cautious of the party, is now the most cool and decided. while two men push against each other and the experienced man gives contradictory directions, the pay-master seizes the car, capsizes it off the track, and hurls it down the bank. the precious box and the stunned soldier are dragged out of the way, and the train goes roaring past. when all is over, we first berate the experienced man roundly, then haul the car with much trouble up the bank and on to the track, and then feel our way cautiously down to tigerville. there we refresh ourselves with a cold supper, tell over the tale of our escape, and abuse the engineer to our heart’s content for not seeing our lantern, and stopping his train. the pay-master announces his intention of writing the history of the last twenty-four hours, and publishing it as the “adventures of a pay-master.” i am sorry to say he does not keep this promise.
