June 3, 2006, 12:10 AM | #151 |
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continued from previous post.
Conclusion.
While this was going on the commandant slipped down-stairs and dispatched his orderly for a guard. Soon the sound of tramping feet was heard. In a voice of thunder the Major ordered them to arrest his seranders, and the guard closed round. However, the quartette was soon secured, especially the one who was asleep; but the performers, using their instruments in a manner never intended by their manufacturers, made most vigorous resistance. Forgetting that they had ceased to be free American citizens, at present devoted to the muses, they knocked and banged and struck out valorously, while the guard, not willing to use their weapons, closed in on the musical fighters, and after a fierce struggle and with many bruises, mastered them one by one. The cornet flattened his weapon on the corporal's occiput, raising a bump unnamed in phrenology; the fiddle was smashed to atoms over some other skull, while the banjo came down squarely, or rather roundly, on the top of a guard's head; he wore it as a necklace, the handle sticking out behind like a gigantic queue. The flute, just about the size of a police officer's club, might have been a dangerous weapon, only being hollow it shivered to pieces at the first blow, its sound and fury signifying nothing. The bass viol performed prodigious antics, describing a huge parabolic curve, and striking with fearful force the cranium of yet another guard; there was a confused jangling of the strings and down went the guard prone on the ground; a second blow and one more guard fell, while a third man was happy enough to catch the blow on the butt of his musket. This finished the irate old 'big fiddle,' but with the head-piece the serander laid about with such vigor that victory might have perched thereon, only, seeing the odds, the valorous warrior broke out of the surroundings and took to his heels; in short, the whole party were lugged to the guard-house, where they remained all next day. As for the bass viol, he was found in the morning sound asleep on a pile of planks in Smott's lumber yard, with the head-piece firmly clutched in his hand. It is safe to say no more permissions were granted serenading parties. If I knew band practice could be so fun, I would have taken up music as a kid.
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June 6, 2006, 10:02 PM | #152 |
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Let these men pass
“The soldiers sometimes wrote their own passes and countersigned them with the name of the colonel and generals. But that ruse failed to be effectual, for officers well vesed in all the wiles of solders’ strategy, as well as detectives who could tell at a glance whether or not the countersigns were genuine, scruntinized each pass with as much care as an expert does the signature of witnesses in a disputed will case.
On one occasion two of Company A (myself and comrade), with anything but tender consciences, lay awake at night trying to devise some plan that would obtain free ingress to the city, keep us unmolested while there, and bring us safely out. The result was, that after so many hours spent in sifting the pros and cons, it settled down to a single, plain, stubborn fact, that unless we could get the bona-fide signatures of the general commanding, all efforts would be in vain. That was a bright idea, surely, as bright indeed as the young rodent in the fable, who moved in a congress of rats, ‘that the cat should be belled.’ So with us it was who was to ‘bell the cat,’ and how? We drew straws for the unlucky one of the two, and Walter A. Drew the short straw, and was thereafter left to his own devices; and from the depths of down-reaching ruminations, which he feared would unsettle his brain, evolved the following letter: ‘My Dear Aunt: ‘As requested, I hereby send you the autograph of our Commander-in-Chief, General Johnston.’ Then, going boldly to his tent, he asked the orderly for admittance, for with General Johnston the private could often obtain an audience when officers high in rank were kept in waiting. The solder, handed the General his letter, who with one quick glance at his petitioner, seized his pen and wrote his name at the bottom. To salute and get out of the tent was the work of a second; and then the young rascal ran as fast as his legs could carry him to his confrere in camp. Together in banded iniquity, we rubbed out the words in pencil and inscribed others, so that the paper read: ‘Pass in and out of Richmond, at will, the bearer and friend for two weeks. J. E. Johnston, Commanding General.’ On that pass we went in and out, and out and in, till the very stones in the road knew us; so virtue is ever its own reward.”
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June 12, 2006, 08:39 PM | #153 |
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Git to a preachin'
"While our regiment was encamped at Murfreesboro a man by the name of Hester made application to Colonel Moore for appointment as chaplain. Colonel Moore told him that he would not appoint him unless a majority of the regiment expressed a preference for him. He then began to canvass for votes. M. Luna, a rollicking, jolly, good soldier of Company I, also announced for this office. He swore that he could preach as good a sermon as L. Hester, and he appointed a time and place where the boys could have a sample of his sermons. He would mount a stump or woodpile, and the service would begin by lining out a song, 'Old Grimes,' 'Ryestraw,' or some other doggerel familiar at that time. He would then announce as his text, 'Whar de hen scratch, dar de bug also,' or 'Gnaw a file and flee to the wilderness, whar de lion roar and de whangdoodle moans.' After his 'sermon,' he would say, 'Now, if you don't believe I'm a better preacher than L. Hester, vote for him, darn you.' Needless to say, Mack was elected by a big majority; but when he applied to Colonel Moore for credentials, he was told to go back to his company and behave, or he would be sent to the guardhouse. That was the last we heard of a chaplain until Rev. M. B. DeWitt came to us. He was a devout Christian and was loved by all."
And this concludes this week's sermon. Amen.
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June 17, 2006, 02:12 AM | #154 |
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Another reason for the Civil War
A reb PoW was asked a question. Here's his account.
"What are you Rebels fighting for, anyway?" The question struck me there and then as supremely ludicrous. Here were we Virginians standing on our own soil, fighting on our native heath against an invading army, defending what every man holds dear - his home and fireside. As well asked a game-cock why he crows and bares his spurs on his own dung-hill. So I replied: "We are fighting to protect our mint-beds." There was an Irishman on the staff, and he nearly fell off his saddle; he spurred his horse forward and slapped me on the shoulder and said: "True for ye, me boy, there's not a lad in ould Ireland that wouldn't do the same for his poteen." Even the brigadier smiled, and said that he had heard often of a Virginia julep but never tasted one, and the group clattered away, laughing.
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June 18, 2006, 06:46 PM | #155 |
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Captain Flynn's shot
This happened in the flintlock days.
"There was an old Irishman named Captain Flynn who owned a small schooner which plied along the Potomac River and its estuaries, buying fowls, fruits and garden truck from the country people and selling them in the Baltimore markets. "It happened that the Captain, a week before Christmas, dropped anchor off Cutler's Creek, and there came an unexpected freeze, and for four days he was held hard and fast. All his meat gave out, so he traveled over the ice to the home of one of his best customers, a spinster named Miss Tilda Jenks, who made her living by raising poultry. "Miss Tilly was cited among her neighbors as being the sharpest and the shrewdest bargainer in the whole country round; indeed some of the old hands said that she could even beat a preacher in a horse trade. "When Captain Flynn went to purchase a dozen fowls the ancient spinster promptly doubled her price. This made the old Captain so mad that he went back to his sloop, swearing he would starve before he would pay it. Then ensued a struggle between his stomach and his pride, which resulted in his going back the next day and paying the spinster her price. As he saw the great number of fowls in the enclosure he said: "'Miss Tilly, how much will you charge me to let me shoot in the thick of them, an' let me have all I kill?' "The woman studied for a while and then answered: "'Captain, if you let me load your gun you kin have all you kill for one dollar.' "'Bedad! an' it's a bargain, an' here's your dollar,' answered the Irishman, 'an' now I'll go fer me gun.' "He hurried back to his boat, got out an ancient bell-mouthed blunderbuss that had belonged to his grandfather, put in a handful of powder, rammed in a bunch of tow; next a double handful of shot was dropped down the barrel and held tight with another bunch of tow; then Captain Flynn sawed off about four fingers of the ramrod, picked the flint, called his crew, which consisted of an antiquated d**ky, and proceeded inland. "Miss Tilly first carefully measured the gun with the ramrod, then, despite the protest of the Captain, she loaded the gun with only a thimbleful of powder and one of shot. ""A bargain is a bargain, Captain,' she said tauntingly, 'and here's your gun; now you can have all you kill.' "Captain Flynn asked for an ear of corn; this he shelled along for about a hundred yards from the woodpile, then lying behind a log, he signified to Miss Tilly that he was ready. "The gate was opened and the fowls of all sizes, sexes and condition came running, flying and fluttering out, and there was a confused mass of heads, wings and feathers mixed up as far as the eye could reach. The Captain sighted along the line, and uttered a prayer; the d**ky got behind a tree and clapped his hands over his ears; the spinster stood with her horn spectacles on her forehead, serene and confident; then the Captain, having finished his orisions, pulled the trigger. There was a thundering report that reverberated clean to the Virginia shore and back, then the smoke covered everything; when it lifted, there was the Captain, sitting up, rubbing his shoulder; Miss Tilly had her arms raised to heaven, crying, 'I'm ruined and undone!' "The d**ky was dancing a jig. "The spoils were counted: sixteen chickens, twelve guinea keets, five hen turkeys, one gobbler, two geese, two pigeons, four ducks and the old lady's pet pig." That's one fine shot for a dollar.
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July 12, 2006, 11:11 PM | #156 |
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Note for Bears: Don't mess with Apache women
From Geronimo's autobiography (which I picked up from the Smithsonian's Museum of American Indians).
"The four women who were captured at this time by the Mexicans were taken into Sonora, Mexico, where they were compelled to work for the Mexicans. After some years they escaped to the mountains and started to find our tribe. They had knives which they stolen from the Mexicans, but they had no other weapons. They had no blankets; so at night they would make a little tepee by cutting brush with their knives, and setting them up for walls. The top was covered over with brush. In this temporary tepee they would all sleep. One night when their camp fire was very low they heard growling just outside the tepee. Francisco, the youngest women of the party (about seventeen years of age), started to build up the fire, when a mountain lion crashed through the tepee and attacked her. The suddenness of the attack made her drop her knife, but she fought as best she could with her hand. She was no match for the lion, however, her left shoulder was crushed and partly thrown away. The lion kept trying to catch her by her throat; this she prevented with her hands for a long time. He dragged her for about 300 yards, then she found her strength was failing her from loss of blood, and she called the other women for help. The lion had been dragging her by one foot, and she had been catching hold of his legs, and of the rocks and underbrush, to delay him. Finally, he stoped and stood over her. She again called her companions and they attacked him with their knives and killed him. Then they dressed her wounds and nursed her in the mountains for about a month. When she was able to walk they resumed their journey and reached our tribe in safety."
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July 22, 2006, 06:38 PM | #157 |
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Relieving boredom in the trenches
"There are many hours when the men and officers have literally nothing to do, but to 'while away' the time as best they may. They take old musket barrels, enlarge the vents, load them heavily with powder from some unexploded shell, put in one or two bullets, set the battery up in the sand, and fire it - the bullets falling a third or a half a mile away within the enemy's line. Possibly the enemy employs a similar means, for one of the men of our Brigade was killed while sitting with his back leaning up against the inside of our earth-works, a bullet penetrating the top of his head in such manner as if it had fallen straight down out of the sky. Our men play with still another 'battery' where the lines are very close together. A stout stick with a small stone one on end is balanced upon a log, the opposite end of the stick is struck a heavy blow with an axe, and the stone goes far over towards the enemy's line - and sometimes it is claimed that a particularly lucky blow will send a stone within them. A reproduction, for amusement, of a very ancient device."
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July 30, 2006, 10:38 PM | #158 | |
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Horse thievery or camouflaged horse
I don't recommend stealing other people's horses and in the old days, it was a hanging offense. Not a bad idea today either. Nonetheless, during the Civil War horse stealing was quite common. Here's how one unit got away with it:
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July 31, 2006, 09:16 PM | #159 | ||||
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Post Civil War Army Life. Here's some interesting observations of a post-Civil War soldier. An immigrant to this land, he sees many strange new sites and is literate enough to record them.
In the guardhouse Quote:
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Our hero observed the glorious life of the Red Man, whose lifestyle practically all of us would envy today. Quote:
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August 13, 2006, 10:43 PM | #160 | |||
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Security blankets
Anyone old enough to remember Charles Schulz's comic strip, Peanuts, will remember Linus and his blanket. Well, Linus was probably a reincarnation of a Civil War soldier whose life was saved by his blanket. Here's a story of a man who was saved more than once by his same army issued blanket. Our hero participated in the Burnside's attack against the Confederates who were posted behind the stone wall of Marye's Heights in Fredericksburg. He was injured and pinned down with no cover to speak of.
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August 15, 2006, 06:48 PM | #161 |
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The curmudgeon meets the Petersburg Volunteers (War of 1812)
We drew up, in military array, at the base of the hill on which the great house was erected. About half way down the hill stood a very homely old man, dressed in plain Virginia cloth, his head uncovered, and his venerable locks flowing in the wind. Some of our quizzical clique at once marked him as a fit subject of fun. "I wonder," said one, "What old codger that is, with his hair blowing nine ways for Easter Monday." "Why, of course, said another, "it is the overseer, and he seems to be scared out of a year's growth. I suspect he never saw gentlemen volunteers before." But how we were astonished when he advanced to our officers and introduced himself as THOMAS JEFFERSON! The officers were invited to a collation while we were marched off to the town, where more abundant provisions had been made.
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August 20, 2006, 09:52 PM | #162 | |
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Proof that we are all reincarnated...
How many of us pick up discarded brass while we're at the range? I do. I figure even if it's no good, I've got brass that I can get melted for other projects like triggerguards, buttplates, sideplates or what nots. Brass is brass whether you buy it from a metal supplier or scavenge it. The same for lead. How many of us pick up lead when we're inspecting our targets? I'm not ashamed to admit it.
Well, there are historical precedents to lead scavenging and we need only look to our family feud of the 19th Century: The American Civil War. E. Porter Alexander, who was the general commanding the artillery in Longstreet's Corps, was known to offer rewards for recovered lead. He was known to have picked up lead and placed it in his haversack for return to their arsenals for recasting as fresh minie balls. Little boys were paid good money for bringing in buckets of lead they found around Gettysburg. Here's Confederate General Dabney Maury's account where the lead pickers weren't given money but a day off. Quote:
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August 23, 2006, 06:18 PM | #163 | |
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Another dog story
Earlier I related a dog story whereby some Union soldiers tricked their officers into eating a dog. Here's the Confederate counterpart:
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August 24, 2006, 09:29 PM | #164 | |
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War Paint
A Union Artilleryman observed one Massachusetts colonel apply war paint:
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September 4, 2006, 03:01 PM | #165 | |
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A Fisherman Goes to War.
Those of us who are rifle shooters, sniping enthusiasts and students of small arms will recall Herbert McBride's A Rifleman Went to War. It's a classic account of trench warfare and sniping during The Great War. McBride, an American, is impatient to enter the fray and so he crossed the border into neighboring Canada and enlists as an infantryman. Originally an officer, he resigns his commission so as to see the elephant. He becomes a member of a machine gun unit but quickly moves into sniping, remaining in sniping school only long enough to get a scoped rifle. Then he goes out to hunt the Hun. Good reading. However, this story is of a different nature. It concerns a fisherman and is told to us by Sir Baden-Powell, founder of the Boy Scout movement.
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September 20, 2006, 06:58 AM | #166 | |
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Fool them every time.
Here's an amusing anecdote from the past.
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October 21, 2006, 09:27 AM | #167 | |
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Who's the better marksman?
Reported in one Richmond Paper during the Civil War:
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October 21, 2006, 09:38 AM | #168 | ||
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Knife fight?
Here's something about the First Battle of Manassas (Bull Run to the Yankees). Truth or fiction? You decide.
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October 21, 2006, 11:52 PM | #169 |
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Dem danged yankees shore is moughty fine liars Ain't they?
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November 4, 2006, 03:41 PM | #170 | |
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Scottish Fowl...ymmmm
Quote:
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November 8, 2006, 06:54 AM | #171 |
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Lawd's Prayer
This was composed by L. D. Griggs, of Company D, 25th Indiana Volunteer Infantry, while his unit was part of the besieging army before Atlanta:
"Our Father Abraham, who art in Washington, honored be thy name. Thine administration come. Thy will be done in the South, as it is done by the Republicans in the North. Give us this day our daily ration of hard tack, beans and bacon. And forgive us our foraging, as we forgive those who forage upon us. And lead us not into the field of battle, but deliver us from the land of the enemy: for thine is the administration, and the power, so long as thou are in office. Eight men." Source: History of Muhlenberg County by Otto A. Rothert. fn on page 280.
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November 8, 2006, 07:28 AM | #172 | |
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Wood cannon (or kids, don't try this at home)
Definitely do not try this at home. Taken from the History of Muhlenberg County (pages 295-296). Muhlenberg County is in Kentucky. Some background first. Earlier some (pro-Union) youngsters staged several fake raids as if they were members of (Confederate) Nathan Bedford Forrest's cavalry. They chased "shot" down or captured the fleeing Unionists (their buddies) who previously warned the locals of Forrest's approach. This caused much alarm and left many timid folks shivering. So, along that line, another group of enterprising youths decided to have their share of fun:
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November 8, 2006, 08:52 PM | #173 | ||
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Fall in for Militia Muster!
Get your guns, powder horns, scalp'n knives and tomahawks out boys! We're going to conduct a militia muster. It's for the safety of hearth & home, our loved ones, our community and for our nation.
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November 9, 2006, 11:22 PM | #174 | |
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Militia Muster, Part II
We continue our tale of the militia muster.
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November 12, 2006, 08:03 PM | #175 | |
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Militia Muster (final installent)
In our final installment, we learn the difficulties of the militia.
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