[Original]
Each company had a “cook tent” and a cook, generally selected from the men, the officers boasting a “cullered individual” who was always, according to his own account, a “perfeshunal.” The culinary department was ever a point of interest to the men, whose appetites were never so dainty that they failed to enjoy their daily rations. No soldier, no matter from what part of the North he came, ever turned up his nose at the beans, which were cooked in holes dug in the earth, and filled with hot embers, in which the iron pot containing them was buried and kept there all night.
To Bill Elliott fell the task of ministering to the hungry ones of his company, and many were the compliments he received.
“You can broil a chicken as good as any French cook,” a man would coaxingly declare.
[Original]
“Not a boughten one,” Bill replied; “somehow those kind of chickens the sutler has on hand don't have the genooine flavor.”
The hint was always taken, and alas, for the poor farmer who had a nice hen-roost, or a young porker in the sty. They had no regard for property rights, and though they were not supposed to forage, except under orders, yet the temptation was too strong to be resisted.
At such times the cackling of the fowls, whose quiet was disturbed, the melodious grunting of the pigs, who often led them a hard chase, and the laughter and shouting of the pursuing soldiers, made a scene of wild merriment never forgotten.