As soon as the fire is kindled all hands want water. Who can find it? Where is it? Never mind; we have a man who knows where to go. He says, "Where's our bucket?" and then we hear the rattle of the old tin cup as it drops to the bottom of it, and away he goes, nobody knows where. But he knows, and he doesn't stop to think, but without the slightest hesitation or doubt strikes out in the darkness. From the camp-fire as a centre, draw 500 radii, and start an ordinary man on any of them, and let him walk a mile on each, and he will miss the water. But that fellow in the mess with the water instinct never failed. He would go as straight for the spring, or well, or creek, or river, as though he had lived in that immediate neighborhood all his life and never got water anywhere else. What a valuable man he was! A modest fellow, who never knew his own greatness. But others remember and honor him. May he never want for any good thing!
Having a roaring fire and a bucket of good water, we settle down. A man cannot be comfortable "anywhere;" so each man and his "chum" picks out a tree, and that particular tree becomes the homestead of the two. They hang their canteens on it, lay their haversacks and spread their blankets at the foot of it, and sit down and lean their weary backs against it, and feel that they are at home. How gloomy the woods are beyond the glow of our fire! How cozy and comfortable we are who stand around it and inhale the aroma of the coffee-boiler and skillet!
The man squatting by the fire is a person of importance. He doesn't talk, not he; his whole mind is concentrated on that skillet. He is our cook,—volunteer, natural and talented cook. Not in a vulgar sense. He doesn't mix, but simply bakes, the biscuit. Every faculty, all the energy, of the man is employed in that great work. Don't suggest anything to him if you value his friendship. Don't attempt to put on or take off from the top of that skillet one single coal, and don't be in a hurry for the biscuit. You need not say you "like yours half done," etc. Simply wait. When he thinks they are ready, and not before, you get them. He may raise the lid cautiously now and then and look in, but don't you look in. Don't say you think they are done, because it's useless. Ah! his face relaxes; he raises the lid, turns it upside down to throw off the coals, and says, All right, boys! And now, with the air of a wealthy philanthropist, he distributes the solid and weighty product of his skill to, as it were, the humble dependents around him.
The "General" of the mess, having satisfied the cravings of the inner man, now proceeds to enlighten the ordinary members of it as to when, how, and why, and where, the campaign will open, and what will be the result. He arranges for every possible and impossible contingency, and brings the war to a favorable and early termination. The greatest mistake General Lee ever made was that he failed to consult this man. Who can tell what "might have been" if he had?
Now, to the consternation of all hands, our old friend "the Bore," familiarly known as "the old Auger," opens his mouth to tell us of a little incident illustrative of his personal prowess, and, by way of preface, commences at Eden, and goes laboriously through the patriarchal age, on through the Mosaic dispensation, to the Christian era, takes in Grecian and Roman history by the way, then Spain and Germany and England and colonial times, and the early history of our grand republic, the causes of and necessity for our war, and a complete history up to date, and then slowly unfolds the little matter. We always loved to hear this man, and prided ourselves on being the only mess in the army having such treasure all our own.
The "Auger," having been detailed for guard-duty, walks off; his voice grows fainter and fainter in the distance, and we call forth our poet. One eye is bandaged with a dirty cotton rag. He is bareheaded, and his hair resembles a dismantled straw stack. His elbows and knees are out, and his pants, from the knee down, have a brown-toasted tinge imparted by the genial heat of many a fire. His toes protrude themselves prominently from his shoes. You would say, "What a dirty, ignorant fellow." But listen to his rich, well-modulated voice. How perfect his memory! What graceful gestures! How his single eye glows! See the color on his cheek! See the strained and still attention of the little group around him as he steps into the light of the fire! Hear him!
"I am dying, Egypt, dying!
Ebbs the crimson life-tide fast,
And the dark Plutonian shadows
Gather on the evening blast.
Let thine arms, O Queen, support me,
Hush thy sobs and bow thine ear;
Listen to the great heart secrets—
Thou, and thou alone, must hear.
"I am dying, Egypt, dying!
Hark! the insulting foeman's cry.
They are coming! quick! my falchion!!
Let me front them ere I die.
Ah! no more amid the battle
Shall my heart exulting swell—
Isis and Osiris guard thee—
Cleopatra! Rome! Farewell!"
THE POET OF OUR MESS.
"Good!" "Bully!" "Go ahead, Jack!" "Give us some more, old fellow!" And he generally did, much to everybody's satisfaction. We all loved Jack, the Poet of our mess. He sleeps, his battles o'er, in Hollywood.