The Singing man generally put in towards the last, and sung us to bed. He was generally a diminutive man, with a sweet voice and a sweetheart at home. His songs had in them rosy lips, blue eyes, golden hair, pearly teeth, and all that sort of thing. Of course he would sing some good rollicking songs, in order to give all a chance. And so, with hearty chorus, "Three times around went she," "Virginia, Virginia, the Land of the Free," "No surrender," "Lula, Lula, Lula is gone," "John Brown's Body," with many variations, "Dixie," "The Bonny Blue Flag," "Farewell to the Star-Spangled Banner," "Hail Columbia," with immense variations, and "Maryland, My Maryland," till about the third year of the war, when we began to think Maryland had "breathed and burned" long enough, and ought to "come." What part of her did come was first-class. How the woods did ring with song! There were patriotic songs, romantic and love songs, sarcastic, comic, and war songs, pirates' glees, plantation melodies, lullabies, good old hymn tunes, anthems, Sunday-school songs, and everything but vulgar and obscene songs; these were scarcely ever heard, and were nowhere in the army well received or encouraged.
The recruit—our latest acquisition—was so interesting. His nice clean clothes, new hat, new shoes, trimming on his shirt front, letters and cross-guns on his hat, new knife for all the fellows to borrow, nice comb for general use, nice little glass to shave by, good smoking tobacco, money in his pocket to lend out, oh, what a great convenience he was! How many things he had that a fellow could borrow, and how willing he was to go on guard, and get wet, and give away his rations, and bring water, and cut wood, and ride horses to water! And he was so clean and sweet, and his cheeks so rosy, all the fellows wanted to bunk with him under his nice new blanket, and impart to him some of their numerous and energetic "tormentors."
And then it was so interesting to hear him talk. He knew so much about war, arms, tents, knapsacks, ammunition, marching, fighting, camping, cooking, shooting, and everything a soldier is and does. It is remarkable how much a recruit and how little an old soldier knows about such things. After a while the recruit forgets all, and is as ignorant as any veteran. How good the fellows were to a really gentlemanly boy! How they loved him!
The Scribe was a wonderful fellow and very useful. He could write a two-hours' pass, sign the captain's name better than the captain himself, and endorse it "respectfully forwarded approved," sign the colonel's name after "respectfully forwarded approved," and then on up to the commanding officer. And do it so well! Nobody wanted anything better. The boys had great veneration for the scribe, and used him constantly.
The Mischievous man was very useful. He made fun. He knew how to volunteer to shave a fellow with a big beard and moustache. He wouldn't lend his razor, but he'd shave him very well. He shaves one cheek, one half the chin, one side of the upper lip, puts his razor in his pocket, walks off, and leaves his customer the most one-sided chap in the army. He knew how to do something like this every day. What a treasure to a mess!
The Forager was a good fellow. He always divided with the mess. If there was buttermilk anywhere inside of ten miles he found it. Apples he could smell from afar off. If anybody was killing pork in the county he got the spare-ribs. If a man had a cider cart on the road he saw him first and bought him out. No hound had a keener scent, no eagle a sharper eye. How indefatigable he was! Distance, rivers, mountains, pickets, patrols, roll-calls,—nothing could stop or hinder him. He never bragged about his exploits; simply brought in the spoils, laid them down, and said, "Pitch in." Not a word of the weary miles he had traveled, how he begged or how much he paid,—simply "Pitch in."
The Commissary man—he happened to be in our mess—never had any sugar over, any salt, any soda, any coffee—oh, no! But beg him, plead with him, bear with him when he says, "Go way, boy! Am I the commissary-general? Have I got all the sugar in the Confederacy? Don't you know rations are short now?" Then see him relax. "Come here, my son; untie that bag there, and look in that old jacket, and you will find another bag,—a little bag,—and look in there and you will find some sugar. Now go round and tell everybody in camp, won't you. Tell 'em all to come and get some sugar. Oh! I know you won't. Oh yes, of course!"
As a general rule every mess had a "Bully" and an "Argument man." Time would fail me to tell of the "lazy man," the "brave man," the "worthless man," the "ingenious man," the "helpless man," the "sensitive man," and the "gentleman," but they are as familiar to the members of the mess as the "honest man," who would not eat stolen pig, but would "take a little of the gravy."
Every soldier remembers—indeed, was personally acquainted with—the Universal man. How he denied vehemently his own identity, and talked about "poison oak," and heat, and itch, and all those things, and strove, in the presence of those who knew how it was themselves, to prove his absolute freedom from anything like "universality!" Poor fellow! sulphur internally and externally would not do. Alas! his only hope was to acknowledge his unhappy state, and stand, in the presence of his peers, confessed.