This easy prison-life, however, received a jog, in the shape of an officer of Speight’s Battalion of Texas Cavalry. He was introduced to us as Lieutenant Geo. C. Duncan, and he bore orders to carry us to Niblett’s Bluff, on the Sabine. It appeared therefrom that we were to be moved to the southern side of Texas, and not to follow the officers captured with us.
The orders were, to carry all the prisoners at the hospital to Niblett’s Bluff; but when the officer saw Lieutenant Stevenson, and heard the surgeon’s statement, he sent down a special report from the surgeon, and waited for further orders. In the meanwhile, our polite French friend, Lieutenant Solomon, drove Mrs. Stratford to New Iberia, and we awaited, with some anxiety, our departure, and discussed the probabilities of marching through, or giving out by the way.
IV.
THE MARCH.
It was Sunday morning, about sunrise, when Lieutenant Duncan appeared at the door, and informed us that we must start immediately. There was an instantaneous springing up—a hurried toilet—a rapid rolling of blankets, and a hastily-snatched breakfast of bread and coffee. I remarked, with more unconcern in my manner than I really felt, that I supposed Lieutenant Stevenson would remain. The lieutenant’s countenance fell, and, looking another way, he said, nervously, “Orders have come to move all immediately, and I have no alternative.” It was my unpleasant task, therefore, to go down and announce to the wounded officer that he must go. In addition to his painful wound, he was suffering from an attack of fever. His exhausted appearance frightened me, though I talked quite boldly of the good effects of change of air, and the advantages of continuing with us.
A clumsy plantation wagon rumbled to the door, and the new guard, mounted on wild-looking Texan horses, drew up around it. The old guard, like good fellows, helped us quite cordially in carrying out our baggage; and they shook hands and bade us good bye, with a warmth that savored much less of rebel enemies than of countrymen and friends. Some newly arrived prisoners were brought from the Court House, and we started. As we moved off, one of them seized me by the hand with many expressions of surprise. At first I did not recognize him, but, after a moment, discovered that he was Captain Frederick Van Tine, of my former regiment, and learnt that he, with two Massachusetts officers, was captured on the Mississippi, and, for the last week, had been confined in the jail at Thiboudeau.
Up the main street of Franklin we marched two by two, the guard strung along on each side, their rifles unslung and their eyes watching us, as if they somewhat feared an immediate escape. The loafers of Franklin of course turned out to stare at us, and made remarks rarely complimentary; the women looked at us from the door-steps as we passed, some triumphantly, and a few in pity. At the head of this inglorious procession it was my place to walk; but the new prisoners revealed the hitherto concealed news, and I felt proud and happy over the long delayed result of Vicksburg and Port Hudson.
Beside our own party, and the three officers from the Mississippi, were a number of “citizen prisoners,” and an unfortunate deserter whom they had caught at Brashear. Of these civilians, a dozen were Irishmen and they immediately placed themselves at the head of the column, and proceeded to walk and talk with a zeal that nobody attempted to equal. A move is always animating, even when it is toward captivity; but our excitement was short-lived. Hardly had we passed from the shadow of the town, when the convalescents felt the effect of the burning, fever-kindling sun. It was a serious business for some of us. One hundred and eighty miles distant flowed the Sabine, and we were to march there, over open prairies and in the middle of the Southern summer.
Before a mile was travelled over, I could see the effect of the fearful heat in others, and feel it on myself. Faces grew flushed; coats were stripped off, and the perspiration poured in streams. Yet it was a matter of honor not to give up. For my own part, I was smarting with mortification at the disgrace of Brashear, and resolved, and re-resolved, to walk till I fell dead, before one of these Southern soldiers should say that a Yankee Colonel had given out.
At the head of the guard rode a good-looking young fellow, tall and sinewy, and with the merriest face I have ever seen in a Southerner. I had some doubts, at first, whether he was a private or a Captain, but found that he was a corporal. He was mounted on a compact little bay, called, in Texas, a pony; a long revolver was stuck in his belt; a lariat rope loosely coiled hung on the saddle-bow; his bright Springfield rifle was balanced across the pommel, and with his broad hat and heavy, jangling Spanish spurs, he formed a brilliant picture of a Wild Texan. As some little changes and arrangements were wanting and the lieutenant was not in sight, I addressed myself to the corporal, and asked if he would order a halt for a moment. “Why to be sure I will,” was his very ready reply, followed up with the order, “Now, halt here, men, and let these prisoners put their little tricks on the wagon; there is no need of their packing them.”
“We took advantage of the halt to lash some sticks to the sides of the wagon and to spread upon them our blankets, so as to form an awning over Lieutenant Stevenson. But the sun beat down hotter and hotter. At the next halt, one of us took a canteen from the end of the wagon—the water was hot, so incredibly hot that the others were called up to feel it, and all agreed that its heat was painful. My first impression was, that this intense burning heat would blister us. But the damp Louisiana atmosphere caused floods of perspiration, pouring over the exposed face and hands, and soaking quickly through every garment. Faces grew more and more flushed; conversation flagged and soon ceased. Those who, at the beginning, rattled away cheerfully, walked in moody silence near each other, occasionally exchanging distressed looks, but rarely, if ever, speaking a word.”