We started earlier than usual the next morning, and soon crossed the strip of prairie between us and the Vermillion. The belt of wood was not more than half a mile in breadth, and near its farther edge we found a narrow, sluggish stream, almost bridged by the ferry-scow, yet deep in mud, and with miry banks that made it difficult to cross. As we waited for the wagon that was slowly rumbling along, we discovered below the ferry, closely drawn up against the bank and almost hidden by the trees, a full rigged schooner, that had eluded the watchfulness of our blockaders, and escaped the eyes of our cavalry, and now lay snugly waiting for the proper time to glide down the bayou and escape on the open sea.
The wagon rolled up while we were scanning and discussing the little blockade runner, and we began our crossing. It was not a labor of very great importance, for when one end of the scow had been pushed a few feet from the eastern bank, the other end ran into the western. We found the latter much higher than the former, being, in Southern phrase, “something of a bluff.” On mounting it, we saw a rolling prairie spreading out like a lake of green, and enclosed by distant woods which seemed its shore. The “timber,” (as forests in the West are called,) was four or five miles distant on either side, and, to the front of us, sank down behind the far-off horizon. Numerous herds were in sight; and troops of young cattle would draw up and stare at us. They were not the “fine stock” of our good breeders; yet, still were beautiful creatures—straight-backed, fine-boned, and with heads gracefully carried and erect. “When our shouts startled them into motion, they carried themselves off with the same high horse-like trot I had been struck with in our bull on the Teche, and then, breaking into an easy gallop, bounded away like deer. The guards repeatedly warned us to keep near the horsemen, and said, that these cattle of the prairies did not know what a man a-foot was, and were so wild that they would attack us if we ventured near them.”
The guard had been improving daily since we left Franklin. No formal parole was given by us, yet there was an informal one which we respected, and in which they placed implicit confidence. They behaved, too, with great kindness, constantly dismounting and making first one and then another of us ride. Our column broke up into little parties of twos and threes, the faster walkers opening gaps on those who took it more leisurely, and each one travelling at whatever rate he best liked. After five or six miles of this, three of us, with a like number of the guard, reached a little house that stood alone in the prairie. The guards showed their appreciation of our honor, by handing us their horses and rifles to take care of while they went into the house. After a while they returned, and showed their appreciation of our appetites by bringing us a pail full of milk for a drink.
We watched the different parties that dotted the prairie for a mile or two behind us, until they severally came up, wiping the perspiration from their faces and throwing themselves on the grass beside us. The wagon overtook us last, and then we rose and resumed the march. The prairie continued to present the same rich picture of beautiful seclusion. Occasionally its timber-shores approached each other, and sometimes they opened into successive lakes. Yet, with all this beauty, we found ourselves becoming hot and weary. There were no way-side trees to cast an occasional shade, and no brooks or springs at which to halt and re-fill canteens. The usual morning breeze that sweeps across the prairies, as across the sea, went down, and wistful eyes were thrown at a distant plantation which we saw embowered in trees. Where the road to this cool retreat branched off, Lieutenant Duncan ordered a halt, and then, with his usual kindness, asked us to decide whether we would go to the plantation and rest till evening, or push on and finish our day’s work before we halted. There was some little difference of opinion. Certain thirsty individuals, who kept up a constant sucking at their canteens, declared that they were nearly choked, notwithstanding the three pints of water each had swallowed; others, who had drunk nothing since we started, were in favor of pushing on. It ended in the lieutenant sending one of his men, laden with canteens, to the plantation, and in our resuming the march.
The Texan put his “pony” on the easy amble, which is the leading trait of a Southern horse, and struck off in a straight line toward the distant house. We could see the horse and rider gradually sinking in the prairie as they receded from us, until not much could be discerned beside the wide-brimmed Texan hat. There was a little interval, and then horse and rider re-appeared, striking off at an angle which would intercept our line of march, and travelling on the same easy amble. The horses of the Texans, I must confess, had greatly disappointed me. Half of them were miserable, ill-shaped ponies, which could never have made or withstood a charge, and were unworthy of the name of cavalry horses. And yet these mounted troops of the Confederates have shown a wonderful readiness and swiftness of movement, which have often outwitted our generals and eluded our strategy, and that too, in a country where our horses would have starved. This great “mobility” I ascribe, in part, to the ambling gait (forbidden in our service) which carries them along some five miles an hour, without strain to the horse or fatigue to the rider; and, in part, to the free use of the lariat, which enables the horse to graze at every momentary halt. Man and horse understood this latter principle, for the former never dismounted without twitching off the bridle, and the latter never stopped without industriously picking up his living. In one respect the Texans are careless of their horses, tearing off the saddles the moment they halt, and never dreaming of cold water either as a preventive or a cure of the sore back that tortures nearly every horse.
“While I was making these reflections, our column had stretched out in its usual manner, and then broken into small groups: these separated more and more as we advanced. The guards told us that Turtle-Tail Bayou was to be our camping ground, and they pointed to the timber, which looked like a low cloud along the horizon. How long this cloud was in changing into trees, and how slowly these trees rose in view, no one can imagine who has not travelled a-foot upon the prairies. The sun sent down his usual burning rays as he approached the meridian, and a damp stifling heat rose from the grass. Yet it is a great thing to be first in camp, and able thereby to choose your own tree, and label it “TAKEN,” by pitching your haversack at its foot, and to lie down and rest ere the slow walkers arrive. So the two or three of us who led pushed on. The trees came slowly more and more into view; the branches imperceptibly rose; the grass beneath them appeared. Then the corporal and his men left us and rode on to select the camping ground. We followed slowlier on their trail, keeping our eyes upon them until we saw them dismount where timber and prairie met—unsaddle and turn loose their horses, the welcome signs of our coming rest. The sight gave vigor to our halting feet—on, on, without a stop, though it was two miles, as the bird flies, to the nearest tree. On, on, until panting and streaming, I tear off my hat and haversack and drop them, with myself, at the foot of a spreading oak.”
There is no rest like that which comes after such, exercise. I see again the little groups drawing nearer across the prairie; coming in with sun-tinted faces and dripping brows; speaking no words, unless a few tired monosyllables; casting quick glances round for some smooth, shaded spot of turf, then walking there and dropping down. And last of all, the heavy, lumbering wagon rumbling up; its tired passengers jolted, and jaded, and cross, and broiled, yet still willing to find, with particular care, a spot that pleases them, whilst the teamster pulls the clattering harness from the mules, turns them loose upon the prairie, and, like the others, drops down to silence and repose.
Hour upon hour thus passed, partly in sleep and partly in a dreamy languor of delicious rest. Then came a little restlessness and glances at the sun—then the blue smoke of a fresh-kindled camp-fire, and assertions that A. and B. had risen, and were preparing (for themselves) the one important meal. When such assertions had been repeated twice or thrice around me, the ground, which at first was softer than down, began to grow hard, and withal somewhat knobby. I arose, and went with Lieutenant Sherman to find the bayou. It was a stagnant bed of pollywogs, not ten feet wide nor ten inches deep. Crawling out on a log, nevertheless, and skimming off the green, slimy scum, we dipped up the water and enjoyed, as we had seldom enjoyed before, the luxury of a bath. Returning to the camp-fire, we found that the guards, mindful of their prisoners’ more tired condition, were baking “dodgers” for all hands, and that the “dodgers” were nearly done.
One of us quickly clambered into the wagon, and cut from the side of bacon a couple of slices, while the other sharpened two slender sticks. The bacon, skewered on these, was speedily toasted over the fire. A slice of “dodger” took the place of plates and dishes; our pocket-knives were also spoons and forks; and yet this Texan supper in the open air, cooked by oneself, and eaten after a twenty mile march and a twelve hour fast, is as delicious a meal as was ever served. The blankets were spread ere the dew fell. We lay gazing on the stars, smoked lazily, and talked of to-morrow’s march, till it grew dark. To me this camp brought back all the interest of an old cavalry bivouac with some of its most unpleasant parts left out. The sense of responsibility was now gone. I had no anxiety or duty beyond that of taking care of myself. There were no guards for me to post; no pickets to visit; no rounds to make, and no prisoners to watch.
Again the blankets were rolled—the bacon toasted—the dodger divided, and a cup of tea made. Of tired nature’s sweet restorer, English breakfast tea—so much perverted and abused in civilized life—we had a little canister, and wondrous were the works which that little canister performed. Its few ounces of simple-looking herb—so light—so portable—so bulk-less, seemed to contain strength sufficient for an army. Those who sipped it, though weary and faint, grew strong and cheerful: those who disliked it at home, confessed that it tasted like nectar on the march. Ere the last sip was taken, the corporal mounted the wagon and said, “Now, gentlemen, please to pack along your little tricks.” The “little tricks” were safely stowed by the gallant corporal, on top of the rations; the sick and lame were stowed on top of them; Mrs. Stratford took the seat reserved for her; the well “fell in,” and again we started.