“When the meat was all barbecued, we pushed forward for the Calcasieu. The river formed a dividing line between a forest and a prairie country. At the foot of a slight bluff was a flat-boat and rope-ferry. I learnt from the ferryman, with much surprise, that our “gun-boat boats” had been up there, and captured a steamer and several schooners. I wished most ardently as we stepped aboard the flat, that they might re-appear at that particular moment, and enable us to return the good treatment of our guards, by providing for their wants in New Orleans. The wish was not realized, and the scow, like a gentler craft, wafted us to the other shore. There an unexpected individual hailed our approach, in the person of a bright-looking mule, who, solitary and sad, was travelling briskly toward the ferry. The corporal, who, as usual, led, answered the mule in his way, and quickly uncoiled the lariat. The mule tried a dodge, but the lariat flew straight over his head and tight around his neck. The mule was fairly “roped.” The corporal gave an inspiriting yell, and examined the brand. It was an unknown brand—a Louisianian brand—and the mule was therefore adjudged a lawful prize.”
Our road now wound through the green woods and along the bank of the winding river. The sun, which at first was behind us, moved round upon our left, then swung in front, then passed beside us on our right, then speedily changed back, and shone again before us. The foliage screened the river, but frequent openings uncovered views of these river-bends, and of the clear, dark water flowing beside us. Could a section of the Calcasieu be cut out and transplanted to the environs of some great city, the rich luxuriance of its banks, clad with verdure from the vines that trail upon the water to the tops of the tall firs and deep-green magnolias that overhang the stream—its constant windings and its graceful curves, would be deemed a marvel of picturesque beauty. Yet here the traveller finds in it only a dull monotony of never-ceasing turnings, and sees in the beautiful foliage of its banks, only a dreary loneliness. I listened to a Texan’s description, and doubted whether it had ever received an admiring glance before my own. This wood, too, through which we marched, was not the foul swamp of eastern Louisiana. There was the cool, deep shade, the dreamy stillness, the sweet, wild perfume of our northern forests. The trees aided, too, in the brief delusion. We knew the rough branches of the oak and the needles of the “fadeless pine.” Large gum-trees deceived us into the belief that they were the maples of a “sugar-bush;” and dwarfed magnolias, at the first glance, took the semblance of the hickory. There was also a delightful refreshingness in the cool, shadeful river-bank, and our long march through prairies, exposed and shelterless, helped us to realize “the sweet retirement” of the woods.
For four miles we marched with spirit and pleasure, although they made up the sum of twenty-five for that day’s work. Then halting, on a sandy bluff covered with pines, we encountered a legion of troubles. The gnats were terrible—the mosquitoes fearful—the pine smoke spoilt our steaks—the fresh breeze of the prairie did not reach us—and our longest march was followed by a restless night. All the next day our road continued in the “piny-woods.” There were occasional openings, and the ground was clear of underbrush, yet most of the party wished themselves back on the prairie, and thought the light shade of the pines a poor return for the prairie breeze. As it was Sunday, we halted early, and the lieutenant told us that one day more would bring us to Niblett’s Bluff.
For two days we lay idle at the Bluff, with no better recreation than yawning and cooking. On the third, the Beaumont boat arrived. Some Vicksburg paroled prisoners had, meanwhile, come in, and they spoke of our soldiers in terms which were most cheering to us. They were as brave as men could be—they had treated them like brothers—they had given them all the rations they could carry with them, and they had behaved “a heap better every way” than it was supposed Yankees could. They said this not only to us, but to other soldiers and citizens, and spoke up boldly on our behalf. The effect was agreeable, not in any material change, but in good feeling and in the greater kindliness with which we were treated. The boat started the next morning at daybreak. We descended the Sabine and ascended the Neches, reaching Beaumont in the evening. At this place there was a railway eating-house, that gave us a greasy breakfast, for a dollar and a half; we also bought sugar for a dollar a pound, and watermelons for a dollar apiece. These prices seemed enormous at the time, but subsequent experience makes them appear quite reasonable.
We left the little town of Beaumont on an open platform car of the Houston train. Lieutenant Duncan made an effort to have us placed in the passenger cars, but they were full. The news of Vicksburg had reached here some time before us, and the coming of the Vicksburg prisoners was expected. At every station were anxious faces, sometimes made glad and sometimes going away more anxious than they came. At one of these, there were two women, evidently a mother and her daughter. The train had hardly stopped, when I heard a shriek, which sounded like one of agony, but was instantly followed by the words, “O my son, I’m so glad, I’m so glad, I’m so glad!” I looked and saw a fine young fellow, who had told us many tales of the sufferings of the siege, running toward the woman, and the next moment folded in her arms. Unconscious of the many eyes upon them, the mother hung upon his neck, and the sister held his hand. Some friends tossed him his roll of blankets, but it fell unnoticed. The train started, but they did not look around, and when we were far out upon the prairie, they still stood there exchanging their eager words, and seemingly unconscious that we had left them.
It was twilight when the train ran into Houston. A crowd was on the platform, made up of families and friends, who had come there to welcome their sons and brothers from the dreadful siege. There was a line of young girls upon the edge of the platform, and as our car was the first of the train, they of course saw us while looking for their friends. It was interesting to observe the different expressions that passed over the line of pretty faces as their eyes scanned us. At first a look of anxious interest—a shade of disappointment—a start of surprise—a slight shrinking back with side glances at each other and the whispered-word, “prisoners”—and then, in most cases, a little glance of pity. But our car ran past them, and the next moment were heard the usual sounds that welcome long-absent soldiers to their homes—loud congratulations, eager inquiries, laughter and kisses. A little shade of sorrow, and perhaps of envy, fell on us. We stood apart, a small group unnoticed, as unknown. I tried to repress the dangerous feeling, but insensibly my thoughts flew far away to those who would thus have welcomed us.
The kindness of Lieutenant Duncan continued unabated. We had shouldered our knapsacks, but he sent for carts, and insisted on conveying them for us. Before the Provost Marshal’s, a small crowd assembled, but it was quiet and respectful. An officer of the provost guard came out. He took the roll and called it, made sure that all were present, and informed Lieutenant Duncan that he was relieved from the further charge of us. We were faced, and marched to what had been the Court House. Our old guard accompanied us. They attempted to carry in our things, but were stopped at the door. There they shook hands warmly, and wished us a speedy exchange. We turned down a dark stone passage and entered a room. There were bars on the window, and the moonlight fell in little checkered squares upon the dirty floor. The corporal of the guard, brought in our baggage—sent out and bought us some bread—asked if we wanted anything else—and then drew out a key. With the sight of that key, all conversation ceased. It was a wand of silence. No one spoke or moved or looked elsewhere. Every eye remained fixed on the key. The corporal inserted it in the door. It went in slowly and grated horribly, unlike the grating of a house key, or an office key, or a safe key, or a stable key, or any kind of a key, SAVE ONE! The corporal looked around and said, good night. No one had breath enough to respond. The corporal stepped out and the door closed, not with a bang or a slam or a crash, but with a heavy, ominous, awful sound. There was still an instant of suspense, a small infinitesimal fraction of a faint hope, and then the key turned, grating with an indescribable sound, such as none of us ever heard key give forth before. With a great effort I withdrew my eyes from the door-lock, and looked around the room. All were seated on their blankets, and ranged round, with their backs against the walls. The moonlight checkers still fell on the floor. I felt that somebody must speak, that if somebody did not speak soon, some of us would never speak again. I thought that I would speak—I made another great effort, and said:
“What a singular sound a key makes when somebody else turns it; did you ever remark it before? I suppose you have.”
One man laughed—all laughed. Lieutenant Sherman came promptly to my aid, and said:
“How pretty that moonlight is on the floor! Who cares for the bars.”