For a day or two after our arrival at Camp Groce we lay by, idle and weary. As I thus looked on, and saw the listless despondency of the “old prisoners,” I discovered quickly that those were happiest who were busiest. Experience since has confirmed me in the value I early set on occupation. Those labors which the rebels have imposed on our men—the chopping of wood—the building of houses—the cooking of rations—have been, I think, the prisoner’s greatest blessings. Our active northern minds chafe at enforced idleness, and the freshly caught Yankee, or Hoosier, after the work of cabin building is done, and the rough tables and stools are made, becomes dejected and then sick; and yet while he was doing the work at which he growled, both soul and body bore up easily. It is no wonder then that I said to my lieutenant, “This will never do for us, Sherman, we must be busy.”
We turned over a new leaf, therefore, for the following day. The Captain of the “Morning Light” joined us and pledged himself to provide and devise quantities of work. With the first gleam of light one of us rose, and from a little private hoard abstracted a small handful of coffee. These sailor prisoners, I early found, had no idea of going without while the Confederacy could supply them for either love or money (they did not care much which); and they inspired the rest with a little of their own easy impudence.
Accordingly on the door-post hung one of the last coffee-mills that the shops of Houston had held, and in the galley (as they called the kitchen) stood a stove—the only one, probably, in any Texan camp. The first riser then kindled a fire in the stove, if it was not already there, and ground and made the coffee. Then bearing it to the sleepers’ bunks, he quickly roused them with the cheerful salutation of “Here’s your coffee—your fine hot coffee!” When a tin mug of coffee is the only luxury of the day it rises in importance and becomes great. We sipped it slowly and discussed it gravely. One thought that if it were strained a fourth time it would be stronger—the maker, on the contrary, thought that straining it again would take the strength out; a second insisted that it ought to boil—but the maker maintained that boiling dispelled the aroma and sent it flying through the air. The coffee ended before the argument; and then after rinsing out our mugs and restoring them to their private pegs, we took down our towels and started for the “branch.” We descended the hill by a little path that was nearly hidden in tall weeds and led to some thick bushes and trees that grew along the “branch.” The chain of sentinels around the camp consisted of broad-hatted Texans, sitting at irregular intervals on stumps and logs, and generally engaged in balancing their rifles on their knees. One of these, Captain Dillingham hailed in a patronizing way, in return for which attention the sentry halted us.
“I reckon,” he said, “you can’t go no further jist yit awhile.”
“Halloo,” said the Captain, “what’s the matter now?”
“Well, there be three down there now, and the orders is not to let no more down to once.”
“Orders?” said the Captain, indignantly: “who cares for orders! What difference does it make to Jeff Davis whether there are three prisoners or six washing themselves?”
“Well, I reckon it don’t make an awful sight of difference,” the sentry admitted.
“Of course it doesn’t,” said the Captain, following up the concession. “The idea of making us wait here because there’s somebody down there!”
“Well, I reckon you might as well go on,” yielded the sentry: “I reckon you won’t run off this morning;” and on we went.