Before three o’clock we went into camp on a little brook called “Kane’s Creek.” Thanks to the autumn rains, there was some water in the “creek,” and thanks to the December frosts, it was clear and cold. The proceedings of our naval friends were a new chapter in my experience of bivouacs. Notwithstanding the clear sky and roaring camp-fires, edifices called shelter-tents were erected, with an immense amount of consultation and anxiety. Heavy mattresses were unpacked from the wagons and lugged to the tents. Stoves were unloaded and put up under trees, where they soon smoked and steamed as did the excited cooks who hovered around them. So elaborate, indeed, was the dinner of our mess, that the short winter day closed ere Lieutenant Dane doffed his apron, and summoned us to our seats around the camp-fire. By its light I saw a sirloin of roast beef, a large piece of corned, sweet potatoes, corn bread and butter, flap-jacks and sauce, tea, coffee and cake.
“What are you doing?” asked somebody, as I drew out my pencil and note-book. “I thought you never took notes; it was only an hour ago you were telling me that a note-book spoils a good traveller.”
“I am noting down this bill of fare. After my rough experience in our army of the West, this dinner seems too ridiculous to be believed.”
“I suppose you will publish it in the newspapers when you get out?”
“Yes, I rather think I shall.”
“Well, it’s the last of the pepper,” said the caterer, “so mind and put it down.”
“Yes, by all means.”
“And they say we can buy no sugar at Tyler,” said another; “so mind and put it down.”
“Certainly; anything else?”
“There’s some salt, and there’s a hard-tack. Perhaps you think they are luxuries. And here’s a candle, moulded in the neck of a bottle—hadn’t you better mention it?”