The bugle again called us up, while the stars were yet shining, to find the dodger we had baked over night, and the cold beef we had put by for breakfast, frozen harder than paving stones. Close seated by the fire, we ate a moody breakfast, each one declaring that he had not slept one hour during the night, and that he wanted to turn in again. Instead of doing so, we took the road, now solid as a rock. The horses had to stamp through the ice to drink, and the “Sunny South” seemed frozen hard as the hills of the Adirondack.
Passing through Huntsville, we found ourselves upon a sandy road, and travelling through dull woods, whose weary sameness lasted with hardly an interruption for one hundred and fifty miles. Toward evening we encamped beside a deep ravine. The clouds gathered darkly overhead, and the rain began to fall. It bore all the appearances of one of our cold November storms, and we anticipated a tempestuous night. But then came one of the phenomena of the Texan climate. With darkness the rain stopped; and the stars seemed to disperse the clouds. But with daylight the clouds returned, and as we re-commenced the march, the rain came down heavily. The matter was made worse by our immediately descending to the “Trinity bottom,” a rich, alluvial plain, three miles in width, composed of the greasiest of mud. When we had dragged ourselves across this, we were suddenly stopped by the Trinity, a narrow stream, deep channelled between precipitous clay banks. A road was cut down each bank, and the usual scow and rope-ferry appeared at the bottom. The prisoners who first arrived on foot were immediately carried over. They scrambled up the opposite bank and instantly made a fire, around which they closely huddled. As the wagons arrived, they were hurried aboard of the scow, for every moment made matters worse. A crowd of men surrounded each wagon as it landed, pushing, pulling, yelling, and in various ways “encouraging the mules.” Those extraordinary animals pulled and strained and slipped; now down, now up again, exhausted, and then renewing their efforts, until slowly and inch by inch every wagon was carried to the top of the bank. The scow covered with mules and white-topped wagons, the struggling teams, the shouting men, the howling of the wind, the beating of the rain, all made up a romantic picture. But the toil we paid for it was extreme, and the crossing of this narrow river cost us two hours of time.
We stopped at two houses after crossing, to make some purchases. At the first, the lady of the house (a rather stout female, with a coarse voice and red face) had lost neither children nor relatives in the war, but nevertheless cherished a holy hatred of Yankees. When she learnt that we were of that despised race, and had come into her house to buy something, her wrath became terrific. It even overpowered the irresistible effrontery of the navy. Two of our Captains, who between them had never failed to win the Texan fair, assayed her, but the humor of the one and the blandishments of the other were sent spinning about their ears. “Josiah,” she said to her abashed husband, while she quivered with rage, “don’t sell them anything, the nasty beasts, I didn’t know I hated them so. Don’t sell the beasts a thing. Corn-meal is too good for them.” He, poor man, said “no,” but when our two naval commissaries got him alone, they made mince-meat of his scruples in no time. He hurriedly shovelled a bushel of potatoes into their bag, received his five dollars, and begged them to leave by the side door, as most convenient and least exposed to observation.
At the other of these houses, the woman had lost two sons in battle. When she learnt that some of her visitors were enemies and prisoners, she only hastened to express her pity. She spread her simple board with all that her larder contained, and made them sit down. Of some little articles, such as milk and butter and eggs, she literally gave them all she had. Other things that they wished to purchase, she sold—she offered to give, but they forced the money upon her. And when they rose to go, she expressed again her sympathy, and hoped that God would be with them, and comfort them, and send them deliverance.
When we were fairly across the river, and well drenched, the rain stopped, and the freezing north wind began to blow. Colder and colder it grew; and when we passed from the woods to the last prairie we were to see, we had to face a gale. We struggled against this for miles, until, late in the afternoon, there appeared, on the other side of the plain, a little stage-house, and beyond it timber of scraggly trees, small and scattered. It was a poor place to bivouac, but the scarcity of water in this arid country leaves travellers little choice of camping grounds. We halted, therefore, in this bleak spot, and speedily came to the conclusion, that it would be “the coldest night yet.” The stove was unloaded as usual, and “put up;” its pipe, lashed to a sapling to keep it from blowing away, and some stove wood chopped. Our indefatigable chef then assumed command, and, despite wind and cold, proceeded to roast a lovely loin of delicate pork, purchased of the good woman of the morning, and to serve it up at the proper time with delicious brown crackling and entrancing hot gravy. Before that rapturous moment came there was much work to be done. The wood had to be dragged some distance, for the trees were sparse, and on such a night the fire must be fed with no sparing hand. The water had to be carried, and it was a half-mile distant and at the bottom of a well two hundred feet deep. A tedious job was this, and one that seemed as though it would never end. The pails, the tea-kettle and the iron-pot were all mustered and carried to the well, but others were there before us, and we had to wait our turn. Very slowly the bucket came creeping up while we stood shivering in the wind, and when it appeared it was half empty, and a dozen pails were waiting to be filled before the first of ours. At last when tea-kettle, pot and pails were full, and we were nearly perished, we picked them up and navigated them through the thick brush-wood and against the bitter wind till the ungloved hands were nearly frozen to the iron handles, and the stiff arms ready to drop off. Then, too, our chef, like all great artists in that most useful art, was cross, and asked indignantly why we had not come back sooner—if it was so pleasant down at that well that we must stay there all day—if we did not know that nothing could be done without water—if we could not understand that the lovely loin of pork was well-nigh spoilt already. We, who were hewers of wood and drawers of water, bore all this meekly and explained. Our chef, though an amateur, was about as reasonable as an accomplished female of the same profession, and would hear no explanation. He knew that if he had gone he would have found a way to get it. We secretly expressed to each other sympathy for scullions, waiters, and other unfortunate persons having business relations with cooks—we crouched down by the fire and thawed our frozen fingers—and then the chef sent us back to the well for more water.
“Now spread the night her spangled canopy,
And summon’d every restless eye to sleep.”
The stove was down and ready to be repacked—the water pails (refilled) stood close before the fire—the stove box, the mess-chest and the shelter-tent again were united for a wind-break—all our night work was done, and there was no reason why we should not sleep. No reason but this bitter north wind, before which the flames of all the surrounding fires leaned down and the sparks flew level along the ground. And those fires, too, seemed trivial and feeble; the logs that were piled upon them were as heavy as two men could lift, yet were not large enough for such a night as this. Again and again we woke, aching with the cold; and again and again, after crouching over the fire, we returned wearily to our blankets and sought to steal, ere the reveille, a little rest.
“The purple morning left her crimson bed,
And donn’d her robe of pure vermilion hue,