“You know, sir, that if you and I had met this way in Missouri, that first year of the war, only one of us would have walked away, and maybe neither.”
“Yes,” I said, “the war was very bitter there.”
“It was that. No man could have made me believe then that I could ever meet an enemy with the same friendly feelings I have for you, gentlemen.”
Here our friend began to unbuckle his saddle-bags, and after much trouble produced a flat bottle. “A friend,” he said, “gave me this, and I mean to carry it through to Arkansas, if I can, but I must take a drink with a gentleman that was on the other side in Missouri, the first year of the war, if I never drink again as long as I live.”
We touched our lips to the detestable poison, and thanked our friend for his courtesy. The “border ruffian” then expressed his great satisfaction at finding we were treated as gentlemen and prisoners of war should be, and said he doubted if he didn’t respect the soldiers on “the other side” rather more than he did a good many folks on his own. Finally he asked our names—gave us his own, which was Woodland—shook hands warmly, and rode off. We shouldered our loads and plodded on, wondering whether the barbarous and brutal trade of war does not of itself inspire men at last with some noble and chivalric sentiments.
These meditations lasted us till we reached the gate. We were somewhat apprehensive that our appearance would produce a sensation in camp, and excite anticipations of the coming festivities, but luckily the rain and cold had driven all within their hovels. We walked rapidly past the closed doors of the “shebangs” till we hastily kicked open our own, and threw down our loads before the eyes of our astonished messmates. Then after a savage attack on cold beef and hot dodger, and after brewing a hot decoction of sumach to keep the cold out, we hung our wet clothes before the fire, and rolled ourselves in our warm blankets for the rest of the evening. Ere we fell asleep some one came in and said that it was freezing, and that the ground was white with snow.
The ground was white with snow, and so were our blankets the next morning. The north wind blew a gale—a goodly sized snow-drift stretched across the floor of the “shebang”—the water pail was frozen nearly solid, and a cup of sumach tea that stood upon the table directly in front of the fire was coated with ice. Daylight stole in through many chinks and crevices to find us still shivering in our bunks. One gentleman suggested that another gentleman rise and cook the breakfast; but the other gentleman thought the day would be long enough if we had breakfast any time before sunset. A humorous man from another “shebang” poked his head in the door, and inquired whether we would like to be dug out in the course of the day. We took no notice of his humor, and shivered in silence. At length the most uncomfortable one rolled out, threw a pile of logs upon the fire, and swept away the snow. As a matter of course the others followed. Breakfast was first disposed of, and then Lieutenant Dane began his great work. All of that day we were engaged, like Count Rumford, on a series of scientific experiments closely allied to the art of cookery. When night came we had fought our way over all obstacles, and were able to announce that the dinner should come off and should be a success.
The two junior members of the mess had at the outset agreed (in bad faith) that if we would cook the dinner, they would wait upon the table. We now held them to this agreement, and, as a righteous punishment for their contempt, determined to cut the dinner up into as many courses as we decently could, and make them wash the plates at the end of every course. The rest of the mess who had been abashed by our foraging and overawed by our experiments, became gradually interested, and joined in the work by inviting the guests, manufacturing a table, and chopping an immense pile of wood for the evening.
“Happy New Year’s” came to us bright and clear, and the prisoners followed the old Dutch custom by wandering around and wishing each other happier returns of the day. At our “shebang” we were compelled to inform visitors that we received on the other side of the way. We were, in fact, busy beyond powers of description, scolding, as I have observed good cooks always scold, and ordering in the style that really talented artists always order. We had three fires in full blast—one in our fire-place, one in our stove, and one under an independent pot. I observed, I regret to say, that one or two of the invited strolled up with a suspicious air, as if they really feared the invitation might be what the vulgar term “a sell,” and the dinner so much moonshine. It was plain that they were not used to being invited out. As the appointed hour approached, the remarks of passers-by gradually called our attention to the fact that this was the coldest day ever known in Texas. (4° Fahr.) Some extra work was therefore necessary. We placed the table across the “shebang” directly in front of the fire-place, and close behind the table, hung blankets from the roof to the floor, thus curtaining out the cold after our Camp Groce plan. There were actually found crockery plates in camp just sufficient to go round, and also two naval table-cloths, which spliced, exactly covered the table. We devoted our last three candles to illume the festal board; and we built a fire over a backlog as large as a barrel.
As the hour of six o’clock approached our guests were adroitly intercepted at the door, and carried into a neighboring cabin, where they were entertained till wanted. When every thing was ready, the last finishing touches given, and the two waiters fully instructed with respect to some strategic movements to be executed behind a curtain, the door was opened, and our guests triumphantly marshalled in. As these misguided men, who for half a year had been devouring rations off of tin plates, and had not so much as heard the word table-cloth spoken—as they descended into the “shebang,” they seemed to be fairly dazed with the splendors of the apartment. They sank into their designated seats, too much appalled to speak, and only talked in subdued tones after three or four courses. The first course was on the table. It consisted of soup and wheaten bread—flour bread, as it was vulgarly called in camp. I observed—at least I had a sort of suspicion—that one or two of the guests had an habitual idea that soup was all the dinner; for they looked nervously over their shoulders when an adroit waiter (with an eye to the morrow,) whisked the soup off the table immediately after everybody had been helped once.