Shoulder-Straps: A Novel of New York and the Army, 1862

by Henry Morford

The military gentleman hobbled along into the room after them, and was introduced to the others there assembled. One of the burners of the chandelier only had been lit, but it quite sufficed to reveal an extraordinary figure. Captain Robert Slivers seemed to be about fifty to fifty-five, to judge by his gray hair and moustache; but any idea of the precise looks of his face was rendered impossible, by an immense green patch which concealed not only the right eye, but all that side of the nose and the temple, while the string running around his forehead took away any expression from that important part of the human countenance, and an oblong strip of black court-plaster extended diagonally from the left eye nearly to the corner of the mouth, creating an impression of very severe tattooing. A pair of green spectacles were mounted on the bridge of the nose, and the left glass did duty over the corresponding eye, while the other was unseen as relieved against the shade. So much for the facial appearance and adornments of this hero, and his other claims to notice were not less extraordinary. Sartorially, he wore an undress military cap, with the "U.S." on the front, and a dingy blue uniform with the shoulder-straps of a Captain of infantry. Physically he seemed nearly as much out of order as facially. He carried a heavy cane in his right hand, and the right foot was enclosed in a sort of moccasin or spatterdash which might have belonged to one of the conductors on an avenue railroad, for use in very severe weather. In shoe-makers' measurement this foot-gear would probably have been rated about number sixteen. Under the left arm, which was swathed below the elbow, he carried a crutch, and though the foot on that side seemed to be uninjured, the leg had not escaped so fortunately. It was stiffened and drawn up so that the toe merely touched the ground and the principal dependence was made upon the crutch. According to this arrangement, the left leg limped and the right foot shuffled, and the style of locomotion may be imagined.

But for the "pinch," which was a little characteristic, Emily Owen might have had grave doubts, even after the warning of the day before, whether this could be the sprightly young man whom she had known so well; and the very mother who bore him, if she could have seen him in that situation, would have been almost as excusable for not recognizing her offspring, as that traditional matron who defeated all the theories about "intuition" by not recognizing her son when "done up with pepper and onions, in a stew."

This interesting person was finally ushered into the parlor and introduced to the trio sitting there, as well as manœuvered into a chair. Aunt Martha, behind the curtain, was not prevented by her fright at the possible consequences, from nearly smothering with concealed laughter at the wonderful metamorphosis which had been accomplished. Mrs. Owen, a weak woman with a soft heart, was dreadfully affected by the "reality of war" thus brought home to her, and uttered many ejaculations of pity, carefully under her breath for fear the "poor fellow" should hear her and be pained.

Colonel Bancker—there is no use disguising the fact—was literally horrified at the spectacle. A miserable old beau, with unlimited vanity and a desire to appear everything that other people admired, but without any other positive personal vices—he was, as Frank Wallace had always believed, an incarnate, unmitigated poltroon—a coward of the first water. He never had fought for anything, with hand or weapon—he never intended to fight for anything—he never could fight for anything. He could not bear to think of being hurt himself, and he was pained beyond measure at the thought of seeing any one else injured or in suffering. One hour of the battle-field, with its sights and sounds of horror, would have killed him without any aid from sword or bullet. He could have been robbed in a dark street by a boy of ten years, who presented a knife or a pistol; and in any time of danger to himself or others (as may have been indicated by the adventure of the carriage before recorded) he could be of no more use than a baby in arms. Such men are not very common, but they do exist; and under any ordinary circumstances, as they cannot help the infirmities with which they are born, they should be pitied and not ridiculed. It is only when they attempt to disguise themselves in the characters of bolder and better men, that they deserve lashing without mercy.

Colonel Bancker had never had the least intention of going to the war, nor had he ever connected himself, except in the most vague description of talk, with any organization. He had never come nearer to a commission than to think about one—that is, think that he did not want one. He saw hundreds of others wearing uniforms and the insignia of rank without any intention of fighting, and thought that he could do as they did, sport borrowed plumes without too much enquiry being made into the source whence they were derived, and throw them off when he pleased, under any excuse which he might choose to invent—sickness, business engagements, or dissatisfaction with the mode in which the war was being conducted.

With the before-named dislike to being pained, Colonel Bancker had so far avoided all the painful sights of the war. He had not visited the wounded at the Park Barracks or in any of the hospitals—he had managed to see none of the maimed living and none of the glorious dead—he had even escaped the hungry wives of the soldiers, clamoring for their husbands' pay and the means to buy bread, along the crosswalks of the Park and at the entrances of the City Hall. So far he had escaped easily from what he most dreaded.

But within the last day or two a terrible disquiet had sprung up. The army was to be reinforced and a stringent conscription was talked of. Among the unpleasant rumors in circulation, was one that the Provost-Marshals were to be directed to arrest every man in officer's uniform found in the streets, and if he could exhibit no commission, force him to immediate service in the ranks! Here was a dilemma—a dilemma none the less for having two well-defined horns. His uniform was becoming dangerous, but how give it up? He was determined to win Emily Owen, and he had discovered that one of his strongest claims to the favor of her pig-headed father lay in the wearing of that very uniform and pretending to be a soldier. To give it up was to acknowledge that he had no intention of joining the army, and perhaps to lose all. No—he must stick to those dangerous insignia of war, at least until he had accomplished his grand purpose, and then—. But they made him uncomfortable—very uncomfortable.

It was under such circumstances that Captain Robert Slivers, of the Sickles Brigade, came under his notice that evening, and he was horrified to see what wrecks war really made of men. One eye gone—a face cut to pieces—crippled in one leg, one arm and one foot—good heavens! For the moment the fright of such a spectacle almost overcame every other consideration, and Emily Owen and all her material charms became secondary to the thought of being placed beyond the danger of becoming a thing like that!

To add to the Colonel's horror, Captain Slivers seemed to take a decided fancy to him, and edged along his chair, the best he could do in his crippled condition, until he had brought it into very close juxtaposition to that of the Colonel; while the four ladies, conversing together, formed a circle of their own a little in the background. It may be said, here, that Frank Wallace, even through his one green spectacle-glass, had seen and recognized the disgust and terror on the face of the Colonel, and that he had determined to dose him thoroughly with such flippant horrors as his fertile imagination could readily manufacture for the occasion, but such as no battle-field on earth has ever had much chance of witnessing.

Near as they had been brought together, and inviting as was the chance for conversation between two members of the same profession, the gallant Colonel did not seem disposed to enter upon it with so fearful an object as the Captain. The latter was obliged to commence the attack, after all.