It might be well to mention here that Sam is the privileged character of the Third Infantry. It has been explained elsewhere how Colonel Elliott discovered the old man enjoying his well-earned otium cum dig. in the Soldiers’ Home, down at Old Point. It also has been told how, by a risky bit of work, back in ’64, he won the Medal of Honor which he wears upon the breast of his dress-coat. To be sure, he guesses, “Bein’ nothin’ but copper, ’taint worth much”—but by the rest of the Old Regiment it is held at a somewhat higher valuation.
Now, the customs of The Third do not tend to encourage the spinning of yarns by enlisted men in officers’ quarters, but to this well-established rule there is one exception. That exception is made in favor of Sam. And since his webs of fact and fancy are woven, for the most part, after darkness has descended upon the face of the earth, the breach of service etiquette is not sufficiently evident to be demoralizing. All of which is explanatory.
The adjutant stepped back into the depths of his tent, and presently returned with a fistful of cigars and an extra camp-stool. “Set ye, Sam,” said he, appropriating one of the veteran’s pet idioms. “Set ye, and lend a hand at smudging out mosquitoes.”
The old orderly borrowed a light from the lieutenant-colonel, and seated himself, with his elbows resting upon his knees and his hands comfortably clasped before him. “I’ve bin a-thinkin’,” said he, “how this milishy business has changed since I was a boy. Never happened to see an ol’-fashioned muster, did ye? Nat’rally not. Ah, them was the days o’ plumes an’ swords, an’ gingerbread an’ rum, an’ genuine patriotism!”
The adjutant, forgetting the darkness, winked at the lieutenant-colonel. Wentworth rose, stepped outside for a final survey of the sleeping-camp, and then returned to his place. “There were giants in those days, eh?” he said, turning up the collar of his great-coat.
“Yes, ther’ was,” said Sam, impressively, “ther’ was indeed. An’ giant-killers, too. Ol’ Col’n’l Leatherbee was a giant. You’d oughter seen him! Six-foot-two, he was. My land! he was a rare sight when he was in his milishy togs, with his boots an’ spurs, an’ his buff breeches, an’ his blue coat with buff facin’s, an’ his flamin’ red sash, an’ his terruble long sword, an’ his high shako, with the wavin’ plume a-top an’ the soarin’ brass eagle on the front of it.” Sam paused for lack of breath.
“An’ Maj’r Otis Prouty was another giant,” he continued. “I’ve told ye how the Maj’r trounced ol’ Col’n’l Leatherbee, up to Lond’nderry muster. No? Oh, that was a tremenjous battle,” he chuckled softly to himself, “a tremenjous battle while it lasted.”
“So?” queried the adjutant. “Was it the custom for junior field-officers to thump their chiefs?”
“Gen’rally, no,” said Sam. “As a rule ’twa’nt a safe undertakin’, ’cause the men that rose up to be col’n’ls was men that run’d to pritty large sizes. Ol’ Leatherbee was a man o’ consid’able breadth an’ heft. But he was some lackin’ in sperrit. O-ho! he cert’nly was lackin’ o’ gimp. An’ the time when Otis Prouty tipped him over was only one o’ two times that he was downed with all four p’ints a-touchin’. For ther’ was another time ’sides that ’un.” And here the old gunner again laughed softly over some remembrance.
“I guess I’ll have to tell ye. ’Twas like this: the ol’ Col’n’l, a’ter runnin’ in single harness for nigh onto fifty year, had to go an’ git himself married. Not that ’twa’n’t right for him to do’t; the Scriptures has established the principle that ’taint well for man to be alone. Only, mistakes sometimes happens. An’ Col’n’l Leatherbee added one more mistake to the list when he went an’ had himself mattermonially yoked with Tildy Pettus. By doin’ which he shown the beauty o’ the tex’ which states that fools goes a-rushin’ in where angels is ’fraid o’ bein’ entertained unawares.