There was a large encampment in the open space across the railroad, and opposite the hotel. Lieutenant Pease, one of the boarders, had a telescope, which he would adjust properly for me and I would spend hours looking through it, watching the soldiers, as they performed their daily camp duties. I could see them cooking, washing and hanging their clothes to dry. Many times we have witnessed drill and dress parade from the veranda. Lieutenant Pease was a tall, dark, quiet gentleman, a great reader and a great friend of mine. The first copies of Frank Leslie’s Illustrated Magazine and Ballou’s Monthly I ever saw were given me by him, and I can yet recall some of the stories I read in them.
CORINTH WAR EAGLE
THERE was published in Corinth a paper called The Corinth War Eagle. Its editor and publisher was a patriotic young man from the North, whose name was Elbridge Dwight Fenn. I remember him distinctly, although I did not see him while at Corinth, but later on at Jackson, where he was largely in evidence. His name and handsome physique would have fitted him to figure as the hero in a two-volume novel. I saw him frequently at the City Hotel. He was full of life and spirits. I saw him one day dancing about the upper corridor with a looking glass under his arm, the lady boarders and chambermaids looking on in great glee. On the day of the expected battle, Fenn was seemingly everywhere. While a number of us were standing on the balcony at the Manassas viewing the troops as they stood in battle array, he came dashing up with a red sash tied about him from shoulder to waist, mounted on a coal-black horse. One of the ladies called to him, saying, “When are the rebels coming, Fenn?” Raising his arm high in air, he shouted, “Never!” and rode away as rapidly as he had come. We brought a copy of the War Eagle home with us, and after many years, when it was almost worn out, I cut the least worn articles from its columns, and they adorn the pages of my war scrapbook. The issue I have bears the date of September 18, 1862. There is a flag at the head of the editorial column, and the motto is, “Be just and fear not.”
Among the articles I have preserved is an account of a visit to the hospital, written by the editor himself; also complimentary references to the 17th and 7th Ill. regiments; Harmony Among Regimental Officers, Flag Presentation to the 17th Wisconsin, an Irish regiment, with speeches by the Chaplain and Captain. The paper also contains several poems.
THE SUTLERS
THE Sutler was an institution of the army. It is useless to describe him. Every old soldier knows him. There were two of “him” here, Patrick and Keene by name, who kept a store in a small room adjoining the hotel; in fact, it was built against it and a step from the veranda led into the store. How clear and familiar it all is to me today, the counter on one side of the room, the little stove and bench on the other. I made many visits to the little store and was always kindly received by its gentlemanly proprietors. Mr. Patrick wore a cap and always had it on whether indoors or out, and when not busy, mostly sat on the counter. On New Year’s Day, 1863, Mr. Keene gave me a pocket handkerchief. I have owned since then many dainty creations of lace and embroidery, called by courtesy handkerchiefs, but none that ever gave me such real pleasure as did that large square of coarse cotton cloth, with a border of blue stars all around it, and in each corner an eagle with shield and stars. But in coming home I left it on the train, much to my regret. While in Jackson we secured a 64-pound cannon ball which we were very anxious to bring home with us, but finding it impossible to do so my mother left it in care of Messrs. Patrick and Keene, expecting my father to send it another time, but after leaving Jackson he never returned, and thus we lost our much prized relic.
DAN
WHILE at the Tishomingo in Corinth we acquired a boy 17 years old, black and raw-boned. His name was Dan Weaver. I do not know how we got him, but having once gotten him we had him. Having learned that where we were he was always sure of something to eat, he was determined to stay with us. We took him to Jackson and he became a part of us. He made himself useful about the hotel, and assisted my mother in taking care of the baby. He would sit with her in his arms and sing by the hour, and sometimes in his earnestness the big tears would flow down his black, shiny cheeks. His favorite song was “Dixie” and over and over and again he would sing,
Away down south in the land of cotton,
Cinnamon seed and sandy bottom,