It is astonishing, my boy, how much ignorance there is in this world. Here was a sane human being who had attentively stood all through a meeting in aid of our sacred national cause, and yet did not know that it was a Union meeting.
Thursday was the day when I reached the head-quarters of the Mackerel Brigade, at the ancient city of Paris, arriving just in time to witness one of those strategic naval exploits which will yet cause the American name to be respected wherever there is nothing particular against it.
It appears, that after his last successful experiment with his patent swivel gun, that stanch old sea-dog, Rear Admiral Head, devoted much of his time on Duck Lake fishing for bass, believing that noble expanse of waters to be free from all obstructions and open to the commerce of the world. The commerce did not come, my boy; but several insidious Confederacies did; and as our glorious old son of Neptune always sat with his back to their side of the lake when fishing, they constructed a pier which extended from the shore to the main deck of the iron-plated Mackerel Squadron, the "Secretary Welles," and had planted seven villanous horse-pistols to command the Admiral's fish-basket and umbrella before our hoary old salt discovered that the war was still going on.
"Riddle my turret!" says the grim old Triton, in his iron-plated manner, "I believe a blockade is established; dent my plates if I don't."
Heartily did that pride of our Navy call up the culpably inattentive Mackerel crew, who were eating clams in the stern-sheets, and quickly was the gallant "Secretary Welles" withdrawn out of the range of the Confederacies' murderous fire; her swivel gun raking the atmosphere fore and aft, whilst the fearless old sea-dog sat down upon a reversed pail amidships, and addressed a letter breathing future vengeance to the unseemly Copperheads of the North. "Sink my Monitor!" says he hotly; "let them beware of the time when the Navy returns to its peaceful home!"
But it was on Thursday, my boy, that the Rear Admiral was to run the blockade of the Confederacies' pier, and Captain Villiam Brown, Captain Bob Shorty, and myself, stood upon the edge of Duck Lake, with our pieces of smoked glass in our hands, to behold this triumph of consummate naval strategy.
At the hour appointed, we beheld Rear Admiral Head and his Mackerel crew slipping over the stern of the Mackerel squadron into the water, and immediately the "Secretary Welles" commenced to float past the Confederacies' batteries with the tide. Onward she went, despite the plunging fire from the horse-pistols, and, presently, we could see her go safely ashore. Never shall I forget the beautiful glow of triumph that overspread the noble countenance of Rear Admiral Head, as he and his crew waded through the water to the place where we stood.
"Unrivet my armor!" says he, in his stern, iron-plated manner; "I call that running a blockade in good style."
"Yes," says I, sceptically; "but how are you going to get the squadron back again?"
"Eh?" says he, "what was that question, young man?"