"Aw, what the hell are you getting at? Don't try any of that on me or I'll have you up for office," I threatened.
He didn't seem to be getting anywhere in his efforts to find out the guilty ones, so he did the next best thing.
"Sergeant Grant, take six of your men and put that 'ouse back." There was nothing for it but to obey, but I made a mental resolve he would never sleep in that shack that night at least. We took hold all together and lifted it up, and on the way over I purposely stumbled in such a way that the mansion of Hambone fell on one corner and with the fall it came tumbling to pieces.
Our arch-enemy composed himself to sleep that night in the guard room, as none of us would give him room in our quarters, and it so happened that Gunboat Stevens was in the clink at the time for having called him "Hambone." They occupied the same room, his bed immediately opposite the First Sergeant's, with just a foot or two of space between the bottom of each bed. As may be imagined, no kindly good nights passed between the two.
Now Davis had just been over from England but a short time and was comparatively clean in his person, while Stevens was lousy, and to complete the diabolism of the revenge, Gunboat, instead of throwing his shirt on the floor as he usually did, watched his opportunity and when he heard a snore from Hambone that had no camouflage in it, he slipped his shirt in at the head of the bed where our official tormentor reposed.
Our glee was positively fiendish next day when watching Hambone wriggling uneasily in his clothes at parade. Gunboat had sent us an underground message telling us what he did, and we did not fail to recognize the symptoms at once; every moment he got a chance he was scratching himself; and as soon as he had the opportunity he made for the nearest tree and, rubbing his back violently against it, almost wore a hole in his coat. Miserable were his moments throughout that day. "'Ow in 'ell can a man fight an' scratch at the same time!" he would snort.
There was no let up to his officiousness, however; his damnable orders were as numerous as before; so we concluded to hatch a scheme that would most effectively put him on the blink, and the opportunity occurred the very next night. Hambone was detailed to proceed to the guns, to relieve the Sergeant-Major there, and it was his duty to take charge of the supply wagon that carried the supplies for the men there, and by chance there was among the rations this time a jar of rum. Accompanying Hambone were Snow and Reynolds of our section, they sitting in the back end of the wagon. They had barely started when Snow discovered the rum jar, and he and Reynolds at once got their wits working as to how they could get away with it. When about half-way there, Hambone, to stretch his legs, got off the wagon and walked alongside, and Snow instantly whispered to Reynolds, "get off and walk with him and tell him you hear a shell coming." Reynolds did as directed and Hambone ducked for cover and the wagon stood stock still. No sooner was the First Sergeant's back turned than Reynolds threw the jar into the ditch.
A minute or two elapsed and no explosion taking place, Hambone rejoined the wagon and the party proceeded. Then Snow slipped off the back and went back for the jar, but instead of going up the road, he took the railroad track, beating the wagon by some minutes and hiding his jar of joy in my gun pit, immediately got back and was standing beside the wagon when it arrived. Hambone seeing him there hadn't the remotest idea that he had hopped off at any time, and supposed that he had ridden the entire way with them. Snow gave Reynolds the wink and he knew the prize was safe.
The first thing Hambone did was to go to the back of the wagon for the jar. It was gone! He searched wildly about for a moment, asking first one and then the other what had become of it, and Snow volunteered the opinion that probably it had dropped off when the wagon lurched that time he thought the shell was coming. There was nothing for it but to report his loss, and the only excuse he could give was that the rum had probably rolled off when they trotted at a coming shell, and what the officer didn't say to Hambone for trotting, which was a violation of orders, would not be worth repeating. He bellowed at him to go and search for it, and with wicked delight we watched the duffer going back over the route, peering from side to side of the road in his vain search.
The journey was a nine-mile trot and he covered more than half the distance, endeavoring to find the precious container, and when he came back in a couple of hours without it, the poor devil thought he was going to be licked, such was the anger of the men at missing their rum rations, because they sorely needed it; none but those who have been there can and do appreciate how sorely it is needed in that region of the world.