The negro servant had been sent for a pail of water, and he now returned with it from the nearest farmhouse. The water was not cool enough to suit the captain, and he made the boy throw it out and go for some more. When Joe brought the second supply he received an artistic cursing because he could not bring it quickly enough to avoid a rise in its temperature. Between the bibulous officer and Joe, who was a good-natured fellow, we were provided with considerable amusement during the lunch hour.
During the next afternoon we reached a combined church and schoolhouse, called "Kasseder" by the natives, where was kept a courier station.
The corn which had been wasted in feeding the horses had attracted the hogs owned by the proprietor of the neighboring farmhouse, and they came within a short distance of us, when the captain called for a gun, which was handed to him by one of the guards. The aim of the half-drunken man was very uncertain, and, as the gun was pointed by him in the direction of the hogs, its muzzle swept over a space occupied by several guards and the prisoners, who scattered in a hurry as the threatening instrument swayed to and fro in a hesitating way, at which the officer dropped the gun and laughed boisterously, calling for Joe and his demijohn. Sitting in the door of the church, our inebriated leader interviewed his friend the demijohn, and then ordered Joe to "round up them d——d hogs and shoo them" in his direction, threatening to shoot the first hog that attempted to bite his wounded ankle. Joe laughingly obeyed.
Again partaking of some liquid refreshments, the captain took up the gun, following the hogs in their movements, with an uncertain aim, which again and again caused a scattering among us and much amusement to him. Finally the gun went off in an apparently accidental way, but the finest hog in the lot was killed, and we had roast pork for supper. The farmer did not learn of his loss until one of the guards was sent up to the house to report the death of the hog and ask for some salt. The guards being fearful of punishment for such foraging, the slayer of the animal sent word that we would pay for the hog, but Mr. Floyd, the owner, refused to receive pay, and he furnished the salt to make the pork palatable.
CHAPTER XII.
THE RETURN TO THE STOCKADE.
Our leader had been half sick when he left Boston, and he now became quite ill, soon becoming so much worse that we thought he would die. The drinks which had preceded the killing of the hog had been about the last left in the demijohn, and he had emptied it before the pig was dressed. The march in the intense heat, with the bad whiskey, seemed to have a bad effect, and the next morning we halted to see what the result would be. Seeing that the man would surely die if not relieved, I got permission to hunt up a wagon and take the captain to a doctor, who, as I learned by inquiry, lived a few miles away.
Most of the men were "down upon" their commander, and all were indifferent to his sufferings, simply doing what he asked of them, and that, for the most part, with reluctance.