John Smith was another who had served in the British army. He was a good soldier, an unpretending man, and the pertinacity with which he defended the government, (there are two parties in the army as well as here), his strong anti-slavery sentiments when nearly all were down on the poor negro, and the confidence he felt in the ultimate success of our cause, even in the darkest hours when the general opinion prevailed that we could never whip the South, might well put to shame many of his American comrades, who often seemed to lose in their desire for peace, the consciousness that it was theirs to dictate the terms to a beaten foe. The poor fellow has been taken prisoner—and is now in Dixie.
Smith had a brother who was nicknamed 'Ben-Doza.' 'Ben' was discharged in March, 1863, and I gave him a curious stick which I cut in one of the swamps to bring home for me. If this should meet his eye, I wish he would hasten to 'fork it over.'
But lest I should become tedious and uninteresting, I will drop the biographical and take up the chronological thread of my yarn, noticing the different individuals as they may be brought by circumstances into future scenes. It is true that in speaking of the mere rank and file of the army, I do not write of men known to fame. There is, indeed, little of romance connected with the private soldier—that peculiar species of flummery (which makes the heart of the dreamy damsel of sixteen flutter so) being, as it were by right divine, the speciality of the ideal mustached, lightning-eyed, and so forth young men of the shoulder straps. Those I write of principally occupy, many of them, the humblest (though the most useful) position in our grand army. It is such men who do the real fighting, and have to take and give the hardest knocks—and if a score of those brave hearts are laid low by the hand of war, it creates not half as much public sensation as the destruction of an old barn by fire, or the escape of a negro from rebeldom. Their biography is written by the orderly sergeant in a few words, and their requiem sung by the turkey-buzzard out on a foraging expedition. Their names, it is true, are on the rolls of fame; but who cares for these, except it be their immediate friends and relatives—and the clerks in the pension-bureau, who mayhap think it particularly unkind in privates A. B. or C. to die at all, and thus give them so much additional labor.
Two brothers, named Tibbetts, living about three miles beyond our outpost, lost some hogs and cattle in a very mysterious way, and came into our lines to inquire if we knew anything of them. Of course we didn't, and Billy Patterson's pots never told tales. I entered into conversation with one of the brothers, who appeared to be a civil sort of a man, and who invited me among others to visit his house, saying that he had plenty of eggs, &c., and could get up a very good dinner for us.
I remembered Tibbetts' invitation, and a few days after, accompanied by a companion, started out to see him. He lived in a miserable log cabin, about 20 feet square, without windows, having shutters to supply their place at night, which were opened in the day time to admit light and air. A field of about 25 acres surrounded the domicile, partly planted in corn and peas, with about three acres of sweet potatoes. And these, with a few pigs, and a small garden, constituted this family's whole 'visible means of support.' The family consisted of a sallow, bilious-looking wife (all women thereabouts, as well as men, look alike) and a half-dozen sallow, bilious-looking children. (Nearly all the natives of that level, swampy region are thin, and have a shaky appearance.)
I noticed, to my surprise, upon my first introduction to Madam Tibbetts, that a small stick protruded about two inches from her mouth, and that ever and anon she spat out what seemed marvellously like tobacco juice. I watched her movements for some time during our conversation, and I noticed that she occasionally removed the stick from her mouth, and, one end being made soft by chewing, dipped the same into a box of snuff, replaced it again, and ran it around her gums and teeth in the same manner as one would use a tooth-brush. I found that neither Tibbetts or his wife, nor his brother or sister (the latter a smiling old maid) who afterwards joined us, could read or write—in fact it was considered quite out of their line altogether, though they seemed to regret that their children could not have some education. They were a fair specimen of that class of settlers at the South known as 'poor whites.'
Being allowed, when off duty, a free range within the lines, our visits were made in all directions—sometimes (often, I confess) transgressing our orders, we went beyond, especially towards the abodes of the Messrs. Tibbetts—and we frequently stumbled upon a quiet household of 'poor whites,' who received us civilly, though by no means graciously. All of these were, however, strongly 'secesh' in feeling, having had their minds pretty thoroughly poisoned with the false tales told them by their late 'superiors' of Yankee injustice and cupidity.
In conversation with the elder Tibbetts, I learned that the honey-bees often selected the trunks of hollow trees in which to gather immense deposits of honey, and that in going up a creek lately he had discovered a tree, which he intended visiting some time. The idea of a 'bee hunt' was novel to me, and I determined to join him; and, a few days after, with a comrade, started for Tibbetts' house, who readily undertook to pilot us upon our saccharine expedition.
We were successful in getting a considerable amount of honey; but staid out so late that the officers became alarmed at our absence, thinking we were 'gobbled up' by the 'rebs,' and doubled the guard, served out extra ammunition, &c.,—and when we did come in at last, reprimanded us for staying out so long, and forbid any of the men going beyond the lines in future.
Time wore on. At first we expected a recall at the end of each week after our time had expired, but no such order came, and as the season was beginning to wear the sear and yellow leaf in its garments, and the indications of cold weather warned us that the time was at hand when