A characteristic anecdote is told of General Sherman's coolness. ‘He had a pleasant way of riding up in full sight of the enemy's batteries accompanied by his staff. Here he held us while he criticised the manner in which the enemy got his guns ready to open on us. Presently a shell would whiz over our heads, followed by another somewhat nearer. Sherman would then quietly remark: “They are getting the range now; you had better scatter.” As a rule we did not wait for a second order.’ On one occasion Sherman sent out a strong party to reconnoitre, and Captain Hoffman asked permission to accompany them. It was given; and the general added: ‘By the way, captain, when you are over there, just ride up and draw their fire, and see where their guns are. They won't hit you.’ The order was obeyed, and Hoffman was not hit; but he does not recommend the experiment to his friends.
There are occasionally amenities in warfare, and imbittered as was the conflict between North and South, still some curious instances occurred. At the siege of Port Hudson the soldiers on both sides established a sort of entente cordiale. Growing weary of trying to pick each other off through loopholes, one would tie a white handkerchief to his bayonet and wave it above the parapet; and presently a similar signal would be made on the other side. This meant a truce; and in a moment the men would swarm out on both sides, and commence chaffing each other. After a while some one would cry out: ‘Get under cover now, Johnnie,’ or ‘Look out now, Yank; we are going to fire,’ when handkerchiefs would be lowered and hostilities recommence. No one dared to violate this tacit truce without notice; had any one done so, his comrades would have roughly handled him.
A striking instance is noted of the effect produced by the imagination when exalted by the excitement of battle. A staff-officer by Captain Hoffman's side dropped his bridle, threw up his arms, and said: ‘I am hit; my boot is full of blood.’ He was helped from his horse, and sent to the ambulance, the captain mentally wishing him farewell. Next day he appeared at headquarters as well as ever; he had been struck by a spent ball, which had broken the skin, but inflicted no serious injury. Captain Hoffman saw the same effect produced on another occasion. A man limped from the field supported by two others, and said his leg was broken. He was pale as death, and had the chaplain to read to him; but the surgeon was surprised to find no hole in his stocking, and cutting it off, nothing was discernible but a black-and-blue mark on the leg. Men notoriously brave may thus occasionally be imposed upon by their imagination.
Woman's wit, in the opinion of Colonel Hoffman, played an important part at times in the conflict, the ‘rebels’ gaining many an advantage over the Northern men by its influence. ‘In such matters,’ he remarks, ‘one woman is worth a wilderness of men. I recollect one day we sent a steam-boat full of rebel officers (exchanged prisoners) into the Confederacy. They were generally accompanied by their wives and children. Our officers noticed the most extraordinary number of dolls on board—every child had a doll—but they had no suspicions. A lady told me afterwards that every doll was filled with quinine; the sawdust was taken out, and quinine substituted. Depend upon it that female wit devised that trick.’
Woman's ingenuity also displayed itself in other ways. A bag of intercepted letters from the Confederate side gave an instance. A Southern young lady, writing to her brother-in-law in Mobile, narrated how she had successfully played a trick upon a Boston newspaper, compelling it to unwittingly belaud its foes. She sent them a poem called The Gypsy's Wassail, the original in Sanscrit, with a translation in English, expressing every patriotic and loyal sentiment. The ‘Sanscrit’ was simply English written backward, and properly adjusted, read as follows:
God bless our brave Confederates, Lord!
Lee, Johnson, Smith, and Beauregard!
Help Jackson, Smith, and Johnson Joe
To give them fits in Dixie, oh!
The Wassail was published with a compliment to the ‘talented contributor;’ but in a few days the trick was discovered and exposed.
We pass on to the writer's European recollections. He received his appointment to the Legation at Paris in 1866, when the imperial court was at the height of its splendour. The Emperor, when he designed to be, was always happy in his reception of diplomates, and the formal introductory speeches were followed by informal conversations. He liked to ventilate his English, but could not speak the language perfectly. To an American officer (Colonel Hay) he observed, for instance: ‘You have made ze war in ze United States?’ (Vous avez fait la guerre?)—meaning, ‘Did you serve?’ The colonel was strongly tempted to tell his Majesty it was not he made the war, but Jeff. Davis. The Empress spoke English not so fluently as the Emperor, but with less accent. American ladies were always well received by her, and her balls were sometimes called by the envious bals américains. If the Embassy desired one or two presentations beyond the usual number, the inquiry was generally made: ‘Is it a young and pretty woman?’ and if it were, there was no difficulty, for the Empress was pleased to have her balls set off by beautiful and well-dressed women.
Comparison is favourable we are told, in American eyes, to British over the French imperial display on a very important occasion—the opening of parliament by the sovereign, as contrasted with that of the Corps Législatif. The spectacle in this country bears the palm, says Colonel Hoffman, both in splendour and interest. Her Majesty's demeanour is much admired. ‘Short and stout as is the Queen, she has the most graceful and stately walk perhaps in Europe. It is a treat to see her move.’ The Empress of the French, however, created great enthusiasm on these occasions. ‘Her beauty, her grace, and her stately bearing carried the enthusiasm to its height. You would have sworn that every man there was ready to die for his sovereign. Within less than four years she sought in vain for one of them to stand by her in her hour of danger.’
In the year of the last Paris Exhibition (1867), Napoleon III. entertained in his capital the Emperor of Russia and the King of Prussia, the latter accompanied by Bismarck and Moltke. Sixty thousand men passed before the sovereigns in review, and it was on the return from the spectacle that the Emperor Alexander was shot at by a Pole. The ball struck the horse of one of the equerries, and blood spurted from the animal upon the Emperor's second son, who was with him in the carriage. It was reported that the Emperor of the French turned to his imperial guest and said: ‘Sire, we have been under fire together for the first time to-day.’ To which the Emperor replied with much solemnity of manner: ‘Sire, we are in the hands of Providence.’ That evening the writer saw the Russian Emperor at a ball at his own Embassy, not more than two hundred persons being present. He looked pale and distrait, and Madame Haussmann, wife of the celebrated baron, was trying, but without much tact, to make conversation with him. ‘He looked over her head, as if he did not see her, and finally turned upon his heel and left her. It was not perhaps polite, but it was very natural. The Emperor and Empress of the French made extraordinary exertions to enliven the ball; but there was a perceptible oppression in the air.’ The would-be assassin was not condemned to death, the jury finding ‘extenuating circumstances.’