TRAINING DAYS IN THE FORTIES AS TOLD BY AN “OLD BOY”
Contributed by Frederic Knapp
“I LIKE boys, the masters of the playground and of the street—boys, who have the same liberal ticket of admission to all shops, factories, armories, town-meetings, caucuses, mobs, target-shootings, as flies have; quite unsuspected, coming in as naturally as the janitor—known to have no money in their pockets, and themselves not suspecting the value of this poverty; putting nobody on his guard, but seeing the inside of the show—hearing all the asides. There are no secrets from them, they know everything that befalls in the fire company, the merits of every engine and every man at the brakes, and how to work it, and are swift to try their hand at every part; so, too, the merits of every locomotive on the rails, and will coax the engineer to let them ride with him and pull the handles when it goes to the engine-house. They are there only for fun, and not knowing that they are at school in the courthouse, or the cattle show, quite as much and more than they were, an hour ago, in the arithmetic class.”
Our Emerson was right: he knew boys. And at no place or time was the boy let loose to see and do, quite equal to the training days in the “Forties.” This was his day, when school didn’t count, when the schoolma’am or master wasn’t in it, the day long anticipated. When the morning broke he was no laggard, but the wise mother would not allow him to skip or hurry his breakfast, for she knew that when the day was done her laddie would be too fagged to eat. So, breakfast over, she ties the ribbon in his broad turn-down collar, and the father gives him two fippenny bits for all his own to spend as he pleases, and then they launch him forth with a “good time” for a blessing.
At the hill’s foot he meets his comrades, and, further down, more Johns and Jims and Sams and Bills, and then the fun begins. On the village Green things begin to take on a warlike aspect and the boys catch on to every movement and miss nothing; while the girls—pshaw! they ain’t in it to-day—keep in yards or on church steps. The darkey boys, as happy as any, begin to bring on the warlike steeds, which are praised or jeered as appearances demand. Presently there is a drum-beat on the big bass drum, and every boy scampers for the band, which consists of a fifer, a snare-drummer, and Charles Ford to beat the big bass drum. And he just could beat it like Sam Hill! I tell you, if the Britishers could have heard those fellows play, they would have got right off from Bunker Hill, you bet! Sure! they all admit. Now, at the upper part of “The Green,” a soldier in uniform appears, and soon another. It’s nine o’clock, and the first parade begins at ten. Soon they come in, in squads, until “The Green” seems to be covered with the mounts, after which the soldiers dismount and take things easy. Our boys are in and out amongst the horses, scooting, howling, criticising, or jeering, when an officer rides up and gives an order. This means business, and the small boy “gits,” nor does he “stand upon the order of his going, but goes at once,” and the soldiers hold the field. This is only preliminary work, however, a shaking down of the files preparatory to the reception of the Colonel and his staff in the afternoon. This over, the troops are off duty.
The soldiers take their ease as they please, some on “The Green,” but more over at the tavern, where the boys flock in amongst them, until the “barkeep” shouts to them, “Get out; there’s too many of you!” It’s lunch time, too, for the boys, who begin to mass around Aunty Thatcher’s gingerbread stand feeling about their jackets for the small coin. Whether they have any or not—it’s all the same. The boys are democratic and divide, paying just like grown-ups for what they buy with the coin of the realm. No line drawn to-day between the boy with money and the boy without, nor is the color line apparent. This cuts no ice with our boys. Here’s Dandy Lazarus, Fred Wilson (afterward sold into slavery), Joe Bassett, and Phil Jacklin. Black or white, the boys never think, or care; so long as the fippenny bits last, no boy goes hungry.
Then they stroll over and wash the gingerbread down with some of Jennings’ ginger pop, happy as lords. Simple pleasures these; but, as Josh Billings says, the boys then got more fun out of a quarter of a dollar than do boys now out of a five-dollar bill. The bugle sounds, and every boy is off, for now the Colonel takes command. This is the “crowner” of the day which no boy will miss. The troop is again in line, with sabres drawn to receive its Colonel. A shout from the boys, and down the line comes Colonel Starr with his staff. Hurrah! ain’t it great! It’s Napoleon, or Old Put, or Ethan Allen, or Lafayette over again! The Colonel is received and takes command. The small boy holds his breath, for now you’ll see how it’s done in battle. The Colonel gives his orders; by fours, by eights, they wheel, they turn, they go en masse—it’s wonderful how they do it! Golly gracious! At last they return to place, salute their Colonel, clang their sabres back into the scabbards, and are dismissed, and Training Day is over. Our lads return to their homes to relate to the fathers and mothers the excitements and perils of the day.
Well, my lads of the Forties, you had your fun; but, without knowing it, you learned much more than the pleasures of the day. You learned patriotism, you learned what it was to subject yourselves to obedience for the common good; what team work was, to work together, shoulder to shoulder, for the achievement of a common purpose. You learned self-control and discipline, which stood you in good stead later, on the real battlefield, and for which we, the living, honor you as you sleep in God’s acre, on each Memorial Day. And you also learned, without knowing it, what we older boys are slow to learn, that no man liveth to himself or dieth to himself, but that self-sacrifice, the greatest good to the greatest number, is the cornerstone of republics, the goal toward which the whole world is moving.
Lads of the “Forties,” I sing the “Sabre Song” to your honor, and may “Qui transtulit sustinet” be your sheet anchor and your motto!