Читать книгу Sketches in Prison Camps: A Continuation of Sketches of the War - Charles C. Nott - Страница 4

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“There come the tug-boats, Colonel,” says an officer, as I stand on the deck of the “Alice Counce,” waiting for my regiment. I am a stranger to it, and only assume command to-day. From the East river come the boats, laden as many other boats have been, with a dark swarm of men, who cover the deck and hang upon the bulwarks.

The boats come alongside and throw their lines to the ship, and then rises a concord of those sounds that generally start with a new regiment.

“Attention! Officers and men will remain on board the boats till ordered aboard the ship. Captains of A and F will march their companies aboard and conduct them to their quarters. The bunks of each are marked with their Company letter.”

The hubbub ends, and the companies climb successively aboard, and stumble down into the dark hold, where, cold and clammy from recent scrubbings, are certain rough bunks, each so contrived as thoroughly to make four men unhappy. Unhappy! for the bunks are three tiers thick between decks, leaving no room wherein to sit up and be sick—and four men in one bed never did and never will lie still. Those who have never been to sea before, dream not of what awaits them!

Yet the men surprise me with the great good humor in which they seek out and take possession of their dark quarters. On one side, beginning at the sternmost bulkhead, Co. “A,” with the aid of dingy ship-lanterns, stows away the baggage, and next to it is “F,” at the same work. This order of the companies has a reason; for in line of battle, they are assorted in pairs, called “divisions,” so that each division shall contain one of the five senior and one of the five junior captains. In camp too they occupy the same places as in line of battle, and hence this is the proper guide for assigning quarters on ship board. Beginning on one side at the extreme stern with “A,” we run round the ship until at the extreme stern on the opposite side we finish with “B.” There is some difference in the comfort of the bunks; somebody must have the worst, and it is very desirable that this somebody shall blame for it only his own bad luck.

“Shall we weigh anchor soon, Captain?”

“Can’t tell, sir. No wind now. Looks as though a fog were coming down. Can’t sail till we’ve a wind.”

“Colonel,” says one of the Captains, “my first-lieutenant has not been out of camp for six weeks. If you will let him go ashore, I shall be much obliged.”

“I cannot, Captain; the ship is ordered to sail immediately. While this is possible, no officer can leave.”

“Colonel,” says another, “Lieutenant A., of my company, learnt last evening that his mother is quite ill. “Will you approve this pass?”

“I am sorry to say, Captain, that no officer can leave the ship. We are under sailing orders—the pilot is on board—the tug within hail, and we shall weigh anchor whenever the wind freshens.”

“It is really very hard.”

“Very!”

“Colonel,” says a third, “my first-sergeant’s wife is very ill. I told him that he could go back and see her, and get his things this morning. If you will approve this pass, I shall be very much obliged.”

“He must send for his things. We are under sailing orders. No one can leave the ship.”

“The poor fellow promised her that he would certainly be back to-day. It was the only way he could make her consent to his coming. He is a most faithful fellow.”

“Mate, do you think we can possibly sail to-night?”

“No, sir; fog won’t rise afore midnight. Pilot’s gone ashore.”

“Then, Captain, let your sergeant take this dispatch to head-quarters, and report on board at daylight.”

The fog grows denser and denser—the rain comes down; such dreary refusals and disappointments have filled the day. The cabin will not hold half the officers. Nothing is settled—all is dirt, disorder and confusion. Oh, what a wretched, moody, miserable day!

A week of such days passes, but at last the fresh west wind blows keen and cold. A little tug comes out from among the piers, and seizing the great vessel, leads her towards the Narrows, and the regiment at last is moving to New Orleans.

“I shall be glad,” says a young lieutenant, flushed with the thought of setting forth on his first campaign, “I shall be glad when we are out of sight of New York.”

“You’ll be gladder when you come in sight of it again.”

“Perhaps I shall,” he says, with a laugh; “but after all our working and waiting, it’s delightful to be off at last.”

I stand on the deck watching the sinking city and the lessening shores, as many have done before me, while gliding down the beautiful bay, until they grow dim in the distance, and then turn away, to think of inspections, rations, fires, and sea-sickness.

The first night has passed without incident or accident, extinguishing the excitement of our sailing and leaving us to wake up quietly for our first day at sea. Not “quietly,” for twenty drummer boys, without the faintest sign of sea-sickness, rattled out a reveille that frightened the rats from their holes, and brought the sleeping watch from the forecastle, and disturbed every sailor and sleeper in the ship. It left us wide awake, and ready for the routine and duties of the day.

Breakfast!—Breakfast is no easy thing to get in a transport ship. All night long two gangs of cooks have been at work, and there are fears and whispers that with all their efforts, the breakfast will run short. Very aggravating is it to wait for breakfast in this cold sea air, with nothing else to think of, and your thoughts quickened (if you are among the last) by the fear that there is not enough to go round. A serious business, too, it is to deal it out, requiring more than an hour of hungry moments. The companies form in files, and on each side of the ship approach the caboose. A mug and plate are thrust through a hole. In a moment, filled with a junk of pork, three “hard-tack,” and a pint of pale coffee, they are thrust back. The hungry owner seizes them and hurries away to some quiet spot, where he can unclasp his knife and fork, and cool his coffee to his liking. The long files of the unfed, one by one, creep slowly up to the greasy dispensary. The first company of the occasion ironically congratulates the last, the last ironically condoles with the first. They take turn about. Company A is first at breakfast to-day; second at lunch; third at supper; to-morrow it will be fourth, and thus it will keep on until at length it reaches the agonizing state of being last!

Water!—The water is the next annoyance of the morning. The men are brought up on the upper deck. On the lower one is a pump connected by a hose, with the water casks below. The mate, on behalf of the ship, and an officer, on behalf of the regiment, deal out the water. Two men from every squad, each with a load of canteens hung around his neck, come forward and fill them from the tub—a slow and mussy piece of work.

Inspection.—“The water is dealt out, Colonel,” says the Officer of the Day. “Will you inspect the quarters?”

The assembly beats, and the men again crowd the upper deck. Armed with a lantern, I grasp a slippery ladder, and go down into the dark, “between decks.” It is very still and almost empty there, much like a gloomy cave. The companies have been divided into four squads, and a sergeant and two corporals have charge of the quarters of each.

I begin with the first and poke the lantern up into the upper tier, over into the middle tier, down into the lower tier. Blankets out—knapsacks at the head—nothing lying loose. No crumbs betraying hard-tack smuggled in; the deck scrubbed clean. “Very good, Sergeant. Your quarters do you credit.” The next, a blanket not out—half a hard-tack in the upper tier, the crumbs scattered over the lower—the deck dingy with loathsome tobacco. “Look at this, and this, and this, Sergeant. Yours are the only dirty quarters in the ship.”

“Don’t you think the quarters pretty good on the whole, Colonel?” asks the Officer of the Day.

“Very good, Captain. If we except that sergeant’s, there is really nothing to find fault with.” And thus ends the first inspection.

“If the rebels hadn’t ha’ destroyed the light-house,” remarks my friend the first mate, as he looks with his glass toward Hampton Roads, “we could ha’ run right straight in last night, but seeing that the ship is light in ballast, and a good many souls aboard, why, it wasn’t safe.”

“So they destroyed the Cape Henry light, did they?”

“Yes indeed, they did, and it does seem to me that of all they’ve done that ought to ha’ set the hull civilized world against them, it’s the worst. Just think now how many a fine vessel must ha’ gone aground there, and never be got off again, just for want of the light; why, it does seem to me that it’s worse than a shooting women and children; at any rate, it’s just the same.”

“There comes the pilot-boat, and she has her signal set,” says some one.

Far up the Chesapeake the pilot-boat is seen, a small flag fluttering from her mast head. She comes straight as an arrow, like a greyhound rushing down upon us in his play. How beautifully she bounds along, looking as she mounts the waves as if she would leap from the water. The yards are backed and the ship stops and waits for the little craft. The pilot-boat circles round her, and coming into the wind, seems to settle down like a dog resting from his sport. A little cockle shell of a boat puts off, pulled by two black oarsmen, who buffet and dodge the waves, and make their way slowly against the wind toward the ship. There is much curiosity to see this Virginian pilot, and all hands crowd forward as he comes up the side. The Captain alone has not moved to meet him. He stands dignifiedly on the poop deck, his glass beneath his arm. The pilot does not ask for him, or pause or look around; he evidently knows the very spot on which the Captain stands. He bows to the crowd around him, pushes his way through, and mounts to the deck. He walks up to the Captain, and they shake hands. The Captain hands him his glass: the pilot takes it: it is the emblem of authority, and the Captain no longer commands the ship.

The pilot raises the glass and looks sharply in one direction; he takes a turn or two up and down the deck, and looks attentively in another. I am convinced that he knows as well where we are as I should, were I standing on the steps of the City Hall. All this looking is evidently done to impress beholders with the difficulty of being a pilot. “How does she head?” says the pilot. “Due west,” says the man at the wheel. “Keep her west by sou’ half sou’,” says the pilot. “Wes’ by sou’ half sou’,” responds the man at the wheel. “Set your jib, sir,” says the pilot to the Capt. “Set the jib, Mr. Small,” says the Captain to the first mate. “Set the jib, Mr. Green,” says the first mate to the second mate. “All hands man the jib halyards,” says the second mate. “Aye, aye, sir,” respond the sailors, and the soldiers look quite sober at finding themselves all of a sudden in so difficult and maybe dangerous a channel. Meanwhile the black oarsmen pull back to where the pilot-boat still lies at rest. The touch of the cockle shell upon her side startles her again into life. She shakes her white wings, and turning, bounds off toward another ship, whose sails are slowly rising from the waves far off toward the east.

What we have come to Fortress Monroe for no one can tell. In spite of a decisive order to sail forthwith for New Orleans, the wind refuses to blow. Another weary week of calm and fog intervenes. The Captain laments and growls, and says if we had kept on with that breeze, we could have been at the Hole-in-the-wall, and maybe at Abicum-light; but now there’s no telling when the wind will set in from the west—he’s known it set this way at this season for three weeks. The officers and men repeat the growls and lamentations, and fail not to ask me five hundred times a day what we have come to Fortress Monroe for.

The week of waiting ends, and a westerly wind assures us that we may start. “We must have a tug to tow us down,” says the Captain. “And we must have the water-boat along side,” says the mate. A boat load of officers and soldiers go ashore to make their last purchases. I wait on the dock and watch the water-boat as it puts off, and listen to the “yo he yo” on the “Alice Counce” and “Emily Sturges,” which tells me that their anchors are coming up.

The tug took us down—the pilot left us much as before, and we are now out at sea. The “Emily” led us by half an hour, and all day long was in sight, sailing closer to the wind and standing closer on the coast. As the evening closed in, we cast many jealous glances toward her, and asked each other which ship would be ahead in the morning.

The second day was a gloomy, wintry day, with a rising wind, and constantly increasing sea; and the second night out I felt the motion grow and grow, but thought it rather pleasant, and had no fears of evil consequences. I rose with the reveille, which seemed fainter than usual, steadied myself out of the cabin, and still knew no fear. I reached the deck and found that but four drummer boys rub-a-dubbed, and but few men had come up from below. I mounted to the poop deck, and there I found three lieutenants. There was something unusual about them. Two sat very still braced against a spar, while the third staggered violently up and down with a pale, in fact a ghastly face, and kept saying in a jolly manner to himself, “How are you, ship? how are you, o—oh—shun?”

“This is very strange,” thought I. “But perhaps they’re ill. I’ll ask them.”

“Gentlemen, are you sick—sea-sick?”

“Sick? oh no!”

Nobody was sick, so I turned and looked down on the main deck. The reveille had ended, yet the number on deck had not increased. A sergeant with five or six men in line was calling his roll in a loud voice, at which he and half his men repeatedly laughed, as though absence from roll-call was a capital joke.

It is usual for an officer from each company to come up to me immediately after the morning roll-call, and report the state of his company, “all present or accounted for,” or so many present and so many absent and not accounted for. I am somewhat strict about it, yet on this morning only one or two reported. I thought this negligence strange—unaccountable—yet for some reason or other, I did not go down and ascertain the cause of it. I turned toward the east. The sun was near his rising, and the crimson light filled the sky and tinged the white foam of the tossing waves. It was a splendid sight, and brought to mind one of the finest sea pieces of the Dusseldorf. I stood watching the wide expanse of heaving billows—the cloud-spotted sky under-lit with rays of the coming sun—the unnumbered waves breaking in long rolls of foam, silvered and gilded by the glowing east. I was lost in admiration, when I suddenly felt—sick! I made brave attempts to keep myself up—to weather it out—to stay on my legs—to stay on deck—to do something—to do anything. In vain!

That day the wind increased and blew a gale. Through the long hours of the afternoon the vessel plunged and tossed. Furniture broke loose and slid backward and forward across the cabin. The steward looked in, seized the vagrant pieces, and lashed them fast. Stragglers steadied themselves from door to table and from table to sofa, to say that all the others were down—that they began to feel a little qualmish, and that affairs were growing serious. Toward midnight there was a tremendous shock—the ship staggered and stood still, as though she had struck upon a rock; in an instant more the door of the forward cabin was burst open with a crash, and in another the water broke through the sky-light over my head, and poured, a torrent, on the cabin floor. To the men between decks it seemed a shipwreck. Yet there were not wanting a few heartless wretches, who, neither sea-sick nor frightened, made sport of all the others. “The ship’s struck a breaker,” roared one of these from his bunk. “All frightened men roll out and put on their boots to sink in.” “Struck,” “breakers,” “sinking,” sounded around, and several hundred men rolled out in the darkness, and frantically tried to put on their boots. With the next roll, away all hands went. Some caught at the bunks—some clutched each other—the penitent prayed—the wicked swore—the frightened blubbered—the sick and philosophical lay still. In the midst of the sliding, the scramble and the din, a voice rose from another bunk, “Captains”—it thundered in the style of a Colonel on drill—“rectify the alignment.” And the jokers added to the din their loud laughs of derision.

A little later the mate came in—a large, stalwart sailor, seeming a giant in his oilskins and sou’wester. He carefully closed the door, stepped lightly across the cabin floor, ceremoniously removed his hat, and looking into the darkness of the captain’s state-room, said in the most apologetic of tones, “Captain Singer, I’m really afraid the mast will go, if we don’t ease her a point. It works very bad, and the wind’s rising.”

The Captain considered slowly and said, “Ease her.”

The mate said politely, “Yes, sir,” and then backed across the cabin lightly on tip toe, hat in hand, opened the door slowly and noiselessly, and then, without replacing his hat, slipped out into the storm.

The long night wore away and was followed by a longer day. The ship tossed and plunged, rising as though she were mounting from the water to the sky, and then sinking as though she would never stop. At last the gale blew itself out, and then came a calm, when the ship lay like a log on the water, rolling ceaselessly from side to side, and creaked and groaned with every toss and roll. But now there is a cry of land, and the sick drag themselves to the deck and look toward a rocky island of the Bahama group, which is the “land.” How beautiful it seems, hung there on the horizon between the shifting clouds and tossing sea! The breeze is fair, the sea not rough, and we soon draw nearer to this land. On the farther end rises the snowy tower of the light-house, and beside it stands the house of the keeper. No other house, nor field, nor tree, nor blade of grass adorns this huge bare rock. The waves have worn grooves on the steep sides, and up these the water dashes, and runs down in white moving columns. Abreast of us is a strange opening in the wall-like rock, which has given to the island its name of “Hole-in-the-wall.” The spy-glasses disclose a man, a woman, and some children, looking toward the ship. Once in three months the supply ship will visit them, bringing their food, their clothing, their water and the oil: once or twice a year, when the sea is calm and the wind has fallen, the keeper may row out to some ship to beg for newspapers; more often they may gaze, as they are gazing now, at passing vessels; and thus, with such rare intervals, they pass their lonely life, cut off and isolated from all mankind.

The warm temperature and rich blue color of the water tell us that we are in the Gulf Stream. As I lie upon the deck looking upon the mysterious current, a slender bird, eight or ten inches long, shining like silver, flits through the air. “Did you see that bird?” asks more than one voice. “Was it a bird?” “Yes, it flew like one.” “No, it came out of the water and went back there.”

“It’s a flying-fish, gentlemen,” says the mate; “you’ll see plenty of them soon.”

A more beautiful, fairy-like sight than these flying-fish present, I have seldom seen. A delicate creature, bright and silvery, and often beautifully tinged with blue, emerges from the water, and soars just above the waves in a long, graceful, bird-like flight, until striking against the summit of some wave that lifts its white cap higher than the rest, it disappears.

This is called a pleasant voyage from Hole-in-the-wall. We watch the flying-fish, catch Portuguese men-of-war, and bathe in the warm water of the stream, until there appears before us what some at first thought a mud bank, but which now proves to be another ocean of muddy water.

“It is the Mississippi,” says the Captain. “The river must be up, for we’re a hundred miles good from the Sou’west Pass. There’ll be trouble in crossing the bar; when the river’s up the water’s down.”

As we draw nearer, the contrast between the two oceans grows more plain. The line is as distinct as that between land and water on a map. Now the bow of the vessel reaches it—now the line is a midship—now I look down upon it, and now the ship floats wholly in the water of the Mississippi.

The muddy sea has raised a ferment of excitement, and many, who have all faith in the ship’s reckoning, still look forward as though they could look through the hundred miles before us, and see the wished-for land. Night closes, however, leaving us surrounded by the same muddy waves; but we turn in, with the strong assurance that to-morrow we shall make the Pass.

Land! But hidden under low fogs, that, I am told, brood over this delta of the Mississippi. From the crosstrees can be seen one or two steam-tugs, vessels at anchor, and distant salt marshes; but from the deck we peer about in all directions, and see nothing in the fog. A pilot moves the ship up to her anchorage. We are to wait perhaps only the moving of the tugs—perhaps the falling of the river; the river is up, and as was foretold by the Captain, the water is down.

The explanation of this paradox is simple. The water on the bar is ocean water, though discolored by the river. Its height is always a tidal height, that is, it rises with the tide, not with the river. The freshets, while they do not add to the height of the water, nevertheless bring down large quantities of mud, which settles on the bar, and thus builds up the bottom without raising the surface of the water. The pilots measure from the bottom, and finding it nearer the surface than it was, say that the water has fallen, when in fact it is the bottom that has risen. Then come the tides and wash away the loose mud upon the bar, and thus the water deepens while the river falls.

We are again at anchor; a tug is heard in the fog, and all turn anxiously toward it. The Captain of the tug hails the Captain of the ship, and demands what water she draws.

“Sixteen feet and a half,” is the answer. “Will that do?”

The Captain of the tug says it is doubtful—they are going down to tug another ship that draws fifteen and a half, and if they get her over, they will tug us at the next flood-tide.

That ship is the transport “William Woodbury.” She comes down gallantly, the soldiers crowding her bulwarks, two powerful tugs puffing at her sides, and every sail set. We watch her with anxiety. She passes a buoy that we think marks the bar, and all seems well. The mate says he “don’t know but akind of believes she’s over.” As he speaks, she swings round, stops, and sticks fast. The steam-tugs pull her backward and forward and sidewise, and at last over the bar; she disappears in the fog beyond, and we await with fresh anxiety the flood-tide of the afternoon.

These tugs have one strange appendage in the form of a ladder as high as the smoke-pipe; on the top of this is a chair, and in this chair is a man. It is the pilot who thus looks over the low fogs of the Pass. From this high place we hear the voice of one, toward evening, and soon two tugs come down to try their strength in dragging our ship through two feet of mud. The heaviest hawser is out on deck and an end run over either side to the stubborn little tug that lies there. The anchor is tripped, a sail or two set, and with good headway, we approach the bar. Suddenly every one who is on his legs takes an unexpected step forward—the hawser parts—the tugs break loose—and we are hard aground. But the tugs do not give it up. They reattach themselves and drag us, after many efforts, out of the mud and back to where we started.

We approach the bar again cautiously; but again we feel the vessel grounding, and again she stands still. The tugs tug away as though striving to drag us through by main strength, and many declare that we are moving slowly. A neighboring buoy, however, stays close beside us, and after half an hour’s hard work, shows that we have not moved a foot. Still the tugs tug as obstinately as ever. They drag us back and try afresh—now to the right—now to the left—panting, puffing and blowing. The pilots sit enveloped in clouds of black coal smoke, and shout, and scream. At last, with the last rays of daylight, and the last swelling of the tide, and the last strands of the hawser, and at the moment when all efforts must cease, we are dragged across the bar, and enter the Mississippi.