Читать книгу The Orpheus C. Kerr Papers, Series 2 - R. H. Newell - Страница 10

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SETTING FORTH A NEW VILLAINY OF THE INSIDIOUS BLACK REPUBLICANS, AND DESCRIBING THE THRILLING CONSTITUTIONAL BATTLE OF DUCK LAKE.

Washington, D. C., July 12th, 1862.

Owing to the persistent stupidity of Congress and the hideously-treasonable machinations of the unscrupulous black republicans, my boy, the weather still continues very hot; and unless the thermometer falls very soon, an exhausted populace will demand an immediate change in the Cabinet. I am very warm, my boy—I am very warm; and when I reflect upon the agency of the abolitionists, who have brought this sort of thing about for the express purpose of injuring my Constitution, I am impelled to ask myself: Did our revolutionary forefathers indeed expire in vain? O my country! my country! it is very warm.

Such weather, my boy, is particularly trying to Sergeant O'Pake's friend,

THE IRISH PICKET.

I'm shtanding in the mud, Biddy,

With not a spalpeen near,

And silence, spaichless as the grave,

Is all the sound I hear.

Me gun is at a showlder arms,

I'm wetted to the bone,

And whin I'm afther shpakin' out,

I find meself alone.

This Southern climate's quare, Biddy,

A quare and bastely thing,

Wid Winter absint all the year,

And Summer in the Spring.

Ye mind the hot place down below?

And may ye niver fear

I'd dhraw comparisons—but then

It's awful warrum here.

The only moon I see, Biddy,

Is one shmall star, asthore,

And that's fornint the very cloud

It was behind before;

The watchfires glame along the hill

That's swellin' to the south,

And whin the sentry passes them

I see his oogly mouth.

It's dead for shlape I am, Biddy,

And dramein shwate I'd be,

If them ould rebels over there

Would only lave me free;

But when I lane against a shtump

And shtrive to get repose,

A musket ball he's comin' shtraight

To hit me spacious nose.

It's ye I'd like to see, Biddy,

A shparkin' here wid me

And then, avourneen, hear ye say,

"Acushla—Pat—machree!"

"Och, Biddy darlint," then says I,

Says you, "get out of that;"

Says I, "me arrum mates your waist,"

Says you, "be daycent, Pat."

And how's the pigs and ducks, Biddy?

It's them I think of, shure,

That looked so innocent and shwate

Upon the parlor flure;

I'm shure ye're aisy with the pig

That's fat as he can be,

And fade him wid the best, because

I'm towld he looks like me.

Whin I come home again, Biddy,

A sargent tried and thrue,

It's joost a daycent house I'll build

And rint it chape to you.

We'll have a parlor, bedroom, hall,

A duck-pond nately done,

With kitchen, pig-pen, praty-patch,

And garret—all in one

But, murther! there's a baste, Biddy,

That's crapin' round a tree,

And well I know the crature's there

To have a shot at me.

Now, Misther Rebel, say yere prayers,

And howld yer dirthy paw,

Here goes!—be jabers, Biddy dear,

I've broke his oogly jaw!

I was talking some moments ago with a Regimental Surgeon, who has more patients on a monument than Shakspere ever dreamed about, and says he: "In consequence of the great number of troops now about this city, all the oxygen in the atmosphere is exhausted, and we are very warm. Had all these troops been sent to McClellan two weeks ago," says he, using his lancet to pick a dead fly out of his tumbler, "we might be able to keep cool now. There is a terrible responsibility on somebody's shoulders."

That's very true, my boy, and it's very warm.

There was a panic this morning in financial circles, owing to the frantic conduct of a gambling chap from the Senate, who has been saving up money to bet on the fall of Richmond, and was trying to put it out at interest. "I'll take seven per cent. for it the first year," says he, anxiously, "and leave it standing until national strategy comes to a head."

A broker took it for five years, my boy, with the privilege of extending the time after each fresh victory.

Speaking of victories, my boy, I was present at the recent series of triumphs by the Mackerel Brigade, on the left shore of Duck Lake, and witnessed a succession of feats calculated to culminate either in the fall of Richmond or the fall of the year.

From the head-quarters in the city of Paris to the brink of Duck Lake, the Mackerels were drawn up in gorgeous line of battle, their bayonets resembling somewhat an uncombed head of steel hair, and their noses looking like a wavy strip of summer sunset. By their last great stragetical manœuvre, they had lured the Southern Confederacy to court its own destruction by flanking them at both ends of the line, and they were only waiting for the master-mind to give them the signal.

Samyule Sa-mith advanced from this place in the staff as I rode up, and says he:

"Comrades, the General depends on you to precede him to glory. We had hoped," says Samyule, feelingly, "to have the company of two French counts in this day's slaughter; but those two noble Gauls had not time to wait, as they desired to visit the Great Exhibition in London."

These remarks were well received, my boy; and when the order was given for Company 3, Regiment 5, to detour to the left, it would have been promptly obeyed but for an unforeseen incident. Just as Captain Villiam Brown was about to break line for the purpose, an aged chap came dashing down from a First Family country-seat near by, and says he to the General of the Mackerel Brigade:

"I demand a guard for my premises immediately. My wife," says he, with dignity, "has just been making a custard-pie for the sick Confederacies in the hospital, and as she has just set it out to cool near where my little boy shot one of your vandals this morning, she is afraid it might be taken by your thieving mudsills when they came after the body. I, therefore, demand a guard for my premises, in the name of the Constitution of our forefathers."

Here Captain Bob Shorty stepped forward, and says he:

"What does the Constitution say about custard pie, Mr. Davis?"

The aged chap spat at him, and says he:

"I claim protection under that clause which refers to the pursuit of happiness. Custard pies," says he, reasoningly, "are included in the pursuit of happiness."

"That's very true," says the General, looking kindly over his fan at the venerable petitioner. "Let a guard be detailed to protect this good old man's premises. We are fighting for the Constitution, not against it."

A guard was detailed, my boy, with orders to make no resistance if they were fired upon occasionally from the windows of the house; and then Captain Villiam Brown pushed forward with what was left of Company 3, to engage the Confederacy on the edge of Duck Lake, supported by the Orange County Howitzers. Headed by the band, who played patriotic airs as soon as he could shake the crumbs out of his key-bugle, the cavalcade advanced to the edge of the lake and opened a heavy salute of round shot and musketry on the atmosphere, whilst Commodore Head kept up a hot fire at the horizon with his iron-plated fleet and swivel gun.

Only waiting to finish a game of base ball, in which they had been engaged, four regiments of Confederacies, at whom this deadly assault was directed, threw aside their bats and ball dresses, put on their uniforms, loaded their muskets and batteries, and sent an iron shower in all directions. Greatly demoralized by this unseemly occurrence, a file of Mackerels under Sergeant O'Pake immediately threw down their muskets and knapsacks, emptied their pockets upon the ground, piled their neckties in a heap, and were making a rapid retrograde movement, when Villiam suddenly threw himself in their path, and says he:

"Where are you going to, my fearless eaglets?"

"Hem!" says the sergeant, with much French in his manner, "we thought of visiting the Great Exhibition in London."

"Ah!" says Villiam, understandingly, "you have acquired French in one easy lesson, and—"

Here an orderly rode up with an order for the Mackerels to fall back from the edge of the Lake immediately, leaving their artillery, bayonets, havelocks, and baggage behind them; and Villiam was obliged to conduct the movement, which was a part of the strategical scheme of the General of the Mackerel Brigade. As we retreated back into Paris, my boy, we were joined by the Conic Section, and shortly after by the Anatomical Cavalry, both of which had succeeded in leaving all their accoutrements on the field.

As we all rushed together before head-quarters in perfect order, and while the Confederacy was eating some provisions, which we had refrained from bringing off the late scene of conflict, the General of the Mackerel Brigade came from under a tree, where he had been tanning himself, and says he:

"My children, we have whipped them at all points, and the day is ours."

"Ah!" says Villiam, abstractedly, "the day is hours."

"My children," says the General, in continuation, "we have pushed the enemy to the wall without fracturing the Constitution, and have only put the war back six months. We can say with pride, my children, that we belong to the Army of Duck Lake, and shall have no more Bull Runs. My children, I love you. Accept my blessing."

We were reflecting upon this soul-stirring speech, my boy, and silently admiring the strategy which had brought us all together again so soon, when the sound of drum and fife called our attention to a club of political chaps who had just arrived by steamer from the Sixth Ward, and were filing past us to a platform recently erected in the very centre of Paris.

"I do believe," says Captain Bob Shorty, whisperingly, "I do believe we're going to have a mass meeting."

Onward went the political chaps to the platform.

A delegation mounted the steps, advanced to the front rails, and commenced unfurling a vast linen banner. The sun was just setting, my boy, and as his parting beams fell upon the uplifted faces of the political chaps, a soft breeze unrolled the standard, and the Mackerels read upon its folds—

REGULAR CONSERVATIVE NOMINATION

FOR

PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES

IN 1865.

THE GENERAL OF THE MACKEREL BRIGADE.

Shall it be said, after this, that republics are ungrateful? I think not, my boy—I think not. We have won a great and glorious victory, and the only question remaining to be answered is, Who is responsible for it, my boy—who is responsible for it?

Yours, in bewilderment,

Orpheus C. Kerr.