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Table of Contents

A Regimental Baker—Hot Pies—Position of the Baker in line of Battle—Troubles of the Baker—A Western Virginia Captain on a Whiskey Scent—The Baker's Story—How to obtain Political Influence—Dancing Attendance at Washington—What Simon says—Confiscation of Whiskey.

Besides the indispensables of quartermaster and sutler the 210th had what might be considered a luxury in the shape of a baker, who had volunteered to accompany the regiment, and furnish hot cakes, bread, and pies. Tom Hudson was an original in his way, rather short of stature, far plumper and more savory-looking than one of his pies, with a pleasing countenance and twinkling black eye, that meant humor or roguishness as circumstances might demand, and a never-ending supply of what is always popular, dry humor. He was just the man to manage the thousand caprices of appetite of a thousand different men. While in camps accessible to the cities of Washington and Alexandria, matters moved smoothly enough. His zinc-plated bakery was always kept fired up, and a constant supply of hot pies dealt out to the long strings of men, who would stand for hours anxiously awaiting their turn. A movement of the baker's interpreted differently by himself and the men, at one time created considerable talk and no little feeling. On several occasions the trays were lifted out of the oven, and the pies dashed upon the out-spread expectant hands, with such force as to break the too often half-baked undercrust. In consequence the juices would ooze out, trickle scalding hot between the fingers, and compel the helpless man to drop the pie. One unfortunate fellow lost four pies in succession. As they cost fifteen cents apiece, the pocket was too much interested to let the matter escape notice. A non-commissioned officer, who had lost a pie, savagely returned to the stand, and demanded another pie or his money. The baker was much too shrewd for that. The precedent, if set, would well nigh exhaust his stock of pies, and impoverish his cash drawer.

"I say," said the officer, turning to the men, "it is a trick. He wants to sell as many pies as he can. He knows well enough that when one falls in this mud fifteen cents are gone slap."

"Now, boys," said the baker blandly, "you know me better than that. I'd scorn to do an act of that kind for fifteen cents. You know how it is—what a rush there always is here. You want the pies as soon as baked, and baking makes them hot. Now I want to accommodate you all as soon as possible, and of course I serve them out as soon as baked. You had better all get tin-plates or boards."

"That won't go down, old fellow," retorted the officer. "You know that there is hardly a tin-plate in camp, and boards are not to be had."

A wink from the baker took the officer to the private passage in the rear of his tent. What happened there is known but to the two, but ever after the officer held his peace. Not so with the men. However, as the pies were not dealt out as hot in future, the matter gradually passed from their minds.

To make himself popular with the men, Tom resorted to a variety of expedients, one of which was to assure them that in case of an enterprise that promised danger, he would be with them. He was taken up quite unexpectedly. An ammunition train on the morning of the second battle of Bull Run, bound to the field, required a convoy. The regiment was detailed. Tom's assertions had come to the ears of the regimental officers, and without being consulted, he was provided with a horse, and told to keep near the Adjutant. There was a drizzling rain all day long, but through it came continually the booming of heavy ordnance.

"Colonel! how far do you suppose that firing is?" "And are they Rebel cannon?" were frequent inquiries made by Tom during the day. About noon he asserted that he could positively ride no further. But ride he must and ride he did. The Regiment halted near Centreville, having passed Porter's Corps on the way and convoyed the Train to the required point. After a short halt the homeward route was taken and Tom placed in the rear. By some accident, frequent when trains take up the road, he became separated from the Regiment and lost among the teams. The Regiment moved on, and as it was now growing dark, turned into a wood about half a mile distant, for the night. Tom had just learned his route, when "ping!" came a shell from a Rebel battery on a hill to the left, exploded among some team horses, and created awful confusion. He suddenly forgot his soreness, and putting spurs to his horse at a John Gilpin speed, rode by, through and over, as he afterwards said, the teams. The shells flew rapidly. Tom dodged as if every one was scorching his hair, at the same time giving a vigorous kick to the rear with both heels. At his speed he was soon by the teams; in fact did not stop until he was ten Virginia miles from that scene of terror. But we will meet him again in the morning.

The Regiment was soon shelled out of the wood, and compelled to continue its march. Three miles further they encamped in a meadow, passed a wet night without shelter, and early next morning were again upon the road. Thousands of stragglers lined the way, living upon rations plundered from broken-down baggage wagons—lounging lazily around fires that were kept in good glow by rails from the fences near which they were built. The preceding day these stragglers and skulkers were met in squads at every step of the road. At a point sufficiently remote from danger, their camps commenced. In one of these camps, situated in a fence corner, the baker was espied, stretched at full length and fast asleep, upon two rails placed at a gentle slope at right angles to the fence. Surrounding him were filthy, mean-looking representatives of half-a-dozen various regiments—the Zouave more gay than gallant in flaming red breeches—blouses, dress coats, and even a pair of shoulder straps, assisted to complete the crowd. Near by was tied his jaded horse.

The baker was awakened. To his surprise, as he said, he saw the regiment, as he had supposed them to be much nearer home than himself. One of his graceless comrades, however, bluntly contradicted this, and accused him of being mortally frightened when he halted the night before, as although they assured him that he was full ten miles from danger, he insisted that these rifled guns had terribly long range. The baker remonstrated, and quietly resumed his place by the Adjutant and Colonel.

"I have been thinking, Colonel," said he, in the course of a half hour, riding alongside of the Colonel, and speaking in an undertone, "that I ran a great risk unnecessarily."

"Why?" asked the Colonel.

"You see my exhortations are worth far more to the men than my example. When they crowd my quarters, as they do every morning, I never fail to deal out patriotic precepts with my pies."

"But particularly the pies," retorted the Colonel.

"That is another branch of my case," slily continued the baker. "Suppose, if such a calamity can be dwelt upon, that I had been killed, and there was only one mule between me and death, who would have run my bakery? who," elevating his voice, "would have furnished hot rolls for the officers, and warm bread cakes and pies for the men? Riding along last night, these matters were all duly reflected upon, and I wound up, by deciding that the regiment could not afford to lose me."

"But you managed to lose the regiment," replied the Colonel.

"Pure accident that, I assure you, upon honor. Now in line of battle I have taken pains to ascertain my true position, but this confounded marching by the flank puts me out of sorts. In line of battle the quartermaster says he is four miles in the rear—the sutler says that he is four miles behind the quartermaster, and as it would look singular upon paper to shorten the distance for the baker, besides other good reasons, I suppose I am four miles behind the sutler."

"Completely out of range for all purposes," observed the Adjutant, who had slily listened with interest.

"There is a good reason for that position, it is well chosen, and shows foresight," continued the baker, dropping his rein, and enforcing his remarks by apt gestures. "Suppose we are in line of battle, and the Rebels in line facing us at easy rifle range. Their prisoners say that they have lived for a month past on roasted corn and green apples. Now what will equal the daring of a hungry man! These Rebel Commanders are shrewd in keeping their men hungry; our men have heart for the fight, it is true, but the rebels have a stomach for it—they hunger for a chance at the spoils. The quartermaster then with his crackers, as they must not be needlessly inflamed, must be kept out of sight—the sutler, too, with his stores, must be kept shady—but above all the baker. Suppose the baker to be nearer," said he, with increased earnestness, "and a breeze should spring up towards their lines bearing with it the smell of warm bread, the rebels would rise instanter on tip-toe, snuff a minute—concentrate on the bakery, and no two ranks or columns doubled on the centre, could keep the hungry devils back. Our line pierced, we might lose the day—lose the day, sir."

"And the baker," said the Major, joining in the laugh caused by his argument.

Shortly after that march, matters went indifferently with the baker. Camp was changed frequently, and over the rough roads he kept up with difficulty.

A week after the battle of Antietam, after satisfying himself fully of the departure of the Rebels, he arrived in camp. He had picked up by the way an ill-favored assistant, whose tent stood on the hill side some little distance from the right flank of the regiment.

Two nights after his arrival there was a commotion in camp. A tonguey corporal, slightly under regulation size, in an exuberance of spirits, had mounted a cracker-box almost immediately in front of the sutler's tent, and commenced a lively harangue. He told how he had left a profitable grocery business to serve his country—his pecuniary sacrifices—but above all, the family he had left behind.

"And you've blissed them by taking your characther with you," chimed in the little Irish corporal.

"Where did you steal your whiskey?" demanded a second.

The confusion increased, the crowd was dispersed by the guard, all at the expense of the sutler's credit, as it was rumored that he had furnished the stimulant.

The sutler indignantly demanded an investigation, and three officers, presumed to possess a scent for whiskey above their fellows, were detailed for the duty. One of these was our friend the Virginia captain.

Under penalty of losing his stripes, the corporal confessed that he had obtained the liquor at the baker's. Thither the following evening the detail repaired. The assistant denied all knowledge of the liquor. He was confronted with the corporal, and admitted the charge, and that but three bottles remained.

"By——," said our Western Virginia captain, hands in pocket, "I smell ten more. There are just thirteen bottles or I'll lose my straps."

The confidence of the captain impressed the detail, and they went to work with a will—emptying barrels of crackers, probing with a bayonet sacks of flour, etc. A short search, to the pretended amazement of the assistant, proved the correctness of the captain's scent. The baker was sent for, and with indignant manner and hands lifted in holy horror, he poured volley after volley of invective at the confounded assistant.

"But, gentlemen," said the baker, dropping his tone, "I've known worse things than this to happen. I've known even bakers to get tight."

"And your bacon would have stood a better chance of being saved if you had got tight, instead of putting a non-commissioned officer in that condition," said one of the detail. "The Colonel, I am afraid, Tom, will clear you out."

"Well," sighed the baker, after a pause of a moment, "talk about Job and all the other unfortunates since his day, why not one of them had my variety of suffering. Did you ever hear any of my misfortunes?"

"We see one."

"My life has been a series of mishaps. I prosper occasionally in small things, but totals knock me. God help me if I hadn't a sure port in a storm—a self-supporting wife. For instance—but I can't commence that story without relieving my thirst." A bottle was opened, drinks had all around, and the baker continued—

"You see, gentlemen, when Simon was in political power, I waggled successfully and extensively among the coal mines in Central Pennsylvania. In those localities voters are kept underground until election day, and they then appear above often in such unexpected force as to knock the speculations of unsophisticated politicians. But Simon was not one of that stripe. He knew his men—the real men of influence; not men that have big reputations created by active but less widely known under-workers, but the under-workers themselves. Simon dealt with these, and he rarely mistook his men. Now I was well known in those parts—kept on the right side of the boys, and the boys tried to keep on the right side of me, and Simon knew it. No red tape fettered Simon, as the boys say it tied our generals the other side of Sharpsburg in order to let the Rebs have time to cross. If the measures that his shrewd foresight saw were necessary for the suppression of this Rebellion, at its outbreak, had been adopted, we would be encamped somewhat lower down in Dixie than the Upper Potomac—if indeed there would be any necessity for our being in service at all.

"He was not a man of old tracks, like a ground mole; indeed like some military commanders who seem lost outside of them; but of ready resources and direct routes, gathering influence now by one means and then by another, and perhaps both novel. Now Simon set me at work in this wise.

"'Tom,' one morning, says an old and respected citizen of our place, who knew my father and my father's father, and me as an unlucky dog from my cradle, 'Tom, did ever any idea of getting a permanent and profitable position—say, as you are an excellent penman—as clerk in one of the departments at Harrisburg or Washington, enter your head?'

"At this I straightened up, drew up my shirt collar, pulled down my vest, and said with a sort of hopeful inquiry, 'Why should there?'

"'Tom, you are wasting your most available talent. Do you know that you have influence—and political influence at that?'

"Another hitch at my shirt collar and pull at my vest, as visions of the Brick Capitol at Harrisburg and the White one at Washington danced before my eyes.