Trying to lick A Batch of recruits into shape.

For awhile the tumult of thought kept Si awake, but he was too young, healthy, and tired for this to last long, and soon he had his head pillowed on his blanket-roll, placed in the open car-window, and was sleeping too sound to even dream of Annabel, while the rushing train pelted his face with cinders from the engine and a hail of gravel from the road-bed.  But what was that to a soldier-boy who had been home, seen his best girl, and had one of his mother’s square meals?

When the train rolled into Jeffersonville in the afternoon, they saw Lieut.  Bowersox on the platform anxiously waiting for them.  His face lighted up with pleasure when he saw them, and eagerly coming forward he said: 

“Great Cesar, boys, but I’m glad you’ve come.  I’ve been waiting for you all day.  Rush orders came last night to send everybody to the front.  I guess they are in need of every gun they can get.  I should have gone last night, but I managed to stave off my orders till now.  If you hadn’t come on this train, though, I should ’ve had to go on with out you.  Hurry along, now.  We are going right across the river.”

Despite the Lieutenant’s urgency, Si found time to hand him a jar of honey and a small crock of butter from their home supplies, which he received with proper appreciation, and handed over to the grinning negro boy he had picked up somewhere in Tennessee for a servant.  They followed the Lieutenant to where he had his squad of about 100 recruits gathered.  He said: 

“Here, Klegg, you will act as Orderly-Sergeant, and Shorty and the rest of you as Sergeants of this detachment.  Here is the list of them, Klegg.  Make up a roll and call it whenever I order you to do so.”

Si took the list and looked over the crowd.  They were mainly boys of about the same age and style as himself when he first enlisted, but he thought he had never seen so green, gawky a lot in the world.  Like him then, every one was weighted down with a bundle of things that would evidently be contributed to the well-being of the people along the line of march.

It seemed to him that they stood around the platform in as ugly crookedness as a lodgment of driftwood on a Wabash bottom after a freshet.

“Where on the Wea prairies,” muttered Shorty, “did Old Abe pick up that job lot o’ wind shaken, lopsided saplings?  Must’ve bin pulled when green and warped in the dryin’.”

“Well, we’ve got to git ’em into some sort o’ shape,” answered Si.  “You must help.”

“I help?” returned Shorty despairingly.  “You’ll need a West Point perfessor and a hay-press to git that crowd into soldier shape.  I ain’t once.”

“Here, Sergeant,” ordered Lieut.  Bowersox, “line the men up, count them, learn their names, and give them a little preliminary drill, while I go to Headquarters and see the Colonel again about our transportation.”

“Fall in, boys; fall in,” commanded Si.

The crowd looked at him curiously.  They knew that he wanted them to do something, they were willing to do it, but they hadn’t the slightest idea what it was.  They made a move by huddling up a little toward him.

“Fall in in two ranks, with the right here,” shouted Si.

There was more inconsequent huddling, which seemed so purposely awkward that it irritated Si, and he spoke sharply: 

“Gosh all Krismuss, what’s the matter with you lunkheads?  Don’t you know nothing?  You’re dummer’n a lot o’ steers.”

“Guess we know ’bout as much as you did when you first enlisted,” said the smallest of the lot, a red-cheeked, bright-eyed boy, who looked as if he should have been standing up before a blackboard “doing a sum” in long division, instead of on his way to the field of strife.  “Show us how, and we’ll learn as quick as you did.”

Si looked at the fresh young boy.  There was something actually girlish in his face, and it reminded him of Annabel.  His heart softened toward him at once, and he remembered his own early troubles.  He said gently to the boy: 

“You’re right.  What’s your name, my boy?”

“Abel Waite.”

“Well, Abel, we’ll make a soldier out of you in a little while.  You are the smallest; you’ll be the left of the line.  Go and stand there at the corner.  Now, boys, all lay your bundles down.  Here, you tall fellow, what’s your name?”

“James Bradshaw.”

“Well, Bradshaw, you’ll be the right of the line all the time, and the rest ’ll form on you.  Come, stand here.”

Bradshaw shambled forward in a way that made Shorty call out: 

“Here, Bradshaw, wake up!  You ain’t now follerin’ a plow over the last year’s corn-furrers.  Straighten up, lift them mud-hooks livelier and drop your hands to your side.”

The man stopped, raised his hands, and looked at Shorty with his mouth wide open.

“Come, Bradshaw,” said Si gently, taking hold of him, “I’ll show you.  Now you stand right here.  Put your heels together.  Now turn your toes out.  Throw your shoulders back this way.  Close your mouth.  Put your little fingers on the seams of your pantaloons that way.  Now stand just so.”

The poor man looked as miserable as if put in a strait-jacket, but tried to literally obey instructions.

“Now, what’s your name?” Si asked the next tall est man.

“Simeon Wheelwright.”

“Wheelwright, you stand behind Bradshaw, just as he does.”

And so Si went painstakingly through the whole squad until he came to Abel Waite, whom he found did not need any instruction, for he had profited by hearing the lectures to the others, and was standing as stiff and correct as a veteran could have done.

“Great outfit,” remarked Shorty, walking down the line, gun in hand, and surveying it critically.  “Looks like a mourners’ bench froze stiff.  Here, you red-headed man there, take in that corporation.  You won’t have so much bay window after you’ve lived on army rations awhile.”

“Now,” commanded Si, “when I say ‘Count twos from the right,’ I want you to begin and count.  The first man you, Bradshaw says ‘one,’ and the next man on your left says ‘two’ and so on.  The men in the rear rank do the same.  Count twos from the right Count!”

“One, two; four, six; seven, nine; ten, ’leven,” shouted the boys, in all manner of tones and general bewilderment.

“Stop it; stop it!” yelled Si, his temper again rising.  “Great day, can’t you fellers understand plain English when it’s talked to you?  What’s the matter with you, anyway?  Here, Bradshaw, when I give the order to count, you count one.  Wheel wright, you count one at the same time.  Williams and Talbot, you each count two.  Then Aldrich, you and Reynolds count one, and so on.”

At last he got them to count to his satisfaction, and then proceeded to the next lesson.

“Now, at the command ‘right face’ everybody face to the right.  The N men in the front rank stand fast.  The N men in the rear rank take a side step to the right.  The N men each take a side step to the right, and places himself on the right of N.”

“Great Jehosephat, Si,” remonstrated Shorty; “it’ll take ’em a month to learn all that.”

“Don’t care if it does,” said Si desperately.  “They’ve got to learn it sometime, and they can’t learn no younger.  Might as well begin now as any time.  ’Tention!  Right face!”

Si had hard work restraining the angry words which fumed up when he saw the execution of his command.  Only a few had turned to the right.  The rest had either stood still, turned to the left or were turning first one way and then another, to adjust themselves to those nearest them.

“Looks like a political primary just before the vote’s called,” remarked Shorty.  “Better git red rags to tie around their right hands, so’s they’ll know ’em.”

“It’ll be a shame to take them across the Ohio river in this shape,” said Si in deep vexation.  “They’ll shoot one another’s heads off in the first fight, if they’ve guns in their hands.”

“Don’t worry,” answered Shorty consolingly.  “They’ll pick it up mighty fast as soon as they see other fellers doing it, and ’ll be in purty good shape by the time we git ’em to the regiment.  We was just as green as they are.”

Si repressed his petulant words with an effort, and started in to give them an ocular demonstration of the way to execute “right face,” but was interrupted by the Lieutenant coming up and saying: 

“Here, we’ve got to move right out to catch the ferryboat and the train on the other side.  ’Tention!  Pick up your bundles.  Forward, march!”

Tactics were forgotten in a go-as-you-please rush on to the ferryboat, through the streets of Louisville, and on to the cars for Nashville.  Everybody else was doing the same.  The boat and streets were filled and the depot yard packed with men all pushing forward for the “front.”  While Si, walking alongside the Lieutenant, led, Shorty and the rest of the detail brought up the rear.  After they had scrambled into the old freight cars and stowed them selves away, Si looked over his squad and counted it.

“Have you got them all aboard, Sergeant?” in quired Lieut.  Bowersox.

“I’ve got the right number, sir,” Si answered, saluting; “and if they ain’t all the same men they’re just as good.”

“All right,” returned the officer.  “I had 103 put in my charge to take to the regiment, and 103 men I must have when I get there.”

“You shall have the full 103, Lieutenant,” assured Shorty, “if we have to snatch in a native or two to take the place of some that fall through the cracks.”

At Nashville the crowd and confusion were excessive; detachments of men of all kinds, sorts and conditions armed and unarmed recruits, convalescent veterans, men coming back from furlough, stragglers under guard, squads of Quartermaster’s employees, gangs of railroad laborers and bridge-builders were all surging around, while their officers, superintendents, foremen, etc., shouted themselves hoarse in trying to get their men together and keep them so.  When Si at last got his men on board, and the train had moved out, he was dismayed to find that he was five short.

“They was lost in that shuffle back there in the depot,” said Shorty.  “Lucky it wa’n’t more.  Wonder that we ever got through as well as we did.”

“What in the world am I going to do?” inquired Si dolefully.  “There’s no use sending back for them.  They’ve probably got mixed up with some other squads, and gone the Lord knows where.  They haven’t sense enough to find their regiment in such a ruck as this.”

Si counted his men over again, with no better result.

“I’ve got an idée,” said Shorty, as Si came up to commune again with him as to the misfortune.  “I noticed five mighty lively young Irishmen in that bridge gang that’s on the rear car, and I’ve got a pint flash of whisky that some fellow was green enough to lay down while we was there in Nash ville.  I’m goin’ back to that car on recruitin’ duty.”

Si, unable to think of anything better, went with him.  The train had stopped on a switch, and seemed likely to rust fast to the rails, from the way other trains were going by in both directions.  The bridge gang, under charge of a burly, red-faced young Englishman, was in the rear car, with their tools, equipments, bedding and cooking utensils.

The English foreman was a recent arrival in the country.  This was his first employment here.  Naturally surly and domineering, these qualities were enhanced by potations at Nashville and since leaving.

Si and Shorty strolled up to the young Irishmen, who were standing on the ground near their car.  They were very plainly recent arrivals, for they still wore the characteristic clothes of the Emerald Isle, and after a little conversation with them Shorty produced his bottle and offered them a drink.  The foreman had watched them suspiciously, and he came swaggering up, saying insolently: 

“‘Ere, you bloomin’ sojer, Hi want you to keep haway from my men, hand not be a-givin’ them drink.  You stay by yourselves, hand Hi won’t ’ave ‘em hinterfered wi’ by nobuddy.”

“Your men,” sneered Shorty.  “You talk as if they was niggers, and not white men.  Who made ’em yours?”

“Stow yer wid, ye bloody blue-jack,” returned the foreman contemptuously, “hand pull ha way from here.  Hi never could bear sojers blokes, too lazy to work hand too cowardly to steal.  Hike out o’ here, and shut you ’ead, hif you know w’at’s well for you.”

“Shut up your own head, you British blowhard,” retorted Shorty, “and mind your own business.  Wait until you are a little longer in the country be fore you try to run it.  And I don’t want no more o’ your slack.  If you don’t keep a civil tongue in your head I’ll make you.”

The Englishman was just in the mood to be savagely tickled at the prospect of a fight.  He had not had a good, square one since he had been in the country, and nothing yet had offered so gratifying as the prospect of polishing off one of the despised “Hamerican sojers.”  Several of the hated officers had strolled up, attracted by the high words, and it would be an additional pleasure to thrash one of their men before their eyes, in revenge for the slights he felt they had put upon him.

“You won’t fight,” he said disdainfully, “except with a gun or a knife, like a bloody Dago.  Ye dassent put up yer ’ands like a man.”

For response, Shorty handed his cap, his gun, his bottle, his blanket-roll, his belt and haversack to Si, rolled up his sleeves, spit on his hands, doubled his fists, and stepped forward into a boxing attitude.

“Balance up to me, you beer-bloated Britisher,” he exclaimed, “and git naturalized by a real Star-Spangled Banner lickin’ by an artist who kin comb down any man that owes allegiance to Queen Victoree.  Here’s a Heenan for your Tom Sayers.”

The Englishman began disrobing with an alacrity that showed how much his heart was in it.  A ring was speedily formed, the officers, mainly Lieutenants and Captains, eagerly assisting, while keeping their eyes over their shoulders to see that no one of much higher rank was in the neighborhood.

When the men confronted one another it was seen that they were a fairly-good match.  The English man was stouter and heavier; he showed a splendid forearm, with corresponding swelling muscles near the shoulders, and the way he poised himself and put up his hands revealed that he had “science” as well as strength and courage.  Shorty was taller and more spare, but he was quicker and had the longer reach.  It looked as if the Englishman had the advantage, from his solid strength and staying power, as well as “science.”  But those who looked on Shorty as inferior did not know of the training he had received among the turbulent crews of the Mississippi River boats.  A man who had summered and wintered with that fractious race had little to learn in any trick or device of fighting.

The first round showed that both were past-masters of ring tactics.  Their wardings and layings for openings were so perfect that neither could get a blow in.

When they stopped for a moment to breathe the Englishman said with frank admiration: 

“Y’re a heap better lot than Hi thort yer.  Where’d ye learn to handle yer dukes?”

“Never mind where I learned,” answered Shorty.  “I learned enough to git away with any English man that ever chawed roast beef.”

Again they closed, and sparred quick and hard for advantage, but neither succeeded in getting in any thing but light, ineffective blows.  Each realized that the other was a dangerous man to handle, and each kept cool and watched his chances.  When they took another second to breathe the Englishman said: 

“I’m goin’ to settle ye this time, young feller, in spite o’ yer fibbin’.  Ye peck around me like a cock pickin’ up corn, but I’ll bust ye.  Look hout for yerself.”

He made a savage rush to break through Shorty’s guard by main force, but Shorty evaded him by a quick movement, the Englishman struck his toe against a piece of railroad iron, and fell to his knees.  Shorty had him at his mercy, but he merely stepped back a little further, and waited for his opponent to rise and regain his position before he again advanced to the attack.

The Englishman lost his coolness.  Again he rushed savagely at Shorty, with less care in his guard.  Shorty evaded his mighty blow, and reaching up under his guard struck him on the chin so hard that the Englishman fell like an ox.

Shorty took him by the hand and helped him to his feet.  “Do you want any more?  Have you got enough?” he asked.

“Yes, Hi’ve got enough,” answered the English man.  “I’m too groggy to go on.  Hi’ve been drink-in’ a bit too much to ‘andle myself wi’ a first-class man like yerself.  Y’ve downed me, and y’ve downed me fair, for Hi’m not the man to whimper about not being fit.  There’s my hand.  We’re friends.  We’ll try hit again some day, when Hi’ve got the likker out o’ me; won’t we?”

“Certainly, whenever you like,” said Shorty, shak ing hands with him.

“Say, cul,” said the Englishman, in the friendliest sort of way, “w’at was ye wantin’ around among my men?”

“To tell you the truth,” answered Shorty, “I was after them to enlist with us.  We lost five men in the shuffle at Nashville, and I was lookin’ out for some to take their places.

“That’s w’at I thort,” said the Englishman.  “That’s w’at I was afraid of.  The ’ead bridge man ‘as bin preachin’ to me ever since ’e ’ired me, hand we made hup the gang in New York, to look hout hand keep my men from bein’ enlisted.  Say, youngster, his yours a good regiment?”

“The very best in the army,” unhesitatingly as serted Shorty.  “All free-born American citizens, and high-toned gentlemen.  I tell you, they’re daisies, they are.”

“Hi don’t ’know,” said the Englishman meditatively, “but Hi’d like to see a little bit o’ fightin’ myself.  Bridge buildin’s ’eavy, ’ard work, and Hi wouldn’ mind sojerin’ a little while for a change.”

“Come right along with me and this man,” said Shorty catching on.  “You’ll see the purtiest fighting to be found anywhere in the army, for the 200th Injianny kin do it up to the Queen’s taste.  And we’ll treat you white.  A better set o’ boys never lived.”

“Hi’ll do hit,” said the Englishman decidedly.

“Mebbe,” suggested Shorty, remembering that this would still leave them four short, “some o’ your gang’d like to come along with you.”

“Some o’ them,” said the Englishman earnestly.  “Hevery bloomin’ one o’ them ’as got to go.  They’ve got to volunteer.  Hif Hi find hany cowardly bloke that’d rather be a beastly bridge-builder than a gentleman and a sojer, I’ll pound ’is ’ead offen ’im.  They’ll all volunteer, I tell ye, w’en Hi speak to ’em.”

Si had been quietly talking to the rest of the gang while this conversation was going on, and discovered a general willingness to exchange mechanical pursuits for those of a more martial character, and so when they left the train at Chattanooga, Lieut.  Bowersox marched at the head of 130 recruits, instead of the 103 with whom he had crossed the Ohio River.