Rambling Anecdotes

Stop! Thief!

Scholars and historians have long debated the cause of the Mother of American Family Feuds: the American Civil War. Well, after over seven years of research into the blackpowder sharpshooter, I've discovered why and I share it with you now.

"Fort Foote was the largest and most complete earthwork that was built for the defense of Washington, and I believe it is still standing. It commanded the approaches by the river for several miles, and its great guns would make it exceedingly difficult for an enemy to get past it. There had never been such large guns mounted before as it contained, and it seemed to me that the soldiers (it took three or four hundred at a time) would never be able to get them up the bluff and into position. The balls fired from them were so heavy that I couldn't even turn one over on the ground, each weighing 500 pounds, and required 100 pounds of powder to fire them. When fired, the men were instructed to raise on their toes and open their mouths to lessen the effect of the concussion.

One day there came down the President, Secretary of War, and several general officers and distance measurements had been made for the first experiment; about two miles below. The men had practiced until they felt sure of their aim. Just as the party were assembling to witness the smashing of the target with one of the great balls, the colonel was astonished and chagrined to see through his glass a small party of rebels row out from the shore, cut the anchor ropes, and quickly tow the target around the bend of the river out of sight; so the firing had to be made at other objects of an unmeasured distance."

Remember, you learned this here first and at the finest firearm forum on the Web.:p
 
Eat more garlic

"Five days later the young diarist recorded that Captain Smith Bankhead had come to the Blackfrods' for tea. 'I found him very agreeable,' he wrote. 'He told me a very curious fact that the wolves will not devour the bodies of the Mexicans that fell in battle, but will scratch up the Americans and devour them; the cause of it is attributed to the use of garlic by the Mexicans. He said... that they can not bury their dead unless they pile great piles of stones over the graves or the wolves will scratch them up."

Next time you're at the pizzeria or the pasta house, ask for more garlic. Personally, I love garlic.
 
kid's cannons

"In 1847 the boys all had a wonderful Christmas. Their stockings were full of nuts, apples, and homemade candy. Lanty described the day to his grandmother: 'We shot our little cannon several times until the Police Master, Mr. Brown, came after us about it and was going to make us pay a fine, but let us off: the fine is $2.00 a shoot. I think we ought to have been excused anyhow as it was Christmas and every body else was doing it."

Now, how many of us as kids played with toy cannons? I did and I loved shooting it - even if it didn't have a missile. It's a boy thing and I couldn't shoot it enough. There's a painting somewhere of two boys with a small brass cannon. They're leaning back to distance themselves from the blast as one of them is lighting a fuse. The cannon is pointed at some girl's doll - presumably their sister. Who among us would not have done the same during our childhood?
 
In the sacred soil of Virginia...

"A man was going along the edge of a forest, when, looking out into the so-called road where troops had passed, he saw a hat in a great mud-hole. He reached out for it, and discovered a head under it. 'Why, what are you doing there?' he cried out. The man in the mud answered, 'I am looking for my horse; he is somewhere below."

Such is the sacred soil of Virginia. I've heard of mules sinking in the mud until only their ears show. What a horrible death and next time it rains in the Old Dominion State, remember to think, "God Bless Asphalt & Concrete."
 
Job Opening - Brigadier General or (Bullwinkle Choice)

Plucky Irishman.

Now, at one point in our front, torpedoes had been planted the day before, and to prevent any of the garrison from treading upon them, a sentinel was placed to warn them off. At that time the man who held this post was private Donnolly, of Company G, First Georgia, a native of the Emerald Isle, as this name would indicate, and a true son of his mother. Of any knowledge of ordinary military manoeuvres he was calmly innocent. On one occasion a Lieutenant of the company asked him, impatiently:
"Donnolly, why don't you keep step? All the men are complaining about you." And received the reply:
"Faith, its divil a one of 'em can kape shtep wid me!"
Past this hero General Ripley spurred his horse, and was riding straight for the dangerous ground, when he was suddenly brought to a halt by a loud "Stop!" uttered in the most emphatic tone, and the emphasis receiving additional point from Donnolly's attitude, as he stood with his musket at full cock, at the shoulder, and squinted along the barrel, taking dead aim at the General. For a moment there was strong probability of a vacancy among the Brigadiers of the Confederate army, but an officer rushed forward, struck up the gun, and explained to General Ripley the reason for his being halted.
Subsequently, our sentinel was asked:
"Donnolly, what were you going to do?"
"I was going to shot him."
"And why?
"To kape him from being blown up with the saltpaters, to be sure." Donnolly's comrades, in view of his little infirmities of drill, had always insisted upon his having a place in the rear rank, but on this day he was heard to say, with much satisfaction: "There's moighty little trouble getting in the front rank now."

The private involved is Pvt. Thomas Donnolly of the 1st Georgia Infantry.
 
Fragging

As most of us know, fragging is a term coined in Vietnam to describe grenades or "stray" shots directed to an unpopular superior. Braxton Bragg, who later led the Army of Tennessee, had a lit shell rolled into his tent when he was a captain of artillery during the Mexican-American War. Here's an attempted fragging effort by one Union soldier against his lieutenant:

The bullet whizzed over us, but at the same moment Orr got onto his knees, turned around and fired at me. That would have certainly settled my carier [career] had not Charles Buck, at the moment Orr pulled the trigger, with a quick move of his arm pushed the rifle upward exclaiming: 'Orr, what are you doing?!' The bullet whizzed close over my head.

The lieutenant took Orr's rifle and cartridge box for his own use and had a guard posted over Orr to prevent him from further attempts. He wrote Orr up to the Colonel who supported a court martial which would certainly result in his execution. The Colonel deferred the outcome to the lieutenant who forgave Orr on account of his wife and child.
 
Look at the Injun!

North & South magazine is working on reducing an article of mine for their knapsack column. The article discusses the Black-Confederate sharpshooter and mentions the possibility of besmooted or grimy white soldiers being mistaken for blacks. Here's an incident of one white soldier being mistaken for an Indian:

"On the way we passed several Brigades of eastern troops who had sta[c]ked arms near the road in order to let us pass by. These boys, who had read a great deal about Indians, but never had seen any live ones, were much surprised and amused when my Comp[any]. passed by and they discovered the duskey fellows. Now it happened that I had a man in the Comp[any]. named Jim Walker who was of genuine English ancestry but who nevertheless could pass for a full blooded Injun. He wore a heavy mess of coalblack hair, had a towny, coppercolored skin and big, bulging eyes. Besides he was not a special friend of water, soap and comb which made the matter so much worse. When the boys discovered the Indians they began to yell: "Look! look at the Injuns look at this one! and this one with the calfs eye"! pointing to Jim Walker. That made Jim so mad that he fixed bajonet and threatened to stab the first man who dared call him an Injun. That of course made matters worse and poor Jim had to stand the consequences of mistaken Identity as well as he could. The afternoon as soon as we went in camp he went to the drummer Paine and had his hair cut short, and next he went to the Chickamauga river and rubbed his hide down to half its thickeness and sure enough, he looked all the better for it."
 
Tax evasion in the Confederacy

"In 1864 it was hard to get food for the army. Confederate notes were almost worthless and there was no silver or gold in circulation. People who had anything to sell did not want to take Confederate money for it. The Confederate Congress finally passed what was called the "Tax in Kind Law." By this law everybody who raised anything had to give one-tenth to the Confederate government. Of course, all sorts of ways were used to evade the law. The most original that I heard of was that of an old dar___ near Staunton, Virginia. A farmer near there was in his hay harvest and he was going in town that day and before he started he called up his foreman who was a colored man named Joe. He said to his foreman, "Joe, I am going to town today and I will tell you what I want you to do. I want you to put nine loads of hay in the barn, but the tenth load I want you to take to Major Harmon in town and tell him that it is my tax in kind." Joe said, "Yessir." The farmer went on to town and stayed all day but saw nothing of Joe. When he got home about dark, Joe was coming from the stable. He said, "Joe, I did not see you in town today." Joe said, "No sir, I did not go." "Why? I told you to carry that load of hay to Major Harmon." Joe answered, "Twa no tenth load, I squeezed her all in nine!" There was no answer to that.
 
Be careful of what you ask for...

After the James River Squadron was stymied at Drewry's Bluff, Commodore Charles Wilkes, the new squadron commander, wanted a means to conduct reconnaisance to determine the Confederate defenses along the James River. He wrote the Navy asking for armored scout canoes. Intended to be fast, light and agile, the armor was suppose to be proof against rifle fire.

The New York Navy Yard took the order and began construction. When the scout canoes arrived, Wilkes looked at them in disgust. Instead of a slim, fast craft, what he got were rowboats that were covered with boiler plate. As unwieldy as they appeared, he decided to test one by launching it.

The boat capsized immediately... and then sank. Somehow someone in the Navy Yard either couldn't read or wasn't very good at engineering. Either way, Wilkes was so frustrated that he never revisited the idea.
 
Banning the Band...

"On one occasion, with the permission of the captain, a serenade was planned for Major Terrett; but those artistic, well-meant efforts were treated ungratefully - scornfully, in fact, and sad to relate, the amateur band was confined to the guard-house the next day. It happened thus:

After permission had been granted for this pre-supposed treat to the commandant, the few lucky performers were excused from evening drill that they might practice and furbishup old tunes. To aid the memory, a nip of brandy came between each tune. As night drew on every single man of them, having imbibde so much, was in that blissful state where he felt he was a band unto himself.

The performers started out with their instruments, accompanied by a quartette, whose sole instruments were a flask of brandy to each, merely as a matter of throat medicine. They reached the commandant's residence quite late. That worthy man, all unconscious of the treat in store, had long since retired. After a discussion, which came near ending in a fight, as to whether the vocal or the instrumental should open the serenade, it was decided that the quartette most merited the honor. So clearing their throats by a long pull at their melody-inspirer they opened up with 'Come where my love lies dreaming,' but in spite of the tenderness of the refrain the window remained closed. This was rather discouraging, so that the band struck up an attitude; the flutist leaning against the lamp ost, the cornet propped alongside a tree trunk, the small fiddle sitting comfortably on an ash-barrel, the bass vil squatting on the doorstep, while the banoist found himself most satisfactorily lodged on the pavement. As for the quartette, they were almost anywhere; one lying on the cellar door, sound asleep, from whence he was, at the close of the performance, carried home in a wheelbarrow. The other three had voluntarily commenced in stentorian tones, 'Look into my eyes, love.'

In the meantime the instrumental was doing its best. The bass viol grunted, the fiddle shrieked, the cornet tried to blow the roof off the house, the banjo thumped away on its own individual merits, the flute was black in the face and out of wind, when the window was raised at last, the Majory's head protruded, and he thundered out: 'What the devil is all that noise about? What is the meaning of this?'

'Meaning,' replied one of the quartette in hiccough; 'we've come to serenade you, ole boy. Come and take a drink, won't you?'

'Take yourselves off,' shouted the voice, thick with passion, 'or I'll court-martial every mother's son of you in the morning.'

A dead silence followed the sound of the gurgling liquor as it flowed down eavery throat. The cornet suddenly revived and shouted back:

'You be d__d; we've come to serenade you, I say, and we are going to keep on; ain't we, boys?'

A chorus of assent responded, and the music struck up where it had left off....

[to be continued]
 
continued from previous post.

Conclusion.

While this was going on the commandant slipped down-stairs and dispatched his orderly for a guard. Soon the sound of tramping feet was heard. In a voice of thunder the Major ordered them to arrest his seranders, and the guard closed round. However, the quartette was soon secured, especially the one who was asleep; but the performers, using their instruments in a manner never intended by their manufacturers, made most vigorous resistance. Forgetting that they had ceased to be free American citizens, at present devoted to the muses, they knocked and banged and struck out valorously, while the guard, not willing to use their weapons, closed in on the musical fighters, and after a fierce struggle and with many bruises, mastered them one by one. The cornet flattened his weapon on the corporal's occiput, raising a bump unnamed in phrenology; the fiddle was smashed to atoms over some other skull, while the banjo came down squarely, or rather roundly, on the top of a guard's head; he wore it as a necklace, the handle sticking out behind like a gigantic queue. The flute, just about the size of a police officer's club, might have been a dangerous weapon, only being hollow it shivered to pieces at the first blow, its sound and fury signifying nothing. The bass viol performed prodigious antics, describing a huge parabolic curve, and striking with fearful force the cranium of yet another guard; there was a confused jangling of the strings and down went the guard prone on the ground; a second blow and one more guard fell, while a third man was happy enough to catch the blow on the butt of his musket. This finished the irate old 'big fiddle,' but with the head-piece the serander laid about with such vigor that victory might have perched thereon, only, seeing the odds, the valorous warrior broke out of the surroundings and took to his heels; in short, the whole party were lugged to the guard-house, where they remained all next day. As for the bass viol, he was found in the morning sound asleep on a pile of planks in Smott's lumber yard, with the head-piece firmly clutched in his hand. It is safe to say no more permissions were granted serenading parties.

If I knew band practice could be so fun, I would have taken up music as a kid.
 
Let these men pass

“The soldiers sometimes wrote their own passes and countersigned them with the name of the colonel and generals. But that ruse failed to be effectual, for officers well vesed in all the wiles of solders’ strategy, as well as detectives who could tell at a glance whether or not the countersigns were genuine, scruntinized each pass with as much care as an expert does the signature of witnesses in a disputed will case.

On one occasion two of Company A (myself and comrade), with anything but tender consciences, lay awake at night trying to devise some plan that would obtain free ingress to the city, keep us unmolested while there, and bring us safely out. The result was, that after so many hours spent in sifting the pros and cons, it settled down to a single, plain, stubborn fact, that unless we could get the bona-fide signatures of the general commanding, all efforts would be in vain. That was a bright idea, surely, as bright indeed as the young rodent in the fable, who moved in a congress of rats, ‘that the cat should be belled.’ So with us it was who was to ‘bell the cat,’ and how?

We drew straws for the unlucky one of the two, and Walter A. Drew the short straw, and was thereafter left to his own devices; and from the depths of down-reaching ruminations, which he feared would unsettle his brain, evolved the following letter:

‘My Dear Aunt:
‘As requested, I hereby send you the autograph of our Commander-in-Chief, General Johnston.’

Then, going boldly to his tent, he asked the orderly for admittance, for with General Johnston the private could often obtain an audience when officers high in rank were kept in waiting. The solder, handed the General his letter, who with one quick glance at his petitioner, seized his pen and wrote his name at the bottom. To salute and get out of the tent was the work of a second; and then the young rascal ran as fast as his legs could carry him to his confrere in camp. Together in banded iniquity, we rubbed out the words in pencil and inscribed others, so that the paper read:

‘Pass in and out of Richmond, at will, the bearer and friend for two weeks. J. E. Johnston, Commanding General.’

On that pass we went in and out, and out and in, till the very stones in the road knew us; so virtue is ever its own reward.”
 
Git to a preachin'

"While our regiment was encamped at Murfreesboro a man by the name of Hester made application to Colonel Moore for appointment as chaplain. Colonel Moore told him that he would not appoint him unless a majority of the regiment expressed a preference for him. He then began to canvass for votes. M. Luna, a rollicking, jolly, good soldier of Company I, also announced for this office. He swore that he could preach as good a sermon as L. Hester, and he appointed a time and place where the boys could have a sample of his sermons. He would mount a stump or woodpile, and the service would begin by lining out a song, 'Old Grimes,' 'Ryestraw,' or some other doggerel familiar at that time. He would then announce as his text, 'Whar de hen scratch, dar de bug also,' or 'Gnaw a file and flee to the wilderness, whar de lion roar and de whangdoodle moans.' After his 'sermon,' he would say, 'Now, if you don't believe I'm a better preacher than L. Hester, vote for him, darn you.' Needless to say, Mack was elected by a big majority; but when he applied to Colonel Moore for credentials, he was told to go back to his company and behave, or he would be sent to the guardhouse. That was the last we heard of a chaplain until Rev. M. B. DeWitt came to us. He was a devout Christian and was loved by all."

And this concludes this week's sermon. Amen.:D
 
Another reason for the Civil War

A reb PoW was asked a question. Here's his account.

"What are you Rebels fighting for, anyway?"
The question struck me there and then as supremely ludicrous. Here were we Virginians standing on our own soil, fighting on our native heath against an invading army, defending what every man holds dear - his home and fireside. As well asked a game-cock why he crows and bares his spurs on his own dung-hill. So I replied:
"We are fighting to protect our mint-beds."
There was an Irishman on the staff, and he nearly fell off his saddle; he spurred his horse forward and slapped me on the shoulder and said:
"True for ye, me boy, there's not a lad in ould Ireland that wouldn't do the same for his poteen."
Even the brigadier smiled, and said that he had heard often of a Virginia julep but never tasted one, and the group clattered away, laughing.
 
Captain Flynn's shot

This happened in the flintlock days.

"There was an old Irishman named Captain Flynn who owned a small schooner which plied along the Potomac River and its estuaries, buying fowls, fruits and garden truck from the country people and selling them in the Baltimore markets.

"It happened that the Captain, a week before Christmas, dropped anchor off Cutler's Creek, and there came an unexpected freeze, and for four days he was held hard and fast. All his meat gave out, so he traveled over the ice to the home of one of his best customers, a spinster named Miss Tilda Jenks, who made her living by raising poultry.

"Miss Tilly was cited among her neighbors as being the sharpest and the shrewdest bargainer in the whole country round; indeed some of the old hands said that she could even beat a preacher in a horse trade.

"When Captain Flynn went to purchase a dozen fowls the ancient spinster promptly doubled her price. This made the old Captain so mad that he went back to his sloop, swearing he would starve before he would pay it. Then ensued a struggle between his stomach and his pride, which resulted in his going back the next day and paying the spinster her price. As he saw the great number of fowls in the enclosure he said:

"'Miss Tilly, how much will you charge me to let me shoot in the thick of them, an' let me have all I kill?'
"The woman studied for a while and then answered:
"'Captain, if you let me load your gun you kin have all you kill for one dollar.'
"'Bedad! an' it's a bargain, an' here's your dollar,' answered the Irishman, 'an' now I'll go fer me gun.'

"He hurried back to his boat, got out an ancient bell-mouthed blunderbuss that had belonged to his grandfather, put in a handful of powder, rammed in a bunch of tow; next a double handful of shot was dropped down the barrel and held tight with another bunch of tow; then Captain Flynn sawed off about four fingers of the ramrod, picked the flint, called his crew, which consisted of an antiquated d**ky, and proceeded inland.
"Miss Tilly first carefully measured the gun with the ramrod, then, despite the protest of the Captain, she loaded the gun with only a thimbleful of powder and one of shot.
""A bargain is a bargain, Captain,' she said tauntingly, 'and here's your gun; now you can have all you kill.'
"Captain Flynn asked for an ear of corn; this he shelled along for about a hundred yards from the woodpile, then lying behind a log, he signified to Miss Tilly that he was ready.
"The gate was opened and the fowls of all sizes, sexes and condition came running, flying and fluttering out, and there was a confused mass of heads, wings and feathers mixed up as far as the eye could reach. The Captain sighted along the line, and uttered a prayer; the d**ky got behind a tree and clapped his hands over his ears; the spinster stood with her horn spectacles on her forehead, serene and confident; then the Captain, having finished his orisions, pulled the trigger. There was a thundering report that reverberated clean to the Virginia shore and back, then the smoke covered everything; when it lifted, there was the Captain, sitting up, rubbing his shoulder; Miss Tilly had her arms raised to heaven, crying, 'I'm ruined and undone!'
"The d**ky was dancing a jig.
"The spoils were counted: sixteen chickens, twelve guinea keets, five hen turkeys, one gobbler, two geese, two pigeons, four ducks and the old lady's pet pig."

That's one fine shot for a dollar.
 
Note for Bears: Don't mess with Apache women

From Geronimo's autobiography (which I picked up from the Smithsonian's Museum of American Indians).

"The four women who were captured at this time by the Mexicans were taken into Sonora, Mexico, where they were compelled to work for the Mexicans. After some years they escaped to the mountains and started to find our tribe. They had knives which they stolen from the Mexicans, but they had no other weapons. They had no blankets; so at night they would make a little tepee by cutting brush with their knives, and setting them up for walls. The top was covered over with brush. In this temporary tepee they would all sleep. One night when their camp fire was very low they heard growling just outside the tepee. Francisco, the youngest women of the party (about seventeen years of age), started to build up the fire, when a mountain lion crashed through the tepee and attacked her. The suddenness of the attack made her drop her knife, but she fought as best she could with her hand. She was no match for the lion, however, her left shoulder was crushed and partly thrown away. The lion kept trying to catch her by her throat; this she prevented with her hands for a long time. He dragged her for about 300 yards, then she found her strength was failing her from loss of blood, and she called the other women for help. The lion had been dragging her by one foot, and she had been catching hold of his legs, and of the rocks and underbrush, to delay him. Finally, he stoped and stood over her. She again called her companions and they attacked him with their knives and killed him. Then they dressed her wounds and nursed her in the mountains for about a month. When she was able to walk they resumed their journey and reached our tribe in safety."
 
Relieving boredom in the trenches

"There are many hours when the men and officers have literally nothing to do, but to 'while away' the time as best they may. They take old musket barrels, enlarge the vents, load them heavily with powder from some unexploded shell, put in one or two bullets, set the battery up in the sand, and fire it - the bullets falling a third or a half a mile away within the enemy's line. Possibly the enemy employs a similar means, for one of the men of our Brigade was killed while sitting with his back leaning up against the inside of our earth-works, a bullet penetrating the top of his head in such manner as if it had fallen straight down out of the sky. Our men play with still another 'battery' where the lines are very close together. A stout stick with a small stone one on end is balanced upon a log, the opposite end of the stick is struck a heavy blow with an axe, and the stone goes far over towards the enemy's line - and sometimes it is claimed that a particularly lucky blow will send a stone within them. A reproduction, for amusement, of a very ancient device."
 
Horse thievery or camouflaged horse

I don't recommend stealing other people's horses and in the old days, it was a hanging offense. Not a bad idea today either. Nonetheless, during the Civil War horse stealing was quite common. Here's how one unit got away with it:

'Ambulance Brown' prefers a black moustache on his amiable face to the huge paler hued one which nature supplies. The color he takes along in his pocket is handy to have... Our excellent Asst. Surgeon Small finds among the captured horses one that suits his fancy. A whining rebel citizen appears and begs for his 'dear horse.' The Colonel tells this Mr. Secesh to go among the herd and pick out his horse, and he will see about his return. The horse has a white foot or two, a white star in his face and a white nose. Brown, however, the moment he sets his sharp eyes upon this horse, sees that he is a valuable animal, and suspects that he will be demanded. He decides that this particular horse is not the horse he was, and to prove it, he whips out his moustache dye - without the knowledge of the Colonel or Asst. Surgeon Small - and colors all the white marks on the horse jet black. This job has hardly been completed, when Mr. Secesh appears in the herd, and still further proves the horse was not his he was, by being utterly unable to find his lost property - the work so well done he does not recognize his own 'dear horse,' and goes his way lamenting. When it is safe to do so the color is washed off - and now he is the horse he was. He does good service in the army, and is brought North at the end of the war. No one but 'Ambulance Brown' would ever have thought of dyeing a horse's moustache - but you see the habit of dyeing moustaches had grown strong upon him."
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Post Civil War Army Life. Here's some interesting observations of a post-Civil War soldier. An immigrant to this land, he sees many strange new sites and is literate enough to record them.

In the guardhouse
"Another class of our heroes paid their debts, twenty-five cents interest on every dollar for two months or less, after which they [would] go out for a spree that meant a beastly drunk, returning to quarters with empty pockets, generally missing one or two roll calls. Put in the gurdhouse he would be taken care of by a kindhearted guard and fellow prisoners. The latter would go through him and take all the money the sirens missed. If he had no money left the rest of the prisoners would convey a court. This august tribunal would sentence him to receive so and so lashes, administered to him while held across a chair, or to be 'blanketed' - which means the prisoner is put into a blanket which four strong men hold by the corners. A jerk sends the poor victim flying in the air, arms and legs working to all points of the compass, caught and thrown again. These guardhouse court-martials are more dreadful than the legal military punishments."
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Our hero avoids the guardhouse by behaving himself (coward) and staying out of trouble (strict Germanic upbringing as a child). He gets himself assigned as a cook and he makes an interesting repast:

My entree in the kitchen as cook took place soon after. We had on the fare for that day beans, regular army beans [that had] been soaking in water overnight. Being late that morning I put them in a boiler without examination. When looking at the beans a half hour later I discovered scorpions floating on the top. Time was precious and something had to be done to give the men their dinner. It was too much of a loss to throw the beans away and I concluded to taste them - should they make me sick the beans would have to be thrown away - if not I concluded to go on and prepare them for dinner. The beans stood on the table that noon - and never had tasted better to the men before. Useless to say I did not eat beans that day, and I examined pots before using [them] in the future.
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Note: in the olde days dinner was served at noon and supper in the evening.
Our hero observed the glorious life of the Red Man, whose lifestyle practically all of us would envy today.

The squaws did all the work in or out of camp and even saddled the horses for the men. The latter hunted and fought, but generally did nothing, or attended to the duties of the family. The girls were brought up to work and were mothers before they were women. The boys were given all the liberties of the race, were early instructed in archery and hunting, and taught the secrets of warfare. They used a stick with different marks as a geographic map.
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Here's more on the stick map. He talks about one Indian in particular and it's quite fascinating stuff.

At his first raid into Mexico he was given a stick by his father with a serrated mark for each hill, river, or particular formation of the country as his map, to guide him to a certain village or farm.
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I'd still love to see how they made those markings and indicated what was what.
 
Security blankets

Anyone old enough to remember Charles Schulz's comic strip, Peanuts, will remember Linus and his blanket. Well, Linus was probably a reincarnation of a Civil War soldier whose life was saved by his blanket. Here's a story of a man who was saved more than once by his same army issued blanket. Our hero participated in the Burnside's attack against the Confederates who were posted behind the stone wall of Marye's Heights in Fredericksburg. He was injured and pinned down with no cover to speak of.

...bullets were flying so thick around me that the thought struck me to pull or work my blankets off my shoulder and to place them in front of my head. They would serve as at least a slight protection from the deadly missiles. Fortunate, indeed, that I thought of this. Double fortunate that I succeeded in doing it. The prospect of death now seemed to increase. My clothing was literally being torn from my back by the constant and furious musketry fire of the enemy from three points. A ball struck me on the left wrist inflicting another painful but not serious wound. Another one which would undoubtedly have proved instantly fatal but for my blankets pierced through six plies of the blanket. It left me the possessor of a very sore head for six weeks after. With such force did this bullet come that for some time I really though it had embedded itself in the skull. My blankets were the receptacles of 32 other bullets which dropped out when I opened them up the next morning in Fredericksburg...
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Our hero decides to escape and waits for darkness and a lull in the firing.

I decided that my only chance to escape safely from my dangerous position would be during the intervals between the Rebel fire. I resolved to attempt it. Just as the sounds of another volley of the enemy died away at about eight p.m., I regained my feet with much difficulty and excruciating pain... I crept slowly back from the dangerous Rebel front... My friendly balnkets, although then mysteriously and unaccountably heavy, I did not relinquish. I dragged them along.
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Enroute back, he sees a light and discovers it's a lantern. Best of all, it's a lantern carried by a friend. He calls out and is helped to an ambulance. He is taken to a field hospital and is given medical care. While recovering, our hero feels cold and asks another soldier to unroll his blanket.

I asked him to remove the strings from my blanket which still remained rolled up. He willingly and cheerfully complied, remarking in doing so, 'How many blankets are here?' 'Only one,' I said. 'It's damned heavy then,' he said. The strings off, the officer, in order to open it up and spread it over me, raised it from the floor. To his sudden astonishment, a shower of Rebel bullets, 47 in number, dropped out of it around his feet, with a rattling noise on the boards. 'How's this?' he said, 'do the men of the 116th carry ammunition in their blankets?' I smiled and replied, 'Oh, no, we carry it in a much more convenient place and get rid of it as soon as possible.' I then explained to him the circumstance of my having placed it in front of my head while lying on the ground as a protection against the enemy's fire. 'Lucky boy,' he said, 'it just saved you from being riddled with Rebel lead.'"
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And that concludes our rambling anecdote for the day.
 
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