The Orpheus C. Kerr Papers, Series 1. R. H. Newell
the bosom of all the first families, looking for the Fourth District and Nine's feller!
The Mackerel brigade have got their new uniforms, and they are not the martial garments it would do to get fat in. High private Samivel Green put his on, partially, yesterday; but, it's a positive fact, my boy, that by the time he got his coat buttoned, his pantaloons were all worn out. I managed to get on one of the uniforms myself, and the first time I went into the open air all the buttons blew off.
I've just returned from visiting the most mournful sight that ever made a man feel as though he'd been peeling onions all the week, and grating horse-radish on Sunday. It was the first dying scene of one of the "Pet Lammers," down at Alexandria, and, as one of Five's chaps remarks, it was enough to make the eye of a darning-needle weep, and bring tears to the cheek of the Greek slave. Jim was the only name of the sufferer, and if he ever had any other, it had slipped his memory, though his affectionate relatives sometimes called him "Shorty," by way of endearment. He was out on picket-guard the night before, when the Southern Confederacy attempted to pass him. He challenged the intruder, and called to his comrades for help; but, before the latter could arrive, the Southern Confederacy drew a masked battery from his pocket, and fired six heavy balls through the head of the unfortunate Zouave, nearly fracturing his skull, and breaking several panes of glass. The cowardly miscreant then fled to an adjacent fence, closely followed by Sherman's Artillery.
Upon discovering that he was wounded, Mr. Shorty examined the cap on his musket, and stood it carefully against a tree, buttoned his jacket to his neck, and asked a comrade for a chew of tobacco. Too full of emotion to speak, the comrade handed a gentlemanly plug to the dying man, who cut about half an ounce from it, placed it thoughtfully in his mouth, and then stuffed his handkerchief carefully in the hole in his forehead made by the balls.
"Is any of my brains hanging out?" he asked of another of his comrades.
"No, Shorty," answered the other, bursting into tears; "you never had any to hang out."
After this response, the dying man paused for a moment to spit in the eyes of a dog that was smelling around his heels, and then proceeded with his comrades in the direction of the hospital, or the house used for that purpose.
As they were passing the quarters of the officer with whom I was spending the night, the expiring Zouave stopped to twist the tail of an old darkey's cat, which made such a noise that the officer's attention was attracted, and he called the whole party into his room. I at once noticed that the top of Mr. Shorty's head was completely gone, and that one of his eyes was half-way down the back of his neck. Upon entering the room he took a pipe from the mantel and commenced to smoke it, giving us, at the same time, a history of Nine's Engine and the first "muss" he was ever engaged in. After finishing the pipe, and requesting me to wrap him up in the American flag, he spit on one of my boots, and then died. I append a short biographical sketch.
THE LATE PRIVATE SHORTY.
Mr. James Shorty, the gallant Zouave who was shot last night by the Southern Confederacy, was born some years ago in a place I am not aware of, and graduated with high honors in the New York Fire Department. He was universally beloved for his genial manner of taking the butt, and never hit a feller bigger than himself. In the year 1861, he entered the United States army as a private Zouave, and was in it when the fate of war deprived the country of his beloved presence. His remains will be taken to the first fire that occurs.
Poor Shorty! I knew him well, my boy, and shall never forget how ready he always was to take a cigar from
Yours, mournfully,
Orpheus C. Kerr.
P.S.—Since writing the above, I have heard that no such occurrence took place at Alexandria. The alarm was occasioned by the fall of a bag of hay in one of the officers' quarters, the noise being mistaken for the firing of a battery. Mr. Shorty, it seems, does not belong to the Zouaves, at all, and is still in New York.
O. C. K.
LETTER VII.
RECORDING THE FIRST SANGUINARY EXPLOIT OF THE MACKEREL BRIGADE, AND ITS VICTORIOUS ISSUE.
Washington, D.C., June 20th, 1861.
I have just returned, my boy, with my fellow-mercenaries and several mudsills from a carnival of gore. I am wounded—my sensibilities are wounded, and my irrepressibles reek with the blood of the slain. These hands, that once opened the oysters of peace and toyed with the bivalves of tranquillity, are now sanguinary with the red juice of battle (gushing idea!), and linger in horrid ecstacy about the gloomy neck of a bottle holding about a quart. Eagle of my country, proud bird of the menagerie! thou art avenged!
At a late hour last evening, the Brigadier-General of the Mackerel Brigade (formerly a practitioner in the Asylum for Idiots) received intelligence from a messenger that a strong force of chickens were intrenched near Fairfax Court-House under the command of a rabid secessionist named Binks. The brigade was at once ordered over the bridge at a double-quick, the general throwing a strong force of skirmishers into the Potomac, and waving his sword repeatedly to show that he was a stranger to fear. Shortly after touching Virginia soil, the orderly sergeant reported an engagement, on the left flank, between private Villiam Brown and the man that puts his hair in papers. A consultation of officers was immediately called, and the order "About face" was given. So excited was our general by the event, that when the order to march was given he forgot all about the "About face" business, and we didn't know that we were going the wrong way until we suddenly found ourselves at the bridge again. A consultation of officers was immediately called, and it was determined that, in consequence of the well-known revolution of the world on its axis, the part with the bridge on it had taken a turn while we were halting, and we were ordered to counterbalance the singular phenomena by marching the other way immediately. We had proceeded about one mile, when a scout reported that a shower was coming up. A consultation of officers was immediately called, and it was determined that a squad should search a neighboring farmhouse for an umbrella for the Brigadier-General. The umbrella being obtained without loss of life, we pushed on toward Fairfax, and soon found ourselves before the works of the enemy. A consultation of officers was immediately called, and it was decided that the Brigadier-General should climb a tree, in order to be able to direct the assault effectively, and prevent the appearance of a widow in his family at home. The first regiment, Watch Guards, were ordered to reconnoitre the works, and private Villiam Brown had almost succeeded in surrounding a very fat pullet, when Colonel Binks put his head out of the window of his fortress, and discharged a ten-inch boot-jack at our centre.
The Man that puts his hair in papers was wounded severely on one of his corns, and the Brigadier-General slid hastily down from the tree, and retired to the rear of an adjacent barn. A consultation of officers was immediately called, and it was determined to form our brigade into a square, and receive the charge of the enemy, who speedily appeared before the breastworks with a pair of tongs in his hands. Reaching forward with the horrid weapon, he pulled the nose of our returned Brigadier-General with it. A consultation of officers was immediately called, and it was determined that death was preferable to defeat. Accordingly, the brigade was ordered to advance cautiously upon the enemy, while the orderly sergeant was sent to harass his rear, and turn his flank, if possible. Our brigadier-general attempted to lead the charge, but made a mistake about the direction again, and had galloped half a mile toward where we came from before he could be convinced of his mistake. Seeing us descending upon him, at last, like an avalanche, the enemy deployed to the right, and poured in a volley of "cusses," throwing our right column into confusion, and wounding the delicacy of our chaplain. A consultation of officers was immediately called, and it was determined to make one more dash. We were formed into the shape of a bunch of radishes, the brigadier-general retired a distance of two miles to encourage us, and we poured down upon the foe with irresistible force. His ranks were broken by the impetuosity of our charge, and he scattered and fled in dismay.
The engagement then became general, and in a little while we were on our victorious way to Washington again,