S

UTLER! What a world of reminiscence that title (for was it not a title ?) brings to the mind of the volunteer soldier of the American Civil War. All attempts to find his like have failed. The Sutler of to-day is not he. The Sutler of the Revolution had not even the prerequisite of sex, for in her we find also the camp-washerwoman; and no woman could have ever risen to the dizzy heights of inglorious eminence in such a vocation (or shall we call it art?) to which he aspired and reached. He was sui generis; his species is extinct.

Of any nationality was he, yet no nation acknowledged him. What was his status? He was a volunteer; no sutler was ever drafted. He entered into the cause-of Mammon-with an eagerness to serve which, had it been one tithe as intense in some other cause, must have won him laurels such as would have sunk into oblivion the deeds of all heroes in times before or after. But for meed of praise, crown of fame, honorable scar or storied bust, he cared not; nay, despised. He professed no patriotism, though among patriots; he pretended to no bravery, though brave men surrounded him; he cherished no war-like ambitions, though he existed only in time of war. Of money he risked all he had; for money he suffered or rejoiced.

Subject to military discipline, he ranked a trifle higher than corporal, a fraction lower than army mule. In theory, his position was impregnable, secured by official mandate; in practice, kicks, curses, and wanton spoliation were his dues; yet his revenge was keen.

Men's food is their spirit, their nature-within limitations. Who shall not say that upon his shoulders rests much of the responsibility for battles lost, for inglorious retreats, for disaffection among generals, for ignominious guard-house incarcerations, for untimely sojourns in gloomy hospital? Would not the sum total of the ills devolving upon the warrior have been less but for the insidious presence of a sutler? A glance at the stock in trade of any one of him forces one irresistibly to this sad conclusion; or, at best, grave doubt must arise. Such fare as rancid sardines and petrified bologna, gall-tasting pickles, cough candy, potatoes hardened to a leaden consistency, and soft bread six months old, topped off with exiled bourbon, streak lightning in liquid form, and Havana onion leaves for

smoking purposes, was not calculated to produce heroes. These and an hundred other prime necessaries of luxurious military existence were here, side by side with such articles of the toilet as wooden combs, wrinkled pocket-mirrors, eyeless needles, pointless pins, lip salve, razor soap and plasters.

With more or less capital and credit, usually the possession of some mistaken and always unknown personage who secured his right to exist as sutler, he set forth on his mission of extortion. His vocation was indeed one of vicissitudes. The end of a campaign might find him with a balance sheet that would not balance, a tattered tent, a battered wagon, hundreds of pounds of scorned "sundries," and a ledger full of charges against the killed and mortally wounded and missing of the great host that he followed and who were his largest 66 customers." But again, his venture successful, the bloated bondholder, at whose head so much vituperation has been hurled, were but a groveling worker compared to this Prince of Mammon.

A ral

And yet it has been said that the Sutler was greatest at a "charge." His was indeed always the post of danger. In the rear during an advance, in front while on retreat, encompassed about with perils, his deeds in defending his traveling treasure-house of perishables were marvels of intrepidity and generalship. lying point in battle was his vehicle, a position contended for by friend and foe alike, when the vicissitudes of combat left it between them. But he was not in the midst of carnage; not he. From some point without the beleaguered citadel he anxiously watched the desperate contest over things despised yet loath of relinquishment by those who struggled. Not until his armed companions, victorious, would turn upon and rend his treasures with mouths made hungry by the mortal conflict, did his smile of "trust" give way to the horror which spread o'er his once gloating visage.

If ever a volunteer warrior fell upon the neck of his regimental sutler and embraced him, history does not record it. Suspicion, not affection, was the sole sentiment that distinguished their intercourse. Always was the stock in trade of the sutler suspected and sneered at, yet was it coveted and-bought. And when pay-day came, Suspicion again made her appearance,

posed of the few fragments in their haversacks and called them "dinner." There was still, as as often the case, considerable air-space left under the belt, and some of the men, seeking what they might devour, spied a sutler's tent, and at once" made tracks" for it. But they had no money; and when they joined the crowd around the tent and witnessed the things there set forth in appetizing array they groaned in spirit. Cans of lobster and condensed milk and gingersnaps tempted the hungry palate. But the aforesaid impecunious volunteers soon discovered something in the wind. Going around to the back of the tent they saw about a hundred men engaged in quietly watching the gathering of a cyclone destined to sweep down upon and envelop the unsuspicious sutler. Some of the ropes of the tent had been loosened; men held them taut, awaiting the sig nal for catastrophe. Suddenly, with a wild yell, the crowd surged against the side of the canvas, the ropes were let go, and over it went with a rush. The sutler, oh, where was he? Before

that bewildered individual could extricate himself from the hopeless entanglement in which he found himself the crowd had dispersed, and with it the treasures he so dearly prized.

And so, "goin' through the sutler" was a favorite pastime indulged in with enthusiasm and dexterity by all within reach, upon the slightest pretext that promised success. But here again the suave dispenser of inedibles enjoyed revenge. After a successful wrestle with and consumption of stolen toothsome morsels many a doughty private was fain to lie down in his rubber blanket and wish he might even die unhonored and unsung could he be rid of the direful agony that possessed him.

But enough. The Sutler is no more. Of all the unique characters upon the stage in the great drama of the Civil War none played their part so well as he nor became so intimately woven into the lives (and stomachs) of the soldiers whom he fed and bled. He came from no one knows where; he departed without a sign into the misty vale of the past.

TH

HE incidents here related occurred during the Kanawha campaign, when the Federal forces, under General J. D. Cox, were pursuing the Confederates, under Generals Floyd and Wise, up the valley. There had been a few engagements, which in those early days we called "battles," but which, measured by the tremendous struggles of the later years of the conflict, were but unimportant skirmishes. At the time of which I write, we were pushing the enemy very close; in fact, it was no uncommon thing for our advance cavalry boys to eat the hot breakfast prepared for the rear-guard of the Confederate army-an opportunity which our people never neglected, for who ever saw a soldier who was not ready for a square meal, and scheming all the time to get something to eat outside of the regular rations?

The last I saw of Wise's army was at a place called Hawk's Nest. The rear-guard of the enemy brought on a "spat" with our artillery, which lasted only a short time, and which ended in the premature discharge of one of our guns, from which the swab or rammer had not yet been removed. This novel projectile went whistling across the field and into the ranks of the enemy,

creating great consternation. They were not accustomed to missiles of this character and jumped to the conclusion that we were giving them the much-dreaded "chain-shot." Well, I have since seen batteries limber up and get out with considerable celerity, but I don't recall any greater expedition and rapidity of movement than our opponents exhibited that day. Both sides were comparatively green at the business at that time. I have no doubt that the survivors of both blue and gray who were in that campaign will recall this incident, for it was the talk of our camp, and also that of the Confederates, according to the stories of some prisoners who were captured soon after.

Like most mountain regions, the Kanawha Valley was largely loyal. The old flag was frequently seen displayed above the cabins of the woodsmen, and our approach was hailed with delight by blacks and whites alike. There were also many gangs of bushwhackers-that contemptible class of semi-brigands who were hated and despised by both Confederates and Federals. They had no general organization, but preyed upon whoever came in their way. Capital shots were these long, loose-jointed outlaws, and

their rifles were often of the best quality and range, being effective at a thousand or twelve hundred yards. These men were perfectly familiar with every nook and corner of the territory, and their rifles would crack and their bullets sing from all sorts of unlikely places. Many a poor straggler dropped dead with a bullet hole in his back before he could turn and see his skulking murderer slip into the bush. The soldiers had no love and less pity for the bushwhackers, and lost no time in "wiping them out" whenever the opportunity offered.

After the little fight at Hawk's Nest, our army, about 5,000 strong, gave up the pursuit of Wise, who had disappeared from our front, and went into camp. After a time, camp life and rations became monotonous, and the boys conceived and executed various plans for killing time and adding to the variety of our bill of fare. Foraging was strictly forbidden by general orders, but the prohibition did not "go" with all the boys, as was proved by the frequent appearanee on our tables of fat little pigs and plump turkeys. Our officers were on the alert, and frequently inquired the source of our undue supply of fresh meat, but their inquiries always elicited the short, sharp, and decisive reply, "Bought it!" which answered every purpose, in the absence of controverting testimony.

One morning, in company with my side partner and comrade, Ben, I started on a little raid of my own, the object being "fresh meat." All went well until we reached our outer pickets, but after considerable dodging and crawling we at length found ourselves outside the lines. The country was hilly and broken, with here and there a cabin or clearing. Numerous by-paths diverged from the few roads. Following one of these paths for a mile or two, we came upon a substantial log-house in the midst of a clearing. Upon our approach a pack of hounds came tearing to greet us, making a terrible noise and causing us to pause a moment for consideration. Just then the cabin door opened and a venerable old darky made his appearance. He stood and gazed at us for some time in silent wonder, then clasped his hands and shouted: "Bress de Lawd! Am you some of Massa Linkum's men? We hab been waitin' fer you eber so long, an' here yo' is now, shuah!"

Calling off the dogs, the old man rushed to greet us most cordially. "Come right in hyar, right in dis yer cabin, an' de ol' 'oman'll hab yo' sumfin to eat."

Everything about the cabin gave evidence of neatness and thrift. The old "aunty" busied herself with getting up a first-class "feed" for us, being assisted by her daughter. The old man plied us with questions about the war, asked us whether we ever knew John Brown, and a hundred other inquiries of a similar character. At last he unearthed from some corner a little brown jug, which he handed to Ben, saying: "Try some ob dis yer peach brandy. Dat ar was made by my ole massa, way down in ole Kaintuck." Ben says it was good.

Then we had a veritable feast of slapjacks and honey, hoe-cakes, pumpkin pie, and lots of other good things-a feast fit for the gods, or at least we thought so. After dinner we took leave of our kindly host, receiving from him a warning to "look out fur dem 'fernal bushwhackers-heap o' dem 'roun' dar."

Four

Ben and I were out for a tramp. days we traveled over hills and valleys, across creeks and rivers, living on the fat of the land. We knew we were in hourly peril, but this excitement only lent zest to the sport. We were in danger of being gobbled up at any minute by the bushwhackers, or of being taken into camp by some remaining straggling detachment of Wise's command. But luck was with us. only were we unmolested by enemies, but we were not discovered by our own guards, and the people we encountered fed us bounteously.

Not

The afternoon of the fourth day found us back within two miles of our own picket line, at a point where two roads branched off from the main road, which led directly to our camp. Here we sat down to rest and consider. We had an immense sack of edibles which we had "bought," and we were anxious to get the goods into camp. We also wanted to get back ourselves without attracting too much attention or receiving an ovation from the corporal of the guard. While this "committee of safety," so to speak, was in the midst of an executive session, a mounted Federal officer suddenly made his appearance around a sharp bend in the road only a few rods away. We knew at once that we were in for it, for he saw us quite as soon as we saw him, and it was useless to try to hide. I am not sure he was glad to see us, and I know we were not overjoyed at his coming.

We quietly awaited the officer's approach. He rode directly to us, and proved to be Captain W-, of an Ohio regiment belonging to our brigade. Ben and I stood at "present arms,"

which salute he courteously returned. Then the captain assumed a most dignified and ultramilitary attitude, and in a voice almost tragic in its severity demanded our names and the cause of our absence from camp; also upbraided us for foraging, saying that General Cox's orders were imperative, forbidding all depredations, etc. For several minutes he lectured us, saying that we had subjected ourselves to trial by a drumhead court-martial, and stood a good chance of being "shot at the head of the regiment,"

etc.

This all sounded wonderfully solemn and serious, but somehow it didn't seem to impress us very deeply. I do not know how long the officer would have kept up the harangue, but it was cut short by a sudden and irrelevant exclamation from Ben:

"Look! There he goes! There is one of them!" pointing down the road.

Sure enough, there was one of the hated bushwhackers, mounted on a powerful bay horse and armed with one of those long, deadly rifles which lay across his pommel. When Ben first caught sight of him, he was just coming out of the brush into the road; he did not see us until he reached the middle of the road, about 300 yards away. Evidently the surprise

was mutual.

The bushwhacker instantly turned his horse and galloped away like the wind. The captain, taking in the situation at a glance, made one grab for Ben's Enfieid, secured the weapon, and

started in pursuit. An instant later we saw him raise the rifle and take quick aim. A flash, a sharp report, and the fleeing bushwhacker, now fully 400 yards away, threw up his arms and fell to the ground, his left foot catching in the stirrup, so that the rider was dragged fully fifty yards before his foot become disentangled, when he lay prostrate on the dusty road, while the big bay horse soon disappeared in the distance.

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The captain coolly returned the rifle to Ben, remarking: One more rubbed out. How was that for a flying shot?"

This all occurred in an instant, a mere flash, and it was the best shot I have ever seen before, during, or since the war, with a musket. We found the bushwhacker as dead as a hammer, with a ragged bullet hole in the middle of his back. I picked up his rifle, upon the stock of which were eleven notches, which, I suppose, represented the number of his victims. We dug a hole by the roadside, and covered him up, with no prayers, and I fear no sorrow. The captain remarked: "That fellow will do no harm, for I have mustered him out."

Captain W- was a pretty good fellow, and let us go our way. We dodged the pickets that night and got safely to camp, and up to the present time neither of us has been courtmartialed or "shot at the head of the regiment," nor experienced any other evil effects from our pleasant and exciting foraging expedition in the Kanawha Valley.