The Continental Monthly, Vol. 6, No 3, September 1864: Devoted To Literature And National PolicyVarious
History
The Continental Monthly, Vol. 6, No 3, September 1864: Devoted To Literature And National Policy
Various
Literature, Modern -- 19th century -- Periodicals; United States -- Politics and government -- 19th century -- Periodicals
The next afternoon and evening, including in the latter elastic term
many hours more properly claimed by the night, were spent in confused
and bungling attempts to issue the clothing and camp and garrison
equipage considerately provided for us by the Government. First
everybody opened all the boxes at once, and grabbed for everything. Then
everybody put his things back and petitioned for somebody else's. 'My
overcoat is too big.' 'Mine is too short.' 'Golly! what sleeves!' 'What
are these bags for?' 'Those things knapsacks! how you goin' to fassen
'em? no straps!' 'My canteen has no cork.' ... '_Silence_!' roars the
captain, and '=Silence!=' rasps the orderly sergeant, three times as
loudly and six as disagreeably. And then everybody being ordered to
replace everything, that a proper system of distribution may be adopted,
half of us hide our plunder away, and the other half dump their prizes
promiscuously and in sullenness. 'Here, here!' barks Sergeant Files;
'this kind of thing's played out. There were sixty-five canteens;
where's the other sixty?' Presently the confusion unravels a little,
but, after a breathing spell, begins again worse than ever, when our
melancholy friend, Smallweed, having signed the clothing receipt
doubtfully, presently announces, with the air of an injured martyr, that
he supposes it's all right, but he can't find all the things he signed
for. Then everybody frantically examines into this new difficulty, and
discovers that they signed for everything, and got nothing. Poor Captain
Pipes scratches his head perplexedly, and smokes in anxious puffs.
Sergeant Files hustles everybody about, exposes several shamefaced
impostors, who have more than everything, and by the timely announcement
that Smallweed's deficiency consists of two overcoat straps, which are
no longer used in the service, restores comparative quiet. Smallweed,
however, retires up and shakes his head dubiously, remarking in an
undertone, to a weak-eyed young man, who stands in mortal awe of him,
that it may be all right, but he don't see it.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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