I come in town the nite afore, with my regimentals in a bundle, so they
couldn’t be siled by ridin’, and as soon as I got my breckfast, I begun
rigin’ out for the muster. I had a bran new pair of boots, made jest a
purpose, with long legs to ’em and a shaperdebraw, with one of the
tallest kind of red fethers in it, a blu cloth regimental cote, all
titivated off with gold and buttons, and a pair of yeller britches of
the finest kind. Well, when I went to put ’em on, I couldn’t help but
cuss all the tailors and shoomakers in Georgia. In the fust place, my
britches like to busted and wouldn’t reach more’n half way to my jacket,
then it tuck two niggers to git my boots on; and my coat had tail enuff
for a bed-quilt, and stood rite strait out behind like a fan-tail
pidgin—it wouldn’t hang rite no how you could pull it. I never was so
dratted mad, specially when thar was no time to fix things, for the
fellers were comin’ in in gangs and beginnin’ to call for me to come out
and take the command. Eckspectation was ris considerable high, cause I
was pledged to quip myself in uniformity to the law, if I was lected
Majer.
Well, bimeby I went to the dore and told Bill Skinner and Tom Cullers to
fix ther companys, and have ’em all reddy when I made my pearance. Then
the fuss commenced. Thar wasn’t but one drum in town, and Bill Skinner
swore _that_ should drum for _his_ company, cause it longed to that
beat; and Tom Cullers swore the nigger should drum for _his_ company,
cause he longed to his crowd. Thar was the old harry to pay, and it was
gittin’ wurse. I didn’t know what to do, for they was all comin’ to me
bout it, and shinin’ and disputin’ so I couldn’t hardly hear one from
tother. Thinks I, I must show my thority in this bisness; so says I, “In
the name of the State of Georgia, I cummand the drum to drum for me. I’s
Majer of this betallion and I’s cummander of the musick too!” The thing
tuck fust-rate; thar was no more rumpus bout it, and I sot the niggers a
drummin’ and fifin’ as hard as they could split rite afore the tavern
dore.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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