The Old Man knew his job and the nig was a buster
And the gang was as good a gang as you’d hope to find,
None of your coffee-coolers and straggle-tails
But a regular gang that ran like an eight-day clock.
Oh it was gravy, it was the real duck soup,
Marchin’ into Atlanta after the fight
And then this marchin’—well, they were due for it,
And he was a sergeant now. And up in his pack
Were souvenirs for the red-haired widow in Cairo,
Some of ’em bought and some just sort of picked up
But not a dam one stolen, to call it stealin’.
He wasn’t a coffee-cooler or a slick Susio.
Poor little kid—she’d had a pretty tough time—
Cry like a fool when she gets a squint at that brooch—
They said you couldn’t tell about widows much,
But what the hell—he wasn’t a barnyard virgin—
He liked a woman who’d been over the bumps
And kept her get-up-and-git and her sassiness.
Spitfire-sweetie, you’re my valentine now,
Bet the kids have red hair—well you can’t help that—
But they’ll all look like Poppa or he’ll know why.
He mused a moment, thinking of Ellyat now.
There was another kid and a crazy kid,
Sort of missed him, hope he’s gettin’ it soft,
Must have got a banger at Gettysburg,
Wrote me a letter a couple of months ago,
Maybe six, I dunno, I sort of forget.
Ought to give him his old spread-eagle now,
Darn good kid, but done enough for his pay.
Hope he finds that girl he was talkin’ about,
Sounds like a pretty good piece for a storm-and-strife,
Skinny, though—we like ’em more of a weight,
Don’t we, Carrots? Well, it’s all in a life.
Ought to write him sometime if we get a chance,
Wish we was West—we’d have him out to the weddin’,
Me and Bessie, show him the Cairo girls,
Hand him the fireman’s grip and give him a time.
His heart was overflowing with charity,
But his throat was dry as the bottom of his canteen.
There was a big, white house, some way from the road. …
He found his captain, saluted and put his question.
The captain’s eyes were satiric but not displeased.
“All right, Sergeant, take your detail and forage,
We’re running low on bacon, it seems to me,
And if you happen to find a pigeon or two
Remember the Colonel’s penchant for pigeon-pie.
But don’t waste time and don’t put your hopes too high,
The Nth Corps must have gone by there hours ago
And they’re the biggest thieves in this whole, wide army.
You’ll be back, in ranks, all sober, in just two hours
Or you won’t have stripes. And if I find one more man
Trying to take a pet with him on this march,
I don’t care if it’s only a treetoad, I’ll skin him alive.”
So Bailey came to the door of Wingate Hall,
With the high wind blowing against him and gave his orders.
“Make it quick now, boys—don’t cut any monkeyshines,
But be sure and get the pigeons if they’re around.
Clark, you and Ellis stay with me by the door,
I’m going to talk to the house if there’s anyone left.”
He knocked and called. There was a long, heavy silence.
“Hey you, the house!” The silence made him feel queer.
He cursed impatiently and pushed at the door.
It swung wide open. He turned to Ellis and Clark.
“I’m goin’ in,” he said. “If you hear me yell
Come in bilin’.” They watched him with mocking eyes.
“Wish to hell they’d make me a sergeant, Clark,”
“A three-stripe souvenir sergeant.” “Aw, hell,” said Clark,
“Bailey’s all right. He’ll let us in on the juice
If there’s any lawful juice that a man could get.”
“Sure he’s all right. Who says that he ain’t all right!”
“But all the same, he’s a sergeant.” Bailey, meanwhile
Was roving like a lost soul through great, empty rooms
And staring at various objects that caught his eye.
Funny old boy with a wig, hung up on the wall,
Queer sort of chairs, made your hands feel dirty to touch ’em
Though they were faded. Everything faded and old
And quiet—and the wind blowin’—he moved as on tiptoe
Though he couldn’t say why he did. Old workbasket there.
He opened it idly—most of the things were gone
But there was a pair of little, gold-mounted scissors
Made like a bird, with the blades the beak of the bird.
He picked it up and opened and shut the blades.
Hadn’t rusted—sort of handsome and queer—
Bessie would certainly like it— He held it a minute.
Wouldn’t take up any room. Then he frowned at the thing.
“Aw hell,” he said, “I got enough souvenirs.
I ain’t no damn coffee-cooler.”
He started to put the scissors back in the case
And turned to face a slight grey-headed old woman
Dressed in black, with eyes that burned through his skin
And a voice that cut at his mind like a rawhide whip,
Calling him fifty different kinds of a thief
And Yankee devil and liar and God knows what,
Tearing the throat of her dress with her thin old hands
And telling him he could shoot her down like a dog
But he’d steal her children’s things over her dead body.
My God, as if you went around shootin’ old women
For fun, my God! He couldn’t even explain.
She was like all of ’em, made him sick in his lunch.
“Oh hell,” he yelled. “Shut up about your damn scissors,
This is a war, old lady!” “That’s right,” she said,
“Curse a helpless female, you big, brave soldier.”
Well, what was a man to do? He got out of the house,
Sore and angry, mean as a man could feel,
But her voice still followed, reviling, making him burn.
Now, where in hell was that detail? He saw them now,
All except Clark and Ellis, gathered around
A white-polled nigger wringing his hands and weeping.
One man had a neck-wrung pigeon stuffed in his blouse.
Well, that was something. He laid his hand on the nigger.
“Hey, Uncle, where’s the well? You folks got a well?”
But the nigger just kept on crying like an old fool.
“He thinks we’re goin’ to scalp him,” said one of the men,
“I told him twict that he’s free but the shine won’t listen.
I give him some money, too, but he let it drop.
The rest of ’em run away when the army came.”
“Well, tell him he’s safe and make him rustle some water,
I’m
