"The Irish Ninth in Bivouac and Battle" by Michael H. Macnamara   CHAPTER III. Social Parties. -- The Valiant Sentinel. -- Plain, plain Tom. SHADE of Bacchus (if that mythological enormity will condescend us a reflex), what convivial times we had !  Deep into the night, and oftentimes to the stilly morn, when the feast of reason and the flow of soul brought forgetfulness of petty cares, and gradually indoctrinated us into the creed of the soldier, that to live, we must live to-day, for a soldier dies to-morrow ! And right willingly we believed in this creed, the truth of which we have seen exemplified on many a bloody field, where the living of yesterday were among the dead of to-day. In one of our old wall tents the officers would often assemble, and, with a zest that would rival the Irish soldier of the olden time, vent their genial witticisms, perpetrate their jokes, and unwind everlasting yarns, which, if without point, would be certainly brimful of genuine Irish humor.  These parties would be, in spirit and feeling, seen all over the camp, and friendships were made and connections formed which will only terminate with life. These happy parties, however, have been sometimes unceremoniously broken up in the Ninth Regiment, and often have we sprung up from the festive board, drinking the last glass together for a time, and the next moment be sternly dashing into battle, doing our devoir for the unity of our adopted country. Many a vacant seat was there when all was over; but nothing could dampen the ardor of an Irish soldier, and while he spoke a word of sympathy for the dead, he would remark, "It may be my turn to-morrow" -- words sometimes only too prophetic. Many a ludicrous incident occurred at Long Island during our sojourn.  I remember well, one evening, that a party of officers sallied out on what we appropriately termed a tour of inspection, ostensibly to visit the guard, but really to pass them, if possible, and visit the camp of another regiment, quartered at the south end of the island.  The night was dark, and as we approached the sentinel, we could hear his measured pace; a little nearer, and we heard him pause upon his beat; another moment, and the liquid brogue of the sentinel rang out upon the air, -- "Halt !  Who goes there?" "A friend, with the countersign," was the reply.  The sentinel paused, seemingly in meditation; at last a bright idea seemed to strike him, and he cried out, -- "Hold on; ye can't pass here till ye say 'Schouler.'" We listened with smothered laughter, and then advanced, said "Schouler," and the innocent, good fellow allowed us to pass.  That was at Long Island, and the soldier was a recruit. Woe to the man that pressed an advance on the same soldier on the peninsular; a failure to give the proper countersign would be replied to by an ounce of lead.  Then the soldier was a veteran.  At another time, as I was passing from the camp to the boats to take a trip to the city, I espied a stout, heavy fellow, of ponderous proportions, in the full dress of a first-lieutenant.  He carried a valise in his hand, and the perspiration ran in rivulets down the creases of his fat physiognomy, and he seemed laboring under serious affliction.  He was a comical-looking gentleman, and I paused to survey him more narrowly, when a soldier, who happened to be standing near, irreverently bawled out, "Hollo, Tom ! yer off !"  The solid gentleman laid his valise upon the ground, and wiping his streaming forehead with a large bandanna, plaintively said, "There it is: a half hour ago it was Lieutenant R___, and now it's plain, plain Tom !"  It seemed that his commission had been revoked on account of his inability to execute the double-quick movement, which is really a bothersome affair, especially to fat old gentlemen.  The soldier knew this, and of the pride Lieutenant R___ derived from his title; therefore it was why the malicious fellow addressed him as plain Tom.   Go to Chapter 2 Table of Contents Go to Chapter 4 Return to Home Page