CAMP-FIRE VII.

A BANQUET TO THE S. P. U. H.—“S. B.”—A CLASSICAL EX

POSITION OF THE TERM, AND SOME REMINISCENCES FOR

ILLUSTRATION.

RDER!" said the commander, as the tattoo sounded, and the bugle came to its relief; but the bugle was hoarse, and the noise which it made was akin to that of a masculine cat in distress, in the little hours. The boys all laughed, but the commander rapped on a log with his musket, and the rattle of the bayonet commanded peace.

Then he said, "Comrades, I have been for sometime anticipating a feast on the rare old dish of S. B., and hard-tack. Let's build up the fire, satisfy our hunger, and give the S. P. U. H. a banquet."

Accordingly, more sticks and tree-boughs were placed on the fire, and the preparations proceeded. While the work was going on, the Society for the Preservation of Unpublished History ascertained that "S. B." meant that particular part of swine anatomy which, with the exception of the feet, is nearest the earth. The civil name for it was "salt bacon; later changed to "breakfast-bacon," while the designation on the social menu is "fat of pork." This abbreviation, however, was applied to more than one army delicacy. It sometimes signified "soaked beans," sometimes "salt beef;" but more frequently was given to a very choice dish, made from hard-tack which had been carried on a long march through the rain, then soaked in river water during the night, with several changes of the water, and fried for breakfast.

"Hard tack," the S. P. U. H. learned, was a kind of bread, light in color, which could not be affected by age. In size, shape and durability, it was similar to the sections of a slate roof.

Meantime the Society for the Preservation of Unpublished History sat by with great dignity, full of high satisfaction that its members were soon to be banqueted and toasted. When the coffee and eatables were ready, the veterans began without ceremony, in the fashion a la if I-don't-get-my-share pretty-soon-somebody-else-will; and before the S. P. U. H. could come to a clear understanding of the situation, and secure the attention of the veterans, there was not enough left for one meal for a ghost. When the food had all disappeared, the boys perceived that the S. P. U. H. had been forgotten. Many apologies were offered, but no hard-tack nor S. B. Sic vita militaris est.

Then the national air was sung:

(Tune-AMERICA.)

My rations are S. B.,
Taken from porkers three
Thousand years old;

And hard-tack cut and dried
Long before Noah died,—

From what wars left aside

Ne'er can be told.

*

There were originally three stanzas to this hymn, but after it was sung, while being handed across the fire to the S. P. U. H., two stanzas fell into the blaze and were consumed. The society now has the ashes of the sacred paper in its museum.

Mr. George Justice, of Company H, First Battery 18th U. S. Infantry, then remembered an experience which simultaneously illustrates three things: The craving of the boys for fresh meat, the sincerity of Gen. Geo. H. Thomas, and the able discipline he imposed.

"I participated in one little experience which I have never related, and have never heard told. When the 14th Army Corps laid at Stephenson, Ala., in 1863, General Thomas issued orders to the effect that he did not want any foraging; but despite such orders from as good a man as ever commanded a soldier, there were some who disobeyed them. We had been without fresh pork for some time, and my partner, James D. Killdow, and myself, concluded we would have some. So one afternoon we started out; but we did not have to go very far before we spied a porker that would weigh about 200 pounds, and we were not long in taking him. We withed his legs together, run a pole through them, and started for camp. By keeping the woods, we could slip in at the foot of the company; but we had a road to cross, and there was where the trouble commenced. As we came out into the open space, who should gallop around the bend but General Thomas and staff,-just as we were thinking about what a nice mess we were going to have. He ordered us to halt,

and riding up to us, asked:

"Where do you men belong?

"To the 18th U. S. Infantry,' I said.

"Don't you know the order against foraging?'

"There was no use denying it, so I replied that we did. "What did you kill that hog for?'

"We wanted some fresh pork,' I said.

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"Well, you will have to be disciplined for disobedience,' and the general turned to one of his aids, and added: Bring these men and that hog up to headquarters.'

"The aid ordered us to pick up the hog, which we did, and wagged along with our load. To our surprise, we found a ring made and a guard waiting for us, with orders to make us carry the hog around that ring until further notice. Being nothing but a boy at that time, the hog got very heavy for me in a short time. I told the guard that I was too small

for that kind of work, but he told me not to lay that hog down. I told him I must rest or die right there.

"All right, be brave and die at your post,' he replied, with a laugh.

"When we had carried the hog around about an hour an officer approached, and told us that General Thomas had said we might have the hog, as he thought we had earned it, and that we would not be guilty of such a trick again. Our punishment was complete, but didn't we drop that hog in a hurry? I tell you, rest never was so sweet.

"When we had rested sufficiently, we took up our burden, and started for camp. We were heroes now, and instead of slipping in the back way, we walked right down the front, across the parade ground, between the line officers' tents and the heads of the companies, past the head of our own company to our tent. The orderly sergeant appeared on the scene at once, and ordered us to take the hog to the cook's tent, and have it issued out. We had already killed it, but I said No!' Then the orderly ordered two soldiers to pick it up and take it to the cook's tent. I told Killdow to watch the hog until I could go up and see the captain. In a few minutes I was at the captain's tent, and soon related the story about General Thomas giving us the hog. The captain appreciated the joke, laughed heartily, and said:

"Well, I guess the hog belongs to you.'

"I went back and told the orderly that the hog belonged to Killdow and myself. He went up to see the captain, but did not return; so we skinned the hog and issued it out to the boys ourselves. But that was the last hog that poor Killdow ever helped to kill, for he was taken prisoner at the battle of Chickamauga, Sept. 20, 1863, and died in Andersonville prison on the 1st of September, 1864.”

"That is not very much unlike one I recall, which occurred just before we were going into Huntsville, Ala.," said Mr. J. J. Marquett, of Company B, 37th Indiana,