FORCED MARCHES.
THE Teche Country was to the war in Louisiana what the Shenandoah Valley was to the war in Virginia. It was a sort of back alley, parallel to the main street, in which the heavy fighting must go on; and one side or the other was always running up or down the Teche with the other side in full chase after it. There the resemblance ends, for the Teche Country is a long flat, hemmed in by marshes and bayous, which, as every body but a blind man can see, is a very different thing from a rolling valley bordered by mountains.
In the Teche Country I fought in two engagements, each time coming off conqueror, which is the next worst thing to being beaten, inasmuch as it is almost equally sure to involve you in that most terrible physical trial, a forced march. I have fought a great deal, quite enough to know that human nature hates to be shot at; but I think I would rather take my chance in another battle than chase Texans again from Camp Beaseland to Alexandria. Aware that the phrase "from Camp Beaseland to Alexandria" means about as much to the ordinary gentile as that other phrase "from Dan to Beersheba," I will state that the distance between the two points is something like one hundred and eight miles.
My first adventure in this region was in January, 1863. Weitzel dashed up to the confluence of the Teche and Atchafalaya with five or six regiments, scared Mouton out of his position there, smashed the Confederates' new iron-clad gun-boat "Cotton," and returned next morning. Although pestered with cold and hunger, our march homeward was as hilarious as a bacchanal procession. It was delightful to have beaten the enemy, and it was delightful to be on the way back to our comfortable quarters. The expedition was thus brief because it had fulfilled its object, which was to weaken the Confederate naval power on the Teche, and thus enable Banks to take the back alley in his proposed advance on Port Hudson.
But why should he go by the back alley of the Teche instead of by the main street of the Mississippi? Because it was necessary to destroy the army of Mouton, or, at least, to drive it as far as possible, in order to incapacitate it from attacking New Orleans while we should be engaged with the fortress of the bluffs. The story ran in our brigade that this sensible plan originated in the head of our own commandant, Weitzel. I believed it then, and I have learned no better since, although I can affirm nothing. The reader will please to remember that there is a great deal of uncertainty in war, not only before but after.
About the middle of April, 1863, I was once more at the confluence of the Teche and the Atchafalaya. This time Mouton was there in strong force, posted behind entrenchments which seemed to me half a mile in length, with an impassable swamp on his right, and armored gunboats on his left. Banks's army was far superior in numbers, and supported as it was by a sufficient fleet of gunboats, could doubtless have carried the position; but the desirable thing to do was of
