Forward at full speed the next day and the day after, scurrying and popping of cavalry in the front, as our van skirmished with their rear. At times a great distant dust, showing how close we were upon the Rebel flight. It is a solemn and menacing phenomenon, the dust of a marching enemy, but more particularly so, of course, when it is advancing upon you. The smoke of burning cotton streaked the day, and the flare of it luridly starred the night; for even in his haste Mouton was determined that no fraction of the financial king should fall to the Yankees, Stragglers in gray and butternut dropped back among us with pacific waving of caps and handkerchiefs; for although we could not catch the Texan horsemen, we were marching the Louisiana infantry to tatters. It seemed like meeting old friends to come across the fellows of the Crescent regiment, whom we had encountered six months before at Labadieville, or Georgia Landing. Shouts of recognition took place, gayer on our side than on theirs. They told us that their officers were driving the men on with drawn sabres, or the whole force would have gone to pieces under the exhaustion of the retreat. Mightily encouraged by these statements, we blistered our soles with renewed energy.
Oh, the horrors of marching on blistered feet! It is an incessant bastinado applied by one's self, from morning to night. I do not mean a single blister, as big as a pea, but a series of blisters, each as large as a dollar, or, to judge by one's sensations, as large as a cartwheel. I have had them one under the other, on the heel, behind the heel, on the ball of the foot, on every toe, a network, a labyrinth, an archipelago of agony. Heat, hunger, thirst, and fatigue are nothing compared with this torment. When you stand, you seem to be on red-hot iron plates; when you walk, you make grimaces at every step. In the morning the whole regiment starts limping, and by noon the best soldiers become nearly mutinous with suffering. They snarl and swear at each other; they curse the general for ordering such marching; they curse the enemy for running away instead of fighting; they fling themselves down in the dust, refusing to move a step further. Fevered with fatigue and pain, they are actually not themselves. Meantime, the company officers, as sore-footed as any one, must run about from straggler to straggler, coaxing, arguing, ordering, and, perhaps, using the flat of the sabre. Instead of marching in front of my company, I followed immediately in the rear, so that I could see and at once pounce upon every one who fell out.
It was curious to see how cheerful every one became if cannon in front told of the proximity of the enemy. We were ready to fight the bloodiest of combats rather than march a mile further. We filed into line of battle delighted, and then resumed our pursuit heartsick.
It will be asked, perhaps, whether I, an officer, and claiming, of course, to be a patriot, preserved my staunchness under these trials. I must confess, and I do it without great shame, conscious of being no more than human, that in my inmost soul I was as insubordinate as the worst men were in speech and behavior. In my unspeakable heart I groaned and raved. I wished the bridges would break down—I wished the regiment would refuse to take another step—it seemed to me that I should have been silent in the face of mutiny. But nothing of all this passed my lips, and none could suspect it from my actions.
When we bivouaced at night came the severest trial. Our regiment was on the left of the brigade, and as we always slept in line of battle, this threw us half a mile from the bayou, along which we marched, and which was our only source of water. It was necessary to order a squad of the blistered and bloody-footed men to bring water for the company's coffee. The first sergeant takes out his
