All of the excerpts contained on this page are taken from my own copy of the 1865 original edition of Browne's book, "Four Years in Secessia". The copyright on the original edition of the book is more than 100 years old and is therefore no longer in force. The pictures are engravings taken either from Browne's 1865 edition or from the 1865 edition of his close friend, Albert Richardson's book, "Secret Service, the Field, the Dungeon, and the Escape".
Digital imaging courtesy of Special Collections, James E. Walker Library, Middle Tennessee State University.
This image shows several of the correspondents of the day. Beginning at
the top and moving in a clockwise direction, you see Richard T. Colburn of the
New York World, William E. Davis of the Cincinnati Gazette, W. D. Bickham of the
Cincinnati Commercial, Thomas W. Knox of the New York Herald, L. L. Crounse of
the New York Times, and Charles C. Coffin (Carleton) of the Boston Journal.
The man in the center is Junius H. Browne.
A Night With the Fleas
Until I began to follow the camp,
I had never known, save by auricular evidence, of the unpoetical insects known
as fleas; but one night in Syracuse, Mo., “our mess” experienced the cruelty and
savageness of the diminutive foes of man, to our bodies’ extremest
dissatisfaction.
We were all lounging in the tent, reading,
undreaming of enemies of any kind, when we all became restless, and the interest
of our books began seriously to diminish. There were various manual
applications to various parts of the body, multifarious shiftings of position,
accompanied with emphatic expletives that sounded marvelously like oaths.
“What is the matter?” was asked by one of us of another. “What
renders you so uneasy?”
“Heaven knows!” was the answer; “but I itch like Satan.”
“My body seems on fire,” observed one.
“I wonder, “ said another, “if I have contracted a loathsome
disease!”
“Confound it! what ails me?”
“And me – and me – and me?” was echoed from my companions.
One hand became insufficient to allay the irritation of our corporeality.
Both hands became requisite to the task, and our volumes were necessarily laid
aside.
No one yet appeared aware of the cause of his suffering. If we were not
all in Tophet, no one could deny we had gone to the old Scratch. We seemed to
be laboring under an uncontrollable nervous complaint. We threw our hands about
wildly. We seized our flesh rudely, and rubbed our clothes until they nearly
ignited from friction.
One of the quartette could stand it no longer. He threw off his coat and
vest spasmodically, and even his under garments, and solemnly exclaimed
– “Flee from the
wrath to come!”
The mystery was explained – the enigma solved. The martyr’s person was
covered with small black spots, that disappeared and reappeared in the same
instant. To be practically expressive, he was covered with fleas.
The rest of us followed his example, and converted ourselves into model
artists.
We were covered with fleas. Fleas were everywhere. Tent, straw, books,
blankets, valises, saddles, swarmed with them. The air scintillated with their
blackness.
We rushed out of the tent. They were there in myriads. the moonlight fell
in checkered beams through their innumerable skippings.
They made a terrible charge, as of a forlorn hope, and drove us back. We
roared with anger and pain, and loud curses made the atmosphere assume a violet
hue.
Three of the flea-besieged caught up canteens of whisky and brandy, and
poured the contents over their persons and down their throats; scratching
meanwhile like a thousand cats of the Thomas persuasion, and leaping about like
dancing dervises.
The more the fleas bit, the more the victims drank; and I, having no taste
for liquor, began to envy them, as, in their increasing intoxication, they
seemed to enjoy themselves after a sardonic fashion.
The fleas redoubled their ferocity on me, and I surrendered at discretion;
and at last became resigned to their attacks, until, a few minutes after, a
storm that had been gathering burst with fierce lightning, heavy thunder, and
torrents of rain.
A happy idea seized me. I caught up my saddle and bridle, and placed them
on my sable steed, “Festus,” which stood neighing to the tempest, a few feet
from the camp.
I mounted the fleet-footed horse, and, nude as the Apollo Belvidere, cried
“go” to the restive animal; and off we sped, to the amazement of the sentinels,
through the darkness and the storm.
Every few moments the lightning blazed around us with a lurid sheen, as we
went like the wind through the tempestuous night. “Festus” enjoyed it, as did
his rider; and six swift-speeding miles were passed ere I drew the rein upon the
neck of the panting beast, covered with white flecks of foam.
I paused, and felt that the fleas had been left behind.
The pelting rain and rushing blast had been too much for them; while
the exercise had made my attireless body glow into a pleasant warmth.
“Festus” galloped back, and soon I was in the tent, rolled so closely in a
blanket that no new attack of the fleas could reach me.
My companions, overcome with their exertions, sufferings, and potations,
had lain down; but the fleas were still upon them, and they rolled and tossed
more like a rural tragedian in the tent scene of “Richard the Third.”
They were asleep, and yet they moaned piteously, and scratched with
demoniac violence. In spite of my pity for the poor fellows, I could not
refrain from laughing.
With the earliest dawn I awoke, and the tent was vacant.
Horrid thought!
Had the fleas carried them off?
I went out to search for them; and, after a diligent quest, found them
still in nature’s garb, distributed miscellaneously about the encampment. In
their physical torture they had unconsciously rolled out of the tent.
One lay in an adjacent ditch; a second under an artillery wagon; and the
third was convulsively grasping the earth, as if he were endeavoring to dig his
own grave; believing, no doubt, that, in the tomb, neither Fortune nor fleas
could ever harm him more. The unfortunate two were covered with crimson spots,
and looked as if recovering from the small-pox.
I pulled them, still stupid from their spiritual excess, into the tent
again, and covered them with blankets, though they swore incoherently as I did
so, evidently believing some giant flea was dragging them to perdition.
When they were fully aroused, they fell to scratching again most violently,
but knew not what had occurred until they had recalled the events of the
previous night. They then blasphemed afresh, and unanimously consigned the
entire race of fleas to the Bottomless Pit.
The fleas still tried to bite, but could find no new places, and my
companions had grown accustomed to them.
They felt no uneasiness for the coming night; they were aware that the new
fleas would retire from a field so completely occupied, and that the
domesticated creatures were in sufficient force to rout all invaders.
So ended that memorable Noche Triste, an exemplification of the Scriptural
declaration,
“The wicked flee when no man pursueth.”