the harness and hamestrings
oiled. Extra rations were issued to negroes who were acting as servants,
a thing unprecedented before in the history of the war.

Well, old Joe was a yerker. He took all the tricks. He was a commander.
He kept everything up and well in hand. His lines of battle were
invulnerable. The larger his command, the easier he could handle it.
When his army moved, it was a picture of battle, everything in its place,
as laid down by scientific military rules. When a man was to be shot,
he was shot for the crimes he had done, and not to intimidate and cow the
living, and he had ten times as many shot as Bragg had. He had seventeen
shot at Tunnel Hill, and a whole company at Rockyface Ridge, and two
spies hung at Ringgold Gap, but they were executed for their crimes.
No one knew of it except those who had to take part as executioners of
the law. Instead of the whipping post, he instituted the pillory and
barrel shirt. Get Brutus to whistle the barrel shirt for you. The
pillory was a new-fangled concern. If you went to the guard-house of
almost any regiment, you would see some poor fellow with his head and
hands sticking through a board. It had the appearance of a fellow taking
a running start, at an angle of forty-five degrees, with a view of
bursting a board over his head, but when the board burst his head and
both his hands were clamped in the bursted places. The barrel shirt
brigade used to be marched on drill and parade. You could see a fellow's
head and feet, and whenever one of the barrels would pass, you would hear
the universal cry, "Come out of that barrel, I see your head and feet
sticking out." There might have been a mortification and a disgrace in
the pillory and barrel shirt business to those that had to use them,
but they did not bruise and mutilate the physical man. When one of them
had served out his time he was as good as new. Old Joe had greater
military insight than any general of the South, not excepting even Lee.
He was the born soldier; seemed born to command. When his army moved it
moved solid. Cavalry, artillery, wagon train, and infantry stepped the
same tread to the music of the march. His men were not allowed to be
butchered for glory, and to have his name and a battle fought, with the
number of killed and wounded, go back to Richmond for his own glory.
When he fought, he fought for victory, not for glory. He could fall back
right in the face of the foe as