 Chapter 23 of the Story of a Common Soldier of Army Life in the Civil War, 1861-1865 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Sue Anderson The Story of a Common Soldier of Army Life in the Civil War, 1861-1865 By Leander Stillwell Chapter 23. Murfreesboro, Winter of 1864-1865 Franklin, Spring and Summer of 1865 After the retreat of Hood from Nashville, matters became very quiet and uneventful with us at Murfreesboro. The regiment shifted its camp from inside of Fortress Rosencrantz out into open ground on the outskirts of the town and proceeded to build winter quarters. These consisted of log cabins like those we built at Little Rock the previous winter, only now the logs were cedar instead of pine. There were extensive cedar forests in the immediate vicinity of Murfreesboro, and we had no difficulty whatever in getting the material, and we had plenty of nice, fragrant cedar wood to burn in our fireplaces, which was much better than soggy Arkansas pine. And I remember with pleasure a matter connected with the rations we had in the four part of the winter. For some reason or other the supply of hard tack became practically exhausted, and we had little in the line of flour bread, even for some weeks after Hood retreated from Nashville. But in the country north of Murfreesboro was an abundance of corn, and there were plenty of water mills. So General Russo sent out foraging parties in that region and appropriated the corn, and set the mills to grinding it. And oh, what fine cornbread we had! We used to make ash cakes, and they were splendid. The method of making and cooking an ash cake was to mix a quantity of meal with proper proportions of water, grease, and salt. Wrap the meal dough in some dampened paper or a clean wet cloth, then put it in the fire and cover it with hot ashes and coals. By testing with a sharp stick we could tell when the cake was done. Then we would yank it from the fire, scrape off the fragments of the covering and the adhering ashes, and then with bacon broiled on the cedar coals and plenty of good strong coffee, we would have a dinner better than any from my standpoint that Delmonico's ever served up in its palmiest days. On February 4th, 1865, the non-veterans and recruits of the regiment came to us from Arkansas, and so we were once more all together except a few that were in the Confederate prisons down south. We were all glad to see each other once more and had many tales to swap about our respective experiences during our separation. On February 10th, Lieutenant Wallace resigned and returned to his home in Illinois. The chief reason for his resignation was on account of some private matter at home which was giving him much anxiety and trouble. Further, the war in the region where we were was practically over, and there was nothing doing with no prospect so far as we knew of any military activity for the regiment in the future. Wallace's resignation left Company D without a second lieutenant, as we then did not have enough enlisted men in the company to entitle us to a full complement of commissioned officers and the place we made vacant for some months. On March 21st, we left Murfreesboro by rail and went to Nashville and then to Franklin about 20 miles south of Nashville and on what was then called the Nashville and Decatur railroad. A desperate and bloody battle occurred here between our forces under the command of General Schofield and the Confederates under General Hood on November 30th, only two days after our arrival at Murfreesboro. I have often wondered why it was that General Thomas, our department commander, did not send our regiment on our arrival at Nashville to reinforce Schofield instead of to Murfreesboro, for General Schofield certainly needed all the help he could get, but it is probable that General Thomas had some good reason for his action. When we arrived at Franklin we relieved the regiment that was on duty there as a garrison and it went somewhere else. It was the 25th, Pennsylvania, and the officers and men composing it so far as I saw were all Germans and they were fine, soldierly looking fellows too. From this time until we left Franklin in the following September, our regiment comprised all the Union force that was stationed at the town. Major Nolton was in command of the post and subject only to higher authorities at a distance. We were monarchs of all we surveyed. When we came to Franklin the signs of the battle of November 30th were yet fresh and plentiful. As soon as time and opportunity afforded I walked over the whole field, in fact several times, looking with deep interest at all the evidences of the battle. I remember especially the appearance of a scattered grove of young locust trees which stood at a point opposite the right center of the Union line. For some hours the grove was right between the fire of both the Union and the Confederate lines, and the manner in which the trees had been riddled with musket balls was truly remarkable. It looked as if a snowbird could not have lived in that grove while the firing was in progress. General William A. Quarles of Tennessee was one of the Confederate generals who were wounded in this battle, and after incurring his wound was taken to the house of a Tennessee planter, Colonel MacGabbock, about a mile from Franklin near the Harpeth River. Two or three other wounded Confederate officers of less rank were taken to the same place. When the Confederates retreated from Nashville, General Quarles and these other wounded officers were unable to accompany the army. They remained at MacGabbock's and were taken by prisoners by our forces. They were put under a sort of parol of honor and allowed to remain where they were without being guarded. They had substantially recovered from their wounds at the time our regimen arrived at Franklin. And not long thereafter Captain Keely came to me one day and handed me an order from Major Nolten, which directed me to take a detail of four men with two ambulances and go to MacGabbock's and get General Quarles and the other Confederate officers who were there and bring them into Franklin for the purpose of being sent to Nashville and thence to the north to some military prison. I thereupon detailed Bill Banfield and three other boys, told them what our business was, and instructed them to brush up nicely and have their arms and accoutements in first class condition and in general to be looking their best. Having obtained the ambulances with drivers, we climbed aboard and soon arrived at the fine residence of old Colonel MacGabbock. I went into the house, met the lady of the establishment, and inquired of her for General Quarles and was informed that he was in an upper room. I requested the lady to give the general my compliments and tell him that I desired to see him. She disappeared and soon the general walked into the room where I was awaiting him. He was a man slightly below medium stature, heavy set, black hair, piercing black eyes, and looked to be about thirty years old. He was a splendid looking soldier. I stepped forward and saluted him, and briefly and courteously told him my business. All right, Sergeant, he answered. We'll be ready in a few minutes. Their preparations were soon completed and we left the house. I assigned the general and one of the other officers to a seat near the front in one of the ambulances, and Bill Banfield and I occupied the seat behind them, and the remaining guards and prisoners rode in the other conveyance. There was only one remark made on the entire trip back to Franklin, and I'll mention it presently. We emerged from the woods into the Columbia Pike at a point about three-quarters of a mile in front of our main line of works that had been charged repeatedly and desperately by the Confederates in the late battle. The ground sloped gently down towards the works, and for fully half a mile was as level as a house floor. I noticed that at the moment we reached the Pike, General Corals began to take an intense interest in the surroundings. He would lean forward and look to the right, to the front, to the left, and occasionally throw a hasty glance backward, but said nothing. Finally we passed through our works near the historic cotton gin, and the general drew a deep breath, leaned back against his seat, and said, well, by God, the next time I fight at Franklin, I want to let the Columbia Pike severely alone. No one made any response, and the remainder of the journey was finished in silence. I duly delivered General Corals and his fellow prisoners to Major Nulton, and never saw any of them again. Early in April a decisive military operations took place in Virginia. On the third of that month, our forces marched into Richmond, and on the ninth, the Army of General Lee surrendered to General Grant. At Franklin we were on a telegraph line and only about twenty miles from department headquarters, so the intelligence of those events was not long in reaching us. I am just unable to tell how profoundly gratified we were to hear of the capture of Richmond and of Lee's Army. We were satisfied that those victories meant the speedy and triumphant end of the war. It had been a long, desperate and bloody struggle, and frequently the final results looked doubtful and gloomy. But now there were signs in the sky that the darkness was gone, there were tokens in endless array, and the feeling among the common soldiers was one of heartfelt relief and satisfaction. But suddenly our joy was turned into the most distressing grief and mourning. Only a few days after we heard of Lee's surrender came the awful tidings of the foul murder of Mr. Lincoln. I well remember the manner of the men when the intelligence of the dastardly crime was flashed to us at Franklin. They seemed dazed and stunned and were reluctant to believe it until the fact was confirmed beyond question. They sat around in camp under the trees, talking low and sane but little, as if the matter were one that made mere words utterly useless. But they were in a desperate frame of mind, and had there been the least appearance of exultation over the murder of Mr. Lincoln by any of the people of Franklin, the place would have been laid in Ash's instantor. But the citizens seemed to understand the situation. They went into their houses and closed their doors, and the town looked as if deserted. To one who had been among the soldiers for some years, it was easy to comprehend and understand their feelings on this occasion. For the last two years of the war especially, the men had come to regard Mr. Lincoln with sentiments of veneration and love. To them he really was Father Abraham, with all that the term implied. And this regard was also entertained by men of high rank in the army. General Sherman, in speaking of Mr. Lincoln, says this. Quote, Of all the men I ever met, he seemed to possess more of the elements of greatness combined with goodness than any other. Memoirs of General W. T. Sherman revised edition, Volume 2, Page 328. For my part, I have been of the opinion for many years that Abraham Lincoln was the greatest man the world has ever known. In the latter part of June, the recruits of the 83rd, the 98th, and the 123rd Illinois infantry were transferred to the 61st, making the old regiment about 900 strong. Company D received 46 of the transferred men, all of these being from the 83rd Illinois. And they were a fine set of boys, too. Their homes were in the main in Northwestern Illinois, in the counties of Mercer, Rock Island and Warren. They all had received a good common school education, were intelligent and prompt and cheerful in the discharge of their duties. They were good soldiers in every sense of the word. It is a little singular that, since the muster out of the regiment in the following September, I have never met a single one of those boys. The ranks of the regiment now being filled nearly to the maximum, the most of the vacancies that existed in the line of commissioned offices were filled, just as promptly as circumstances would permit. Lieutenant Colonel Grass had been discharged on May 15, 1865, and Major Nolten, who was now our ranking field officer, was on July 11, promoted to the position of Colonel. He was the first and only Colonel the regiment ever had. The vacancy of Lieutenant Colonel C of the regiment was never filled, for what reason I do not know. Captain Keely was promoted Major, and first Lieutenant Warren to Captain of Company D in Keely's stead. And, thus, it came to pass that on July 11, I received a commission as second Lieutenant of our company, and on August 21, was promoted to first Lieutenant. Soon after receiving my commission, Captain Warren was detailed on some special duty, which took him away from Franklin for some weeks. And, consequently, during his absence, I was the commanding officer of Company D. So far as ever came to my knowledge, I got along all right, and very pleasantly. It is a fact at any rate that I presented a more respectable appearance than that which was displayed during the brief time I held the position at Austin, Arkansas, in May 1864. End of Chapter 23 Chapter 24 of the Story of a Common Soldier of Army Life in the Civil War, 1861-1865 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, what a volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Sue Anderson The Story of a Common Soldier of Army Life in the Civil War, 1861-1865 By Leander Stillwell Chapter 24 The Soldier's Pay Rations Illusions to Some of the Useful Lessons Learned by Service in the Army in Time of War Courage in Battle This story is now drawing to a close, so I will here speak of some things of a general nature and which have not been here to forementioned except, perhaps, casually. One important feature in the life of a soldier was the matter of his pay, and a few words on that subject may not be out of place. When I enlisted in January, 1862, the monthly pay of the enlisted men of a Regiment of Infantry was, as follows, First Sergeant, $20, Duty Sergeant, $17, Corporals, and Privates, $13. By Act of Congress of May 1, 1864, the monthly pay of the enlisted men was increased, and from that date was, as follows, First Sergeant, $24, Duty Sergeant, $20, Corporals, $18, Privates, $16. That rate existed as long, at least as we remained in the service. The first payment made to our Regiment was on May 1, 1862, while we were in camp at Owl Creek, Tennessee. The amount I received was $49.40, and of this I sent $45 home to my father at the first opportunity. For a poor man, he was heavily in debt at the time of my enlistment, and was left without any boys to help him to do the work upon the farm. So I regarded it as my duty to send him every dollar of my pay that possibly could be spared, and did so as long as I was in the service. But he finally got out of debt during the war. He had good crops, and all manner of farm products brought high prices. So the war period was financially a prosperous one for him. And to be fair about it, I will say that he later repaid me when I was pursuing my law studies at the Albany New York Law School, almost all the money I had sent him while in the Army. So the result really was that the money received by me as a soldier was what later enabled me to qualify as a lawyer. I have here too foresaid in these reminiscences that the great standbys in the way of the food of the soldiers of the Western armies were coffee, sour belly, Yankee beans, and hard tack. But other articles of diet were also issued to us, some of which we liked while others were flat failures. I have previously said something about the antipathy I had for rice. The French General Baron Gougault in his talks of Napoleon at St. Helena, page 240, records Napoleon as having said, Rice is the best food for the soldier. Napoleon, in my opinion, was the greatest soldier that mankind ever produced. But all the same, I am fatally dissent from his rice proposition. His remark may have been correct when applied to European soldiers of his time and place, but I know it wouldn't fit Western American boys of 1861, 65. There were a few occasions when an article of diet was issued called Desiccated Potatoes. For desiccated the boys promptly substituted desiccated, and desiccated potatoes was its name among the rank and file from start to finish. It consisted of Irish potatoes cut up fine and thoroughly dried. In appearance it much resembled the modern preparation called grape nuts. We would mix it in water, grease, and salt, and make it up into little cakes which we would fry, and they were first-rate. There was a while when we were at Bolivar, Tennessee, that some stuff called compressed vegetables was issued to us, which the boys almost unanimously considered an awful fraud. It was composed of all sorts of vegetables pressed into small bales in a solid mass and as dry as threshed straw. The conglomeration contained turnip tops, cabbage leaves, string beans, pot and all, onion blades, and possibly some of every other kind of a vegetable that ever grew in a garden. It came to the army in small boxes about the size of the Chinese tea boxes that were frequently seen in this country about fifty years ago. In the process of cooking it would swell up prodigiously, a great deal more so than rice. The Germans in the regiment would make big dishes of soup out of this baled hay, as we called it, and they liked it, but the Native Americans after one trial wouldn't touch it. I think about the last box of it that was issued to our company was pitched into a ditch in the rear of the camp and it soon got thoroughly soaked and loomed up about as big as a fair sized haycock. Split peas were issued to us more or less during all the time we were in the service. My understanding was that they were the ordinary garden peas. They were split in two, dried and about as hard as gravel, but they yielded to cooking, made excellent food, and we were all fond of them. In our opinion, when properly cooked, they were almost as good as Yankee beans. When our forces captured Little Rock in September, 1863, we obtained possession, among other plunder, of quite a quantity of confederate commissary stores. Among these was a copious supply of jerked beef. It consisted of narrow, thin strips of beef which had been dried on scaffolds in the sun, and it is no exaggeration to say that it was almost as hard and dry as cottonwood chip. Our manner of eating it was simply to cut off a chunk about as big as one of our elongated musket balls and proceed to chaw. It was rather a comical sight to see us in our cabins of a cold winter night, sitting by the fire, and all solemnly chawing away in profound silence on the Johnny's jerked beef. But if sufficiently masticated it was nutritious and healthful, and we all liked it, I often thought it would have been a good thing if the government had made this kind of beef a permanent and regular addition to our rations. As long as kept in the dry it would apparently keep indefinitely, and a piece big enough to last a soldier two or three days would take up but little space in a haversack. Passing from the topic of army rations, I will now take leave to say here, with sincerity and emphasis, that the best school to fit me for the practical affairs of life that I ever attended was in the old sixty-first Illinois during the Civil War. It would be too long a story to undertake to tell all the benefits derived from that experience, but a few will be alluded to. In the first place, when I was a boy at home, I was, to some extent, a spoiled child. I was exceedingly particular and finicky about my food. Fat meat I abhorred and wouldn't touch it. And on the other hand, when we had chicken to eat, the gizzard was claimed by me as my soul and exclusive tidbit, and Leander always got it. Let it be known that in the regiment these habits were gotten over so soon that I was astonished myself. The army in time of war is no place for a sissy boy. It will make a man of him quicker, in my opinion, than any other sort of experience he could undergo. And suffice it to say on the food question that my life as a soldier forever cured me of being fastidious or fault finding about what I had to eat. I have gone hungry too many times to give way to such weakness when sitting down in a comfortable room to a table provided with plenty that was good enough for any reasonable man. I have no patience with a person who is addicted to complaining or growling about his food. Some years ago there was an occasion when I took breakfast at a decent little hotel at a country station on a railroad out in Kansas. It was an early breakfast for the accommodation of guests who would leave on an early morning train, and there were only two at the table, a young traveling commercial man and myself. The drummer ordered, with other things, a couple of fried eggs, and that fellow sent the poor little dining room girl back with those eggs three times before he got them fitted to the exact shade of taste to suit his exquisite palate, and he did this too in a manner and words that were offensive and almost brutal. It was none of my business, so I kept my mouth shut and said nothing, but I would have given a reasonable sum to have been the proprietor of that hotel about five minutes. That fool would then have been ordered to get his grip and leave the house, and he would have left too. I do not know how it may have been with other regiments in the matter now to be mentioned, but I presume it was substantially the same as in ours. And the course pursued with us had a direct tendency to make one indifferent as to the precise cut of his clothes. It is true that attention was paid to shoes, to that extent at least, that the quartermaster tried to give each man a pair that approximated to the number he wore, but coats, trousers, and the other clothes were piled up in separate heaps, and each man was just thrown the first garment on top of the heap. He took it and walked away. If it was an outrageous fit, he would swap with someone if possible, otherwise he got along as best he could. Now in civil life I have frequently been amused in noting some dutish young fellow in a little country store trying to fit himself out with a light summer coat or something similar. He would put on the garment, stand in front of a big looking glass, twist himself into all sorts of shapes, so as to get a view from every possible angle, then remove that one and call for another. Finally after trying on about every coat in the house, he would leave without making a purchase, having found nothing that suited the exact contour of his delicately molded form. A very brief experience in a regiment that had a gruff old quartermaster would take the tuck out of that bullbremel in short order. Sometimes I have been at a late hour on a stormy night at a way station on some jerk water railroad waiting for a belated train with others in the same predicament, and it was comical to note the irritation of some of these fellows and the fuss they made about the train being late. The railroad and all the officers would be condemned and abused in the most savage terms on account of this little delay, and yet we were in a warm room with benches to sit on, with full stomachs, and physically just as comfortable as we possibly could be. The thought would always occur to me on such episodes that if those kickers had to sit down in a dirt road in the mud, with a cold rain pelting down on them, and just endure all this until a broken bridge in front was fixed up so that the artillery and wagon train could get along, then a few incidents of that kind would be a benefit to them, and instances like the foregoing might be multiplied indefinitely on the whole life in the army in a time of war tended to develop patience, contentment with the surroundings, and equanimity of temper and mind in general, and from the highest to the lowest, differing only in degree, it would bring out energy, prompt decision, intelligent action, and all the latent force of character a man possessed. I suppose in reminiscences of this nature one should give his impressions or views in relation to that much talked about subject courage in battle. Now in what I have to say on that head I can speak advisedly mainly for myself only. I think that the principal thing that held me to the work was simply pride, and am of the opinion that it was the same thing with most of the common soldiers. A prominent American functionary some years ago said something about our people being too proud to fight. With the soldiers of the Civil War it was exactly the reverse. They were too proud to run, unless it was manifest that the situation was hopeless, and that for the time being nothing else could be done. And in the latter case, when the whole line goes back, there is no personal odium attaching to any one individual. They are all in the same boat. The idea of the influence of pride is well illustrated by an old-time war story as follows. A soldier on the firing line happened to notice a terribly affrighted rabbit running to the rear at the top of its speed. Go to a cotton-tail, yelled the soldier. I'd run too if I had no more reputation to lose than you have. It is true that in the first stages of the war the fighting qualities of American soldiers did not appear in altogether a favorable light, but at that time the fact is that the volunteer armies on both sides were not much better than mere armed mobs and without discipline or cohesion. But those conditions didn't last long, and there was never but one bull run. Enoch Wallace was home on recruiting service some weeks in the fall of 1862, and when he rejoined the regiment he told me something my father said in a conversation that occurred between the two. They were talking about the war, battles, and topics of that sort. And in the course of their talk Enoch told me that my father said that while he hoped his boy would come through the war all right, yet he would rather Leander should be killed dead while standing up and fighting like a man than that he should run and disgrace the family. I have no thought from the nature of the conversation as told to me by Enoch that my father made this remark with any intention of its being repeated to me. It was sudden and spontaneous and just the way the old backwoodsman felt, but I never forgot it and it helped me several times for to be perfectly frank about it and tell the plain truth. I will set it down here that, so far as I was concerned, away down in the bottom of my heart I just secretly dreaded a battle. But we were soldiers, and it was our business to fight when the time came. So the only thing to then do was to summon up our pride and resolution and face the ordeal with all the fortitude we could command, and while I admit the existence of this feeling of dread before the fight, yet it is also true that when it was on, and one was in the thick of it with the smell of gunpowder permeating his whole system, then a signal change comes over a man. He is seized with a furious desire to kill. There are his foes right in plain view, give it to him, de-dash them, and for the time being he becomes almost oblivious to the sense of danger. And while it was only human nature to dread a battle, and I think it would be mere affectation to deny it, yet I also know that we common soldiers strongly felt that when fighting did break loose, close at hand, or within the general scope of our operations, then we ought to be in it with the others and doing our part. That was what we were there for, and somehow a soldier didn't feel just right for fighting to be going on all around him or in his vicinity, and he doing nothing but lying back somewhere eating government rations. But all things considered, the best definition of true courage I have ever read, is that given by General Sherman in his memoirs as follows. I would define true courage, he says, to be a perfect sensibility of the measure of danger and a mental willingness to endure it. Sherman's memoirs revised edition Volume 2, page 395. But I will further say in this connection that in my opinion much depends sometimes, especially at a critical moment, on the commander of the men who is right on the ground or close at hand. This is shown by the result attained by General Milroy in the incident I have previously mentioned, and on a larger scale, the inspiring conduct of General Sheridan at the Battle of Cedar Creek, Virginia, is probably the most striking example in modern history of what a brave and resolute leader of men can accomplish under circumstances when apparently all is lost. And on the other hand, I think there is no doubt that the battle of Wilson's Creek, Missouri, on August 10, 1861, was a union victory up to the time of the death of General Lyon, and would have remained such if the officer who succeeded Lyon had possessed the nerve of his fallen chief, but he didn't, and so he marched our troops off the field, retreated from a beaten enemy, and hence Wilson's Creek figures in history as a confederate victory. See the Lyon Campaign by Eugene F. Ware, pages 324 to 339. I have read somewhere this saying of Bonaparte's, an army of deer commanded by a lion is better than an army of lions commanded by a deer. While that statement is only figurative in its nature, it is, however, a strong epigrammatic expression of the fact that the commander of soldiers in battle should be, above all other things, a forcible, determined and brave man. End of Chapter 24 Chapter 25 of the Story of a Common Soldier of Army Life in the Civil War, 1861, 1865 This is the LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Sue Anderson The Story of a Common Soldier of Army Life in the Civil War, 1861, 1865 by Leander Stillwell. September 25 Franklin, summer of 1865 Mustered out September 8, 1865 Received final payment at Springfield, Illinois, September 27, 1865 The Regiment breaks ranks forever Soldering at Franklin, Tennessee in May, June, July, and August 1865 The war was over in that region, and everything there was as quiet and peaceful as it was at home in Illinois. Picket guards were dispensed with, and the only guard duty required was a small detail for the colors at regimental headquarters, and a similar one over our commissary stores. However, it was deemed necessary for the health of the men to maintain company drills to a certain extent, but they were light and easy. Near the camp was a fine bluegrass pasture field containing in a scattered irregular form numerous large and magnificent hard maples, and the drilling was done in this field. Captain Warren was somewhat portly and not fond of strenuous exercise anyhow, so all the drilling company D. had at Franklin was conducted by myself, but I rather liked it. With the accession of those 83rd Illinois men, the old company was about as big and strong as it was at Camp Carrollton, and it looked fine. But to tell the truth, it is highly probable that we put in fully as much time lying on the bluegrass under the shade of those grand old maples as we did in company evolutions. Sometime during the course of the summer, a middle-aged widowlady named House began conducting a sort of private boarding establishment at her residence in the city, and Colonel Nolton, Major Keely, and several others of the line officers, including myself, took our meals at this place during the remainder of our stay at Franklin. Among the borders were two or three gentlemen also of the name of House and who were brothers-in-law of our hostess. They had all served in forests, cavalry, as commissioned officers, and were courteous and elegant gentlemen. We would all sit down together at the table of Mrs. House, with that lady at the head, and talk and laugh and joke with each other, as if we had been comrades and friends all our lives, and yet, during the four years just preceding, the Union and the Confederate soldiers thus mingled together in friendship and amity had been doing their very best to kill one another. But in our conversation we carefully avoided anything in the nature of political discussion about the war, and in general, each side refrained from saying anything on that subject which might grate on the feelings of the other. On September 4th, 1865, the regiment left Franklin and went by rail to Nashville for the purpose of being mustered out of the service. There were some unavoidable delays connected with the business, and it was not officially consummated until September 8th. In the forenoon of the following day, we left Nashville on the cars on the Louisville and Nashville Railroad for Springfield, Illinois, where we were to receive our final payment and certificates of discharge. Early on Sunday morning, September 10th, we crossed the Ohio River at Louisville, Kentucky on a ferry boat to Jeffersonville, Indiana. This boat was provided with a railroad track extending from Bough to Stern, and so arranged that when the boat landed at either bank, the rails laid along the lower deck of the boat would closely connect with the railroad track on the land. This ferry transferred our train in sections, and thus obviated any necessity for the men to leave the cars. The ferrying process did not take long, and we were soon speeding through southern Indiana. As stated, it was Sunday, and a bright, beautiful autumn day. As I have herein before mentioned, our train consisted of box cars, except one coach for the commission officers, and all the men who could find room had taken from preference seats on top of the cars. Much of southern Indiana is rugged and broken, and in 1865 was wild, heavily timbered, and the most of the farmhouses were of the backwoods class. We soon began to see little groups of the country people in farm wagons or on foot, making their way to Sunday school and church. Women, young girls, and children predominated, all dressed in their Sunday go-to-meeting clothes, and how the women and girls cheered us and waved their handkerchiefs, and didn't we yell, it was self-evident that we were in God's country once more. These were the first demonstrations of that kind the old regiment had seen since the girls of Monticello Seminary in February, 1862, lined the fences by the roadside and made similar manifestations of patriotism and goodwill. We arrived at Indianapolis about noon. There got off the cars and went in a body to a soldier's home close at hand, where we had a fine dinner, thence back to the old train, which thundered on the rest of the day and that night, arriving at Springfield the following day, the 11th. Here we marched out to Camp Butler, near the city, and went into camp. And now, another annoying delay occurred, this time being in the matter of our final payment. What the particular cause was, I do not know, probably the paymasters were so busy right then that they couldn't get around to us. The most of us, that is the old original regiment, were here within 60 or 70 miles of our homes, and to be compelled to just lie around and wait here at Camp Butler was rather trying. But the boys were patient, and on the whole, endured the situation with commendable equanimity. But the day it came at last, and in the forenoon of September 27, we fell in line by companies, and each company in its turn marched to the paymasters' tent near regimental headquarters. The role of the company would be called in alphabetical order, and each man, as his name was called, would answer and step forward to the paymasters' table. That officer would lay on the table before the man, the sum of money he was entitled to, and, with it, his certificate of discharge from the army, duly signed by the proper officials. The closing of the hand of the soldier over that piece of paper was the final act in the drama that ended his career as a soldier of the Civil War. Now he was a civilian, free to come and go as he listed. Farewell to the morning drumbeats, taps, roll calls, drills, marches, battles, and all the other incidents and events of a soldier's life. The seared ranks with flags displayed, the bugles thrilling blast, the charge, the thunderous cannonade, the din and shout were passed. The scattering out process promptly began after we received our pay and discharges. I left Springfield early the following day, the 28th, on the Chicago, Alton, and St. Louis railroad, and went to Alton. Here I luckily found a teamster who was in the act of starting with his wagon and team to Jerseyville, and I rode with him to that place, arriving there about the middle of the afternoon. I now hunted diligently to find some farm wagon that might be going to the vicinity of home, but found none. While so engaged to my surprise and delight I met the old chaplain, B. B. Hamilton, as heretofore stated he had resigned during the previous march, and had been at home for some months. His greeting to me was in his old-fashioned style, Son of Jeremiah, he exclaimed as he extended his hand, Why comeest thou down hither, and with whom hast thou left those few sheep in the wilderness? I promptly informed him, in effect, that my coming was regular and legitimate, and that the few sheep of the old regiment were for ever, through and done, with a shepherd. Hamilton did not reside in Jerseyville, but had just derived there from his home in Green County, and, like me, was trying to find some farmer's conveyance to take him about five miles into the country to the home of an old friend. I ascertained that his route, as far as he went, was the same as mine, so I proposed that we should strike out on foot, but he didn't entertain the proposition with much enthusiasm. Son of Jeremiah said he, you will find that a walk of nine miles, the distance to my father's, will be a great weariness to the flesh on this warm day. But I considered it a mere pleasure walk, and was determined to go, so he finally concluded to do likewise. I left my valice in the care of a Jerseyville merchant, and with no baggage except my sword and belt, we proceeded to hit the dirt. I took off my coat, slung it over one shoulder, unsnapped my sword with a scabbard from the belt, and shielded it also. Our walk was a pleasant and most agreeable one, as we had much to talk about that was interesting to both. When we arrived at the mouth of the lane that led to the house of the chaplain's friend, we shook hands and I bade him goodbye, but fully expected to meet him many times later, but our paths in life diverged and I never saw him again. I arrived at the little village of Otterville about sundown. It was a very small place in 1865. There was just one store, which also contained the post office, a blacksmith's shop, the old stone schoolhouse, a church, and perhaps a dozen or private dwellings. There were no sidewalks, and I stalked up the middle of the one street the town afforded, with my sword poised on my shoulder musket fashion, and feeling happy and proud. I looked eagerly around as I passed along, hoping to see some old friend. As I went by the store, a man who was seated therein on the counter leaned forward and looked at me, but said nothing. A little further up the street a big dog sprang off the porch of a house, ran out to the little gate in front, and standing on his hind legs, with his fore paws on the palings, barked at me loudly and persistently. But I attracted no further attention. Many of the regiments that were mustered out soon after the clothes of the war received at home gorgeous receptions. They marched under triumphal arches, decorated with flags and garlands of flowers, while brass bands blared, and thousands of people cheered and gave them a most enthusiastic welcome home. But the poor old 61st Illinois was among the late arrivals. The discharged soldiers were now numerous and common, and no longer a novelty. Personally, I didn't care. Rather, really prefer to come back home modestly and quietly, and without any fuss and feathers whatever. Still, I would have felt better to have met at least one person as I passed through the little village, who would have given me a hearty handshake and said he was glad to see me home, safe from the war. But it's all right, for many such were met later. I now had only two miles to go, and was soon at the dear old boyhood home. My folks were expecting me, so they were not taken by surprise. There was no scene when we met nor any effusive display, but we all had a feeling of profound contentment and satisfaction, which was too deep to be expressed by mere words. When I returned home, I found that the farmwork my father was then engaged in was cutting up and shocking corn. So, the morning after my arrival, September 29th, I doffed my uniform of first lieutenant, put on some of father's old clothes, armed myself with a corn knife, and proceeded to wage war on the standing corn. The feeling I had while engaged in this work was sort of queer. It almost seemed sometimes as if I had been away only a day or two, and had just taken up the farmwork where I had left off. Here this story will close. In conclusion, I will say that in civil life people have been good to me. I have been honored with different positions of trust, importance, and responsibility, and which I have reasoned to believe I filled to the satisfaction of the public. I am proud of the fact of having been deemed worthy to fill those different places. But while that is so, I will further say in absolute sincerity that to me, my humble career as a soldier in the 61st Illinois during the war for the Union is the record that I prize the highest of all, and is the proudest recollection of my life. End of chapter 25. End of the story of a common soldier of army life in the Civil War, 1861, 1865.