 Chapter 13 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. Chapter 13, Little Rock, October 1863, Granted of Furlough, Chaplain B. B. Hamilton. The journey on furlough from Little Rock to Jersey County, Illinois returned to Regiment November 1863. About the middle of October the Regiment shifted its camp ground from Huntersville to an open space on the west side of the river near the state penitentiary, where we remained all the ensuing winter. Soon after this change of camp it was reported among us that one man from each company would soon be granted a 30-day furlough. Prior to this, while in Tennessee, there had been a very few furloughs granted in exceptional cases, which were all the indulgences of that kind the Regiment had so far received. I made no request to be the favored man of our company in this matter. But one day Captain Keely told me that he had decided that I should be the furloughed man from Company D and could make my arrangements accordingly. By this time I had so far recovered from my rheumatism that I could walk around with the aid of a cane, but was very shaky on foot. And any sudden shock or jar would make me flinch with pain. I wondered how I should be able to get from the camp to the railroad depot on the other side of the river, with my knapsack, haversack, and canteen and their necessary contents, for I was utterly unable to carry them. I happened to mention this problem to the chaplain of the Regiment, B. B. Hamilton. He was an old and valued friend of my parents, and as he had lived only a few miles from our home I knew him quite well before the war, and had heard him preach many a time. He was of the Baptist denomination, and my parents were of the same religious faith. At this time he was still what I would call a young man, being only about forty years old. My father's given name was Jeremiah, and the chaplain, most invariably when speaking to me, would, in a gray, deliberate manner, address me as son of Jeremiah. When I mentioned to him my perplexity above indicated, he responded, Son of Jeremiah, let not your heart be troubled, the Lord will provide. Knowing that what he said could be depended upon, I asked no questions. The precious document, giving me thirty days' leave of absence, was delivered to me in due time, and our little squad arranged to start on the next train, and which would leave Little Rock for Deval's bluff early the following day. I had my breakfast the times the next morning, and was sitting on the ground in front of my tent with my traps by me, when Chaplain Hamilton came riding up on his horse. He dismounted and, saying to me, Son of Jeremiah, the Lord has provided, thereupon helped me on his horse, and we started for the depot, the chaplain walking by my side. We crossed the Arkansas on a sort of improvised army bridge, and were approaching the depot, when a locomotive on the track nearby began to let off steam. The horse evidently was not accustomed to that. He gave a frantic snort, and began to prance and rear. For a second or so I was in an agony of apprehension. I was encumbered with my knapsack and other things. Was weak and feeble, and no horseman anyhow, and knew that if I should be violently thrown to the ground, it would just about break me all to pieces, and my furlough would end then and there. But it is likely that the chaplain may have apprehended the horse's conduct. At any rate, he was on the alert. With one bound he was in front of the frightened animal, holding him firmly by the bridal bits, and had him under control at once. And about the same time the engine stopped its noise, and the trouble was over. The cars destined for Deval's bluff were on the track, and the chaplain and some of our furlough party, who had already arrived, helped me on the train. Of course there were no passenger coaches, just box and gravel cars, and I seated myself on the floor of one of the ladder. I gratefully thanked the chaplain for his kindness. He said a few pleasant words, gave me a kind message for the folks at home, wished me a safe and pleasant trip, and then rode away. This is probably a fitting place to pay a brief tribute to the memory of Chaplain Hamilton, so I will proceed to do so. The first chaplain of the regiment was a minister named Edward Rutledge. He was appointed May 16, 1862, and resigned September 3 of the same year. I do not remember of his ever officiating often in the capacity of Chaplain. I recall just one occasion when he preached to us, and that was under somewhat peculiar circumstances. He came to the regiment when we were in camp at Al Creek, Tennessee, and soon after his arrival there read one Sunday evening at Dress Parade an order in substance and effect as follows, that at a designated time on the following morning the men would assemble on the respective company parade grounds wearing their side arms, which included waist and shoulder belts, cartridge box, cap pouch, and bayonet, and under the command of a commissioned officer each company would march to the grove where the chaplain would hold religious services. Well, I didn't like that order one bit, and the great majority of the boys felt the same way. The idea of having to attend church under compulsion seemed to me to infringe on our constitutional rights as free-born American citizens, that while it might have been a thing to be endured in the days described in Fox's Book of Martyrs, nevertheless it wasn't exactly fair right now. But orders must be obeyed, so we all turned out with the prescribed side arms, and like the young oysters that were invigiled by the walrus and the carpenter, our clothes were brushed, our faces washed, our shoes were clean and neat. But it is much to be feared that the chaplain's discourse didn't do anybody a bit of good. For my part I don't now remember a word, not even the text. The order aforesaid gave so much dissatisfaction to the rank and file, and perhaps to some of the line officers also, that it was never repeated, and thereafter attendance on the chaplain's preaching was a matter left to each man's pleasure and discretion. Judging only from what came under my personal notice, I don't think that much good was ever accomplished by chaplains in the Western Army, as regards matters of a purely theological nature. As someone has said somewhere, Army's service in time of war is D-D, hard on religion. But in practical, everyday matters, chaplains had ample opportunities for doing and did a great deal of good. They held the rank and wore the uniform of a captain, and while they had no military command over the men, they were, nevertheless, so far as I ever saw, always treated by the soldiers with the most kind and respectful consideration. To fill the vacancy caused by the resignation of Rutledge, B. B. Hamilton was commissioned chaplain on October 30th, 1862, and came to us about that date. He had been active in the ministry at home for many years, and during that time had preached in Jersey, Green, and the adjoining counties, so he was personally known to many of the officers and men. He was a man of good sound common sense, an excellent judge of human nature, and endowed with a dry, quaint sort of humor that was delightful. When talking with intimate friends, he was prone at times to drop into an Oriental style of conversation well garnished with sayings and illustrations from the Bible. I don't remember now of his preaching to us very often, and when he did he was tactful in selecting a time when the conditions were all favorable. In his discourses he ignored all questions of theology such as faith, free will, foreordination, the final perseverance of the saints, and such like, and got right down to matters involved in our everyday life. He would admonish us to be careful about our health, to avoid excesses of any kind that might be injurious to us in that respect, and, above all things, to be faithful and brave soldiers, and conduct ourselves in such a manner that our army record would be an honor to us, and a source of pride and satisfaction to our parents and friends at home. In camp or on the march he was a most useful and industrious man. He would visit the sick, write letters for them, and in general look after their needs in countless ways. He wrote a fine, neat, legible hand, and rendered much assistance to many of the line officers in making out the muster and payrolls of their respective companies, and in attending to other matters connected with the company records or official correspondence. And when the regiment had fighting to do, or a prospect of any, Chaplain Hamilton was always at the front. In the affair at Salem Cemetery, Hez Giberson of Company G was knocked down and rendered insensible for a short time by the nearby explosion of a shell. Hamilton ran to him, picked him up, and, taking him by the arm, marched him to the rear, while shells were bursting all around us. I saw them as they walked by. Giberson, white as a sheet, staggering, and evidently deathly sick. But the Chaplain clung to him, kept him on his feet, and ultimately turned him over to the surgeon. The spring of 1865 found the regiment at Franklin, Tennessee. The war was then practically over in that region, and any organized armies of the Confederates were hundreds of miles away. Hamilton's health had become greatly impaired, and in view of all these conditions he concluded to resign, and did so, on March 3, 1865, and thereupon returned to his old home in Illinois. The vacancy caused by his resignation was never filled, and thereafter we had no religious services in the regiment, except on two or three occasions rendered by volunteers, whose names I have forgotten. After leaving the army, Chaplain Hamilton led a life of activity and usefulness until incapacitated by his final illness. He died at Upper Alton, Illinois, on November 11, 1894, at the age of nearly 73 years, respected and loved by all who knew him. He was a good, patriotic, brave man. I never saw him but once after he left the army, but we kept up a fraternal correspondence with each other as long as he lived. I will now return to the little squad of furloughed 61ers that was left a while ago on the freight cars at Little Rock. The train pulled out early in the day for Deval's Bluff, where we arrived about noon. We at once made our way to the boat landing, and I simply am unable to describe our disappointment when we found no steamboats there. After making careful inquiry, we were unable to get any reliable information in regard to the time of the arrival of any from below. It might be the next hour, or maybe not for several days. There was nothing to do but just bivouac, there by the riverbank, and wait. And there we waited for two long days of our precious 30, and were getting fairly desperate when one afternoon the scream of a whistle was heard, and soon the leading boat of a small fleet poked its nose around the bend about half a mile below, and we sprang to our feet, waved our caps, and yelled. We ascertained that the boats would start on the return trip to the mouth of White River as soon as they unloaded their army freight. This was accomplished by the next morning. We boarded the first one ready to start, a small stern wheeler, and sometime on the second day thereafter arrived at the mouth of White River. There we landed on the right bank of the Mississippi, and later boarded a big side wheeler destined for Cairo, which stopped to take us on. When it rounded in for that purpose, the members of our little squad were quite nervous, and there was a rush on the principle of every fellow for himself. I was hobbling along with my traps as best I could, when in going down the riverbank, which was high and steep, in some way I stumbled and fell, and rolled clear to the bottom and just lay there helpless. There was one of our party of the name of John Powell of Company G., a young fellow about twenty-two or twenty-three years old. He was not tall, only about five feet and eight or nine inches, but was remarkably broad across the shoulders and chest, and had the reputation of being the strongest man in the regiment. He happened to see the accident that had befallen me, and ran to me, picked me up in his arms, with my stuff, the same as if I had been a baby, and toted me on the boat. He hunted up a cozy corner on the leeward side, set me down carefully, and then said, Now you, D-D, little cuss, I guess you won't fall down here, and all the balance of the trip, until our respective roots diverged, he looked after me the same as if I had been his brother. He was a splendid, big-hearted fellow. While ascending the Mississippi, the weather was cloudy and foggy, the boat tied up at nights and our progress generally was tantalizingly slow. We arrived at Cairo on the afternoon of October 26th. It was a raw, chilly autumn day, a drizzling rain was falling, and everything looked uncomfortable and wretched. We went to the depot of the Illinois Central Railroad, and an inquiry learned that our train would not leave until about nine o'clock that night, so apparently there was nothing to do but sit down and wait. My thoughts were soon dwelling on the first time I saw Cairo, that bright, sunny afternoon in the latter part of March, 1862. I was then in superb health and buoyant spirits, and inspired by radiant hopes and glowing anticipations. Only a little over a year and a half had elapsed, and I was now at the old town again, but this time in broken health and hobbling about on a stick. But it soon occurred to me that many of my comrades had met a still more unfortunate fate, and by this comparison method I presently got in a more cheerful frame of mind. And something happened to come to pass that materially aided that consummation. Some of our party, who had been scouting around the town, returned with the intelligence that they had found a place called the Soldier's Home, where all transient soldiers were furnished food and shelter, without money and without price. This was most welcome news, for our rations were practically exhausted, and our money supply was so meager that economy was a necessity. It was nearing supper time, so we started at once for the home in hopes of getting a square meal. On reaching the place we found already formed a long queue of hungry soldiers in two ranks, extending from the door away out into the street. We took our stand at the end of the line and waited patiently. The building was a long, low-framed structure of a barrack-like style, and a very unpretentious appearance. But as we found out soon the inside was better. In due time the door was opened and we all filed in. The room was well-lighted and warm, and long rows of rough tables extended clear across, with benches for seats. And oh, what a splendid supper we had! Strong hot coffee, soft bread, cold boiled beef, molasses, stewed dried apples, and even cucumber pickles. After over we went back to the depot all feeling better, and I've had a warm spot in my heart for the old town of Cairo ever since. But it certainly did look hard at this time. Its population, at the beginning of the war, was only a little over two thousand. The houses were small and dilapidated, and everything was dirty, muddy, slushy, and disagreeable in general. In October 1914 I happened to be in Cairo again, and spent several hours there, roaming around and looking at the town. The lapse of half a century had brought a wonderful change. Its population was now something over fifteen thousand. The streets were well paved and brilliantly lighted, and long blocks of tall, substantial buildings had superseded the unsightly shacks of the days of the Civil War. Not on this occasion I found no vestige of our soldiers home, nor was any person of whom inquiry was made able to give me the slightest information as to where it had stood. The only thing I saw in the town, or that vicinity, that looked natural, was the Ohio River, and even its placid appearance was greatly marred by a stupendous railroad bridge, over which trains of cars were thundering every hour in the day. But the river itself was flowing on in serene majesty, as it had been from the time the morning stars sang together, and as it will continue to flow until this planet goes out of business. We left Cairo on the cars on the night of October 26th, and for the first time in our military service we rode in passenger coaches, which was another piece of evidence that once more we were in that part of the world that we uniformly spoke of as God's country. I remember an incident that occurred during our ride that night that gave us all the benefit of a hearty laugh. There was, and is yet, a station on the Illinois Central in Jackson County, Illinois, by the name of Makanda. It was some time after midnight when we neared this station. The boys were sprawled out on their seats and trying to doze. The engine gave the usual loud whistle to announce a stop. The front door of our coach was thrown open, and a breakman with a strong, hiberian accent called out in thunder tones what sounded exactly like my candy, as here written, and with the accent on the first syllable. There were several soldiers in the coach who were not of our party, also going home on furlough. And one of these, a big fellow with a heavy black beard, reared up and yelled back at the breakman, Well, who the hell said it wasn't your candy? And the boys all roared. Many years later I passed through that town on the cars, and the breakman said, My candy, as of your. I felt a devilish impulse to make the same response the soldier did on that October night in 1863. But the war was over. No comrades were on hand to back me, so I prudently refrained. At Sandoval the most of our party transferred to the Ohio and Mississippi railroad, as it was called then, and went to St. Louis, reaching there on the afternoon of October 27. Here all except myself left on the Chicago, Alton, and St. Louis railroad for different points thereon, and from which they could make their way to their respective homes. There was no railroad running through Jersey County at this time, except a bit of the last named road about a mile in length across the southeast corner of the county, and the railroad station nearest my home was 20 miles away. So I had to resort to some other mode of travel. I went down to the wharf and boarded a little Illinois River steamboat, the Postboy, which would start north that night, paid my fare to Grafton at the mouth of the Illinois River, arranged with a clerk to wake me at that place and then turned in. But the clerk did not have to bother on my account. I was restless, slept but little, kept a close look out, and when the whistle blew for Grafton, I was up and on deck in about a minute. The boat rounded in at the landing and threw out a plank for my benefit, the lone passenger for Grafton. Two big burly deckhands, rough-looking bearded men, took me by the arm, one on each side, and carefully and kindly helped me assure. I have often thought of that little incident. In those days a river deckhand was not a saint by any means. As a rule he was a coarse, turbulent, and very profane man. But these two fellows saw that I was a little broken-down boy-soldier painfully hobbling along on a stick, and they took hold of me with their strong, brawny hands and helped me off the boat with as much kindness and gentleness as if I had been the finest lady in the land. I was now only five miles from home and proposed to make the balance of my journey on foot. I climbed up to the top of the river bank and thence made my way to the main and only street the little town then possessed and took the middle of the road. It was perhaps four or five o'clock in the morning. A quiet, starlit night, and the people of the village were all apparently yet wrapped in slumber. No signs of life were visible, except occasionally a dog would run out in a front yard and bark at me. The main road from Grafton at that time, and which passed near my home, wound along the river bottom a short distance, and then, for a mile or more, ascended some high hills or bluffs north of the town. The ascent of these bluffs was steep, and hence the walking was fatiguing, and several times before reaching the summit, where the road stretched away over a long, high ridge, I had to sit down and rest. The quails were now calling all around me, and the chickens were crowing for day at the farmhouses, and their notes sounded so much like home. After attaining the crest, the walking was easier, and I slowly plotted on, rejoicing in the sight of the many familiar objects that appeared on every hand. About a mile or so from home I left the main highway and followed a country road that led to our house, where I at last arrived about nine o'clock. I had not written to my parents to advise them of my coming, for it would not have been judicious in mere expectation of a furlough to excite hopes that might be disappointed. And after it was issued and delivered to me, there was no use in writing, for I would reach home as soon as the letter. So my father and mother and the rest of the family were all taken completely by surprise when I quietly walked into the yard of the old home. I pass over any detailed account of our meeting. We, like others of that time and locality, were a simple backwards people, with nothing in the nature of gush or effervescence in our dispositions. I know I was glad to see my parents and the rest, and they were all unmistakably glad to see me, and we manifested our feelings in a natural, homely way, and without any display whatever of extravagant emotions. Greetings being over about the first inquiry was whether I had yet had any breakfast, and my answer being in the negative, a splendid old-time breakfast was promptly prepared. But my mother was keenly disappointed at my utter lack of appetite. I just couldn't eat hardly a bit, and invented some sort of an excuse, and said I'd do better in the future, but somehow right then I wasn't hungry, which was true. However, this instance of involuntary abstinence was fully made up for later. While on my furlough I went with my father in the farm wagon, occasionally to Grafton and Jerseyville, and even once to Alton, twenty miles away, but the greater part of the time we spent at the farm and around the old home and in the society of the family. I reckon I rambled over every acre of the farm, and besides took long walks in the woods of the adjacent country for miles around. The big, gushing Samson Spring, about half a mile from home, was a spot associated with many happy recollections. I would go there, lie flat on the ground, and take a copious drink of the pure, delicious water, then stroll through the woods down Samson Branch to its confluence with Otter Creek, thence down the creek to the twin springs that burst out at the base of a ridge on our farm just a few feet below a big sugar maple. From here on to the ruins of the old gristmill my father operated in the latter forties, and then still further down the creek to the ancient gristmill, then still standing of the old pioneer Hiram White. Here I would cross to the south bank of the creek and make my way home up through Limestone or the Sugar Hollow. For my earliest youth I always loved to ramble in the woods, and somehow these around the old home now looked dearer and more beautiful to me than they ever had before. The last time I ever saw my boyhood home was in August 1894. It had passed into the hands of strangers and didn't look natural, and all the old-time natural conditions in that locality were greatly changed. The flow of water from Samson Spring was much smaller than what it had been in the old days, and only a few rods below the spring it sank into the ground and disappeared. The big shady pools along Samson Branch where I had gone swimming when a boy, and from which I had caught many a string of perch and silversides, were now dry rocky holes in the ground, and the branch in general was dry as a bone. And Otter Creek, which had different places where it ran through our farm, had once contained long reaches of water six feet deep and over, had now shrunk to a sickly rivulet that one could step across almost anywhere in that vicinity, and the grand primeval forest, which up to about the close of the war, at least, had practically covered the country for many miles in the vicinity of my old home, had now all been cut down and destroyed, and the naked surface of the earth was baking in the rays of the sun. It is my opinion, and it is stated for whatever it may be worth, that the wholesale destruction of the forests in that region had much to do with the drying up of the streams. But it is time to return to the boy on furlough. Shortly before leaving Little Rock for home, Captain Keely had confidentially informed me that if the military situation in Arkansas continued quiet, it would be all right for me before my furlough expired to procure what would affect a short extension thereof, and he explained to me the modus operandi. Including the unavoidable delays, over a third of my 30 days had been consumed in making the trip home, and the return journey would doubtless require about the same time. I therefore thought it would be justifiable to obtain an extension if possible. My health was rapidly growing better, the rheumatism was nearly gone, but there was still room for improvement. I had closely read the newspapers in order to keep posted on the military status in the vicinity of Little Rock, and had learned from them that the troops were building winter quarters, and that in general all was quiet along the Arkansas. So on November 9th I went to Dr. J. H. Hesser, a respectable physician in Otterville, told him my business, and said that if his judgment would warrant it, I would be glad to obtain from him a certificate that would operate to extend my furlough for 20 days. He looked at me, asked a few questions, and then wrote and gave me a brief paper which set forth in substance that, in his opinion, as a physician, I would not be able for duty sooner than December 5th, 1863, that being a date 20 days subsequent to the expiration of my furlough. I paid Dr. Hesser nothing for the certificate, for he did not ask it, but said that he gave it to me as a warranted act of kindness to a deserving soldier. In September of the following year, Dr. Hesser enlisted in Company C of our regiment as a recruit, and about all the time he was with us, he acted as hospital steward of the regiment, which position he filled ably and satisfactorily. But I did not avail myself of all of my aforesaid extension. I knew it would be better to report it Company Headquarters before its expiration than after, so my arrangements were made to start back on November 16th. Some hours before sunrise that morning, I bade goodbye to mother and the children, and father and I pulled out in the farm wagon for our nearest railroad station, which was Alton, and, as here too force stated, twenty miles away, where we arrived in ample time for my train. We drove into a back street and unhitched the team. The faithful old mules, Bill and Tom, tied them to the wagon and fed them, and then walked to the depot. The train came in due season and stopped opposite the depot platform where father and I were standing. We faced each other, and I said, Goodbye, father. He responded, Goodbye, Leander, take care of yourself. We shook hands. Then he instantly turned and walked away, and I boarded the train. That was all there was to it. And yet we both knew more in regard to the dangers and perils that environment the life of a soldier in time of war than we did on the occasion of the parting at Jerseyville nearly two years ago. Hence we fully realized that this farewell might be the last, nor did this manner spring from indifference or lack of sensibility. It was simply the way of the plain unlettered backwards people of those days. Nearly thirty-five years later, the whirly gig of time evolved an incident which clearly brought home to me a vivid idea of what must have been my father's feelings on this occasion. The Spanish-American War began in the latter part of April, 1898, and on the thirtieth of that month, Hubert, my oldest son, then a lad not quite 19 years old enlisted in Company A of the 22nd Kansas Infantry, a regiment raised for service in that war. On May 28th the regiment was sent to Washington, D.C., and was stationed at Camp Alger near the city. In the early part of August it appeared that there was a strong probability that the regiment with others at Washington would soon be sent to Cuba or Puerto Rico. I knew that meant fighting to say nothing of the Camp diseases liable to prevail in that latitude at that season of the year, so my wife and I concluded to go to Washington and have a little visit with Hubert before he left for the seat of war. We arrived at the capital on August 5th and found the regiment then in Camp near the little village of Clifton, Virginia, about 26 miles southwest of Washington. We had a brief but very enjoyable visit with Hubert, who was given a pass and stayed a few days with us in the city. But the time soon came for us to separate, and on the day of our departure for home, Hubert went with us to the depot of the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad, where his mother and I bade him goodbye. Then there came to me so forcibly the recollection of that parting with my father at the Alton depot in November 1863, and for the first time I think I fully appreciated what must have been his feelings on that occasion. But, referring to the Washington incident, it so happened that on the day my wife and I left that city for home, or quite soon thereafter, it was officially announced that a suspension of hostilities had been agreed on between Spain and the United States. This ended the war, and consequently Hubert's regiment was not sent to the Spanish Islands. I will now resume my own story. My route from Alton and method of conveyance on returning to the regiment were the same, with one or two slight variations as those in going home, and the return trip was uneventful. But there were no delays, the boat ran day and night, and the journey was made in remarkably quick time. I arrived at Little Rock on the evening of November 20, only five days over my furlough, and with a twenty-day extension to show for that. Reported promptly to Captain Keely and delivered to him the certificate given me by Dr. Hesser, Keely pronounced the paper satisfactory, and further said it would have been all right if I had taken the benefit of the entire twenty days. However, it seemed to me that he really was pleased to see that I had not done so, but hurried back fifteen days ahead of time. After a brief conversation with him about the folks at home, and matters and things there in general, he treated me to a most agreeable surprise. He stepped to the company office desk, and took there from a folded paper, which he handed to me with a remark. There still will is something I think will please you. I unfolded and glanced at it, and saw that it was a non-commissioned officer's warrant signed by Major Grasse as commanding officer of the regiment and counter-signed by Lieutenant A. C. Haskins as Adjutant, appointing me first Sergeant of Company D. The warrant was dated November 4, but recited that the appointment took effect from September 1 preceding. As before stated, Enoch Wallace was our original first Sergeant, and as he was promoted to Second Lieutenant on September 3, 1863, his advancement left his old position vacant, and his mantle had now fallen on me. I was deeply gratified with his appointment, and really was not expecting it, as there were two other duty sergeants who outranked me, and in appointing me I was promoted over their heads. However, they took it in good part and remained my friends as they always had been. And the plain truth is, too, which may have reconciled these sergeants somewhat, the position of first or orderly Sergeant, as we usually called it, was not an enviable one by any means. His duties were incessant, involving responsibility, and frequently were very trying. He had to be right with his company every hour of the day, and it was not prudent for him to absent himself from camp for even ten minutes without the consent of his company commander, and temporarily appointing a duty sergeant to act in his place while away. Among his multifarious duties may be mentioned the following, calling the role of the company morning and evening, and at such other hours as might be required, attending sick calls with the sick, and carefully making note of those excused from duty by the surgeon, making out and signing the company morning report, procuring the signature of the company commander there too, and then delivering it to the agiton, forming the company on its parade ground for dress parade, drills, marches, and the like, making the details of the men required from his company for the various kinds of guard and fatigue duty, drawing rations for the company, and distributing them among the various messes, seeing to it that the company grounds, when in camp, were properly policed every morning, and just scores a little matters of detail that were occurring all the time. It was a very embarrassing incident when sometimes a boy, who was a good soldier, was without permission absent at roll call. He might have stalled up town or to a neighboring camp to see an old-time friend, and stayed too long. On such occurrences I would, as a general rule, pass rapidly from his name to the next, and just report the boy present, and later talk to him privately and tell him not to let it happen again. It is true sometimes an aggravated case occurred, when in order to maintain discipline a different course had to be pursued, but not often, speaking generally, I will say that it was bad policy for the orderly to be running to the captain about every little trouble or grievance. The thing for him to do was to take the responsibility and act on his own judgment, and depend on the captain to back him, as he almost invariably would, if the affair came to a showdown. Beginning as far back as the summer of 1862, I had frequently temporarily acted as orderly sergeant for weeks at a time, and so possessed a fair amount of experience when I entered on the duties of the position under a permanent appointment. But my long, solitary rambles out in the woods beyond the lines were at an end, and that was a matter of more regret to me than anything else connected with the office of orderly sergeant. While on this topic, I will remark that it always seemed to me that the men who had the softest snaps of any in a regiment of infantry were the lieutenants of the respective companies. The first lieutenant had no company cares or responsibilities, whatever, unless the captain was absent or sick in quarters. And the second lieutenant was likewise exempt, unless the captain and first lieutenant were both absent or sick. Of course, there were duties that devolved on the lieutenants from time to time, such as drilling the men, serving as officer of the guard, and other matters. But when those jobs were done, they could just go and play without a particle of care or anxiety about the services of the morrow. CHAPTER XIV. 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 XIV. LITTLE ROCK. WINTER OF 1863. 64. Re-enlist for three years more. When I returned to Little Rock for my absence on furlough, the regiment was found installed in cozy, comfortable quarters of pine-log cabins. There were extensive pine forests near Little Rock, the boys were furnished teams and axes to facilitate the work, and cut and shaped the logs for the cabin walls, and roofed them with lumber, boards, or shingles, which they procured in various ways. The walls were chinked and dobed with mud, and each cabin was provided with an ample, old-fashioned fireplace with a rock or stick chimney. As wood was close at hand and in abundance there was no difficulty whatever in keeping the cabins warm. But I will remark here that of all the mean wood to burn, a green pine log is about the worst. It is fully as bad as green elm or sycamore. But there was no lack of dry wood to mix with the green, and the green logs had this virtue that after the fire had once taken hold of them they would last a whole night. The winter of 1863-1864 was remarkably cold, and to this day is remembered by the old soldiers as the cold winter. On the last day of 1863 a heavy fall of snow occurred at Little Rock, and the first day of the new year and several days thereafter were bitterly cold. But the weather did not cause the troops in our immediate locality any special suffering so far as I know or ever heard. All of us not on picket were just as comfortable as heart could wish in our tight, well-warmed cabins, and those on guard duty were permitted to build rousing fires, and so got along fairly well. Big fires on the picket line would not have been allowed if any enemy had been in our vicinity, but there were none, hence it was only common sense to let the pickets have fires and keep as comfortable as circumstances would permit. It was probably on account of the severe weather that active military operations in our locality were that winter practically suspended. There were a few cavalry affairs at outlying posts, but none of any material importance. The most painful sight that I saw during the war was here at Little Rock this winter. It was an execution by hanging on January 8, 1864, of a Confederate spy by the name of David O. Dodds. He was a mere boy, seemingly not more than nineteen or twenty years old. There was no question as to his guilt. When arrested, there was found on his person a memorandum book containing information written in telegraphic characters in regard to all troops, batteries, and other military affairs at Little Rock. He was tried by a court-martial and sentenced to the mode of death, always inflicted on a spy, namely by hanging. I suppose that the military authorities desired to render his death as impressive as possible, in order to deter others from engaging in a business so fraught with danger to our armies. Therefore, on the day fixed for carrying out the sentence of the court, all our troops in Little Rock turned out under arms and marched to the place of execution. It was a large field near the town. A gallows had been erected in the center of this open space, and the troops formed around it in the form of an extensive hollow square and stood at parade rest. The spy rode through the lines to the gallows in an open ambulance sitting on his coffin. I happened to be not far from the point where he passed through and saw him plainly. For once so young he displayed remarkable coolness and courage when in the immediate presence of death. The manner of his execution was wretchedly bungled in some way, and the whole thing was to me indescribably repulsive. In the crisis of the affair there was a sudden clang of military arms and accoutrements in the line not far from me, and looking in that direction I saw that a soldier in the front rank had fainted and fallen headlong to the ground. I didn't faint but the spectacle for the time being well nigh made me sick. It is true that from time immemorial the punishment of a convicted spy has been death by hanging. The safety of whole armies, even the fate of a nation, may perhaps depend on the prompt and summary extinction of the life of a spy. As long as he is alive he may possibly escape, or even if closely guarded may succeed in imparting his dangerous intelligence to others who will transmit it in his stead. Hence no mercy can be shown. But in spite of all that this event impressed me as somehow being unspeakably cruel and cold blooded, on one side with thousands of men with weapons in their hands, coolly looking on, on the other was one lone unfortunate boy. My conscience has never troubled me for anything I may have done on the firing line in time of battle. There were the other fellows in plain sight, shooting and doing all in their power to kill us. It was my duty to shoot at them, aim low and kill some of them if possible, and I did the best I could, and have no remorse whatever. But whenever my memory recalls the choking to death of that boy, for that is what was done, I feel bad and don't like to write or think about it. But for fear of being misunderstood it will be repeated that the fate of a spy, when caught, is death. It is a military necessity. The other side hanged our spies with relentless severity, and were justified in doing so by laws and usages of war. Even the great and Good Washington approved of the hanging of the British spy, Major André, and refused to commute the manner of his execution to being shot, although André made a personal appeal to him to grant him that favor in order that he might die the death of a soldier. The point with me is simply this. I don't want personally to have anything to do in any capacity with hanging a man, and don't desire even to be in eyesight of such a gruesome thing and voluntarily never have. However, it fell to my lot to be an involuntary witness of two more military executions while in the service. I will speak of them now and then be through with this disagreeable subject. On March 18, 1864, two guerrillas were hanged in the yard of the penitentiary at Little Rock, by virtue of the sentence of a court-martial, and my regiment acted as guard at the execution. We marched into the penitentiary enclosure and formed around the scaffold in Hollow Square. As soon as this had been done, a door on the ground floor of the penitentiary was swung open, and the two condemned men marched out, pinioned side by side, and surrounded by a small guard. The culprits were apparently somewhere between forty and fifty years of age. They ascended the scaffold, were placed with their feet on the trap, the nooses were adjusted, the trap was sprung, and it was all over. The crimes of which these men had been convicted were peculiarly atrocious. They were not members of any organized body of the Confederate army, but guerrillas pure and simple. It was conclusively established on their trial that they, with some associates, had in cold blood, murdered by hanging several men of that vicinity, private citizens of the State of Arkansas, for no other cause or reason than the fact that the victims were Union men. In some cases the murdered men had been torn from their beds at night and hanged in their own dooryards in the presence of their well-nigh distracted wives and children. There can be no question that these two unprincipled assassins richly merited their fate, and hence it was impossible to entertain for them any feeling of sympathy. Nevertheless I stand by my original proposition that the sea any man strung up like a dog and hanged in cold blood is a nauseating and debasing spectacle. In January 1864, while we were at Little Rock, the Veteranizing Project, as it was called, was submitted to the men. That is to say we were asked to enlist for three years more or endure in the war. Sundry inducements for this were held out to the men, but the one which at the time had the most weight was the promise of a thirty-days furlough for each man who re-enlisted. The men in general responded favorably to the proposition, and enough of the sixty-first were re-enlisted to enable the regiment to retain its organization to the end of the war. On the evening of February 1st with several others of Company D, I walked down to the adjutant's tent and went in for three years more. I think that no better account of this re-enlistment business can now be given by me than by here inserting a letter I wrote on December 22nd, 1894, as a slight tribute to the memory of our acting regimental commander in February 1864, Major Daniel Grass. He was later promoted to Lieutenant Colonel, and after the war came to Kansas, where for many years he was a prominent lawyer and politician. On the evening of December 18th, 1894, while he was crossing a railroad track in the town where he lived, Coffeeville, Kansas, he was struck by a railroad engine and sustained injuries from which he died on December 21st at the age of a little over seventy years. A few days thereafter the members of the Bar of the County held a memorial meeting in his honor, which I was invited to attend. I was then Judge of the Kansas Seventh Judicial District, and my judicial duties at the time were such that I could not go, and hence was compelled to content myself by writing a letter which was later published in the local papers of the county, and which reads as follows, Erie, Kansas, December 22nd, 1894, Hon. J. D. McHugh, Independence, Kansas. My dear Judge, I received this evening yours of the twentieth informing me of the death of my old comrade and regimental commander during the war for the Union, Colonel Dan Grass. I was deeply moved by the sad intelligence and regret that I did not learn of his death in time to attend his funeral. I wish I could be present at the memorial meeting of the Bar next Monday that you mention, but I have other engagements for that day that cannot be deferred. It affords me, however, a mournful pleasure to comply with your request, suggesting that I write a few words in the nature of a tribute to our departed friend and comrade to be read at this meeting of the Bar, but I am fearful that I shall perform this duty very unsatisfactorily. There are so many kind and good things that I would like to say about him that throng my memory at this moment that I hardly know where to begin. I served in the same regiment with Colonel Grass from January 7th, 1862 to December 15th, 1864. On the last name day, he was taken prisoner by the rebels in an engagement near Murfreesboro, Tennessee. He was subsequently exchanged, but by that time the war was drawing to a close, and he did not rejoin us again in the field. In May 1865 he was mustered out of the service. During his term of service with us, nearly three years, I became very well acquainted with him and learned to admire and love him as a man and as a soldier. He was temperate in his habits, courteous and kind to the common soldiers, and as brave a man in action as I ever saw. He was, moreover, imbued with the most fervid and intense patriotism. The war with him was one to preserve the Republic from destruction, and his creed was that the government should draft, if necessary, every available man in the North, and spend every dollar of the wealth of the country sooner than suffer the rebellion to succeed and the nation to be destroyed. I think the most eloquent speech I ever heard in my life was one delivered by Colonel Grasse to his regiment at Little Rock, Arkansas, in February 1864. The plan was then in progress to induce the veteran troops in the field to re-enlist for three years more. We boys called it veteranizing. For various reasons it did not take well in our regiment. Nearly all of us had been at the front without a glimpse of our homes and friends for over two years. We had undergone a fair share of severe fighting and toilsome marching and the other hardships of a soldier's life, and we believed we were entitled to a little rest when our present term should expire. Hence, re-enlisting progressed slowly, and it looked as if so far as the 61st Illinois was concerned that the undertaking was going to be a failure. While matters were in this shape, one day Colonel Grasse caused the word to be circulated throughout the regiment that he would make us a speech that evening at Dress Parade on the subject of veteranizing. At the appointed time we assembled on the parade ground with fuller ranks than usual. Everybody being anxious to hear what old Dan, as the boys called him, would say, after the customary movements of the parade had been performed, the Colonel commanded, parade, rest, and without further ceremony commenced his talk. Of course I cannot pretend after this lapse of time to recall all that he said, I remember best his manner and some principal statements and the effect they produced on us. He began talking to us like a father would talk to a lot of dissatisfied sons. He told us that he knew we wanted to go home, that we were tired of war in its hardships, that we wanted to see our fathers and mothers and the girls we left behind, and that he sympathized with us and appreciated our feelings. But boys, he said, this great nation is your father and has a greater claim on you than anybody else in the world. This great father of yours is fighting for his life, and the question for you to determine now is whether you are going to stay and help the old man out, or whether you are going to sneak home and sit down by the chimney corner in ease and comfort while your comrades by thousands and hundreds of thousands are marching, struggling, fighting, and dying on battlefields and in prison pens to put down this wicked rebellion and save the old union. Stand by the old flag, boys. Let us stay and see this thing out. We're going to whip them in the end, just as sure as God Almighty is looking down on us right now, and then we'll all go home together, happy and triumphant, and take my word for it. In after years it will be the proudest memory of your lives to be able to say I stayed with the old regiment and the old flag until the last gun cracked and the war was over and the stars and stripes were floating in triumph over every foot of the land. I can see him in my mind's eye as plain as if it were yesterday. He stood firm and erect on his feet in the position of a soldier and gestured very little, but his strong, sturdy frame fairly quivered with the intensity of his feelings and we listened in the most profound silence. It was a raw cold evening and the sun, angry and red, was sinking behind the pine forest that skirted the ridges west of our camp when the Colonel concluded his address. It did not, I think, exceed more than ten minutes. The parade was dismissed and the company marched back to their quarters. As I put my musket on its rack and unbuckled my cartridge-box, I said to one of my comrades, I believe the old Colonel is right. I am going right now down to the adjutant's tent and re-enlist, and go I did, but not alone. Down to the adjutant's tent that evening streamed the boys by the score and signed the rolls, and the fruit of that timely and patriotic talk that Dan Grass made to us boys was that the majority of the men re-enlisted and the regiment retained its organization and remained in the field until the end of the war. But my letter is assuming rather lengthy proportions, and I must hasten to a close. I have related just one incident in the life of Colonel Grass that illustrates his spirit of patriotism and love of country. I could speak of many more, but the occasion demands brevity. Of his career since the close of the war in civil life here in Kansas, there are others better qualified to speak than I am. I will only say that my personal relations with him since he came to this state, dating a way back in the early seventies, have continued to be during all these years what they were in the trying and perilous days of the war, of the most friendly and fraternal character. To me at least he was always Colonel Dan Grass, my regimental commander, while he, as I am happy to believe, always looked upon and remembered me simply as Lee Stillwell, the little sergeant of Company D. I remain very sincerely your friend, L. Stillwell. The Story of a Common Soldier of Army Life and the Civil War 1861, 1865 by Lee Andrew Stillwell, Chapter 15, Little Rock, Expeditions to Augusta and Springfield, March, April and May, 1864. In the spring of 1864 it was determined by the military authorities to undertake some offensive operations in what was styled the Red River Country, the objective point being Shreveport, Louisiana. General N. P. Banks was to move with an army from New Orleans, and General Steele, in command of the Department of Arkansas, was to cooperate with a force from Little Rock. And here my regiment sustained what I regarded and still regard as a piece of bad luck. It was not included in this moving column, but was assigned to the duty of serving as Provost Guard of the City of Little Rock during the absence of the main army. To be left there in that capacity, while the bulk of the troops in that department would be marching and fighting, was, from my standpoint, a most mortifying circumstance. But the duty that devolved on us had to be done by somebody, and soldiers can only obey orders. Our officers said at the time that the only efficient and well-disciplined troops were entrusted with the position of Provost Guards of a city the size of Little Rock, and hence that our being so designated was a compliment to the regiment. That sounded plausible, and it may have been true, probably was, but I didn't like the job a bit. It may, however, have been all for the best, as this Red River expedition, especially the part undertaken by General Banks, was a disastrous failure. General Steele left Little Rock about March 23rd with a force of all arms of about 12,000 men, but got no further than Camden, Arkansas. General Banks was defeated by the Confederates at the Battle of Sabine Crossroads in Louisiana on April 8th and was forced to retreat. The enemy then was at liberty to concentrate on General Steele, and so he likewise was under the necessity of retreating and scuttling back to Little Rock just as rapidly as possible. But on this retreat he and his men did some good hard fighting and stood off the Confederates effectively. About the first intimation we in Little Rock had that our fellows were coming back was when nearly every soldier in the city that was able to wield a mattock or a spade was detailed for fatigue duty and set to work throwing up breastworks and kept at it both day and night. I happened to see General Steele when he wrote into town on May 2nd at the head of his troops, and he looked tough. He had on a battered felt hat with a drooping brim and oil cloth slicker, much the worse for wear. The ends of his pantaloons were stuck in his boots and he was just splashed and splattered with mud from head to foot. But he sat firm and erect in his saddle. He was a magnificent horseman, and his eyes were flashing as if he had plenty of fight left in him yet. And the rank and file of our retreating army was just the hardest looking outfit of Federal soldiers that I saw during the war at any time. The most of them looked as if they had been rolled in the mud. Numbers of them were barefoot, and I also saw several of them with the legs of their trousers all gone, high up, socking through the mud like big blue cranes. In view of the feverish haste with which Little Rock had been put in a state for defensive operations, and considering also all reports in circulation, we fully expected that Price's whole army would make an attack on us almost any day. But the Confederates had been so roughly handled in the Battle of Jenkins Ferry, April 30th, on the Saline River, that none of their infantry came east of that river, nor any of their cavalry except a small body which soon retired. The whole Confederate army about May 1st fell back to Camden, and soon all again was quiet along the Arkansas. I will now go back about two weeks in order to give an account of a little expedition our regiment took part in when General Steel's army was at Camden. Late on the evening of April 19th, we fell in, marched to the railroad depot, climbed on the cars, and were taken that night to Deval's Bluff. Next morning we embarked on the steamboat James Raymond, and started up White River. The other troops that took part in the movement were the Third Minnesota Infantry, and a detachment of the Eighth Missouri Cavalry. We arrived at the town of Augusta, about eighty miles by water from Deval's Bluff, on the morning of the twenty-first. It was a little old, dilapidated river town, largely in a deserted condition, situated on low bottom land on the east bank of White River. On arriving we at once debarked from the boat, and all our little force marched out a mile or so east of the town, where we halted and formed in line of battle in the edge of the woods, with a large open field in our front, on the other side of which were tall, dense woods. As there were no signs or indications of any enemy in the town, and everything around was so quiet and sleepy, I couldn't understand what these ominous preparations meant. Happening to notice the old chaplain a short distance in the rear of our company, I slipped out of ranks and walked back to him for the purpose of getting a pointer, if possible. He was by himself, and as I approached him seemed to be looking rather serious. He probably saw inquiry in my eyes, and, without waiting for question, made a gesture with his hands toward the woods in our front, and said, O son of Jeremiah, here is where we shall give battle to those who trouble Israel. What? What is that, you say? said I, in much astonishment. It is even so, he continued, the Philistines are abroad in the land, having among them as they assert many valiant men who can sling stones at a hare's breath and not miss. They await us even now in the forest beyond. But, son of Jeremiah, said he, if the uncircumcised heathen should assail the Lord's anointed, be strong, and quit yourself like a man. All right, chaplain, I responded. I have forty rounds in the box, and forty on the person, and will give them the best I have in the shop. But, say, take care of my watch, will you, and should anything happen, please send it to the folks at home. And handing him my little old silver timepiece, I resumed my place in the ranks. After what seemed to me a most tiresome way, we finally advanced, preceded by a line of skirmishers. I kept my eyes fixed on the woods in our front, expecting every minute to see burst therefrom puffs of white smoke, followed by the whizz of bullets and the crash of musketry. But nothing of the kind happened. Our skirmishers entered the forest and disappeared, and still everything remained quiet. The main line followed, and after gaining the woods we discovered plenty of evidence that they had quite recently been occupied by a body of cavalry. The ground was cut up by horses' tracks, and little piles of corn in the ear, only partly eaten, were scattered around. We advanced through the woods in swamps for some miles and scouted around considerably, but found no enemy, except a few straggers that were picked up by our cavalry. We left Augusta on the 24th on our steamboat, and arrived at Little Rock on the same day. I met the chaplain on the boat while on our return, and remarked to him that, those mighty men who could kill a jaybird with a slingshot a quarter of a mile off didn't stay to see the show. No, he answered, when the sons of the Lyle beheld our warlike preparation, their hearts melted and became as water. They gat every man upon his ass and speedily fled, even beyond the brook which is called cash. He then went on to tell me that, on our arrival at Augusta, there was a body of Confederate cavalry near there, supposed to be about a thousand strong under the command of a general McRae, that they were bivouacked in the woods in front of the line of battle we formed, and that on our approach they had scattered and fled. The enemy's force really exceeded ours, but as a general proposition, their cavalry was reluctant to attack our infantry in a broken country unless they could accomplish something in the nature of a surprise or otherwise have a decided advantage at the start. On May 16th we shifted our camp to Huntersville, on the left bank of the Arkansas River, and near our first location. We thus abandoned our log cabins and never occupied them again. They were now getting too close and warm for comfort anyhow, but they had been mighty good friends to us in the bitterly cold winter of 63-64, and during that time we spent many a cozy, happy day and night therein. On May 19th we again received marching orders, and the regiment left camp that night on the cars and went to Hicks Station, 28 miles from Little Rock. We remained here, bivouacking in the woods, until the 22nd, when, at three o'clock in the morning of that day, we took up the line of march, moving in a northerly direction. The troops had composed our force consisted of the 61st, 54th, and 106th Illinois, and 12th Michigan infantry regiments, a battery of artillery, and some detachments of cavalry, Brigadier General J. R. West in command. We arrived at the town of Austin, 18 miles from Hicks Station, about two o'clock on the afternoon of the 22nd. It was a little country village, situated on a rocky, somewhat elevated ridge. As I understand it is now a station on the Iron Mountain Railroad, which has been built since the war. I reckon if in May 1864 anyone had predicted that someday a railroad would be built and in operation through that insignificant settlement among the rocks and trees, he would have been looked on as hardly a safe person to be allowed to run at large. Company D. started on the march with only one commissioned officer, Second Lieutenant Wallace. I have forgotten the cause of the absence of Captain Keely and Lieutenant Warren, but there was doubtless some good reason. On the first day's march, the weather was hot, and the route was through a very rough and broken country. Wallace was overcome by heat and had to fall out and wait for an ambulance. In consequence, it so happened that, when we reached Austin, there was no commissioned officer with us, and I, as First Sergeant, was in command of the company. And that gave rise to an incident which, at the time, swelled me up immensely. On arriving at the town, the regiment halted on some open ground in the outskirts, fell into line, dressed on the colors, and stood at ordered arms. Thereupon the Adjutant commanded, commanding officers of companies, to the front and center, march. I was completely taken by surprise by this command, and for a second or two stood dazed and uncertain. But two or three of the boys spoke up at once and said, Here are commanding officers, still well, go! The situation by this time had also dawned on me, so I promptly obeyed the command. But I must have been a strange looking commanding officer. I was barefooted, reaches rolled up nearly to the knees, feet and ankles scratched and tanned, and my face covered with sweat and dirt. The closest scrutiny would have failed to detect in me a single feature of the supposed pomp and circumstance of an alleged military hero. But I stalked down the line bare feet and all, with my musket at a shoulder arms, and looking fully as proud I imagine as Henry of Navarre ever did at the Battle of Ivory with a snow-white plume upon his gallant crest. By the proper and usual commands the commanding officers of companies were brought up and halted within a few paces of Colonel Orr, who thereupon addressed them as follows. Gentlemen, have your men stack arms where they now are, and at once prepare their dinner. They can disperse to get wood and water, but caution them strictly not to wander far from the gun-stacks. We may possibly pass the night here, but we may be called on at any moment to fall in and resume the march. That's all, gentlemen. While the Colonel was giving these instructions, I thought a sort of unusual twinkle sparkled in his eyes as they rested on me, but for my part I was never more serious in my life. Returning to the company I gave the order to stack arms, which, being done, the boys crowded around me, plying me with questions. What did the Colonel say? What's up still well? I assumed a prodigiously fierce and authoritative look and said, Say, do you fellow suppose that we commanding officers of companies are going to give away to a lot of lousy privates a confidential communication from the Colonel? If you are guilty of any more such impertinent conduct, I'll have every mother's son of you bucked and gagged. The boys all laughed, and after a little more fun of that kind I repeated to them literally every word the Colonel said, and then we all said about getting dinner. About this time Lieutenant Wallace rode up in an ambulance, and my reign was over. We resumed the march at three o'clock in the morning of the next day, May 23, and marched eighteen miles and Bivouac'd that night at Peach Orchard Gap. This was no town, simply a natural feature of the country. Left here next morning the twenty-fourth at Daylight, marched eighteen miles and Bivouac'd on a stream called Little Kadron. Left at Daylight next morning the twenty-fifth marched eighteen miles and went into camp near the town of Springfield. By this time the intelligence had filtered down to the common soldiers as to the object of this expedition. It was to intercept and give battle to a force of confederate cavalry under General J. O. Shelby, operating somewhere in this region, and supposed to have threatening designs on the Little Rock and Duval's Bluff Railroad. But so far as encountering the confederates was concerned the movement was an entire failure. My experience during the war warrants the assertion, I think, that it is no use to send infantry after cavalry. It is very much like a man on foot trying to run down a jackrabbit. It may be that infantry can sometimes head off cavalry and thereby frustrate an intended movement, but men on horses can't be maneuvered into fighting men on foot unless the horsemen are willing to engage. Otherwise they will just keep out of the way. We remained at Springfield until May twenty-eighth. It was a little place, and its population, when the war began, was probably not more than a hundred and fifty or two hundred. It was the county seat of Conway County, but there was no official business being transacted there now about all the people had left, except a few old men and some women and small children. The houses were nearly all log cabins. Even the county jail was a log structure of a very simple and unimposing type. It has always been my opinion that this little place was the most interesting and romantic looking spot, with one possible exception I may speak of later, that I saw in the south during all my army service. The town was situated on rather high ground, and in the heart of the primitive forest, grand native trees were growing in the dooryards, and even in the middle of the main street, and all around, everywhere. And we were there at a season of the year when nature was at its best, and all the scenery was most attractive and charming. I sometimes would sit down at the foot of some big tree in the center of the little village and ponder on what surely must have been the happy, contented condition of its people before the war came along and spoiled all. Judging from the looks of the houses, the occupants doubtless had been poor people and practically all on the same financial footing, so there was no occasion for envy, and there was no railroad, no telegraph line, no daily papers to keep them nervous and excited or cause them to worry, and they were far away from the busy haunts of congregated men, their best companions, innocence and health, and their best riches, ignorance of wealth. Their trading point was Lewisburg, about fifteen miles southwest on the Arkansas River, and when that stream was at a proper stage, small steamboats would ply up and down and bring to Lewisburg groceries and dry goods and such other things as the country did not produce, which would then be wagoned out to Springfield and into the country generally. And judging from all that could be seen or heard, I think that there were hardly any slaves at Springfield or in the entire north part of Conway County before the war, but few there may have been were limited to the plantations along the Arkansas River. I have never been at the little town since the occasion now mentioned, so personally I know nothing of its present appearance and condition. However, as a matter of general information, it may be said that after the war a railroad was built running up the Arkansas River Valley through the south part of the county. This road left Springfield out, so in the course of time it lost the county seat, which went to a railroad town, and this road also missed Lewisburg, which has now disappeared from the map entirely. When in camp at Springfield, many of the boys in accordance with their usual habits of their own motion at once went to scouting around over the adjacent country after pigs or chickens or anything else that would serve to very army fare. While so engaged, two or three of our fellows discovered a little old whiskey still. It was about two miles from Springfield, situated in a deep, timbered hollow near a big spring. It was fully equipped for active operation, with a supply of mash on hands and all other essentials for turning out whiskey. Some of the 10th Illinois Cavalry found it first and scared away the proprietor, then took charge of the still and proceeded to carry on the business on their own account. The boys of the 61st who stumbled on the place were too few to cope with the cavalrymen. Thereupon they hastened back to camp and informed some trusty comrades of the delectable discovery. Fourth with, they organized a strong party as an alleged provost guard, and all armed and under the command of a daring, reckless duty sergeant, hastened to the still. On arriving there in their capacity as provost guards, they summarily arrested the cavalrymen with loud threats of condying punishment, but after scaring them sufficiently and on their solemn promise to at once return to camp and be good in the future release them and allow them to depart. Then our bunch stacked arms and started in to make whiskey. Some of the number had served in the business before and knew all about it, so that little still there in the hollow was then and there worked to its utmost capacity day and night and doubtless as it never had been before. Knowledge of this enterprise spread like wildfire among the enlisted men, and oh, how the whiskey went down at Springfield. Away along some hours after midnight I would hear some of the boys coming in from the still, letting out keen, piercing hoops that could be heard nearly a mile. Like the festive tamo shander, with apologies to Burns, the swaths say reamed in every noddle they cared not ribs nor guards a bottle. I took just one little taste of the stuff from Sam Ralston's canteen. It was limpid and colorless as water and fairly burnt like fire as it went down my throat. That satisfied my curiosity, and after that many similar offers were declined with thanks. Whether the officers at the time knew of this business or not, I do not know. If they did, they just winked the other eye and said nothing, for the boys ran the still without restriction or interruption until we left Springfield. Telling of the foregoing episode causes many other incidents to come flocking to my memory. They came under my notice during my army career, and in which whiskey figured more or less. The insatiable inordinate appetite of some of the men for intoxicating liquor of any kind was something remarkable, and the ingenious schemes they would devise to get it were worthy of admiration had they been exerted in a better cause. And they were not a bit fastidious about the kind of liquor. It was the effect that was desired. One afternoon, a day or two after we arrived at Helena, Arkansas, a sudden yell, a sort of ki-yip, was heard issuing from one of the company tents soon followed by others of the same tone. I had heard that peculiar yell before and knew what it meant. Presently I sauntered down to the tent from whence the sounds issued, and walked in. Several of the boys were seated around in an exalted state of vociferous hilarity, and a flat pint bottle with the figure of a green leaf on one side, and labeled bay rum on the other, was promptly handed to me with the invitation to drink hearty. I did taste it. It was oily, greasy, and unpleasant, but there was no doubt that it was intoxicating. It was nothing but bay rum, the same stuff that in those days barbers were want to use in their line of business. It finally came to light that the subtler of some regiment at Helena had induced the post-quartermaster at Cairo to believe that the troops stood in urgent need of bay rum for the purpose of anointing their hair, and thereupon he obtained permission to include several boxes of the stuff in his subtler's supplies. When he got it to Helena he proceeded to sell it at a dollar or bottle, and his stock was exhausted in a few hours. What may have been done to this subtler I don't know, but that was the last and only time that I know of bay rum being sold to the soldiers as a toilet article or otherwise. Of course, all subtlers and civilians were prohibited under severe penalties from selling intoxicating liquor to the enlisted men, but the profits were so large that the temptation was great to occasionally transgress in some fashion, but as a general rule I think that the orders were scrupulously obeyed. The risk was too great to do otherwise. I remember a little personal experience of my own when once I tried to buy a drink of whiskey. It is not a long story, so it will be told. It occurred at Deval's Bluff in October 1863 when our little furlough party was there, awaiting the arrival of a boat from below on which to resume our homeward journey. One night in particular was quite cold. We slept in our blankets on the ground near the bank of the river, built good fires and tried to keep as comfortable as possible, but the morning after this cold night I got up feeling wretched both mentally and physically. I was weak from previous illness, my rheumatic pains were worse, and my condition in general was such as caused me to fear that I was liable to break down and not be able to go home. It occurred to me that a drink of whiskey might brace me up some, so I started out to obtain one if possible. There was a sort of wharf boat at the landing moored to the bank, a stationary permanent affair with a saloon appurtenant. I went on the boat, walked up to the bar, and exhibiting a greenback to the barkeeper, asked him if he would sell me a drink of whiskey. Can't do it, he answered. The orders are strict against selling whiskey to soldiers. I began moving away, and at that instant a big greasy colored deckhand or laborer of some sort, black as the ace of spades, crowded by me, brushing against me in the narrow passage on his way to the bar. Boss, he called to the keeper, wanted dram. A bottle and a glass were pushed toward him. He filled the glass to the brim and drank the contents at a gulp. Then he smacked his big lips, rolled his eyes around, and with a deep breath exclaimed, Ah, that whiskey feels desk-powerful good this cold morning. I looked at the darky in bitterness of heart and couldn't help thinking that it was all fired mean when a poor little sick soldier was not allowed to buy a drink of whiskey while a great big buck nigger roused about had it handed out to him with cheerfulness and alacrity. But the orders forbidding the sale of intoxicating liquors to soldiers were all right and an imperative military necessity. If the men had been allowed unlimited access to whiskey and the like, that would, in my opinion, simply have been ruinous to the good-order discipline and efficiency of the army. That statement is based on events I saw myself while in the service and which occurred when, in spite of the orders, the men managed to obtain liquor without let or hindrance. The scenes that would then ensue are too unpleasant to talk about, so they will be passed over in silence. It is only fair, however, to say that the same men who, when furiously drunk, were a disgrace to themselves and the organization to which they belonged, were, as a general rule, faithful and brave soldiers when sober. At four o'clock on the morning of the twenty-eighth, we broke camp at Springfield and started back to Little Rock, marching in a south-easterly direction. We marched all that day, the twenty-ninth, thirtieth, and thirty-first, and arrived at our old camp at Huntersville at nine o'clock in the evening of the last mentioned day. According to the official report, the entire distance marched on the expedition, going and coming was a hundred and ninety miles, and we didn't see an armed Confederate on the whole trip. Our return route was through the wilderness, most of it primeval forest, and we didn't pass through a single town. But now there is a railroad that runs practically over all the course we followed during the last three days we were on this march. I haven't been in that region since we passed through there in May 1864, but at that time it certainly was a very wild, rough, and broken country. We here had our first experience with scorpions and tarantulas, and soon learned that it was prudent, when bivalwacking on the ground, to carefully turn over all loose rocks and logs in order to find and get rid of those ugly customers. The scorpions were about four or five inches long, the four part of the body something like a crawfish, with a sharp stinger on the end of the tail. When excited or disturbed, they would curl their tails over their backs, and get over the ground quite rapidly. The tarantulas were just big hairy spiders of a blackish-gray color, about as big as toads and mighty ugly-looking things. The sting of the tarantula and the bite of a spider were very painful. But when that happened to any of us, which was seldom, our remedy was to apply a big, fresh quid of tobacco to the wound, which would promptly neutralize the poison. of Army Life in the Civil War, 1861, 1865, by Leander Stillwell, Chapter 16, Deval's Bluff, The Clarendon Expedition, June and July, 1864. On June 20th we left Hunter'sville on the cars, and went to Hicks Station, herein before mentioned, and there went into camp. In making this move we left Little Rock for the last time, and from that day I have never seen the old town again. But our stay at Hicks Station was brief. Marching orders came on June 24th, and on the next day we left on the cars and went to Deval's Bluff, and on reaching there filed onboard the steamer Kentucky and Stutterdown White River, accompanied by several other boats also loaded with troops, all under the command of General E. A. Carr. The object and purpose of this expedition was soon noised around among the men. The daring and enterprising Confederate General Shelby had, on June 24th, turned up at Clarendon on White River, not far below Deval's Bluff, and here, with the aid of his artillery, had surprised and captured one of our so-called tin-clad gunboats, and had established a blockade on the river. As all our supplies came by way of that stream it was necessary to drive Shelby away at once, hence our movement. We arrived at Clarendon on the morning of the 26th. Some of our gunboats were with us in advance, and as soon as they came within range of the town began shelling it, and the woods beyond. The cannonade elicited no reply, and it was soon ascertained that the enemy had fallen back from the river. The transports thereupon landed, the men marched on shore, formed in line of battle, and advanced. The Confederates were found in force about two miles northeast of town, and some lively skirmishing and artillery practice began. But our regiment was stationed in the supporting line, darn it, and didn't get to pull a trigger. Cannon shot went over our heads now and then, but hurt nobody. While the racket was going on we were standing in line of battle on the hillar side of an extensive cotton field, and there was a big, tall cottonwood tree standing about a quarter of a mile in our front on the side of the road. I was looking in that direction when suddenly, as if by magic, a big fork branch of this tree quietly took leave of the trunk, as if it didn't know how it happened. Before it struck the ground the shot from one of Shelby's guns that had done this pruning when screaming over our heads. It sounded just real good, like old times, with an effect somehow like a powerful tonic. But the affair didn't last long. Shelby had no stomach for fighting infantry well supplied with artillery, and he soon fell back and rapidly retreated in a northerly direction, leaving two pieces of his artillery in our possession. When the Confederates retired we followed promptly and vigorously, but, of course, the infantry couldn't overhaul them and neither could our cavalry bring them to a determined stand. Our route was largely through a low, swampy country over a corduroy road. In many places there were large gaps in the corduroy where the logs had rotted and disappeared, and the road was covered with green and slimy water about knee deep. On encountering the first of these breaks we took off our shoes and socks, tied them to the ends of the barrels of our muskets, rolled up our trousers and waited in. As such places were numerous it was not worthwhile to resume our footgear, so we just trudged on barefooted. But the weather was warm and it made no difference, and the boys would splash through the mud and water in great good humor, laughing and joking as they went. We followed hard after Shelby until the evening of the twenty-seventh, and it being impossible to catch up with him we started back to Clarendon on the morning of the twenty-eighth. In the matter of rations I reckoned somebody had blundered when we started in pursuit of Shelby. We had left Clarendon with only a meager supply in our haversacks, and no provision train was with the command. So at the time we took the backtrack we were out of anything to eat. The country bordering on our route was wild and thinly settled, and what people lived there were manifestly quite poor. Hence there was very little in the shape of anything to eat that we could forage. On the first day of our return march our commissary sergeant Bonfrey did manage to capture and kill a gaunt, lean, old Arkansas steer, and it was divided up among the men with almost as much nicety and exactness as if it was a wedding cake with a prized diamond ring in it. And we hadn't any salt to go with it, but in lieu of that used gunpowder, which was a sort of substitute. With that exception and a piece of hard tack to be presently mentioned, my bill of fair on the return march, until we reached Clarendon, consisted in the mane of a green, knotty apple and some sassafras buds. About the middle of the afternoon on the second day the regiment made a temporary halt for some purpose, and we were sitting or lying down along the roadside. There was a bunch of our cavalry on their horses, in column off the road a short distance, also at a halt. And I saw one of them munching a hard tack. I slipped out of ranks and approached the fellow, and when close to him said, "'Partner, won't you give me a hard tack?' He looked at me a second or two without saying anything, and I was fearful that my appeal was going to be denied, but the look of ravenous hunger in my eyes probably gained the case. For at last he reached his hand into his haversack and handed me a tack, one of the big kind, about four or five inches square. I was barely in time, for right then the cavalry moved on. I thrust the tack into my shirt bosom, gave a quick furative glance toward the company to see if anyone had observed me, and then started to get behind a big tree where the precious morsel could be devoured without risk of detection. But John Barton had been watching, and was upon me before I could hide. "'Hold on still, well,' said he. "'That don't go. I divided with you as long as I had a crumb.' "'That's so, John,' I replied, heaving a mournful sigh. "'Here!' And breaking the hard tack in two, I gave him a fair half, and standing behind the tree, we promptly gobbled down our respective portions. We arrived at Clarendon on the evening of the 29th, having marched in going and returning about seventy miles. Here everybody got a square meal, which was heartily appreciated. As Bering on the above mentioned incident about the hard tack, it will be said here, basing my remarks on my experience in the army and elsewhere, that I think there is nothing that will reduce human beings so much to the level of the brute creation as intense, gnawing hunger. All the selfishness there is in a man will then come to the surface, and to satisfy the well-nigh intolerable craving for something to eat, he will go back on his best friend. I could cite several instances in support of this statement that have come under my observation, but it is unnecessary. Even after reaching Clarendon, as above stated, fires burst forth, apparently simultaneously, all over the town, and soon every building was in ashes. It was a small place, and its population at the beginning of the war probably did not exceed three hundred. At this time the town had been abandoned by the residents, and so far as I know the houses were all vacant. The buildings were small frame or log structures, composed of cypress and pine lumber or logs, roofed with shingles and highly combustible, and they made an exceedingly hot fire. I do not know the cause of the burning of the town. The soldiers were tired, mad, and out of sorts generally, and they may have fired it on their own motion. But it is more likely that it was done by order of the military authorities. The empty houses afforded excellent cover, whereby the Confederates could slip up to the riverbank and annoy our gunboats, even to the extent of capturing one, as they had done quite recently. So as a military measure the burning of the town was fully justified. We left Clarendon on the evening of the twenty-ninth, on the steamer Lily Martin, arrived at Deval's Bluff some time during the night, debarked from the boat next morning, and went into camp near the river, where we enjoyed for a time an agreeable rest. Before taking final leave of the Clarendon expedition, I will, in the interest of the truth of history, indulge in a little criticism of the gallant and distinguished officer who was the Confederate commander in this affair. All who are conversant with the military career of General J. O. Shelby will readily concede that he was a brave, skillful, and energetic cavalry commander. He kept us in hot water almost continuously in the Trans-Mississippi Department, and made us a world of trouble. But I feel constrained to remark that, in reporting his military operations, he was sometimes a most monumental, well, I'll scratch out the short and ugly word I have written and substitute artist, and let it go with that. I have just been reading his reports of this Clarendon episode as they appear on pages 1050 to 1053, serial number 61, official records of the War of the Rebellion, and as he describes it, it is difficult to recognize it as being the same affair we took part in in June 1864. In the first place, he says that the loss of the Federals can safely be put down at 250 killed and wounded, and that 30 will cover his own. On the other hand, our commander, General Carr, says the Confederate loss killed, wounded, and captured was about 74, and gives ours as 1 killed and 16 wounded, page 1047. And from what I personally saw, I have no doubt that General Carr's statements are correct. Shelby further asserts that three times he drove us back to the river, and that later, while on his retreat, he charged us and drove them, us, back three miles in confusion. Now those statements are pure moonshine. I was there, and while as previously stated was not on the firing line, was nevertheless in a position either to see or to hear everything of any material consequence that transpired. The force on each side was comparatively small. The field of active operations was limited, and it was not difficult for even a common soldier to have an intelligent idea of what was going on. And for my part, with the natural curiosity of a boy, I was constantly on the alert to see or hear everything that was being done in the shape of fighting. In the operations near the town, we were not driven back to the river, nor towards it on any occasion. On his retreat, Shelby did make one or two feeble stands, the object being merely to delay us until his main body could get well out of the way. And when that was accomplished, his rearguard galloped after them as fast as they could, that it was mainly a race with him to get away as evident from a statement in his report in which he says he was then June 30, resting his tired and terribly jaded horses. But in telling of his exploits, he says nothing about losing two pieces of his artillery. The saying of Bonaparte's, false as a war bulletin, has passed into a proverb, and this bulletin of General Shelby's is no exception.