The Story of a Common Soldier of Army Life in the Civil War, 1861-1865 Part 3

"As if all the fiends from heaven that fell Had pealed the banner-cry of h.e.l.l."

That comparison leaves much for the imagination, but, speaking from experience, I will say that of all the blood-curdling sounds I ever heard, the worst is the terrific scream of a cannon ball or sh.e.l.l pa.s.sing close over one's head; especially that kind with a cavity in the base that sucks in air. At least, they sounded that way till I got used to them. As a matter of fact, artillery in my time was not near as dangerous as musketry. It was noisy, but didn't kill often unless at close range and firing grape and canister.

As stated in the preceding sketch, sometime during the forenoon the regiment was sent to the support of a battery, and remained there for some hours. The most trying situation in battle is one where you have to lie flat on the ground, under fire more or less, and without any opportunity to return it. The constant strain on the nerves is almost intolerable. So it was with feelings of grim but heart-felt relief that we finally heard the Colonel command, "Attention, battalion!" Our turn had come at last. We sprang to our feet with alacrity, and were soon in motion, marching by the flank diagonally towards the left, from whence, for some hours, had been proceeding heavy firing. We had not gone far before I saw something which hardly had an inspiring effect. We were marching along an old, gra.s.s-grown country road, with a rail-fence on the right which enclosed a sort of woods pasture, and with a dense forest on our left, when I saw a soldier on our left, slowly making his way to the rear. He had been struck a sort of glancing shot on the left side of his face, and the skin and flesh of his cheek were hanging in shreds. His face and neck were covered with blood and he was a frightful sight. Yet he seemed to be perfectly cool and composed and wasn't "taking on" a bit. As he came opposite my company, he looked up at us and said, "Give 'em h.e.l.l, boys! They've spoiled my beauty." It was manifest that he was not exaggerating.

When we were thrown into line on our new position and began firing, I was in the front rank, and my rear rank man was Philip Potter, a young Irishman, who was some years my senior. When he fired his first shot, he came very near putting me out of action. I think that the muzzle of his gun could not have been more than two or three inches from my right ear.

The shock of the report almost deafened me at the time, and my neck and right cheek were peppered with powder grains, which remained there for years until finally absorbed in the system. I turned to Phil in a fury, exclaiming, "What in the h.e.l.l and d.a.m.nation do you mean?" Just then down went the man on my right with a sharp cry, and followed by the one on the left, both apparently severely wounded. The thought of my shocking conduct, in thus indulging in wicked profanity at such a time, flashed upon me, and I almost held my breath, expecting summary punishment on the spot. But nothing of the kind happened. And, according to history, Was.h.i.+ngton swore a good deal worse at the battle of Monmouth,--and Potter was more careful thereafter.

Poor Phil! On December 7, 1864, while fighting on the skirmish line near Murfreesboro, Tennessee, and just a few paces to my left, he was mortally wounded by a gun-shot in the bowels and died in the hospital a few days later. He was a Catholic, and in his last hours was almost frantic because no priest was at hand to grant him absolution.

Right after we began firing on this line I noticed, directly in my front and not more than two hundred yards away, a large Confederate flag flapping defiantly in the breeze. The smoke was too dense to enable me to see the bearer, but the banner was distinctly visible. It looked hateful to me, and I wanted to see it come down. So I held on it, let my gun slowly fall until I thought the sights were about on a waist line, and then fired. I peered eagerly under the smoke to see the effect of my shot,--but the blamed thing was still flying. I fired three or four more shots on the same line as the first, but with no apparent results. I then concluded that the bearer was probably squatted behind a stump, or something, and that it was useless to waste ammunition on him.

Diagonally to my left, perhaps two hundred and fifty yards away, the Confederate line of battle was in plain sight. It was in the open, in the edge of an old field, with woods to the rear. It afforded a splendid mark. Even the ramrods could be seen flas.h.i.+ng in the air, as the men, while in the act of loading, drew and returned the rammers. Thereupon I began firing at the enemy on that part of the line, and the balance of the contents of my cartridge box went in that direction. It was impossible to tell if any of my shots took effect, but after the battle I went to the spot and looked over the ground. The Confederate dead lay there thick, and I wondered, as I looked at them, if I had killed any of those poor fellows. Of course I didn't know, and am glad now that I didn't. And I will say here that I do not now have any conclusive knowledge that during my entire term of service I ever killed, or even wounded, a single man. It is more than probable that some of my shots were fatal, but I don't know it, and am thankful for the ignorance. You see, after all, the common soldiers of the Confederate Armies were American boys, just like us, and conscientiously believed that they were right. Had they been soldiers of a foreign nation,--Spaniards, for instance,--I might feel differently.

When we "went in" on the above mentioned position old Capt. Reddish took his place in the ranks, and fought like a common soldier. He had picked up the musket of some dead or wounded man, and filled his pockets with cartridges and gun caps, and so was well provided with ammunition. He unbuckled his sword from the belt, and laid it in the scabbard at his feet, and proceeded to give his undivided attention to the enemy. I can now see the old man in my mind's eye, as he stood in ranks, loading and firing, his blue-gray eyes flas.h.i.+ng, and his face lighted up with the flame of battle. Col. Fry happened to be near us at one time, and I heard old Capt. John yell at him: "Injun fightin,' Colonel! Jest like Injun fightin'!" When we finally retired, the Captain shouldered his musket and trotted off with the rest of us, oblivious of his "cheese-knife," as he called it, left it lying on the ground, and never saw it again.

There was a battery of light artillery on this line, about a quarter of a mile to our right, on a slight elevation of the ground. It was right flush up with the infantry line of battle, and oh, how those artillery men handled their guns! It seemed to me that there was the roar of a cannon from that battery about every other second. When ramming cartridge, I sometimes glanced in that direction. The men were big fellows, stripped to the waist, their white skins flas.h.i.+ng in the sunlight, and they were working like I have seen men doing when fighting a big fire in the woods. I fairly gloated over the fire of that battery.

"Give it to them, my sons of thunder!" I would say to myself; "Knock the ever-lastin' stuffin' out of 'em!" And, as I ascertained after the battle, they did do frightful execution.

In consideration of the fact that now-a-days, as you know, I refuse to even kill a chicken, some of the above expressions may sound rather strange. But the fact is, a soldier on the fighting line is possessed by the demon of destruction. He wants to kill, and the more of his adversaries he can see killed, the more intense his gratification. Gen.

Grant somewhere in his Memoirs expresses the idea (only in milder language than mine) when he says:

"While a battle is raging one can see his enemy mowed down by the thousand, or the ten thousand, with great composure."

The regiment bivouacked for the night on the bluff, not far from the historic "log house." Rain set in about dark, and not wanting to lie in the water, I hunted around and found a little brush-pile evidently made by some man from a sapling he had cut down and trimmed up some time past when the leaves were on the trees. I made a sort of pillow out of my gun, cartridge box, haversack and canteen, and stretched myself out on the brush-pile, tired to death, and rather discouraged over the events of the day. The main body of Buell's men,--"the army of the Ohio,"--soon after dark began ascending the bluff at a point a little above the landing, and forming in line in the darkness a short distance beyond. I have a shadowy impression that this lasted the greater part of the night. Their regimental bands played continuously and it seemed to me that they all played the tune of "The Girl I Left Behind Me." And the rain drizzled down, while every fifteen minutes one of the big navy guns roared and sent a ponderous sh.e.l.l shrieking up the ravine above in the direction of the enemy. To this day, whenever I hear an instrumental band playing "The Girl I Left Behind Me," there come to me the memories of that gloomy Sunday night at Pittsburg Landing. I again hear the ceaseless patter of the rain, the dull, heavy tread of Buell's marching columns, the thunderous roar of the navy guns, the demoniacal scream of the projectile, and mingled with it all is the sweet, plaintive music of that old song. We had an army version of it I have never seen in print, altogether different from the original ballad. The last stanza of this army production was as follows:

"If ever I get through this war, And a Rebel ball don't find me, I'll shape my course by the northern star, To the girl I left behind me."

I have said elsewhere that the regiment was not engaged on Monday. We remained all that day at the place where we bivouacked Sunday night. The ends of the staffs of our regimental flags were driven in the ground, the banners flapping idly in the breeze, while the men sat or lay around with their guns in their hands or lying by them, their cartridge-boxes buckled on, and all ready to fall in line at the tap of the drum. But for some reason that I never knew, we were not called on. Our division commander, General B. M. Prentiss, and our brigade commander, Col.

Madison Miller, were both captured on Sunday with the bulk of Prentiss'

division, so I reckon we were sort of "lost children." But we were not alone. There were also other regiments of Grant's command which were held in reserve and did not fire a shot on Monday.

After the battle I roamed around over the field, the most of the following two days, looking at what was to be seen. The fearful sights apparent on a b.l.o.o.d.y battlefield simply cannot be described in all their horror. They must be seen in order to be fully realized. As Byron, somewhere in "Don Juan," truly says:

"Mortality! Thou hast thy monthly bills, Thy plagues, thy famines, thy physicians, yet tick, Like the death-watch, within our ears the ills Past, present, and to come; but all may yield To the true portrait of one battlefield."

There was a small clearing on the battlefield called the "Peach Orchard"

field. It was of irregular shape, and about fifteen or twenty acres in extent, as I remember. However, I cannot now be sure as to the exact size. It got its name, probably, from the fact that there were on it a few scraggy peach trees. The Union troops on Sunday had a strong line in the woods just north of the field, and the Confederates made four successive charges across this open s.p.a.ce on our line, all of which were repulsed with frightful slaughter. I walked all over this piece of ground the day after the close of the battle, and before the dead had been buried. It is the simple truth to say that this s.p.a.ce was literally covered with the Confederate dead, and one could have walked all over it on their bodies. Gen. Grant, in substance, makes the same statement in his Memoirs. It was a fearful sight. But not far from the Peach Orchard field, in a westerly direction, was a still more gruesome spectacle.

Some of our forces were in line on an old, gra.s.s-grown country road that ran through thick woods. The wheels of wagons, running for many years right in the same ruts, had cut through the turf, so that the surface of the road was somewhat lower than the adjacent ground. To men firing on their knees this afforded a slight natural breast-work, which was substantial protection. In front of this position, in addition to the large timber, was a dense growth of small under-brush, post-oak and the like, which had not yet shed their leaves, and the ground also was covered with layers of dead leaves. There was desperate fighting at this point, and during its progress exploding sh.e.l.ls set the woods on fire.

The clothing of the dead Confederates lying in these woods caught fire, and their bodies were burned to a crisp. I have read, somewhere, that some wounded men were burned to death, but I doubt that. I walked all over the ground looking at these poor fellows, and scrutinized them carefully to see the nature of their hurts and they had evidently been shot dead, or expired in a few seconds after being struck. But, in any event, the sight was horrible. I will not go into details, but leave it to your imagination.

I noticed, at other places on the field, the bodies of two Confederate soldiers, whose appearance I shall never forget. They presented a remarkable contrast of death in battle. One was a full grown man, seemingly about thirty years of age, with sandy, reddish hair, and a scrubby beard and mustache of the same color. He had been firing from behind a tree, had exposed his head, and had been struck square in the forehead by a musket ball, killed instantly, and had dropped at the foot of the tree in a heap. He was in the act of biting a cartridge when struck, his teeth were still fastened on the paper extremity, while his right hand clutched the bullet end. His teeth were long and snaggy, and discolored by tobacco juice. As just stated, he had been struck dead seemingly instantaneously. His eyes were wide open and gleaming with Satanic fury. His transition from life to death had been immediate, with the result that there was indelibly stamped on his face all the furious rage and l.u.s.t of battle. He was an ill-looking fellow, and all in all was not an agreeable object to contemplate. The other was a far different case. He was lying on a sloping ridge, where the Confederates had charged a battery, and had suffered fearfully. He was a mere boy, not over eighteen, with regular features, light brown hair, blue eyes, and, generally speaking, was strikingly handsome. He had been struck on his right leg, above the knee, about mid-way the thigh, by a cannon ball, which had cut off the limb, except a small strip of skin. He was lying on his back, at full length, his right arm straight up in the air, rigid as a stake, and his fist tightly clinched. His eyes were wide open, but their expression was calm and natural. The shock and the loss of blood doubtless brought death to his relief in a short time. As I stood looking at the unfortunate boy, I thought of how some poor mother's heart would be well-nigh broken when she heard of the sad, untimely fate of her darling son. But, before the war was over, doubtless thousands of similar cases occurred in both the Union and Confederate armies.

I believe I will here speak of a notion of mine, to be considered for whatever you may think it worth. As you know, I am not a religious man, in the theological sense of the term, having never belonged to a church in my life. Have just tried, to the best of my ability, to act according to the Golden Rule, and let it go at that. But, from my earliest youth, I have had a peculiar reverence for Sunday. I hunted much with a gun when a boy, and so did the people generally of my neighborhood. Small game in that backwoods region was very plentiful, and even deer were not uncommon. Well, it was a settled conviction with us primitive people that if one went hunting on Sunday, he would not only have bad luck in that regard that day, but also all the rest of the week. So, when the Confederates began the battle on Sunday, I would keep thinking, throughout its entire progress, "You fellows started this on Sunday, and you'll get licked." I'll admit that there were a few occasions when things looked so awful bad that I became discouraged, but I quickly rallied, and my Sunday superst.i.tion--or whatever it may be called--was justified in the end. In addition to s.h.i.+loh, the battles of New Orleans in 1815, Waterloo, and Bull Run were fought on a Sunday, and in each case the attacking party was signally defeated. These results may have been mere coincidences, but I don't think so. I have read somewhere an authentic statement that President Lincoln entertained this same belief, and always was opposed to aggressive movements on Sundays by the Union troops.

The wildest possible rumors got into circulation at home, about some of the results of the battle. I have now lying before me an old letter from my father of date April 19th, in answer to mine (which I will mention later) giving him the first definite intelligence about our regiment and the neighborhood boys. Among other things he said: "We have had it here that Fry's regiment was all captured that was not killed; pretty much all given up as lost. That Beauregard had run you all down a steep place into the Tennessee river, * * * that Captain Reddish had his arm shot off, that Enoch Wallace was also wounded;"--and here followed the names of some others who (the same as Reddish and Wallace) hadn't received even a scratch. My letter to my father, mentioned above, was dated April 10, and was received by him on the 18th. It was brief, occupying only about four pages of the small, sleazy note paper that we bought in those days of the sutlers. I don't remember why I didn't write sooner, but it was probably because no mail-boat left the landing until about that time. The old mail hack ordinarily arrived at the Otter Creek post-office from the outside world an hour or so before sundown, and the evening my letter came, the little old post-office and general store was crowded with people intensely anxious to hear from their boys or other relatives in the 61st Illinois. The distribution of letters in that office in those times was a proceeding of much simplicity. The old clerk who attended to that would call out in a stentorian tone the name of the addressee of each letter, who, if present, would respond "Here!" and then the letter would be given a dexterous flip, and went flying to him across the room. But on this occasion there were no letters from the regiment, until just at the last the clerk called my father's name--"J. O.

Stillwell!" and again, still louder, but there was no response.

Whereupon the clerk held the letter at arm's length, and carefully scrutinized the address. "Well," said he finally, "this is from Jerry Stillwell's boy, in the 61st, so I reckon he's not killed, anyhow." A murmur of excitement went through the room at this, and the people crowded up to get a glimpse of even the handwriting of the address.

"Yes, that's from Jerry's boy, sure," said several. Thereupon William n.o.ble and Joseph Beeman, who were old friends of father's, begged the postmaster to "give them the letter, and they would go straight out to Stillwell's with it, have him read it, and then they would come right back with the news." Everybody seconded the request, the postmaster acceded, and handed one of them the letter. They rushed out, unfastened their horses, and left in a gallop for Stillwell's, two miles away, on the south side of Otter Creek, out in the woods. As they dashed up to the little old log cabin they saw my father out near the barn; the one with the letter waved it aloft, calling at the top of his voice: "Letter from your boy, Jerry!" My mother heard this, and she came running from the house, trembling with excitement. The letter was at once opened and read,--and the terrible reports which to that time had prevailed about the fate of Fry's regiment vanished in the air. It's true, it contained some sad news, but nothing to be compared with the fearful accounts which had been rife in the neighborhood. I have that old letter in my possession now.

Soon after the battle Gov. Richard Yates, of Illinois, Gov. Louis P.

Harvey, of Wisconsin, and many other civilians, came down from the north to look after the comfort of the sick and wounded soldiers of their respective states. The 16th Wisconsin Infantry was camped next to us, and I learned one afternoon that Gov. Harvey was to make them a speech that evening, after dress parade, and I went over to hear him. The Wisconsin regiment did not turn out in military formation, just gathered around him in a dense group under a grove of trees. The Governor sat on a horse while making his speech. He wore a large, broad-brimmed hat, his coat was b.u.t.toned to the chin, and he had big buckskin gauntlets on his hands. He was a fine looking man, heavy set, and about forty-two years old. His remarks were not lengthy, but were patriotic and eloquent. I remember especially how he complimented the Wisconsin soldiers for their good conduct in battle, that their state was proud of them, and that he, as Governor, intended to look after them, and care for them to the very best of his ability, as long as he was in office, and that when the time came for him to relinquish that trust, he would still remember them with interest and the deepest affection. His ma.s.sive frame heaved with the intensity of his feelings as he spoke and he impressed me as being absolutely sincere in all that he said. But he little knew nor apprehended the sad and lamentable fate then pending over him. Only a few evenings later, as he was crossing the gang-plank between two steamboats at the Landing, in some manner he fell from the plank, and was sucked under the boats by the current, and drowned. Some days later a negro found his body, lodged against some drift near our side of the river, and he brought it in his old cart inside our lines. From papers on the body, and other evidence, it was conclusively identified as that of Gov. Harvey. The remains were s.h.i.+pped back to Wisconsin, where they were given a largely attended and impressive funeral.

CHAPTER V.

THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. IN CAMP AT OWL CREEK. APRIL AND MAY, 1862.

A few days after the battle Gen. H. W. Halleck came down from St. Louis, and a.s.sumed command of the Union forces in the field near Pittsburg Landing. Then, or soon thereafter, began the so-called siege of Corinth.

We mighty near dug up all the country within eight or ten miles of that place in the progress of this movement, in the construction of forts, long lines of breast-works, and such like. Halleck was a "book soldier,"

and had a high reputation during the war as a profound "strategist," and great military genius in general. In fact, in my opinion (and which, I think, is sustained by history), he was a humbug and a fraud. His idea seemed to be that our war should be conducted strictly in accordance with the methods of the old Napoleonic wars of Europe, which, in the main, were not at all adapted to our time and conditions. Moreover, he seemed to be totally deficient in sound, practical common sense. Soon after the Confederates evacuated Corinth he was transferred to Was.h.i.+ngton to serve in a sort of advisory capacity, and spent the balance of the war period in a swivel-chair in an office. He never was in a battle, and never heard a gun fired, except distant cannonading during the Corinth business,--and (maybe) at Was.h.i.+ngton in the summer of 1864.

During the operations against Corinth, the 61st made some short marches, and was s.h.i.+fted around, from time to time, to different places. About the middle of May we were sent to a point on Owl creek, in the right rear of the main army. Our duty there was to guard against any possible attack from that direction, and our main employment was throwing up breast-works and standing picket. And all this time the sick list was frightfully large. The chief trouble was our old enemy, camp diarrhea, but there were also other types of diseases--malaria and the like. As before stated, the boys had not learned how to cook, nor to take proper care of themselves, and to this ignorance can be attributed much of the sickness. And the weather was rainy, the camps were muddy and gloomy, and about this time many of the boys had home-sickness bad. A genuine case of downright home-sickness is most depressing. I had some touches of it myself, so I can speak from experience. The poor fellows would sit around in their tents, and whine, and talk about home, and what good things they would have there to eat, and kindred subjects, until apparently they lost every spark of energy. I kept away from such cases all I could, for their talk was demoralizing. But one rainy day while in camp at Owl creek I was in our big Sibley tent when some of the boys got well started on their pet topics. It was a dismal day, the rain was pattering down on the tent and dripping from the leaves of the big oak trees in the camp, while inside the tent everything was damp and mouldy and didn't smell good either. "Jim," says one, "I wish I could jest be down on c.o.o.n crick today, and take dinner with old Bill Williams; I'll tell you what I'd have: first, a great big slice of fried ham, with plenty of rich brown gravy, with them light, fluffy, hot biscuits that Bill's wife could cook so well, and then I'd want some big baked Irish 'taters, red hot, and all mealy, and then----" "Yes, Jack," interrupted Jim, "I've et at old Bill's lots of times, and wouldn't I like to be with you? You know, old Bill always mast-fed the hogs he put up for his own eatin', they jest fattened on hickory nuts and big white- and bur-oak acorns, and he'd smoke his meat with hickory wood smoke, and oh, that meat was jest so sweet and nutty-like!--why, the meat of corn-fed hogs was nowhere in comparison." "Yes, Jim," continued Jack, "and then I'd want with the biscuits and 'taters plenty of that rich yaller b.u.t.ter that Bill's wife made herself, with her own hands, and then you know Bill always had lots of honey, and I'd spread honey and b.u.t.ter on one of them biscuits, and----" "And don't you remember, Jack," chimed in Jim, "the mince pies Bill's wife could make? They were jest stuffed with reezons, and all manner of goodies, and----" But here I left the tent in disgust. I wanted to say, "Oh, h.e.l.l!" as I went out, but refrained. The poor fellows were feeling bad enough, anyhow, and it wouldn't have helped matters to make sarcastic remarks. But I preferred the shelter of a big tree, and enduring the rain that filtered through the leaves, rather than listen to this distracting talk of Jack and Jim about the flesh-pots of old Bill Williams. But while on this subject, I believe I'll tell you about a royal dinner I had myself while the regiment was near Pittsburg Landing. It was a few days after the battle, while we were still at our old camp. I was detailed, as corporal, to take six men and go to the Landing and load three or four of our regimental wagons with army rations for our regiment. We reached the Landing about ten o'clock, reported to the proper officer, who showed us our stuff, and we went to piling it into the wagons. It consisted of big slabs of fat side-bacon ("sow-belly"), boxes of hardtack, sacks of rice, beans, coffee, sugar, and soap and candles. I had an idea that I ought to help in the work, and was trying to do so, altho so weak from illness that it required some effort to walk straight. But a big, black haired, black bearded Irishman, Owen McGrath of my company, one of the squad, objected. He laid a big hand kindly on my shoulder, and said: "Carparral, yez is not sthrong enough for this worrk, and yez don't have to do it, ayether. Jist give me the 't'ority to shupirintind it, and you go sit down." "I guess you're right, McGrath," I answered, and then, in a louder tone, for the benefit of the detail, "McGrath, you see to the loading of the grub. I am feeling a little out of sorts," (which was true,) "and I believe I'll take a rest." McGrath was about thirty years old, and a splendid soldier. He had served a term in the British army in the old country, and was fully onto his present job. (I will tell another little story about him later.) I sat down in the shade a short distance from my squad, with my back against some big sacks full of something. Suddenly I detected a pungent, most agreeable smell. It came from onions, in the sack behind me. I took out my pocket knife and stealthily made a hole in that sack, and abstracted two big ones and slipped them into my haversack. My conscience didn't trouble me a bit over the matter. I reckon those onions were hospital goods, but I thought I needed some just as much as anybody in the hospital, which was probably correct. I had asked Capt. Reddish that morning if, when the wagons were loaded, I could send them on to camp, and return at my leisure in the evening, and the kindhearted old man had given a cheerful consent. So, when the teams were ready to start back, I told McGrath to take charge, and to see that the stuff was delivered to our quartermaster, or the commissary sergeant, and then I s.h.i.+fted for myself, planning for the good dinner that was in prospect. There were many steamboats lying at the Landing, I selected one that looked inviting, went on board, and sauntered aft to the cook's quarters. It was near dinner time, and the grub dispenser was in the act of taking from his oven a number of nice cakes of corn bread. I sidled up to him, and displaying that dime the cavalryman gave me for those apples, asked him in a discreetly low tone, if he would let me have a cake of corn bread. He gave a friendly grin, pushed a cake towards me, I slipped it in my haversack, and handed him the dime. Now I was fixed. I went ash.o.r.e, and down the river for a short distance to a spring I knew of, that bubbled from the ground near the foot of a big beech tree. It did not take long to build a little fire and make coffee in my oyster can of a quart's capacity, with a wire bale attachment. Then a slice of sow-belly was toasted on a stick, the outer skin of the onions removed--and dinner was ready. Talk about your gastronomic feasts! I doubt if ever in my life I enjoyed a meal better than this one, under that old beech, by the Tennessee river. The onions were big red ones, and fearfully strong, but my system craved them so much that I just chomped them down as if they were apples. And every crumb of the corn bread was eaten, too. Dinner over, I felt better, and roamed around the rest of the afternoon, sight-seeing, and didn't get back to camp till nearly sundown. By the way, that spring and that beech tree are there yet, or were in October, 1914, when I visited the s.h.i.+loh battlefield. I hunted them up on this occasion and laid down on the ground and took a long, big drink out of the spring for the sake of old times.

Taking up again the thread of our life in camp at Owl creek, I will say that when there I was for a while in bad physical condition, and nearly "all in." One day I accidentally overheard two intelligent boys of my company talking about me, and one said, "If Stillwell aint sent north purty soon, he's goin' to make a die of it;" to which the other a.s.sented. That scared me good, and set me to thinking. I had no use for the hospital, wouldn't go there, and abominated the idea of taking medicine. But I was so bad off I was not marked for duty, my time was all my own, so I concluded to get out of camp as much as possible, and take long walks in the big woods. I found a place down on the creek between two picket posts where it was easy to sneak through and get out into the country, and I proceeded to take advantage of it. It was where a big tree had fallen across the stream, making a sort of natural bridge, and I "run the line" there many a time. It was delightful to get out into the clean, grand old woods, and away from the mud, and filth, and bad smells of the camp, and my health began to improve. On some of these rambles, Frank Gates, a corporal of my company, was my companion.

He was my senior a few years, a lively fellow, with a streak of humor in him, and was good company. One day on one of our jaunts we came to a little old log house near the foot of a densely timbered ridge. There was n.o.body at home save some women and children, and one of the women was engaged on an old-fas.h.i.+oned churn, churning b.u.t.ter. Mulberries were ripe, and there was a large tree in the yard fairly black with the ripe fruit. We asked the women if we could eat some of the berries, and they gave a cheerful consent. Thereupon Frank and I climbed the tree, and proceeded to help ourselves. The berries were big, dead ripe, and tasted mighty good, and we just stuffed ourselves until we could hold no more.

The churning was finished by the time we descended from the tree, and we asked for some b.u.t.termilk. The women gave us a gourd dipper and told us to help ourselves, which we did, and drank copiously and greedily. We then resumed our stroll, but before long were seized with most horrible pains in our stomachs. We laid down on the ground and rolled over and over in agony. It was a hot day, we had been walking rapidly, and it is probable that the mulberries and the b.u.t.termilk were in a state of insurrection. But Frank didn't think so. As he rolled over the ground with his hands on his bulging stomach he exclaimed to me, "Lee, by ----, I believe them ---- Secesh wimmen have pizened us!" At the time I hardly knew what to think,--but relief came at last. I will omit the details.

When able to navigate, we started back to camp, almost as weak and helpless as a brace of sick kittens. After that I steered clear of any sort of a combination of berries and b.u.t.termilk.

Soon after this Frank and I had another adventure outside the picket lines, but of an amusing nature only. We came to an old log house where, as was usual at this time and locality, the only occupants were women and children. The family consisted of the middle-aged mother, a tall, slab-sided, long legged girl, seemingly sixteen or seventeen years old, and some little children. Their surname was Leadbetter, which I have always remembered by reason of the incident I will mention. The house was a typical pioneer cabin, with a puncheon floor, which was uneven, dirty, and splotched with grease. The girl was bare-footed and wearing a dirty white sort of cotton gown of the modern Mother Hubbard type, that looked a good deal like a big gunny sack. From what came under my observation later, it can safely be stated that it was the only garment she had on. She really was not bad looking, only dirty and mighty slouchy. We wanted some b.u.t.ter, and asked the matron if she had any she could sell us. She replied that they were just going to churn, and if we'd wait until that was done, she could furnish us a little. We waited, and when the job was finished, handed the girl a pint tin cup we had brought along, which she proceeded to fill with the b.u.t.ter. As she walked towards us to hand over the cup, her bare feet slipped on a grease spot on the floor, and down she went on her back, with her gown distinctly elevated, and a prodigal display of limbs. At the same time the cup fell from her grasp, and the contents rolled out on the dirty floor, like melted lard. The girl arose to a sitting posture, surveyed the wreck, then laid down on one side, and exploded with laughter--and kicked. About this time her mother appeared on the scene. "Why, Sal Leadbetter!" she exclaimed, "you dirty s.l.u.t! Git a spoon and sc.r.a.pe that b.u.t.ter right up!" Sal rose (cow fas.h.i.+on) to her feet, still giggling over the mishap, and the b.u.t.ter was duly "sc.r.a.ped" up, restored to the cup, and this time safely delivered. We paid for the "dairy product,"

and left, but I told Frank I wanted none of it in mine. Frank responded in substance, that it was all right, every man had to eat his "peck of dirt" in his life time anyway,--and the incident was closed. I never again saw nor heard of the Leadbetter family from that day, but have often wondered what finally became of poor "Sal."

While we were at Owl creek the medical authorities of the army put in operation a method for the prevention and cure of malaria that was highly popular with some of the boys. It consisted of a gill of whisky, largely compounded with quinine, and was given to each man before breakfast. I drank my first "jigger," as it was called, and then quit.

It was too intensely bitter for my taste, and I would secretly slip my allowance to John Barton, or Frank Burnham, who would have drunk it, I reckon, if it had been one-half aqua fortis. I happened to be mixed up in an incident rather mortifying to me, when the first whisky rations were brought to the regimental hospital in our camp for use in the above manner. The quartermaster came to Capt. Reddish and handed him a requisition for two camp kettlefuls of whisky, and told him to give it to two non-commissioned officers of his company who were strictly temperate and absolutely reliable, and order them to go to the Division commissary headquarters, get the whisky, bring it to camp, and deliver it to him, the quartermaster. Capt. Reddish selected for this delicate duty Corporal Tim Gates (a brother of Frank, above mentioned) and myself. Tim was about ten years my senior, a tall, slim fellow, and somewhat addicted to stuttering when he became nervous or excited. Well, we each procured a big camp kettle, went and got the whisky, and started back with it to camp. On the way we pa.s.sed through a s.p.a.ce where a large number of army wagons were parked, and when we were in about the middle of the park were then out of sight of everybody. Here Tim stopped, looked carefully around to see if the coast was clear, and then said, "Sti-Sti-Stillwell, l-l-less t-t-take a swig!" "All right," I responded.

Thereupon Tim poised his camp-kettle on a wagon hub, inclined the brim to his lips, and took a most copious draught, and I followed suit. We then started on, and it was lucky, for me at any rate, that we didn't have far to go. I hadn't previously during my army career taken a swallow of whisky since one time at Camp Carrollton; I was weak and feeble, and this big drink of the stuff went through my veins like electricity. Its effects were felt almost instantly, and by the time we reached camp, and had delivered the whisky, I was feeling a good deal like a wild Indian on the war path. I wanted to yell, to get my musket and shoot, especially at something that when hit would jingle--a looking-gla.s.s, an eight-day clock, or a boat's chandelier, or something similar But it suddenly occurred to me that I was drunk, and liable to forever disgrace myself, and everybody at home, too. I had just sense enough left to know that the thing to do was to get out of camp at once, so I struck for the woods. In pa.s.sing the tent of my squad, I caught a glimpse of Tim therein. He had thrown his cap and jacket on the ground, rolled up his sleeves, and was furiously challenging another fellow to then and there settle an old-time grudge by the "ordeal of battle." I didn't tarry, but hurried on the best I could, finally got into a secluded patch of brush, and tumbled down. I came to my senses along late in the evening, with a splitting headache, and feeling awful generally, but reasonably sober.

And such was the conduct, when trusted with whisky, of the two non-commissioned officers of Co. D, "men who were strictly temperate and absolutely reliable." But Tim had no trouble about his break. I suppose he gave some plausible explanation, and as for me, I had lived up to the standard, so far as the public knew, and maintained a profound silence in regard to the episode. Tim and I in private conversation, or otherwise, both carefully avoided the subject until the time came when we could talk and laugh about it without any danger of "tarnis.h.i.+ng our escutcheons."

In the meantime the alleged siege of Corinth was proceeding in the leisurely manner that characterized the progress of a suit in chancery under the ancient equity methods. From our camp on Owl creek we could hear, from time to time, sporadic outbursts of cannonading, but we became so accustomed to it that the artillery practice ceased to excite any special attention. The Confederates began quietly evacuating the place during the last days of May, completed the operation on the 30th of the month, and on the evening of that day our troops marched into the town unopposed.

CHAPTER VI.

BETHEL. JACKSON. JUNE AND JULY, 1862.

Soon after our occupation of Corinth a change in the position of our forces took place, and all the command at Owl creek was transferred to Bethel, a small station on the Mobile and Ohio railroad, some twenty or twenty-five miles to the northwest. We left Owl creek on the morning of June 6th, and arrived at Bethel about dark the same evening. Thanks to my repeated long walks in the woods outside of our lines, I was in pretty fair health at this time, but still somewhat weak and shaky. On the morning we took up the line of march, while waiting for the "fall in" call, I was seated at the foot of a big tree in camp, with my knapsack, packed, at my side. Enoch Wallace came to me and said: "Stillwell, are you going to try to carry your knapsack?" I answered that I reckoned I had to, that I had asked Hen. King (our company teamster) to let me put it in his wagon, and he wouldn't,--said he already had too big a load. Enoch said nothing more, but stood silently looking down at me a few seconds, then picked up my knapsack and threw it into our wagon, which was close by, saying to King, as he did so, "Haul that knapsack;"--and it was hauled. I shall never forget this act of kindness on the part of Enoch. It would have been impossible for me to have made the march carrying the knapsack. The day was hot, and much of the road was over sandy land, and through long stretches of black-jack barrens, that excluded every breath of a breeze. The men suffered much on the march, and fell out by scores. When we stacked arms at Bethel that evening, there were only four men of Co. D in line, just enough to make one stack of guns,--but my gun was in the stack.

There was no earthly necessity for making this march in one day. We were simply "changing stations;" the Confederate army of that region was down in Mississippi, a hundred miles or so away, and there were no armed foes in our vicinity excepting some skulking bands of guerrillas. Prior to this our regiment had made no marches, except little short movements during the siege of Corinth, none of which exceeded two or three miles.

And nearly all the men were weak and debilitated by reason of the prevailing type of illness, and in no condition whatever to be cracked through twenty miles or more on a hot day. We should have marched only about ten miles the first day, with a halt of about ten minutes every hour, to let the men rest a little, and get their wind. Had that course been pursued, we would have reached our destination in good shape, with the ranks full, and the men would have been benefited by the march. As it was, it probably caused the death of some, and the permanent disabling of more. The trouble at that time was the total want of experience on the part of the most of our officers of all grades, combined with an amazing lack of common sense by some of high authority.

I am not blaming any of our regimental officers for this foolish "forced march,"--for it amounted to that,--the responsibility rested higher up.

Our stay at Bethel was brief and uneventful. However, I shall always remember the place on account of a piece of news that came to me while we were there, and which for a time nearly broke me all up. It will be necessary to go back some years in order to explain it. I began attending the old Stone school house at Otter creek when I was about eight years old. One of my schoolmates was a remarkably pretty little girl, with blue eyes and auburn hair, nearly my own age. We kept about the same place in our studies, and were generally in the same cla.s.ses. I always liked her, and by the time I was about fifteen years old was head over heels in love. She was far above me in the social scale of the neighborhood. Her folks lived in a frame house on "the other side of the creek," and were well-to-do, for that time and locality. My people lived in a log cabin, on a little farm in the broken country that extended from the south bank of Otter creek to the Mississippi and Illinois rivers. But notwithstanding the difference in our respective social and financial positions, I knew that she had a liking for me, and our mutual relations became quite "tender" and interesting. Then the war came along, I enlisted and went South. We had no correspondence after I left home; I was just too deplorably bashful to attempt it, and, on general principles, didn't have sense enough to properly carry on a proceeding of that nature. It may be that here was where I fell down. But I thought about her every day, and had many boyish day dreams of the future, in which she was the prominent figure. Soon after our arrival at Bethel I received a letter from home. I hurriedly opened it, anxious, as usual, to hear from the folks, and sitting down at the foot of a tree, began reading it. All went well to nearly the close, when I read these fatal words:

"Billy Crane and Lucy Archer got married last week."