It was at this point that my regiment was detached from Prentiss' division and served with it no more that day. We were sent some distance to the right to support a battery, the name of which I never learned.[1] It was occupying the summit of a slope, and was actively engaged when we reached it. We were put in position about twenty rods in the rear of the battery, and ordered to lie flat on the ground. The ground sloped gently down in our direction, so that by hugging it close, the rebel shot and shell went over us.

[1] Some years after this sketch was written I ascertained that this battery was Richardson's, Co. D, 1st Missouri Light Artillery.

It was here, at about ten o'clock in the morning, that I first saw Grant that day. He was on horseback, of course, accompanied by his staff, and was evidently making a personal examination of his lines. He went by us in a gallop, riding between us and the battery, at the head of his staff. The battery was then hotly engaged; shot and shell were whizzing overhead, and cutting off the limbs of trees, but Grant rode through the storm with perfect indifference, seemingly paying no more attention to the missiles than if they had been paper wads.

We remained in support of this battery until about 2 o'clock in the afternoon. We were then put in motion by the right flank, filed to the left, crossed the left-hand Corinth road; then we were thrown into the line by the command: "By the left flank, march." We crossed a little ravine and up a slope, and relieved a regiment on the left of Hurlbut's line. This line was desperately engaged, and had been at this point, as we afterwards learned, for fully four hours. I remember as we went up the slope and began firing, about the first thing that met my gaze was what out West we would call a "windrow" of dead men in blue; some doubled up face downward, others with their white faces upturned to the sky, brave boys who had been shot to death in "holding the line." Here we stayed until our last cartridge was shot away. We were then relieved by another regiment. We filled our cartridge boxes again and went back to the support of our battery. The boys laid down and talked in low tones. Many of our comrades alive and well an hour ago, we had left dead on that bloody ridge. And still the battle raged. From right to left, everywhere, it was one never-ending, terrible roar, with no prospect of stopping.

Somewhere between 4 and 5 o'clock, as near as I can tell, everything became ominously quiet. Our battery ceased firing; the gunners leaned against the pieces and talked and laughed. Suddenly a staff officer rode up and said something in a low tone to the commander of the battery, then rode to our colonel and said something to him. The battery horses were at once brought up from a ravine in the rear, and the battery limbered up and moved off through the woods diagonally to the left and rear. We were put in motion by the flank and followed it. Everything kept so still, the loudest noise I heard was the clucking of the wheels of the gun-carriages and caissons as they wound through the woods. We emerged from the woods and entered a little old field. I then saw to our right and front lines of men in blue moving in the same direction we were, and it was evident that we were falling back. All at once, on the right, the left, and from our recent front, came one tremendous roar, and the bullets fell like hail. The lines took the double-quick towards the rear. For awhile the attempt was made to fall back in order, and then everything went to pieces. My heart failed me utterly. I thought the day was lost. A confused mass of men and guns, caissons, army wagons, ambulances, and all the debris of a beaten army surged and crowded along the narrow dirt road to the landing, while that pitiless storm of leaden hail came crashing on us from the rear. It was undoubtedly at this crisis in our affairs that the division of General Prentiss was captured.

I will digress here for a minute to speak of a little incident connected with this disastrous feature of the day that has always impressed me as a pathetic instance of the patriotism and unselfish devotion to the cause that was by no means uncommon among the rank and file of the Union armies.

There was in my company a middle-aged German named Charles Oberdieck. According to the company descriptive book, he was a native of the then kingdom of Hanover, now a province of Prussia. He was a typical German, flaxen-haired, blue-eyed, quiet and taciturn, of limited and meager education, but a model soldier, who accepted without question and obeyed without a murmur the orders of his military superiors. Prior to the war he had made his living by chopping cord-wood in the high, timbered hills near the mouth of the Illinois river, or by working as a common laborer in the country on the farms at $14 a month. He was unmarried, his parents were dead, and he had no other immediate relatives surviving, either in his fatherland or in the country of his adoption. He and I enlisted from the same neighborhood. I had known him in civil life at home, and hence he was disposed to be more communicative with me than with the other boys of the company. A day or two after the battle he and I were sitting in the shade of a tree, in camp, talking over the incidents of the fight. "Charley," I said to him, "How did you feel along about four o'clock Sunday afternoon when they broke our lines, we were falling back in disorder, and it looked like the whole business was gone up generally?" He knocked the ashes from his pipe and, turning his face quickly towards me, said: "I yoost tells you how I feels. I no care anydings about Charley; he haf no wife nor children, fadder nor mudder, brudder nor sister; if Charley get killed, it makes no difference; dere vas nobody to cry for him, so I dinks nudding about myselfs; but I tells you, I yoost den feels bad for de Cause!"

Noble, simple-hearted old Charley! It was the imminent danger only to the Cause that made his heart sink in that seemingly fateful hour. When we heard in the malignant and triumphant roar of the Rebel cannon in our rear what might be the death-knell of the last great experiment of civilized men to establish among the nations of the world a united republic, freed from the curse of pampered kings and selfish, grasping aristocrats—it was in that moment, in his simple language, that the peril to the Cause was the supreme and only consideration.

It must have been when we were less than half a mile from the landing on our disorderly retreat before mentioned, that we saw standing in line of battle, at ordered arms, extending from both sides of the road until lost to sight in the woods, a long, well-ordered line of men in blue. What did that mean? and where had they come from? I was walking by the side of Enoch Wallace, the orderly sergeant of my company. He was a man of nerve and courage, and by word and deed had done more that day to hold us green and untried boys in ranks and firmly to our duty than any other man in the company. But even he, in the face of this seemingly appalling state of things, had evidently lost heart. I said to him: "Enoch, what are those men there for?" He answered in a low tone: "I guess they are put there to hold the Rebels in check till the army can get across the river." And doubtless that was the thought of every intelligent soldier in our beaten column. And yet it goes to show how little the common soldier knew of the actual situation. We did not know then that this line was the last line of battle of the "Fighting Fourth Division" under General Hurlbut; that on its right was the division of McClernand, the Fort Donelson boys; that on its right, at right angles to it, and, as it were, the refused wing of the army, was glorious old Sherman, hanging on with a bulldog grip to the road across Snake Creek from Crump's Landing by which Lew Wallace was coming with 5,000 men. In other words, we still had an unbroken line confronting the enemy, made up of men who were not yet ready, by any manner of means, to give up that they were whipped. Nor did we know then that our retreating mass consisted only of some regiments of Hurlbut's division, and some other isolated commands, who had not been duly notified of the recession of Hurlbut and of his falling back to form a new line, and thereby came very near sharing the fate of Prentiss' men and being marched to the rear as prisoners of war. Speaking for myself, it was twenty years after the battle before I found these things out, yet they are true, just as much so as the fact that the sun rose yesterday morning. Well, we filed through Hurlbut's line, halted, re-formed, and faced to the front once more. We were put in place a short distance in the rear of Hurlbut, as a support to some heavy guns. It must have been about five o'clock now. Suddenly, on the extreme left, and just a little above the landing, came a deafening explosion that fairly shook the ground beneath our feet, followed by others in quick and regular succession. The look of wonder and inquiry that the soldiers' faces wore for a moment disappeared for one of joy and exultation as it flashed across our minds that the gunboats had at last joined hands in the dance, and were pitching big twenty-pound Parrott shells up the ravine in front of Hurlbut, to the terror and discomfiture of our adversaries.

The last place my regiment assumed was close to the road coming up from the landing. As we were lying there I heard the strains of martial music and saw a body of men marching by the flank up the road. I slipped out of ranks and walked out to the side of the road to see what troops they were. Their band was playing "Dixie's Land," and playing it well. The men were marching at a quick step, carrying their guns, cartridge-boxes, haversacks, canteens, and blanket-rolls. I saw that they had not been in the fight, for there was no powder-smoke on their faces. "What regiment is this?" I asked of a young sergeant marching on the flank. Back came the answer in a quick, cheery tone, "The 36th Indiana, the advance guard of Buell's army."

I did not, on hearing this, throw my cap into the air and yell. That would have given those Indiana fellows a chance to chaff and guy me, and possibly make sarcastic remarks, which I did not care to provoke. I gave one big, gasping swallow and stood still, but the blood thumped in the veins of my throat and my heart fairly pounded against my little infantry jacket in the joyous rapture of this glorious intelligence. Soldiers need not be told of the thrill of unspeakable exultation they all have felt at the sight of armed friends in danger's darkest hour. Speaking for myself alone, I can only say, in the most heart-felt sincerity, that in all my obscure military career, never to me was the sight of reinforcing legions so precious and so welcome as on that Sunday evening when the rays of the descending sun were flashed back from the bayonets of Buell's advance column as it deployed on the bluffs of Pittsburg Landing.

My account of the battle is about done. So far as I saw or heard, very little fighting was done that evening after Buell's advance crossed the river. The sun must have been fully an hour high when anything like regular and continuous firing had entirely ceased. What the result would have been if Beauregard had massed his troops on our left and forced the fighting late Sunday evening would be a matter of opinion, and a common soldier's opinion would not be considered worth much.

My regiment was held in reserve the next day, and was not engaged. I have, therefore, no personal experience of that day to relate. After the battle of Shiloh, it fell to my lot to play my humble part in several other fierce conflicts of arms, but Shiloh was my maiden fight. It was there I first saw a gun fired in anger, heard the whistle of a bullet, or saw a man die a violent death, and my experiences, thoughts, impressions, and sensations on that bloody Sunday will abide with me as long as I live.



CHAPTER IV.

SOME INCIDENTS OF THE BATTLE OF SHILOH.

There were many little incidents at Shiloh that came under my personal observation that I did not mention in the foregoing sketch. The matter of space was important, so I passed them over. But that consideration does not arise now, and as I am writing this for you, I will say something here about several things that I think may be of some interest.

I distinctly remember my first shot at Shiloh. It was fired when we were in our first position, as described in my account of the battle. I think that when the boys saw the enemy advancing they began firing of their own motion, without waiting for orders. At least, I don't remember hearing any. I was in the front rank, but didn't fire. I preferred to wait for a good opportunity, when I could take deliberate aim at some individual foe. But when the regiment fired, the Confederates halted and began firing also, and the fronts of both lines were at once shrouded in smoke. I had my gun at a ready, and was trying to peer under the smoke in order to get a sight of our enemies. Suddenly I heard some one in a highly excited tone calling to me from just in my rear,—"Stillwell! shoot! shoot! Why don't you shoot?" I looked around and saw that this command was being given by Bob Wylder, our second lieutenant, who was in his place, just a few steps to the rear. He was a young man, about twenty-five years old, and was fairly wild with excitement, jumping up and down "like a hen on a hot griddle." "Why, lieutenant," said I, "I can't see anything to shoot at." "Shoot, shoot, anyhow!" "All right," I responded, "if you say shoot, shoot it is;" and bringing my gun to my shoulder, I aimed low in the direction of the enemy, and blazed away through the smoke. I have always doubted if this, my first shot, did any execution—but there's no telling. However, the lieutenant was clearly right. Our adversaries were in our front, in easy range, and it was our duty to aim low, fire in their general direction, and let fate do the rest. But at the time the idea to me was ridiculous that one should blindly shoot into a cloud of smoke without having a bead on the object to be shot at. I had shot squirrels and rabbits, and other small game, in the big woods adjacent to our backwoods home, from the time I was big enough to carry a gun. In fact, I began when I was too small to shoot "off hand," but had to fire from a "rest,"—any convenient stump, log, or forked bush. The gun I used was a little old percussion lock rifle, with a long barrel, carrying a bullet which weighed about sixty to the pound. We boys had to furnish our own ammunition,—lead (which we moulded into bullets), gun-caps, and powder. Our principal source of revenue whereby we got money to buy ammunition was hazel-nuts, which we would gather, shuck, and sell at five cents a quart. And the work incident to the gathering and shucking of a quart of hazel nuts was a decidedly tedious job. But it made us economical in the use of our ordnance stores, so we would never throw away a shot carelessly or unnecessarily. And it was a standing rule never to shoot a squirrel anywhere except in the head, save as a last resort, when circumstances compelled one to fire at some other part of the body of the little animal. And so I thought, at the beginning of my military career, that I should use the same care and circumspection in firing an old musket when on the line of battle that I had exercised in hunting squirrels. But I learned better in about the first five minutes of the battle of Shiloh. However, in every action I was in, when the opportunity was afforded, I took careful and deliberate aim, but many a time the surroundings were such that the only thing to do was to hold low, and fire through the smoke in the direction of the enemy. I will say here that the extent of wild shooting done in battle, especially by raw troops, is astonishing, and rather hard to understand. When we fell back to our second line at Shiloh, I heard an incessant humming sound away up above our heads, like the flight of a swarm of bees. In my ignorance, I at first hardly knew what that meant, but it presently dawned on me that the noise was caused by bullets singing through the air from twenty to a hundred feet over our heads. And after the battle I noticed that the big trees in our camp, just in the rear of our second line, were thickly pock-marked by musket balls at a distance of fully a hundred feet from the ground. And yet we were separated from the Confederates only by a little, narrow field, and the intervening ground was perfectly level. But the fact is, those boys were fully as green as we were, and doubtless as much excited. The Confederate army at Shiloh was composed of soldiers the great majority of whom went under fire there for the first time, and I reckon they were as nervous and badly scared as we were.

I never shall forget how awfully I felt on seeing for the first time a man killed in battle. This occurred on our second position, above mentioned. Our line of battle here was somewhat irregular, and the men had become mixed up. The trees and stumps were thick, and we availed ourselves of their protection whenever possible. I had a tree, it was embarrassingly small, but better than none. I took to a log later. But there was a man just on my right behind a tree of generous proportions, and I somewhat envied him. He was actively engaged in loading and firing, and was standing up to the work well when I last saw him alive. But, all at once, there he was lying on his back, at the foot of his tree, with one leg doubled under him, motionless,—and stone dead! He probably had been hit square in the head while aiming, or peeking around the tree. I stared at his body, perfectly horrified! Only a few seconds ago that man was alive and well, and now he was lying on the ground, done for, forever! The event came nearer completely upsetting me than anything else that occurred during the entire battle—but I got used to such incidents in the course of the day.

After rallying at our third position, we were moved a short distance to the rear, and formed in line at right angles to the road from our camp to the landing. While standing there I casually noticed a large wall tent at the side of the road, a few steps to my rear. It was closed up, and nobody stirring around it. Suddenly I heard, right over our heads, a frightful "s-s-wis-sh,"—and followed by a loud crash in this tent. Looking around, I saw a big, gaping hole in the wall of the tent, and on the other side got a glimpse of the cause of the disturbance—a big cannon ball ricochetting down the ridge, and hunting further mischief. And at the same moment of time the front flaps of the tent were frantically thrown open, and out popped a fellow in citizen's clothes. He had a Hebrew visage, his face was as white as a dead man's, and his eyes were sticking out like a crawfish's. He started down the road toward the landing at probably the fastest gait he had ever made in his life, his coat tails streaming behind him, and the boys yelling at him. We proceeded to investigate the interior of that tent at once, and found that it was a sutler's establishment, and crammed with sutler goods. The panic-struck individual who had just vacated it was of course the proprietor. He had adopted ostrich tactics, had buttoned himself up in the tent, and was in there keeping as still as a mouse, thinking, perhaps, that as he could see nobody, nobody could see him. That cannon ball must have been a rude surprise. In order to have plenty of "han' roomance," we tore down the tent at once, and then proceeded to appropriate the contents. There were barrels of apples, bologna sausages, cheeses, canned oysters and sardines, and lots of other truck. I was filling my haversack with bologna when Col. Fry rode up to me and said: "My son, will you please give me a link of that sausage?" Under the circumstances, I reckon I must have been feeling somewhat impudent and reckless, so I answered rather saucily, "Certainly, Colonel, we are closing out this morning below cost;" and I thrust into his hands two or three big links of bologna. There was a faint trace of a grin on the old man's face as he took the provender, and he began gnawing at once on one of the hunks, while the others he stowed away in his equipments. I suspected from this incident that the Colonel had had no breakfast that morning, which perhaps may have been the case. Soon after this I made another deal. There were some cavalry in line close by us, and one of them called out to me, "Pardner, give me some of them apples." "You bet;" said I, and quickly filling my cap with the fruit, handed it to him. He emptied the apples in his haversack, took a silver dime from his pocket, and proffered it to me, saying, "Here." "Keep your money—don't want it;" was my response, but he threw the coin at my feet, and I picked it up and put it in my pocket. It came agreeably handy later.

Jack Medford of my company came up to me with a most complacent look on his face, and patting his haversack, said, "Lee, I just now got a whole lot of paper and envelopes, and am all fixed for writing home about this battle." "Seems to me, Jack," I suggested, "you'd better unload that stuff, and get something to eat. Don't worry about writing home about the battle till it's done fought." Jack's countenance changed, he muttered, "Reckon you're right, Lee;" and when next I saw him, his haversack was bulging with bologna and cheese. All this time the battle was raging furiously on our right, and occasionally a cannon ball, flying high, went screaming over our heads. Walter Scott, in "The Lady of the Lake," in describing an incident of the battle of Beal' an Duine, speaks of the unearthly screaming and yelling that occurred, sounding—

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

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 shell passing 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, grass-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 hell, 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 hell and damnation 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, Washington 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 flashing 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 flashing, 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 flashing 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 shell 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 bloody 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 space 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 space 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, grass-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 shells 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 lust 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 superstition—or whatever it may be called—was justified in the end. In addition to Shiloh, 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 Noble 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 buttoned 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 massive 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 shipped 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 assumed 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 Washington 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 Washington in the summer of 1864.

During the operations against Corinth, the 61st made some short marches, and was shifted 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 Coon 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 butter 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 butter 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, hell!" 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 shifted 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 ashore, 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 Shiloh 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 assented. 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 nobody at home save some women and children, and one of the women was engaged on an old-fashioned churn, churning butter. 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 buttermilk. 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 buttermilk 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 buttermilk.

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 butter, 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 butter. 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 slut! Git a spoon and scrape that butter right up!" Sal rose (cow fashion) to her feet, still giggling over the mishap, and the butter was duly "scraped" 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 passed through a space 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-glass, 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 passing 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 "tarnishing 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 classes. 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."

The above names are fictitious, but the bride was my girl.

I can't explain my feelings,—if you ever have had such an experience, you will understand. I stole a hurried glance around to see if anybody was observing my demeanor, then thrust the letter into my jacket pocket, and walked away. Not far from our camp was a stretch of swampy land, thickly set with big cypress trees, and I bent my steps in that direction. Entering the forest, I sought a secluded spot, sat down on an old log, and read and re-read that heart-breaking piece of intelligence. There was no mistaking the words; they were plain, laconic, and nothing ambiguous about them. And, to intensify the bitterness of the draught, it may be set down here that the groom was a dudish young squirt, a clerk in a country store, who lacked the pluck to go for a soldier, but had stayed at home to count eggs and measure calico. In my opinion, he was not worthy of the girl, and I was amazed that she had taken him for a husband. I remember well some of my thoughts as I sat with bitterness in my heart, alone among those gloomy cypresses. I wanted a great big battle to come off at once, with the 61st Illinois right in front, that we might run out of cartridges, and the order would be given to fix bayonets and charge! Like Major Simon Suggs, in depicting the horrors of an apprehended Indian war, I wanted to see blood flow in a "great gulgin' torrent, like the Tallapoosa river." Well, it was simply a case of pure, intensely ardent boy-love, and I was hit, hard,—but survived. And I now heartily congratulate myself on the fact that this youthful shipwreck ultimately resulted in my obtaining for a wife the very best woman (excepting only my mother) that I ever knew in my life.

I never again met my youthful flame, to speak to her, and saw her only once, and then at a distance, some years after the close of the war when I was back in Illinois on a visit to my parents. Several years ago her husband died, and in course of time she married again, this time a man I never knew, and the last I heard of or concerning her, she and her second husband were living somewhere in one of the Rocky Mountain States.

For a short time after the evacuation of Corinth, Pittsburg Landing continued to be our base of supplies, and commissary stores were wagoned from there to the various places where our troops were stationed. And it happened, while the regiment was at Bethel, that I was one of a party of about a hundred men detailed to serve as guards for a wagon train destined for the Landing, and, return to Bethel with army rations. There was at the Landing at this time, serving as guards for the government stores, a regiment of infantry. There were only a few of them visible, and they looked pale and emaciated, and much like "dead men on their feet." I asked one of them what regiment was stationed there, and he told me it was the 14th Wisconsin Infantry. This was the one I had seen at Benton Barracks and admired so much on account of the splendid appearance of the men. I mentioned this to the soldier, and expressed to him my surprise to now see them in such bad shape. He went on to tell me that the men had suffered fearfully from the change of climate, the water, and their altered conditions in general; that they had nearly all been prostrated by camp diarrhea, and at that time there were not more than a hundred men in the regiment fit for duty, and even those were not much better than shadows of their former selves. And, judging from the few men that were visible, the soldier told the plain, unvarnished truth. Our regiment and the 14th Wisconsin soon drifted apart, and I never saw it again. But as a matter of history, I will say that it made an excellent and distinguished record during the war.

On June 16 our brigade left Bethel for Jackson, Tennessee, a town on the Mobile and Ohio railroad, and about thirty-five or forty miles, by the dirt road, northwest of Bethel. On this march, like the preceding one, I did not carry my knapsack. It was about this time that the most of the boys adopted the "blanket-roll" system. Our knapsacks were awkward, cumbersome things, with a combination of straps and buckles that chafed the shoulders and back, and greatly augmented heat and general discomfort. So we would fold in our blankets an extra shirt, with a few other light articles, roll the blanket tight, double it over and tie the two ends together, then throw the blanket over one shoulder, with the tied ends under the opposite arm—and the arrangement was complete. We had learned by this time the necessity of reducing our personal baggage to the lightest possible limit. We had left Camp Carrollton with great bulging knapsacks, stuffed with all sorts of plunder, much of which was utterly useless to soldiers in the field. But we soon got rid of all that. And my recollection is that after the Bethel march the great majority of the men would, in some way, when on a march, temporarily lay aside their knapsacks, and use the blanket roll. The exceptions to that method, in the main, were the soldiers of foreign birth, especially the Germans. They carried theirs to the last on all occasions, with everything in them the army regulations would permit, and usually something more.

Jackson, our objective point on this march, was the county seat of Madison county, and a portion of our line of march was through the south part of the county. This region had a singular interest for me, the nature of which I will now state. Among the few books we had at home was an old paper-covered copy, with horrible wood-cuts, of a production entitled, "The Life and Adventures of John A. Murrell, the Great Western Land Pirate," by Virgil A. Stewart. It was full of accounts of cold-blooded, depraved murders, and other vicious, unlawful doings. My father had known, in his younger days, a good deal of Murrell by reputation, which was probably the moving cause for his purchase of the book. When a little chap I frequently read it and it possessed for me a sort of weird, uncanny fascination. Murrell's home, and the theater of many of his evil deeds, during the year 1834, and for some time previously, was in this county of Madison, and as we trudged along the road on this march I scanned all the surroundings with deep interest and close attention. Much of the country was rough and broken, and densely wooded, with high ridges and deep ravines between them. With the aid of a lively imagination, many places I noticed seemed like fitting localities for acts of violence and crime.

I have in my possession now (bought many years ago) a duplicate of that old copy of Murrell we had at home. I sometimes look into it, but it no longer possesses for me the interest it did in my boyhood days.

On this march I was a participant in an incident which was somewhat amusing, and also a little bit irritating. Shortly before noon of the first day, Jack Medford, of my company, and myself, concluded we would "straggle," and try to get a country dinner. Availing ourselves of the first favorable opportunity, we slipped from the ranks, and struck out. We followed an old country road that ran substantially parallel to the main road on which the column was marching, and soon came to a nice looking old log house standing in a grove of big native trees. The only people at the house were two middle-aged women and some children. We asked the women if we could have some dinner, saying that we would pay for it. They gave an affirmative answer, but their tone was not cordial and they looked "daggers." Dinner was just about prepared, and when all was ready, we were invited, with evident coolness, to take seats at the table. We had a splendid meal, consisting of corn bread, new Irish potatoes, boiled bacon and greens, butter and buttermilk. Compared with sow-belly and hardtack, it was a feast. Dinner over, we essayed to pay therefor. Their charge was something less than a dollar for both of us, but we had not the exact change. The smallest denomination of money either of us had was a dollar greenback, and the women said that they had no money at all to make change. Thereupon we proffered them the entire dollar. They looked at it askance, and asked if we had any "Southern" or Confederate money. We said we had not, that this was the only kind of money we had. They continued to look exceedingly sour, and finally remarked that they were unwilling to accept any kind of money except "Southern." We urged them to accept the bill, told them it was United States money, and that it would pass readily in any place in the South occupied by our soldiers; but no, they were obdurate, and declined the greenback with unmistakable scorn. Of course we kept our temper; it never would have done to be saucy or rude after getting such a good dinner, but, for my part, I felt considerably vexed. But there was nothing left to do except thank them heartily for their kindness and depart. From their standpoint their course in the matter was actuated by the highest and most unselfish patriotism, but naturally we couldn't look at it in that light. I will say here, "with malice towards none, and with charity for all," that in my entire sojourn in the South during the war, the women were found to be more intensely bitter and malignant against the old government of the United States, and the national cause in general, than were the men. Their attitude is probably another illustration of the truth of Kipling's saying, "The female of the species is more deadly than the male."

We arrived at Jackson on the evening of June 17, and went into camp in the outskirts of the town, in a beautiful grove of tall young oaks. The site was neither too shady nor too sunny, and, all things considered, I think it was about the nicest camping ground the regiment had during its entire service. We settled down here to a daily round of battalion drill, being the first of that character, as I now remember, we had so far had. A battalion drill is simply one where the various companies are handled as a regimental unit, and are put through regimental evolutions. Battalion drill at first was frequently very embarrassing to some commanding officers of companies. The regimental commander would give a command, indicating, in general terms, the movement desired, and it was then the duty of a company commander to see to the details of the movement that his company should make, and give the proper orders. Well, sometimes he would be badly stumped, and ludicrous "bobbles" would be the result. As for the men in the ranks, battalion drill was as simple as any other, for we only had to obey specific commands which indicated exactly what we were to do. To "form square," an antique disposition against cavalry, was a movement that was especially "trying" to some company officers. But so far as forming square was concerned, all our drill on that feature was time thrown away. In actual battle we never made that disposition a single time—and the same is true of several other labored and intricate movements prescribed in the tactics, and which we were industriously put through. But it was good exercise, and "all went in the day's work."

While thus amusing ourselves at battalion drill suddenly came marching orders, and which required immediate execution. Tents were forthwith struck, rolled and tied, and loaded in the wagons, with all other camp and garrison equipage. Our knapsacks were packed with all our effects, since special instructions had been given on that matter. Curiosity was on the qui vive to know where we were going, but apart from the fact that we were to be transported on the cars, apparently nobody knew whither we were bound. Col. Fry was absent, sick, and Major Ohr was then in command of the regiment. He was a fine officer, and, withal, a very sensible man, and I doubt if any one in the regiment except himself had reliable knowledge as to our ultimate destination. As soon as our marching preparations were complete, which did not take long, the bugle sounded "Fall in!" and the regiment formed in line on the parade ground. In my "mind's eye" I can now see Major Ohr in our front, on his horse, his blanket strapped behind his saddle, smoking his little briar root pipe, and looking as cool and unconcerned as if we were only going a few miles for a change of camp. Our entire brigade fell in, and so far as we could see, or learn, all of the division at Jackson, then under the command of Gen. John A. McClernand, was doing likewise. Well, we stood there in line, at ordered arms, and waited. We expected, every moment, to hear the orders which would put us in motion—but they were never given. Finally we were ordered to stack arms and break ranks, but were cautioned to hold ourselves in readiness to fall in at the tap of the drum. But the day wore on and nothing was done until late in the evening, when the summons came. We rushed to the gun stacks and took arms. The Major had a brief talk with the company officers, and then, to our great surprise, the companies were marched back to their dismantled camps, and after being instructed to stay close thereto, were dismissed. This state of affairs lasted for at least two days, and then collapsed. We were told that the orders had been countermanded; we unloaded our tents, pitched them again on the old sites, and resumed battalion drill. It was then gossiped around among the boys that we actually had been under marching orders for Virginia to reinforce the Army of the Potomac! Personally I looked on that as mere "camp talk," and put no confidence in it, and never found out, until about fifteen years later, that this rumor was a fact. I learned it in this wise: About nine years after the close of the war, Congress passed an act providing for the publication, in book form, of all the records, reports correspondence, and the like, of both the Union and Confederate armies. Under this law, about one hundred and thirty large volumes were published, containing the matter above stated. When the law was passed I managed to arrange to procure a set of these Records and they were sent to me from Washington as fast as printed. And from one of these volumes I ascertained that on June 28, 1862, E. M. Stanton, the Secretary of War, had telegraphed Gen. Halleck (who was then in command of the western armies) as follows:

"It is absolutely necessary for you immediately to detach 25,000 of your force, and send it by the nearest and quickest route by way of Baltimore and Washington to Richmond. [This] is rendered imperative by a serious reverse suffered by Gen. McClellan before Richmond yesterday, the full extent of which is not known." (Rebellion Records, Series 1, Vol. 16, Part 2, pp. 69 and 70.)

In obedience to the above, General Halleck wired General McClernand on June 30 as follows:

"You will collect as rapidly as possible all the infantry regiments of your division, and take advantage of every train to transport them to Columbus [Ky.] and thence to Washington City." (Id. p. 76.)

But that same day (June 30) a telegram was sent by President Lincoln to Gen. Halleck, which operated to revoke the foregoing order of Stanton's—and so the 61st Illinois never became a part of the Army of the Potomac, and for which I am very thankful. That army was composed of brave men, and they fought long and well, but, in my opinion, and which I think is sustained by history, they never had a competent commander until they got U. S. Grant. So, up to the coming of Grant, their record, in the main, was a series of bloody disasters, and their few victories, like Antietam and Gettysburg, were not properly and energetically followed up as they should have been, and hence were largely barren of adequate results. Considering these things, I have always somehow "felt it in my bones" that if Mr. Lincoln had not sent the brief telegram above mentioned, I would now be sleeping in some (probably) unmarked and unknown grave away back in old Virginia.

While at Jackson an incident occurred while I was on picket in which Owen McGrath, the big Irishman I have previously mentioned, played an interesting part. As corporal I had three men under me, McGrath being one, and the others were a couple of big, burly young fellows belonging to Co. A. Our post was on the railroad a mile or two from the outskirts of Jackson, and where the picket line for some distance ran practically parallel with the railroad. The spot at this post where the picket stood when on guard was at the top of a bank on the summit of a slight elevation, just at the edge of a deep and narrow railroad cut. A bunch of guerrillas had recently been operating in that locality, and making mischief on a small scale, and our orders were to be vigilant and on the alert, especially at night. McGrath was on duty from 6 to 8 in the evening, and at the latter hour I notified one of the Co. A men that his turn had come. The weather was bad, a high wind was blowing, accompanied by a drizzling rain, and all signs portended a stormy night. The Co. A fellow buckled on his cartridge box, picked up his musket, and gave a scowling glance at the surroundings. Then, with much profanity, he declared that he wasn't going to stand up on that bank, he was going down into the cut, where he could have some shelter from the wind and rain. I told him that would never do, that there he could see nothing in our front, and might as well not be on guard at all. But he loudly announced his intention to stick to his purpose. The other Co. A man chimed in, and with many expletives declared that Bill was right, that he intended to stand in the cut too when his time came, that he didn't believe there was a Secesh within a hundred miles of us, anyway, and so on. I was sorely troubled, and didn't know what to do. They were big, hulking fellows, and either could have just smashed me, with one hand tied behind him. McGrath had been intently listening to the conversation, and saying nothing, but, as matters were evidently nearing a crisis, he now took a hand. Walking up to the man who was to relieve him, he laid the forefinger of his right hand on the fellow's breast, and looking him square in the eyes, spoke thus:

"It's the ar-r-dhers of the car-r-parral that the sintry stand here," (indicating,) "and the car-r-parral's ar-r-dhers will be obeyed. D'ye moind that, now?"

I had stepped to the side of McGrath while he was talking, to give him my moral support, at least, and fixed my eyes on the mutineer. He looked at us in silence a second or two, and then, with some muttering about the corporal being awful particular, finally said he could stand it if the rest could, assumed his post at the top of the bank, and the matter was ended. The storm blew over before midnight and the weather cleared up. In the morning we had a satisfying soldier breakfast, and when relieved at 9 o'clock marched back to camp with the others of the old guard, all in good humor, and with "peace and harmony prevailing." But I always felt profoundly grateful to grand old McGrath for his staunch support on the foregoing occasion; without it, I don't know what could have been done.



CHAPTER VII.

BOLIVAR. JULY, AUGUST, AND SEPTEMBER, 1862.

On July 17 our brigade, then under the command of Gen. L. F. Ross, left Jackson for Bolivar, Tennessee, a town about twenty-eight miles southwest of Jackson, on what was then called the Mississippi Central Railroad. (Here I will observe that the sketch of the regiment before mentioned in the Illinois Adjutant General's Reports is wrong as to the date of our departure from Jackson. It is inferable from the statement in the Reports that the time was June 17, which really was the date of our arrival there from Bethel.) We started from Jackson at about four o'clock in the morning, but marched only about eight miles when we were brought to an abrupt halt, caused by the breaking down, under the weight of a cannon and its carriage, of an ancient Tennessee bridge over a little stream. The nature of the crossing was such that the bridge simply had to be rebuilt, and made strong enough to sustain the artillery and army wagons, and it took the balance of the day to do it. We therefore bivouacked at the point where we stopped until the next morning. Soon after the halt a hard rain began falling, and lasted all afternoon. We had no shelter, and just had to take it, and "let it rain." But it was in the middle of the summer, the weather was hot, and the boys stood around, some crowing like chickens, and others quacking like ducks, and really seemed to rather enjoy the situation. About the only drawback resulting from our being caught out in the summer rains was the fact that the water would rust our muskets. In our time we were required to keep all their metal parts (except the butt-plate) as bright and shining as new silver dollars. I have put in many an hour working on my gun with an old rag and powdered dirt, and a corncob, or pine stick, polishing the barrel, the bands, lock-plate, and trigger-guard, until they were fit to pass inspection. The inside of the barrel we would keep clean by the use of a greased wiper and plenty of hot water. In doing this, we would ordinarily, with our screw-drivers, take the gun to pieces, and remove from the stock all metallic parts. I never had any head for machinery, of any kind, but, from sheer necessity, did acquire enough of the faculty to take apart, and put together, an army musket,—and that is about the full extent of my ability in that line. We soon learned to take care of our pieces in a rain by thoroughly greasing them with a piece of bacon, which would largely prevent rust from striking in.

We resumed our march to Bolivar early in the morning of the 18th. Our route was practically parallel with the railroad, crossing it occasionally. At one of these crossings, late in the afternoon, and when only five or six miles from Bolivar, I "straggled" again, and took to the railroad. I soon fell in with three Co. C boys, who had done likewise. We concluded we would endeavor to get a country supper, and with that in view, an hour or so before sundown went to a nice looking farm-house not far from the railroad, and made our wants known to the occupants. We had selected for our spokesman the oldest one of our bunch, a soldier perhaps twenty-five years old, named Aleck Cope. He was something over six feet tall, and about as gaunt as a sand-hill crane. He was bare-footed, and his feet, in color and general appearance, looked a good deal like the flappers of an alligator. His entire garb, on this occasion, consisted of an old wool hat and his government shirt and drawers. The latter garment, like the "cuttie sark" of witch Nannie in "Tam O'Shanter," "in longitude was sorely scanty," coming only a little below his knees, and both habiliments would have been much improved by a thorough washing. But in the duty assigned him he acquitted himself well with the people of the house, and they very cheerfully said they would prepare us a supper. They seemingly were well-to-do, as several colored men and women were about the premises, who, of course, were slaves. Soon were audible the death squawks of chickens in the barn-yard, which we heard with much satisfaction. In due time supper was announced, and we seated ourselves at the table. And what a banquet we had! Fried chicken, nice hot biscuits, butter, butter-milk, honey, (think of that!) preserved peaches, fresh cucumber pickles,—and so forth. And a colored house-girl moved back and forth behind us, keeping off the flies with a big peacock-feather brush. Aleck Cope sat opposite me, and when the girl was performing that office for him, the situation looked so intensely ludicrous that I wanted to scream. Supper over, we paid the bill, which was quite reasonable, and went on our way rejoicing, and reached Bolivar soon after dark, about the same time the regiment did. But it will now be set down that this was the last occasion when I "straggled" on a march. A day or so after arriving at Bolivar the word came to me in some way, I think from Enoch Wallace, that our first lieutenant, Dan Keeley, had spoken disapprovingly of my conduct in that regard. He was a young man, about twenty-five years old, of education and refinement, and all things considered, the best company officer we had. I was much attached to him, and I know that he liked me. Well, I learned that he had said, in substance, that a non-commissioned officer should set a good example to the men in all things, and that he hadn't expected of Stillwell that he would desert the ranks on a march. That settled the matter. My conduct had simply been thoughtless, without any shirking intentions, but I then realized that it was wrong, and, as already stated, straggled no more.