On the evening of June 1st we filed on board the big, side-wheel steamer "Luminary," which soon cast off from the wharf, and in company with other transports crowded with soldiers, went steaming down the Mississippi. Co. D, as usual, was assigned to a place on the hurricane deck of the boat. After we had stacked arms, and hung our belts on the muzzles of the guns, I hunted up a corner on the forward part of the deck, sat down, looked at the river and the scenery along the banks,—and thought. There came vividly to my mind the recollection of the time, about fourteen months previous, when we started out from St. Louis, down the "Father of Waters," bound for the "seat of war." The old regiment, in every respect, had greatly changed since that time. Then we were loud, confident, and boastful. Now we had become altogether more quiet and grave in our demeanor. We had gradually realized that it was not a Sunday school picnic excursion we were engaged in, but a desperate and bloody war, and what the individual fate of each of us might be before it was over, no one could tell. There is nothing which, in my opinion, will so soon make a man out of a boy as actual service in time of war. Our faces had insensibly taken on a stern and determined look, and soldiers who a little over a year ago were mere laughing, foolish boys, were now sober, steady, self-relying men. We had been taking lessons in what was, in many important respects, the best school in the world.

Our voyage down the river was uneventful. We arrived at the mouth of the Yazoo river on the evening of June 3rd. There our fleet turned square to the left, and proceeded up that stream. Near the mouth of the Chickasaw Bayou, the fleet landed on the left bank of the stream, the boats tied up for the night, we went on the shore and bivouacked there that night. It was quite a relief to get on solid ground, and where we could stretch our legs and stroll around a little. Next morning we re-embarked at an early hour, and continued up the Yazoo. During the forenoon we learned from one of the boat's crew that we were approaching a point called "Alligator Bend," and if we would be on the lookout we would see some alligators. None of us, so far as I know, had ever seen any of those creatures, and, of course, we were all agog to have a view of them. A few of the best shots obtained permission from the officers to try their muskets on the reptiles, in case any showed up. On reaching the bend indicated, there were the alligators, sure enough, lazily swimming about, and splashing in the water. They were sluggish, ugly looking things, and apparently from six to eight feet long. Our marksmen opened fire at once. I had read in books at home that the skin of an alligator was so hard and tough that it was impervious to an ordinary rifle bullet. That may have been true as regards the round balls of the old small-bore rifle, but it was not the case with the conical bullets of our hard-hitting muskets. The boys would aim at a point just behind the fore-shoulder, the ball would strike the mark with a loud "whack," a jet of blood would spurt high in the air, the alligator would give a convulsive flounce,—and disappear. It had doubtless got its medicine. But this "alligator practice" didn't last long. Gen. Kimball, on learning the cause, sent word mighty quick from the headquarters boat to "Stop that firing!"—and we stopped.

About noon on the 4th we arrived at the little town of Satartia on the left bank of the Yazoo, and about 40 miles above its mouth; there the fleet halted, tied up, and the troops debarked, and marched out to the highlands back of the town. We were now in a region that was new to us, and we soon saw several novel and strange things. There was a remarkable natural growth, called "Spanish moss," that was very plentiful, and a most fantastic looking thing. It grew on nearly all the trees, was of a grayish-white color, with long, pendulous stems. The lightest puff of air would set it in motion, and on a starlight night, or when the moon was on the wane and there was a slight breeze, it presented a most ghostly and uncanny appearance. And the woods were full of an unusual sort of squirrels, being just as black as crows. They were in size, as I now remember, of a grade intermediate the fox-and gray-squirrels we had at home. But all their actions and habits appeared to be just the same as those of their northern cousins. And there was a most singular bird of the night that was quite numerous here, called the "chuck-will's widow," on account of the resemblance its note bore to those words. It belonged to the whippoorwill family, but was some larger. It would sound its monotonous call in the night for hours at a stretch, and I think its mournful cry, heard when alone, on picket at night out in dense, gloomy woods, is just the most lonesome, depressing strain I ever heard.

On the afternoon of the 4th all our force advanced in the direction of the little town of Mechanicsburg, which lay a few miles back of the river. Those in the front encountered Confederate cavalry, and a lively little skirmish ensued, in which our regiment was not engaged. Our troops burnt Mechanicsburg, and captured about forty of the Confederates. I was standing by the side of the road when these prisoners were being taken to the rear. They were all young chaps, fine, hearty looking fellows, and were the best looking little bunch of Confederates I saw during the war. Early in the morning of June 6th we fell into line and marched southwest, in the direction of Vicksburg. Our route, in the main, was down the valley of the Yazoo river. And it will be said here that this was the hottest, most exhausting march I was on during my entire service. In the first place, the weather was intensely hot. Then the road down the valley on which we marched mostly ran through immense fields of corn higher than our heads. The fields next the road were not fenced, and the corn grew close to the beaten track. Not the faintest breeze was stirring, and the hot, stifling dust enveloped us like a blanket. Every now and then we would pass a soldier lying by the side of the road, overcome by the heat and unconscious, while one or two of his comrades would be standing by him, bathing his face and chest with water, and trying to revive him. I put green hickory leaves in my cap, and kept them well saturated with water from my canteen. The leaves would retain the moisture and keep my head cool, and when they became stale and withered, would be thrown away, and fresh ones procured. Several men died on this march from sun-stroke; none, however, from our regiment, but we all suffered fearfully. And pure drinking water was very scarce too. It was pitiful to see the men struggling for water at the farm house wells we occasionally passed. In their frenzied desperation they would spill much more than they saved, and ere long would have the well drawn dry. But one redeeming feature about this march was—we were not hurried. There were frequent halts, to give the men time to breathe, and on such occasions, if we were fortunate enough to find a pool of stagnant swamp-water, we would wash the dirt and dust from our faces and out of our eyes.

As we trudged down the Yazoo valley, we continued to see things that were new and strange. We passed by fields of growing rice, and I saw many fig trees, loaded with fruit, but which was yet green. And in the yards of the most of the farm houses was a profusion of domestic flowers, such as did not bloom in the north, of wonderful color and beauty. But, on the other hand, on the afternoon of the second day's march, I happened to notice by the side of the road an enormous rattlesnake, which evidently had been killed by some soldier only a short time before we passed. It seemingly was between five and six feet long, and the middle of its body appeared to be as thick as a man's thigh. Its rattles had been removed, presumably as a trophy. It was certainly a giant among rattlesnakes, and doubtless was an "old-timer."

On the evening of June 7th, about sundown, we arrived at Haines' Bluff on the Yazoo river, and there went into camp. This point was about twelve miles north of Vicksburg, and had been strongly fortified by the Confederates, but Grant's movements had compelled them to abandon their works without a battle. There had been a large number of the Confederates camped there, and the ground was littered with the trash and rubbish that accumulates in quarters. And our friends in gray had left some things in these old camps which ere long we all fervently wished they had taken with them, namely, a most plentiful quantity of the insect known as "Pediculus vestimenti," which forthwith assailed us as voraciously as if they had been on quarter rations, or less, ever since the beginning of the war.

On June 16th we left Haines' Bluff, and marched about two miles down the Yazoo river to Snyder's Bluff, where we went into camp. Our duties here, as they had been at Haines', were standing picket, and constructing fortifications. We had the usual dress parade at sunset, but the drills were abandoned; we had more important work to do. General Joe Johnston, the Confederate commander outside of Vicksburg, was at Jackson, Mississippi, or in that immediate vicinity, and was collecting a force to move on Grant's rear, in order to compel him to raise the siege. Grant thought that if Johnston attacked, it would be from the northeast, so he established a line of defense extending southeast, from Haines' Bluff on the north to Black river on the south, and placed Gen. Sherman in command of this line. As Grant has said somewhere in his Memoirs, the country in this part of Mississippi "stands on edge." That is to say, it consists largely of a succession of high ridges with sharp, narrow summits. Along this line of defense, the general course of these ridges was such that they were admirably adapted for defensive purposes. We went to work on the ridges with spades and mattocks, and constructed the strongest field fortifications that I ever saw during the war. We dug away the crests, throwing the dirt to the front, and made long lines of breastworks along our entire front, facing, of course, the northeast. Then, at various places, on commanding points, were erected strong redoubts for artillery, floored, and revetted on the inner walls with thick and strong green lumber and timbers. On the exterior slopes of the ridges were dug three lines of trenches, or rifle pits, extending in a parallel form from near the base of the ridges almost to the summit, with intervals between the lines. All the trees and bushes in our front on the slopes of the ridges were cut down, with their tops outwards, thus forming a tangled abattis which looked as if a rabbit could hardly get through. And finally, on the inner slope of the ridges, a little below their summits, was constructed a "covered way;" that is, a road dug along the sides of the ridges, and over which an army, with batteries of artillery, could have marched with perfect safety. The purpose of these covered ways was to have a safe and sheltered road right along our rear by which any position on the line could be promptly reinforced, if necessary.

Sometimes I would walk along the parapet of our works, looking off to the northeast where the Confederates were supposed to be, and I ardently wished that they would attack us. Our defenses were so strong that in my opinion it would have been a physical impossibility for flesh and blood to have carried them. Had Johnston tried, he simply would have sacrificed thousands of his men without accomplishing anything to his own advantage.

It will be said here that I have no recollection of having personally taken part in the construction of the fortifications above mentioned. In fact, I never did an hour's work in the trenches, with spade and mattock, during all my time. I never "took" willingly to that kind of soldiering. But there were plenty of the boys who preferred it to standing picket, because when on fatigue duty, as it was called, they would quit about sundown, and then get an unbroken night's sleep. So, when it fell to my lot to be detailed for fatigue, I would swap with someone who had been assigned to picket,—he would do my duty, and I would perform his; we were both satisfied, and the fair inference is that no harm was thereby done to the cause. And it was intensely interesting to me, when on picket at night on the crest of some high ridge, to stand and listen to the roar of our cannon pounding at Vicksburg, and watch the flight of the shells from Grant's siege guns and from the heavy guns of our gunboats on the Mississippi. The shells they threw seemed principally to be of the "fuse" variety, and the burning fuse, as the shell flew through the air, left a stream of bright red light behind it like a rocket. I would lean on my gun and contemplate the spectacle with far more complacency and satisfaction than was felt when anxiously watching the practice on us by the other fellows at Salem Cemetery about six months before.

There was another thing I was wont to observe with peculiar attention, when on picket at night during the siege; namely, the operations of the Signal Corps. In the night time they used lighted lanterns in the transmission of intelligence, and they had a code by which the signals could be read with practically the same accuracy as if they had been printed words. The movements of the lights looked curious and strange, something elf-like, with a suspicion of witchcraft, or deviltry of some kind, about them. They would make all sorts of gyrations, up, down, a circle, a half circle to the right, then one to the left, and so on. Sometimes they would be unusually active. Haines' Bluff would talk to Snyder's; Snyder's to Sherman's headquarters; Sherman's to Grant's, and back and forth, all along the line. Occasionally at some station the lights would act almost like some nervous man talking at his highest speed in a perfect splutter of excitement,—and then they would seem as if drunk, or crazy. Of course, I knew nothing of the code of interpretation, and so understood nothing,—could only look and speculate. In modern warfare the telephone has probably superseded the Signal Service, but the latter certainly played an important part in our Civil War.

During the siege we lived high on some comestibles not included in the regular army rations. Corn was in the roasting ear state, and there were plenty of big fields of it beyond and near the picket lines, and we helped ourselves liberally. Our favorite method of cooking the corn was to roast it in the "shuck." We would "snap" the ears from the stalk, leaving the shuck intact, daub over the outside a thin plaster of mud (or sometimes just saturate the ears in water), then cover them with hot ashes and live coals. By the time the fire had consumed the shuck down to the last or inner layer, the corn was done, and it made most delicious eating. We had no butter to spread on it, but it was good enough without. And then the blackberries! I have never seen them so numerous and so large as they were there on those ridges in the rear of Vicksburg. I liked them best raw, taken right from the vine, but sometimes, for a change, would stew them in my coffee can, adding a little sugar, and prepared in this manner they were fine. But, like the darkey's rabbit,—they were good any way. The only serious drawback that we had on our part of the line was the unusual amount of fatal sickness that prevailed among the men. The principal types of disease were camp diarrhea and malarial fevers, resulting, in all probability, largely from the impure water we drank. At first we procured water from shallow and improvised wells that we dug in the hollows and ravines. Wild cane grew luxuriantly in this locality, attaining a height of fifteen or twenty feet, and all other wild vegetation was rank in proportion. The annual growth of all this plant life had been dying and rotting on the ground for ages, and the water would filter through this decomposing mass, and become well-nigh poisonous. An order was soon issued that we should get all water for drinking and cooking purposes from the Yazoo river, and boil it before using, but it was impossible to compel complete obedience to such an order. When men got thirsty, they would drink whatever was handy,—orders to the contrary notwithstanding. And the water of the river was about as bad as the swamp water. I have read somewhere that "Yazoo" is an Indian word, signifying "The River of Death," and if so, it surely was correctly named. It is just my opinion, as a common soldier, that the epidemic of camp diarrhea could have been substantially prevented if all the men had eaten freely of blackberries. I didn't have a touch of that disorder during all the time we were in that locality, and I attribute my immunity to the fact that I ate liberally of blackberries about every day. But camp diarrhea is something that gets in its work quick, and after the men got down with it, they possibly had no chance to get the berries. And all the time we were at Snyder, nearly every hour of the day, could be heard the doleful, mournful notes of the "Dead March," played by the military bands, as some poor fellow was being taken to his long home. It seemed to me at the time, and seems so yet, that they should have left out that piece of music. It did no good, and its effect was very depressing, especially on the sick. Under such circumstances, it would seem that common sense, if exercised, would have dictated the keeping dumb of such saddening funeral strains.

Sometime during the latter part of June the regiment was paid two months' pay by Major C. L. Bernay, a Paymaster of the U.S. Army. He was a fine old German, of remarkably kind and benevolent appearance, and looked more like a venerable Catholic priest than a military man. After he had paid off the regiment, his escort loaded his money chest and his personal stuff into an ambulance, and he was soon ready to go to some other regiment. Several of our officers had assembled to bid him good-by, and I happened to be passing along, and witnessed what transpired. The few farewell remarks of the old man were punctuated by the roar of the big guns of our army and navy pounding away at Vicksburg, and the incident impressed me as somewhat pathetic. "Goot-by, Colonel," said Major Bernay, extending his hand; (Boom!) "Goot-by Major;" (Boom!) "Goot-by, Captain;" (Boom!) and so on, to the others. Then, with a wave of his hand to all the little group, "Goot-by, shentlemens, all." (Boom!) "Maybe so (Boom!) we meet not again." (Boom, boom, boom!) It was quite apparent that he was thinking of the so-called "fortunes of war." Then he sprang into his ambulance, and drove away. His prediction proved true—we never met again.

The morning of the Fourth of July opened serene and peaceful, more so, in fact, than in old times at home, for with us not even the popping of a fire-cracker was heard. And the stillness south of us continued as the day wore on,—the big guns of the army and navy remained absolutely quiet. Our first thought was that because the day was a national holiday, Grant had ordered a cessation of the firing in order to give his soldiers a day of needed rest. It was not until some time in the afternoon that a rumor began to circulate among the common soldiers that Vicksburg had surrendered, and about sundown we learned that such was the fact. So far as I saw or heard, we indulged in no whooping or yelling over the event. We had been confident, all the time, that the thing would finally happen, so we were not taken by surprise. There was a feeling of satisfaction and relief that the end had come, but we took it coolly and as a matter of course.

On the same day that Vicksburg surrendered Grant started the greater part of his army, under the command of Gen. Sherman, in the direction of Jackson for the purpose of attacking Gen. Johnston. Our division, however, remained at Snyder's until July 12th, when we left there, marching southeast. I remember this march especially, from the fact that the greater part of it was made during the night. This was done in order to avoid the excessive heat that prevailed in the daytime. As we plodded along after sunset, at route step, and arms at will, a low hum of conversation could be heard, and occasionally a loud laugh, "that spoke the vacant mind." By ten o'clock we were tired (we had been on the road since noon), and moreover, getting very sleepy. Profound silence now prevailed in the ranks, broken only by the rattle of canteens against the shanks of the bayonets, and the heavy, monotonous tramp of the men. As Walter Scott has said somewhere in one of his poetical works:

"No cymbal clashed, no clarion rang, Still were the pipe and drum; Save heavy tread and armor's clang, The sullen march was dumb."

The column halted about midnight, we bivouacked in the woods by the side of the road, and I was asleep about as soon as I struck the ground.

We resumed the march early in the morning, and during the forenoon arrived at Messinger's ford, on Black river, where we went into camp. We remained here only until July 17, and on that day marched a few miles south to the railroad crossing on Black river, and bivouacked on the west bank of the stream. The Confederates during the campaign had thrown up breastworks of cotton bales, which evidently had extended for quite a distance above and below the railroad crossing. When our fellows came along they tore open the bales and used the cotton to sleep on, and when we arrived at the place the fleecy stuff was scattered over the ground, in some places half-knee deep, all over that portion of the river bottom. It looked like a big snowfall. Cotton, at that very time, was worth one dollar a pound in the New York market, and scarce at that. A big fortune was there in the dirt, going to waste, but we were not in the cotton business just then, so it made no difference to us. At the beginning of the war, it was confidently asserted by the advocates of the secession movement that "Cotton was king;" that the civilized world couldn't do without it, and as the South had a virtual monopoly of the stuff, the need of it would compel the European nations to recognize the independence of the Southern Confederacy, and which would thereby result in the speedy and complete triumph of the Confederate cause. But in thus reasoning they ignored a law of human nature. Men, under the pressure of necessity, can get along without many things which they have previously regarded as indispensable. At this day, in my opinion, many of the alleged wants of mankind are purely artificial, and we would be better off if they were cut out altogether. Aside from various matters of food and drink and absurdities in garb and ornaments, numbers of our rich women in eastern cities regard life as a failure unless they each possess a thousand dollar pet dog, decorated with ribbons and diamond ornaments and honored at dog-functions with a seat at the table, where, on such occasions, pictures of the dogs, with their female owners sitting by them, are taken and reproduced in quarter-page cuts in the Sunday editions of the daily papers. If these women would knock the dogs in the head and bring into the world legitimate babies, (or even illegitimate, for their husbands are probably of the capon breed,) then they might be of some use to the human race; as it is they are a worthless, unnatural burlesque on the species. But this has nothing to do with the war, or the 61st Illinois, so I will pass on.

While we were at the Black river railroad bridge thousands of paroled Confederate soldiers captured at Vicksburg passed us, walking on the railroad track, going eastward. We had strict orders to abstain from making to them any insulting or taunting remarks, and so far as I saw, these orders were faithfully obeyed. The Confederates looked hard. They were ragged, sallow, emaciated, and seemed depressed and disconsolate. They went by us with downcast looks and in silence. I heard only one of them make any remark whatever, and he was a little drummer boy, apparently not more than fifteen years old. He tried to say something funny,—but it was a dismal failure.

While in camp at the railroad crossing on Black river, a most agreeable incident occurred, the pleasure of which has not been lessened by the flight of time, but rather augmented. But to comprehend it fully, some preliminary explanation might be advisable. Before the war there lived a few miles from our home, near the Jersey Landing settlement, a quaint and most interesting character, of the name of Benjamin F. Slaten. He owned and lived on a farm, but had been admitted to the bar, and practiced law to some extent, as a sort of a side-line. But I think that until after the war his practice, in the main, was confined to the courts of justices of the peace. He was a shrewd, sensible old man, of a remarkably kind and genial disposition, but just about the homeliest looking individual I ever saw. And he had a most singular, squeaky sort of a voice, with a kind of a nasal twang to it, which if heard once could never be forgotten. He was an old friend of my father's, and had been his legal adviser (so far as his few and trifling necessities in that line required) from time immemorial. And for a year or so prior to the outbreak of the war my thoughts had been running much on the science of law, and I had a strong desire, if the thing could be accomplished, to sometime be a lawyer myself. So, during the period aforesaid, whenever I would meet "Uncle Ben" (as we frequently called him), I would have a lot of questions to fire at him about some law points, which it always seemed to give him much pleasure to answer. I remember yet one statement he made to me that later, (and sometimes to my great chagrin,) I found out was undeniably true. "Leander," said he, "if ever you get into the practice of law, you'll find that it is just plum full of little in-trick-ate pints." (But things are not as bad now in that respect as they were then.) The war ensued, and in September, 1862, he entered the service as Captain of Co. K of the 97th Illinois Infantry. He was about forty-two years old at this time. In due course of events the regiment was sent south, and became a part of the Army of the Tennessee, but the paths of the 61st and the 97th were on different lines, and I never met Capt. Slaten in the field until the happening of the incident now to be mentioned.

When we were at Black river I was on picket one night about a mile or so from camp, at a point on an old country road. Some time shortly after midnight, while I was curled up asleep in a corner of the old worm fence by the side of the road, I was suddenly awakened by an energetic shake, accompanied by the loud calling of my name. I sprang to my feet at once, thinking maybe some trouble was afoot, and, to my surprise, saw Capt. Keeley standing in front of me, with some other gentleman. "Stillwell," said Keeley, "here's an old friend of yours. He wanted to see you, and being pressed for time, his only chance for a little visit was to come to you on the picket line." My caller stood still, and said nothing. I saw that he was an officer, for his shoulder straps were plainly visible, but I could not be sure of his rank, for there was no moon, and the night was dark. He was wearing an old "sugar-loaf" hat, seemingly much decayed, his blouse was covered with dust, and, in general, he looked tough. His face was covered with a thick, scraggy beard, and under all these circumstances it was impossible for me to recognize him. I was very anxious to do so in view of the trouble the officer had taken to come away out on the picket line, in the middle of the night, to see me, but I just couldn't, and began to stammer a sort of apology about the darkness of the night hindering a prompt recognition, when the "unknown" gave his head a slant to one side, and, in his never forgettable voice, spoke thus to Keeley: "I told you he wouldn't know me." "I know you now," said I; "I'd recognize that voice if I heard it in Richmond! This is Capt. Ben Slaten, of the 97th Illinois;" and springing forward I seized his right hand with both of mine, while he threw his left arm about my neck and fairly hugged me. It soon came out in the conversation that ensued that his regiment had been with Sherman in the recent move on Jackson; that it was now returning with that army to the vicinity of Vicksburg, and had arrived at Black river that night; that he had at once hunted up the 61st Illinois to have a visit with me, and ascertaining that I was on picket, had persuaded Capt. Keeley to come with him to the picket line, as his regiment would leave early in the morning on the march, hence this would be his only opportunity for a brief meeting. And we all certainly had a most delightful visit with the old Captain. From the time of his arrival until his departure there was no sleeping, by anybody, on that picket post. We sat on the ground in a little circle around him, and listened to his comical and side-splitting stories of army life, and incidents in camp and field generally. He was an inimitable story teller, and his peculiar tone and manner added immensely to the comicality of his anecdotes. And somehow he had the happy faculty of extracting something humorous, or absurd, from what the generality of men would have regarded as a very serious affair. He did the most of the talking that night, while the rest of us sat there and fairly screamed with laughter. It was well known and understood that there were no armed Confederates in our vicinity, so we ran no risk in being a little careless. Finally, when the owls began tuning up for day, the old Captain bade us good-by, and trudged away, accompanied by Capt. Keeley.

To fully comprehend this little episode, it is, perhaps, necessary to have some understanding and appreciation of how a soldier away down south, far from home and the friends he had left behind, enjoyed meeting some dear old friend of the loved neighborhood of home. It was almost equal to having a short furlough.

I never again met Capt. Slaten during the war. He came out of it alive, with an excellent record,—and about thirty-seven years after the close died at his old home in Jersey county, Illinois, sincerely regretted and mourned by a large circle of acquaintances and friends.



CHAPTER XI.

HELENA, ARKANSAS. LIFE IN A HOSPITAL. AUGUST, 1863.

General Sherman soon drove General Johnston out of Jackson, and beyond Pearl river, and then his column returned to the vicinity of Vicksburg. On July 22nd our division marched back to Snyder's Bluff, and resumed our old camp. But we had not been here long before it was rumored that we were under marching orders, and would soon leave for some point in Arkansas. Sure enough, on July 29th we marched to the Yazoo river and filed on board the side-wheel steamer "Sultana," steamed down the river to its mouth, and there turned up the Mississippi, headed north. I will remark here that one of the most tragical and distressing incidents of the war was directly connected with a frightful disaster that later befell the above named steamboat. It left Vicksburg for the north on or about April 25, 1865, having on board nearly 1900 Union soldiers, all of whom (with few exceptions) were paroled prisoners. On the morning of April 27th, while near Memphis, the boilers of the boat exploded, and it was burnt to the water's edge. Over 1100 of these unfortunate men perished in the wreck, in different ways; some scalded to death by escaping steam, some by fire, others (and the greatest number) by drowning. Besides the soldiers, cabin passengers and members of the boat's crew, to the number of about 140, also perished. It was the greatest disaster, of that kind, that ever occurred on the Mississippi.

It may, perhaps, be noticed that the regiment is leaving the vicinity of Vicksburg without my saying a word about the appearance, at that time, of that celebrated stronghold. There is good reason for it; namely, it so happened that we never were in the place. We were close to it, on the north and on the east, but that was all. And I never yet have seen Vicksburg, and it is not probable now that I ever shall.

We arrived at Helena, Arkansas, on July 31st, debarked and went into camp near the bank of the river, about two miles below the town. There were no trees in our camp except a few cottonwoods; the ground on which we walked, sat, and slept was, in the main, just a mass of hot sand, and we got water for drinking and cooking purposes from the Mississippi river. The country back of the town, and in that immediate vicinity generally, was wild and thinly settled, and had already been well-foraged, so we were restricted to the ordinary army diet, of which one of the principal items, as usual, was fat sow-belly. I never understood why we were not allowed to camp in the woods west of the town. There was plenty of high, well-shaded space there, and we soon could have sunk wells that would have furnished cool, palatable water. But this was not done, and the regiment remained for about two weeks camped on the river bank, in the conditions above described. A natural result was that numbers of the men were prostrated by malarial fever, and this time I happened to be one of them. I now approach a painful period of my army career. I just lay there, in a hot tent, on the sand,—oh, so sick! But I fought off going to the hospital as long as possible. I had a superstitious dread of an army hospital. I had seen so many of the boys loaded into ambulances, and hauled off to such a place, who never returned, that I was determined never to go to one if it could be avoided in any honorable way. But the time came when it was a military necessity that I should go, and there was no alternative. The campaign that was in contemplation was a movement westward against the Confederates under Gen. Sterling Price at Little Rock, with the intention of capturing that place and driving the Confederates from the State. The officer in command of the Union forces was Gen. Frederick Steele. Marching orders were issued, fixing the 13th of August as the day our regiment would start. All the sick who were unable to march (and I was among that number) were to be sent to the Division Hospital. So, on the morning before the regiment moved, an ambulance drove up to my tent, and some of the boys carried me out and put me in the vehicle. Capt. Keeley was standing by; he pressed my hand and said, "Good-by, Stillwell; brace up! You'll be all right soon." I was feeling too wretched to talk much; I only said, "Good-by, Captain," and let it go at that. Later, when I rejoined the regiment, Keeley told me that when he bade me good-by that morning he never expected to see me again.

Our Division Hospital, to which I was taken, consisted of a little village of wall tents in the outskirts of Helena. The tents were arranged in rows, with perhaps from fifteen to twenty in a row, with their ends pinned back against the sides, thus making an open space down an entire row. The sick men lay on cots, of which there was a line on each side of the interior of the tents, with a narrow aisle between. I remained at the hospital eight days, and was very sick the most of the time, and retain a distinct recollection of only a few things. But, aside from men dying all around me, both day and night, nothing important happened. All the accounts that I have read of this movement of Gen. Steele's on Little Rock agree in stating that the number of men he left sick at Helena and other places between there and Little Rock was extraordinary and beyond all usual proportions. And from what I saw myself, I think these statements must be true. And a necessary consequence of this heavy sick list was the fact that it must have been impossible to give the invalids the care and attention they should have received. We had but few attendants, and they were soldiers detailed for that purpose who were too feeble to march, but were supposed to be capable of rendering hospital service. And the medical force left with us was so scanty that it was totally inadequate for the duties they were called on to perform. Oh, those nights were so long! At intervals in the aisle a bayonet would be stuck in the ground with a lighted candle in its socket, and when a light went out, say after midnight, it stayed out, and we would toss around on those hard cots in a state of semi-darkness until daylight. If any attendants moved around among us in the later hours of the night I never saw them. We had well-water to drink, which, of course, was better than that from the river, but it would soon become insipid and warm, and sometimes, especially during the night, we didn't have enough of that. On one occasion, about midnight, soon after I was taken to the hospital, I was burning with fever, and became intolerably thirsty for a drink of water. No attendants were in sight, and the candles had all gone out but one or two, which emitted only a sort of flickering light that barely served to "render darkness visible." My suffering became well-nigh unendurable, and I could stand it no longer. I got up and staggered to the door of the tent and looking about me saw not far away a light gleaming through a tent that stood apart from the others. I made my way to it as best I could, and went in. A young fellow, maybe an assistant surgeon, was seated at the further end cf a little desk, writing. My entrance was so quiet that he did not hear me, and walking up to him, I said, in a sort of a hollow voice: "I want—a drink—of water." The fellow dropped his pen, and nearly fell off his stool. The only garment I had on was a white, sleazy sort of cotton bed-gown, which they garbed us all in when we were taken to the hospital; and this chap's eyes, as he stared at me, looked as if they would pop out of his head. Perhaps he thought I was a "gliding ghost." But he got me some water, and I drank copiously. I don't clearly remember what followed. It seems to me that this man helped me back to my tent, but I am not sure. However, I was in the same old cot next morning.

The fare at the hospital was not of a nature liable to generate an attack of the gout, but I reckon those in charge did the best they could. The main thing seemed to be a kind of thin soup, with some grains of rice, or barley, in it. What the basis of it was I don't know. I munched a hardtack occasionally, which was far better than the soup. But my appetite was quite scanty, anyhow. One day we each had at dinner, served in our tin plates, about two or three tablespoonfuls of preserved currants, for which it was said we were indebted to the U.S. Sanitary Commission. It seemed that a boat load of such goods came down the river, in charge of a committee of ladies, destined for our hospitals at Vicksburg. The boat happened to make a temporary stop at Helena, and the ladies ascertained that there was at the hospitals there great need of sanitary supplies, so they donated us the bulk of their cargo. I will remark here that that little dab of currants was all the U.S. Sanitary stuff I consumed during my army service. I am not kicking; merely stating the fact. Those goods very properly went to the hospitals, and as my stay therein was brief, my share of the delicacies was consequently correspondingly slight.

As regards the medicine given us in the hospital at Helena, my recollection is that it was almost entirely quinine, and the doses were frequent and copious, which I suppose was all right.

There was a boy in my company of about my age; a tall, lanky chap, named John Barton. He had lived in our neighborhood at home, and we were well acquainted prior to our enlistment. He was a kind hearted, good sort of a fellow, but he had, while in the army, one unfortunate weakness,—the same being a voracious appetite for intoxicating liquor. And he had a remarkable faculty for getting the stuff, under any and all circumstances. He could nose it out, in some way, as surely and readily as a bear could find a bee-tree. But to keep the record straight, I will further say that after his discharge he turned over a new leaf, quit the use of whisky, and lived a strictly temperate life. He was "under the weather" when the regiment left Helena, and so was detailed to serve as a nurse at the hospital, and was thus engaged in my tent. Since making that bad break at Owl Creek I had avoided whisky as if it were a rattlesnake, but somehow, while here in the hospital, I began to feel an intense craving for some "spiritus frumenti," as the surgeons called it. So one day I asked John Barton if he couldn't get me a canteenful of whisky. He said he didn't know, was afraid it would be a difficult job,—but to give him my canteen, and he would try. That night, as late maybe as one or two o'clock, and when the lights were nearly all out, as usual, I heard some one stealthily walking up the aisle, and stopping occasionally at different cots, and presently I heard a hoarse whisper, "Stillwell! Stillwell!" "Here!" I answered, in the same tone. The speaker then came to me,—it was old John, and stooping down, he whispered, "By God, I've got it!" "Bully for you, John!" said I. He raised me to a sitting posture, removed the cork, and put the mouth of the canteen to my lips,—and I drank about as long as I could hold my breath. John took a moderate swig himself, then carefully put the canteen in my knapsack, which was serving as my pillow, cautioned me to keep it concealed to avoid its being stolen, and went away. I was asleep in about five minutes after my head struck my knapsack, and slept all the balance of the night just like a baby. On waking up, I felt better, too, and wanted something to eat. However, let no one think, who may read these lines, that I favor the use of whisky as a medicine, for I don't. But the situation in those Helena hospitals was unusual and abnormal. The water was bad, our food was no good and very unsatisfactory, and the conditions generally were simply wretched. I am not blaming the military authorities. They doubtless did the best they could. It seemed to me that I was getting weaker every day. It looked as if something had to be done, and acting on the maxim that "desperate cases require desperate remedies," I resorted for the time being to the whisky treatment. I made one unsuccessful attempt afterwards to get some to serve as a tonic, which perhaps may be mentioned later, and then forever abandoned the use of the stuff for any purpose.

Immediately succeeding the above mentioned incident, the fever let up on me, and I began to get better, though still very weak. My great concern, right now, was to rejoin the regiment just as soon as possible. It was taking part in an active campaign, in which fighting was expected, and the idea was intolerable that the other boys should be at the front, marching and fighting, while I was in the rear, playing the part of a "hospital pimp." It was reported that a steamboat was going to leave soon, via Mississippi and White rivers, with convalescents for Steele's army, and I made up my mind to go on that boat, at all hazards. But to accomplish that it was necessary, as I was informed, to get a written permit from the Division Surgeon, Maj. Shuball York, of the 54th Illinois Infantry. So one morning, bright and early, I blacked my shoes and brushed up my old cap and clothing generally, and started to Maj. York's headquarters to get the desired permission. He was occupying a large two-story house, with shade trees in the yard, in the residence part of town, and his office was in the parlor, in the first story of the building. I walked in, and found an officer of the rank of Major seated at a table, engaged in writing. I removed my cap and, standing at attention, saluted him, and asked if this was Maj. York, and was answered in the affirmative. I had my little speech carefully prepared, and proceeded at once to deliver it, as follows:

"My name is Leander Stillwell; I am a sergeant of Co. D, of the 61st Illinois Infantry, which is now with Gen. Steele's army. The regiment marched about a week ago, and, as I was then sick with a fever, I could not go, but was sent to the Division Hospital, here in Helena. I am now well, and have come to you to request a permit to enable me to rejoin my regiment."

The Major looked at me closely while I was speaking, and after I had concluded he remained silent for a few seconds, still scrutinizing me intently. Then he said, in a low and very kind tone: "Why, sergeant, you are not able for duty, and won't be for some time. Stay here till you get a little stronger."

His statement was a bitter disappointment to me. I stood there in silence a little while, twisting and turning, with trembling hands, my old faded and battered cap. I finally managed to say, "I want—to go—to—my regiment;"—and here my lips began to tremble, and I got no further. Now don't laugh at this. It was simply the case of a boy, weak and broken down by illness, who was homesick to be with his comrades. The Major did not immediately respond to my last remark, but continued to look at me intently. Presently he picked up his pen, and said: "I am inclined to think that the best medical treatment for you is to let you go to your regiment;" and he thereupon wrote and handed me the permit, which was quite brief, consisting only of a few lines. I thanked him, and departed with a light heart.

I will digress here for a moment to chronicle, with deep sorrow, the sad fate that ultimately befell the kind and noble surgeon, Maj. York. While he, with his regiment, was home on veteran furlough, in March, 1864, an organized gang of Copperheads made a dastardly attack on some of the soldiers of the regiment at Charleston, Illinois, and murdered Maj. York and five privates, and also severely wounded the Colonel, Greenville M. Mitchell, and three privates. (See Official Records, War of the Rebellion, Serial No. 57, page 629, et seq.)

The war ended over half a century ago, and the feelings and passions engendered thereby, as between the people of the Nation and those of the late Confederate States, have well-nigh wholly subsided, which is right. But nevertheless I will set it down here that in my opinion the most "undesirable citizens" that ever have afflicted our country were the traitorous, malignant breed that infested some portions of the loyal States during the war, and were known as "Copperheads." The rattlesnake gives warning before it strikes, but the copperhead snake, of equally deadly venom, gives none, and the two-legged copperheads invariably pursued the same course. They deserved the name.

On leaving Maj. York's office I returned to the hospital and gathered up my stuff, which included my gun, cartridge box, knapsack, haversack, and canteen,—and said good-by to Barton and the other boys I knew. Then to the commissary tent, and exhibiting my permit, was furnished with five days' rations of hardtack, bacon, coffee, and sugar. Thence to the river landing, and on to the steamboat "Pike," which was to take the present batch of convalescents to Steele's army.



CHAPTER XII.

DEVALL'S BLUFF. LITTLE ROCK. AUGUST-OCTOBER, 1863.

On the morning of August 21st, the "Pike" cast off, and started down the Mississippi river. On reaching the mouth of White river, we turned up that stream, and on August 26th arrived at Devall's Bluff, on the west bank, where we debarked. Our trip from Helena was slow and uneventful. The country along White river from its mouth to Devall's Bluff was wild, very thinly settled, and practically in a state of nature. We passed only two towns on the stream—St. Charles and Clarendon, both small places. On different occasions I saw several bears and deer on the river bank, they having come there for water. Of course they ran back into the woods when the boat got near them. All of Steele's infantry was temporarily in camp at Devall's Bluff, while his cavalry was some miles further out. I soon found the old regiment, and received a warm welcome from all of Co. D. They were much surprised to see me, as they had no idea that I would be able to leave the hospital so soon. They had had no fighting on this campaign, so far, and they said that their march across the country from Helena had been monotonous and devoid of any special interest.

During my first night at Devall's Bluff there came a heavy and protracted rain storm, and on waking up the following morning I found myself about half hip-deep in a puddle of water. And this was the beginning of more trouble. My system was full of quinine taken to break the fever while in the hospital, and the quinine and this soaking in the water did not agree. In a short time I began to feel acute rheumatic twinges in the small of my back, and in a day or two was practically helpless, and could not get up, or walk around, without assistance.



The regiment left Devall's Bluff, with the balance of the army, on September 1st, advancing towards Little Rock. I was totally unable to march, but was determined to go along some way, and with Capt. Keeley's permission, the boys put me into one of the regimental wagons. This wagon happened to be loaded with barrels of pickled pork, standing on end, and my seat was on top of one of the barrels, and it was just the hardest, most painful day's ride in a wagon I ever endured. I was suffering intensely from acute rheumatism in the "coupling region," and in this condition trying to keep steady on the top of a barrel, and being occasionally violently pitched against the ends of the barrel staves when the wagon gave a lurch into a deep rut,—which would give me well-nigh intolerable pain. To make matters worse, the day was very hot, so, when evening came and the column halted, I was mighty near "all in." But some of the boys helped me out and laid me on my blanket in the shade, and later brought me some supper of hardtack, bacon, and coffee. Except the rheumatism, I was all right, and had a good appetite, and after a hearty supper, felt better. Next morning, in consequence of the active exertions of Capt. Keeley in the matter, an ambulance drove up where I was lying, and I was loaded into it, and oh, it was a luxury! Poor Enoch Wallace had been taken down with a malarial fever, and he was also a passenger, likewise two other soldiers whose names I have forgotten. Enoch had been promoted to second lieutenant and had been acting as such for some months, but his commission was not issued until September 3rd,—a day when he was a very sick man. From this on, until September 10th, the day our forces captured Little Rock, my days were spent in the ambulance. At night, the sick of each division (of whom there were hundreds) would bivouac by the side of some lagoon, or small water course, the attendants would prepare us some supper, and the surgeons would make their rounds, administering such medicine as the respective cases required. The prevailing type of sickness was malarial fever, for which, the sovereign specific seemed to be quinine. As for me, I was exempt from the taking of medicine, for which I was thankful. The surgeon, after inquiry into my case, would sententiously remark, "Ah! acute rheumatism," and pass on. I was at a loss to understand this seeming neglect, but a sort of explanation was given me later, which will be mentioned in its order. The food that was given the sick was meager and very unsatisfactory, but it was probably the best that could be furnished, under the circumstances. Each man was given an oyster-can full of what seemed to be beef-soup, with some rice or barley grains in it. By the time it got around to us there was usually a thin crust of cold tallow on the top, and the mere looks of the mess was enough to spoil one's appetite,—if he had any. One evening, Wallace and I were sitting side by side with our backs against a tree, when an attendant came to us and gave each one his can of the decoction above mentioned. It was comical to see the look of disgust that came over the face of poor Enoch. He turned towards me, and tilting his can slightly to enable me to see the contents, spoke thus: "Now, ain't this nice stuff to give a sick man? I've a good notion to throw the whole business in that fellow's face;" (referring to the attendant). "The trouble with you, Enoch," I said, "is that you are losing your patriotism, and I shouldn't be surprised if you'd turn Secesh yet. Kicking on this rich, delicious soup! Next thing you'll be ordering turtle-soup and clamoring for napkins and finger-bowls. You remind me of a piece of poetry I have read somewhere, something like this:

'Jeshurun waxed fat, And down his belly hung, Against the government he kicked, And high his buttocks flung'."

The poor old fellow leaned back against the tree, and indulged in a long, silent laugh that really seemed to do him good. I would joke with him, after this fashion, a good deal, and long afterwards he told me that he believed he would have died on that march if I hadn't kept his spirits up by making ridiculous remarks. (In speaking of Wallace as "old," the word is used in a comparative sense, for the fact is he was only about thirty-four years of age at this time.)

On the evening of September 9th, the sick of our division bivouacked by the side of a small bayou, in a dense growth of forest trees. Next morning the rumor spread among us that on that day a battle was impending, that our advance was close to the Confederates, and that a determined effort would be made for the capture of Little Rock. Sure enough, during the forenoon, the cannon began to boom a few miles west of us, and our infantry was seen rapidly moving in that direction. As I lay there helpless on the ground, I could not avoid worrying somewhat about the outcome of the battle. If our forces should be defeated, we sick fellows would certainly be in a bad predicament. I could see, in my mind's eye, our ambulance starting on a gallop for Devall's Bluff, while every jolt of the conveyance would inflict on me excruciating pain. But this suspense did not last long. The artillery practice soon began moving further towards the west, and was only of short duration anyhow. And we saw no stragglers, which was an encouraging sign, and some time during the afternoon we learned that all was going in our favor. From the standpoint of a common soldier, I have always thought that General Steele effected the capture of Little Rock with commendable skill and in a manner that displayed sound military judgment. The town was on the west side of the Arkansas river, and our army approached it from the east. Gen. Price, the Confederate commander, had constructed strong breastworks a short distance east of the town, and on the east side of the river, commanding the road on which we were approaching. The right of these works rested on the river, and the left on an impassable swamp. But Gen. Steele did not choose to further Price's plans by butting his infantry up against the Confederate works. He entertained him at that point by ostentatious demonstrations, and attacked elsewhere. The Arkansas was very low, in many places not much more than a wide sandbar, and was easily fordable at numerous points. So Steele had his cavalry and some of his infantry ford the river to the west side, below the town, and advance along the west bank, which was not fortified. Gen. Price, seeing that his position was turned and that his line of retreat was in danger of being cut off, withdrew his troops from the east side and evacuated Little Rock about five o'clock in the afternoon, retreating southwest. Our troops followed close on his heels, and marched in and took possession of the capital city of the State of Arkansas. Our loss, in the entire campaign, was insignificant, being only a little over a hundred, in killed, wounded, and missing. The 61st was with the troops that operated on the east side of the river, and sustained no loss whatever. A few cannon balls, poorly aimed and flying high, passed over the regiment, but did no mischief,—beyond shaking the nerves of some recruits who never before had been under fire.

About sundown on the evening of the 10th, the ambulance drivers hitched up, and the sick were taken to a division hospital located near the east bank of the river. Capt. Keeley came over the next day to see Wallace and myself, and, at my urgent request, he arranged for me to be sent to the regiment. As heretofore stated, I just loathed the idea of being in a hospital. There were so many disagreeable and depressing things occurring there every day, and which could not be helped, that they inspired in me a sort of desperate determination to get right out of such a place,—and stay out, if possible. Early next morning an ambulance drove up, I was put in it, and taken to the camp of the old regiment. Some of the boys carried me into a tent, and laid me down on a cot, and I was once more in the society of men who were not groaning with sickness, but were cheerful and happy. But it was my fate to lie on that cot for more than a month, and unable even to turn over without help. And I shall never forget the kindness of Frank Gates during that time. He would come every day, when not on duty, and bathe and rub my rheumatic part with a rag soaked in vinegar, almost scalding hot, which seemed to give me temporary relief. There was an old doctor, of the name of Thomas D. Washburn, an assistant surgeon of the 126th Illinois Infantry, who, for some reason, had been detailed to serve temporarily with our regiment, and he would sometimes drop in to see me. He was a tall old man, something over six feet high, and gaunt in proportion. I don't remember that he ever gave me any medicine, or treatment of any kind, for the reason, doubtless, that will now be stated. One day I said to him, "Doctor, is there nothing that can be done for me? Must I just lie here and suffer indefinitely?" He looked down at me sort of sympathetically, and slowly said: "I will answer your question by telling you a little story. Once upon a time a young doctor asked an old one substantially the same question you have just asked me, which the old doctor answered by saying: 'Yes, there is just one remedy:—six weeks'." And, patting me lightly on the shoulder, he further remarked, "That's all;" and left. The sequel in my case confirmed Dr. Washburn's story.

The spot where the regiment went into camp on the day of the capture of Little Rock was opposite the town, on the east bank of the Arkansas, not far from the river, and in a scattered grove of trees. The locality was supposed to be a sort of suburb of the town, and was designated at the time in army orders as "Huntersville." But the only house that I now remember of being near our camp was a little, old, ramshackle building that served as a railroad depot. Speaking of the railroad, it extended only from here to Devall's Bluff, a distance of about fifty miles, and was the only railroad at that time in the State of Arkansas. The original project of the road contemplated a line from Little Rock to a point on the Mississippi opposite Memphis. Work was begun on the western terminus, and the road was completed and in operation as far as Devall's Bluff before the war, and then the war came along and the work stopped. Since then the road has been completed as originally planned. This little old sawed-off railroad was quite a convenience to our army at the Rock, as it obviated what otherwise would have been the necessity of hauling our supplies in wagons across the country from Devall's Bluff. It also frequently came handy for transporting the troops, and several times saved our regiment, and, of course, others, from a hot and tiresome march.

For some weeks while in camp at Huntersville, we lived high on several articles of food not included in the army rations. There were a good many sheep in the country round about that the military authorities confiscated, and so we had many a feast on fine, fresh mutton. Corn was plentiful also, and corn meal was issued to us liberally. Last, but not least, the rich Arkansas river bottom lands abounded in great big yellow sweet potatoes that the country people called "yams," and we just reveled in them to our entire satisfaction.

There was a boy in my company named William Banfield, about the same age as myself. We had been near neighbors at home, and intimate friends. Bill was a splendid soldier, seldom sick, and always performed his soldier duties cheerfully and without grumbling. And Bill was blessed with a good digestion, and apparently was always hungry. The place where he would build his cook-fire in this camp was near the front of my tent, where I had a good view of his operations. I was lying helpless on my cot, and, like others so situated from time immemorial, had nothing to do, and scarcely did anything else but watch the neighbors. Among the cherished possessions of our company was an old-fashioned cast-iron Dutch oven, of generous proportions, which was just the dandy for baking mutton. Well, Bill would, in the first place, get his chunk of mutton, a fine big piece of the saddle, or of a ham, and put it on to cook in the oven. Then we had another oven, a smaller affair of the skillet order, in which Bill would set to cooking a corn meal cake. At the right stage of the proceedings he would slice up some yams, and put them in with the mutton. Next, and last, he would make at least a quart of strong, black coffee. Both from long experience and critical observation, Bill knew to the fraction of a minute how long it would take for all his converging columns of table comforts to reach the done point on time and all together, and the resulting harmony was perfection itself, and (to use an overworked phrase) "left nothing to be desired." Dinner now being ready, the first thing Bill did was to bring me an ample allowance of the entire bill of fare, and which, by the way, I had to dispose of as best I could lying down, as it was impossible for me to sit up. Having seen to the needs of a disabled comrade, Bill next proceeded to clear his own decks for action. He seated himself at the foot of a big tree, on the shady side, with his back against the trunk; then spreading his legs apart in the shape of a pair of carpenter's compasses, he placed between them the oven containing the mutton and yams, at his left hand the skillet with the cornbread, and on his right his can of coffee—and then the services began. And how Bill would enjoy his dinner! There was no indecent haste about it, no bolting of the delicacies, or anything of the sort. He proceeded slowly and with dignity, while occasionally he would survey the landscape with a placid, contented air. But everything was devoured,—the last crumb of cornbread did duty in sopping up the final drop of grease. The banquet over, Bill would sit there a while in silence, gazing, perchance, at the shimmering waters of the Arkansas, and its sandbars, glittering in the sun. But ere long his head would begin to droop, he would throw one leg over the Dutch oven, swinging the limb clear of that utensil, settle himself snugly against the tree, and in about five minutes would be asleep.

At the time I am now writing, (October, 1916,) Bill is yet alive, and residing at Grafton, Illinois. He is a good old fellow, and "long may he wave."



CHAPTER XIII.

LITTLE ROCK, OCTOBER, 1863. GRANTED A FURLOUGH. CHAPLAIN B. B. HAMILTON. THE JOURNEY ON FURLOUGH FROM LITTLE ROCK TO JERSEY COUNTY, ILLINOIS. RETURN TO REGIMENT, NOVEMBER, 1863.

About the middle of October the regiment shifted its camp ground from Huntersville to an open space on the west side of the river, near the State penitentiary, where we remained all the ensuing winter. Soon after this change of camp it was reported among us that one man from each company would soon be granted a thirty day furlough. Prior to this, while in Tennessee, there had been a very few furloughs granted in exceptional cases, which were all the indulgencies of that kind the regiment had so far received. I made no request to be the favored man of our company in this matter, but one day Capt. Keeley told me that he had decided that I should be the furloughed man from Co. D, and could make my arrangements accordingly. By this time I had so far recovered from my rheumatism that I could walk around with the aid of a cane, but was very "shaky" on foot, and any sudden shock or jar would make me flinch with pain. I wondered how I should be able to get from the camp to the railroad depot on the other side of the river, with my knapsack, haversack and canteen, and their necessary contents, for I was utterly unable to carry them. I happened to mention this problem to the chaplain of the regiment, B. B. Hamilton. He was an old and valued friend of my parents, and, as he had lived only a few miles from our home, I knew him quite well before the war, and had heard him preach many a time. He was of the Baptist denomination, and my parents were of the same religious faith. At this time he was still what I would now call a young man, being only about forty years old. My father's given name was Jeremiah, and the Chaplain almost invariably, when speaking to me, would, in a grave, deliberate manner, address me as "Son of Jeremiah." When I mentioned to him my perplexity above indicated, he responded: "Son of Jeremiah, let not your heart be troubled. The Lord will provide." Knowing that what he said could be depended upon, I asked no questions. The precious document giving me thirty-days leave of absence was delivered to me in due time, and our little squad arranged to start on the next train, and which would leave Little Rock for Devall's Bluff early the following day. I had my breakfast betimes the next morning, and was sitting on the ground in front of my tent, with my traps by me, when Chaplain Hamilton came riding up on his horse. He dismounted, and saying to me, "Son of Jeremiah, the Lord has provided," thereupon helped me on his horse, and we started for the depot, the Chaplain walking by my side. We crossed the Arkansas on a sort of improvised army bridge, and were approaching the depot, when a locomotive on the track near-by began to let off steam. The horse evidently was not accustomed to that, he gave a frantic snort, and began to prance and rear. For a second or so I was in an agony of apprehension. I was incumbered with my knapsack and other things, was weak and feeble, and no horseman anyhow, and knew that if I should be violently thrown to the ground, it would just about break me all to pieces, and my furlough would end then and there. But it is likely that the Chaplain may have apprehended the horse's conduct; at any rate, he was on the alert. With one bound he was in front of the frightened animal, holding him firmly by the bridle bits, and had him under control at once. And about the same time the engine stopped its noise, and the trouble was over. The cars destined for Devall's Bluff were on the track, and the Chaplain, and some of our furlough party who had already arrived, helped me on the train. Of course there were no passenger coaches,—just box and gravel cars, and I seated myself on the floor of one of the latter. I gratefully thanked the Chaplain for his kindness, he said a few pleasant words, gave me a kind message for the folks at home, wished me a safe and pleasant trip, and then rode away.

This is probably a fitting place to pay a brief tribute to the memory of Chaplain Hamilton, so I will proceed to do so. The first chaplain of the regiment was a minister named Edward Rutledge. He was appointed May 16, 1862, and resigned September 3rd, of the same year. I do not remember of his ever officiating often in the capacity of chaplain. I recall just one occasion when he preached to us, and that was under somewhat peculiar circumstances. He came to the regiment when we were in camp at Owl Creek, Tennessee, and, soon after his arrival, there was read one Saturday evening at dress parade an order in substance and effect as follows: That at a designated time on the following morning the men would assemble on their respective company parade grounds, wearing their "side-arms," (which included waist- and shoulder-belts, cartridge-box, cap-pouch and bayonet,) and under the command of a commissioned officer each company would march to the grove where the chaplain would hold religious services. Well, I didn't like that order one bit, and the great majority of the boys felt the same way. The idea of having to attend church under compulsion seemed to me to infringe on our constitutional rights as free-born American citizens, that while it might have been a thing to be endured in the days described in Fox's "Book of Martyrs," nevertheless, it wasn't exactly fair right now. But orders must be obeyed, so we all turned out with the prescribed "side-arms," and, like the young oysters that were inveigled by the Walrus and the Carpenter,—

"Our clothes were brushed, our faces washed, Our shoes were clean and neat."

But it is much to be feared that the chaplain's discourse didn't do anybody a bit of good. For my part, I don't now remember a word, not even the text. The order aforesaid gave so much dissatisfaction to the rank and file, and perhaps to some of the line officers also, that it was never repeated, and thereafter attendance on the chaplain's preaching was a matter left to each man's pleasure and discretion. Judging only from what came under my personal notice, I don't think that much good was ever accomplished by chaplains in the Western army, as regards matters of a purely theological nature. As some one has said somewhere: "Army service in time of war is d—d hard on religion." But in practical, everyday matters, chaplains had ample opportunities for doing, and did, a great deal of good. They held the rank and wore the uniform of a captain,—and, while they had no military command over the men, they were, nevertheless, so far as I ever saw, always treated by the soldiers with the most kind and respectful consideration. To fill the vacancy caused by the resignation of Rutledge, B. B. Hamilton was commissioned chaplain on October 30, 1862, and came to us about that date. He had been active in the ministry at home for many years, and during that time had preached in Jersey, Greene, and the adjoining counties, so he was personally known to many of the officers and men. He was a man of good, sound common sense, an excellent judge of human nature, and endowed with a dry, quaint sort of humor that was delightful. When talking with intimate friends, he was prone, at times, to drop into an Oriental style of conversation, well garnished with sayings and illustrations from the Bible. I don't remember now of his preaching to us very often, and when he did he was tactful in selecting a time when the conditions were all favorable. In his discourses he ignored all questions of theology, such as faith, free-will, foreordination, the final perseverance of the saints, and such like, and got right down to matters involved in our every-day life. He would admonish us to be careful about our health, to avoid excesses of any kind that might be injurious to us in that respect, and above all things, to be faithful and brave soldiers, and conduct ourselves in such a manner that our army record would be an honor to us, and a source of pride and satisfaction to our parents and friends at home. In camp or on the march, he was a most useful and industrious man. He would visit the sick, write letters for them, and in general look after their needs in countless ways. He wrote a fine, neat, legible hand, and rendered much assistance to many of the line officers in making out the muster and pay rolls of their respective companies, and in attending to other matters connected with the company records, or official correspondence. And when the regiment had fighting to do, or a prospect of any, Chaplain Hamilton was always at the front. In the affair at Salem Cemetery, Hez. Giberson of Co. G was knocked down and rendered insensible for a short time by the near-by explosion of a shell. Hamilton ran to him, picked him up, and taking him by the arm, marched him to the rear, while shells were bursting all around us. I saw them as they walked by,—Giberson white as a sheet, staggering, and evidently deathly sick, but the chaplain clung to him, kept him on his feet, and ultimately turned him over to the surgeon.



The spring of 1865 found the regiment at Franklin, Tennessee. The war was then practically over in that region, and any organized armies of the Confederates were hundreds of miles away. Hamilton's health had become greatly impaired, and in view of all those conditions, he concluded to resign, and did so, on March 3rd, 1865, and thereupon returned to his old home in Illinois. The vacancy caused by his resignation was never filled, and thereafter we had no religious services in the regiment except on two or three occasions, rendered by volunteers, whose names I have forgotten. After leaving the army, Chaplain Hamilton led a life of activity and usefulness until incapacitated by his final illness. He died at Upper Alton, Illinois, on November 11th, 1894, at the age of nearly seventy-three years, respected and loved by all who knew him. He was a good, patriotic, brave man. I never saw him but once after he left the army, but we kept up a fraternal correspondence with each other as long as he lived.

I will now return to the little squad of furloughed Sixty-onesters that was left a while ago on the freight cars at Little Rock. The train pulled out early in the day for Devall's Bluff, where we arrived about noon. We at once made our way to the boat-landing,—and I simply am unable to describe our disappointment when we found no steamboats there. After making careful inquiry, we were unable to get any reliable information in regard to the time of the arrival of any from below,—it might be the next hour, or maybe not for several days. There was nothing to do but just bivouac there by the river bank, and wait. And there we waited for two long days of our precious thirty, and were getting fairly desperate, when one afternoon the scream of a whistle was heard, and soon the leading boat of a small fleet poked its nose around the bend about half a mile below,—and we sprang to our feet, waved our caps and yelled! We ascertained that the boats would start on the return trip to the mouth of White river as soon as they unloaded their army freight. This was accomplished by the next morning, we boarded the first one ready to start, a small stern-wheeler, and some time on the second day thereafter arrived at the mouth of White river. There we landed, on the right bank of the Mississippi, and later boarded a big side-wheeler destined for Cairo, which stopped to take us on. When it rounded in for that purpose, the members of our little squad were quite nervous, and there was a rush on the principle of every fellow for himself. I was hobbling along with my traps, as best I could, when in going down the river bank, which was high and steep, in some way I stumbled and fell, and rolled clear to the bottom, and just lay there helpless. There was one of our party of the name of John Powell, of Co. G, a young fellow about twenty-two or -three years old. He was not tall, only about five feet and eight or nine inches, but was remarkably broad across the shoulders and chest, and had the reputation of being the strongest man in the regiment. He happened to see the accident that had befallen me, and ran to me, picked me up in his arms, with my stuff, the same as if I had been a baby, and "toted" me on the boat. He hunted up a cozy corner on the leeward side, set me down carefully, and then said, "Now, you d—d little cuss, I guess you won't fall down here." And all the balance of the trip, until our respective routes diverged, he looked after me the same as if I had been his brother. He was a splendid, big-hearted fellow. While ascending the Mississippi, the weather was cloudy and foggy, the boat tied up at nights, and our progress generally was tantalizingly slow. We arrived at Cairo on the afternoon of October 26th. It was a raw, chilly, autumn day, a drizzling rain was falling, and everything looked uncomfortable and wretched. We went to the depot of the Illinois Central railroad, and on inquiry learned that our train would not leave until about nine o'clock that night, so apparently there was nothing to do but sit down and wait. My thoughts were soon dwelling on the first time I saw Cairo,—that bright sunny afternoon in the latter part of March, 1862. I was then in superb health and buoyant spirits, and inspired by radiant hopes and glowing anticipations. Only a little over a year and a half had elapsed, and I was now at the old town again, but this time in broken health, and hobbling about on a stick. But it soon occurred to me that many of my comrades had met a still more unfortunate fate, and by this comparison method I presently got in a more cheerful frame of mind. And something happened to come to pass that materially aided that consummation. Some of our party who had been scouting around the town returned with the intelligence that they had found a place called "The Soldiers' Home," where all transient soldiers were furnished food and shelter "without money and without price." This was most welcome news, for our rations were practically exhausted, and our money supply was so meager that economy was a necessity. It was nearing supper time, so we started at once for the Home, in hopes of getting a square meal. On reaching the place we found already formed a long "queue" of hungry soldiers, in two ranks, extending from the door away out into the street. We took our stand at the end of the line, and waited patiently. The building was a long, low, frame structure, of a barrack-like style, and of very unpretentious appearance,—but, as we found out soon, the inside was better. In due time, the door was opened, and we all filed in. The room was well-lighted, and warm, and long rows of rough tables extended clear across, with benches for seats. And oh, what a splendid supper we had! Strong, hot coffee, soft bread, cold boiled beef, molasses, stewed dried apples,—and even cucumber pickles! Supper over, we went back to the depot, all feeling better, and I've had a warm spot in my heart for the old town of Cairo ever since. But it certainly did look hard at this time. Its population, at the beginning of the war, was only a little over two thousand, the houses were small and dilapidated, and everything was dirty, muddy, slushy, and disagreeable in general. In October, 1914, I happened to be in Cairo again, and spent several hours there, roaming around, and looking at the town. The lapse of half a century had wrought a wonderful change. Its population was now something over fifteen thousand, the streets were well paved and brilliantly lighted, and long blocks of tall, substantial buildings had superseded the unsightly shacks of the days of the Civil War. But on this occasion I found no vestige of our "Soldiers' Home," nor was any person of whom inquiry was made able to give me the slightest information as to where it had stood. The only thing I saw in the town, or that vicinity, that looked natural, was the Ohio river, and even its placid appearance was greatly marred by a stupendous railroad bridge, over which trains of cars were thundering every hour in the day. But the river itself was flowing on in serene majesty, as it had been from the time "the morning stars sang together," and as it will continue to flow until this planet goes out of business.

We left Cairo on the cars on the night of October 26th, and for the first time in our military service, we rode in passenger coaches, which was another piece of evidence that once more we were in that part of the world that we uniformly spoke of as "God's Country." I remember an incident that occurred during our ride that night that gave us all the benefit of a hearty laugh. There was (and is yet) a station on the Illinois Central, in Jackson county, Illinois, by the name of "Makanda." It was some time after midnight when we neared this station, the boys were sprawled out on their seats, and trying to doze. The engine gave the usual loud whistle to announce a stop, the front door of our coach was thrown open, and a brakeman with a strong Hibernian accent called out in thunder tones what sounded exactly like "My-candy!" as here written,—and with the accent on the first syllable. There were several soldiers in the coach who were not of our party, also going home on furlough, and one of these, a big fellow with a heavy black beard, reared up and yelled back at the brakeman,—"Well, who the hell said it wasn't your candy?" and the boys all roared. Many years later I passed through that town on the cars, and the brakeman said "My-candy," as of yore. I felt a devilish impulse to make the same response the soldier did on that October night in 1863, but the war was over, no comrades were on hand to back me,—so I prudently refrained. At Sandoval the most of our party transferred to the Ohio and Mississippi railroad, (as it was called then,) and went to St. Louis, reaching there on the afternoon of October 27th. Here all except myself left on the Chicago, Alton and St. Louis railroad, for different points thereon, and from which they would make their way to their respective homes. There was no railroad running through Jersey county at this time, (except a bit of the last named road about a mile in length across the southeast corner of the county,) and the railroad station nearest my home was twenty miles away, so I had to resort to some other mode of travel. I went down to the wharf and boarded a little Illinois river steamboat,—the Post-Boy, which would start north that night, paid my fare to Grafton, at the mouth of the Illinois river, arranged with the clerk to wake me at that place, and then turned in. But the clerk did not have to bother on my account; I was restless, slept but little, kept a close lookout, and when the whistle blew for Grafton, I was up and on deck in about a minute. The boat rounded in at the landing, and threw out a plank for my benefit,—the lone passenger for Grafton. Two big, burly deck-hands, rough looking, bearded men, took me by the arm, one on each side, and carefully and kindly helped me ashore. I have often thought of that little incident. In those days a river deck-hand was not a saint, by any means. As a rule, he was a coarse, turbulent, and very profane man, but these two fellows saw that I was a little, broken-down boy-soldier, painfully hobbling along on a stick, and they took hold of me with their strong, brawny hands, and helped me off the boat with as much kindness and gentleness as if I had been the finest lady in the land.

I was now only five miles from home, and proposed to make the balance of my journey on foot. I climbed up to the top of the river bank, and thence made my way to the main and only street the little town then possessed, and took "the middle of the road." It was perhaps four or five o'clock in the morning, a quiet, starlight night, and the people of the village were all apparently yet wrapped in slumber. No signs of life were visible, except occasionally a dog would run out in a front yard and bark at me. The main road from Grafton, at that time, and which passed near my home, wound along the river bottom a short distance, and then, for a mile or more, ascended some high hills or bluffs north of the town. The ascent of these bluffs was steep, and hence the walking was fatiguing, and several times before reaching the summit where the road stretched away over a long, high ridge, I had to sit down and rest. The quails were now calling all around me, and the chickens were crowing for day at the farm houses, and their notes sounded so much like home! After attaining the crest, the walking was easier, and I slowly plodded on, rejoicing in the sight of the many familiar objects that appeared on every hand. About a mile or so from home, I left the main highway, and followed a country road that led to our house, where I at last arrived about nine o'clock. I had not written to my parents to advise them of my coming, for it would not have been judicious, in mere expectation of a furlough, to excite hopes that might be disappointed, and after it was issued and delivered to me, there was no use in writing, for I would reach home as soon as a letter. So my father and mother, and the rest of the family, were all taken completely by surprise when I quietly walked into the yard of the old home. I pass over any detailed account of our meeting. We, like others of that time and locality, were a simple, backwoods people, with nothing in the nature of gush or effervescence in our dispositions. I know that I was glad to see my parents, and the rest, and they were all unmistakably glad to see me, and we manifested our feelings in a natural, homely way, and without any display whatever of extravagant emotions. Greetings being over, about the first inquiry was whether I had yet had any breakfast, and my answer being in the negative, a splendid old-time breakfast was promptly prepared. But my mother was keenly disappointed at my utter lack of appetite. I just couldn't eat hardly a bit, and invented some sort of an excuse, and said I'd do better in the future, but, somehow, right then, I wasn't hungry, which was true. However, this instance of involuntary abstinence was fully made up for later.

While on my furlough I went with my father in the farm wagon occasionally to Grafton, and Jerseyville, and even once to Alton, twenty miles away, but the greater part of the time was spent at the farm, and around the old home, and in the society of the family. I reckon I rambled over every acre of the farm, and besides, took long walks in the woods of the adjacent country, for miles around. The big, gushing Sansom Spring, about half a mile from home, was a spot associated with many happy recollections. I would go there, lie flat on the ground, and take a copious drink of the pure, delicious water, then stroll through the woods down Sansom branch to its confluence with Otter creek, thence down the creek to the Twin Springs that burst out at the base of a ridge on our farm, just a few feet below a big sugar maple, from here on to the ruins of the old grist mill my father operated in the latter '40s, and then still farther down the creek to the ancient grist mill (then still standing) of the old pioneer, Hiram White. Here I would cross to the south bank of the creek and make my way home up through Limestone, or the Sugar Hollow. From my earliest youth I always loved to ramble in the woods, and somehow these around the old home now looked dearer and more beautiful to me than they ever had before.

The last time I ever saw my boyhood home was in August, 1894. It had passed into the hands of strangers, and didn't look natural. And all the old-time natural conditions in that locality were greatly changed. The flow of water from Sansom Spring was much smaller than what it had been in the old days, and only a few rods below the spring it sunk into the ground and disappeared. The big, shady pools along Sansom branch where I had gone swimming when a boy, and from which I had caught many a string of perch and silversides, were now dry, rocky holes in the ground, and the branch in general was dry as a bone. And Otter Creek, which at different places where it ran through our farm had once contained long reaches of water six feet deep and over, had now shrunk to a sickly rivulet that one could step across almost anywhere in that vicinity. And the grand primeval forest which up to about the close of the war, at least, had practically covered the country for many miles in the vicinity of my old home, had now all been cut down and destroyed, and the naked surface of the earth was baking in the rays of the sun. It is my opinion, and is stated for whatever it may be worth, that the wholesale destruction of the forests of that region had much to do with the drying up of the streams.

But it is time to return to the boy on furlough.

Shortly before leaving Little Rock for home, Capt. Keeley had confidentially informed me that if the military situation in Arkansas continued quiet, it would be all right for me before my furlough expired to procure what would effect a short extension thereof, and he explained to me the modus operandi. Including the unavoidable delays, over a third of my thirty days had been consumed in making the trip home, and the return journey would doubtless require about the same time. I therefore thought it would be justifiable to obtain an extension, if possible. My health was rapidly growing better, the rheumatism was nearly gone—but there was still room for improvement. I had closely read the newspapers in order to keep posted on the military status in the vicinity of Little Rock, and had learned from them that the troops were building winter quarters, and that in general, "All was quiet along the Arkansas." So, on November 9th, I went to Dr. J. H. Hesser, a respectable physician of Otterville, told him my business, and said that if his judgment would warrant it, I would be glad to obtain from him a certificate that would operate to extend my furlough for twenty days. He looked at me, asked a few questions, and then wrote and gave me a brief paper which set forth in substance that, in his opinion as a physician, I would not be able for duty sooner than December 5th, 1863, that being a date twenty days subsequent to the expiration of my furlough. I paid Dr. Hesser nothing for the certificate, for he did not ask it, but said that he gave it to me as a warranted act of kindness to a deserving soldier. (In September of the following year Dr. Hesser enlisted in Co. C of our regiment as a recruit, and about all the time he was with us acted as hospital steward of the regiment, which position he filled ably and satisfactorily.) But I did not avail myself of all my aforesaid extension. I knew it would be better to report at company headquarters before its expiration than after, so my arrangements were made to start back on November 16th. Some hours before sunrise that morning, I bade good-by to mother and the children, and father and I pulled out in the farm wagon for our nearest railroad station, which was Alton, and, as heretofore stated, twenty miles away, where we arrived in ample time for my train. We drove into a back street and unhitched the team—the faithful old mules, Bill and Tom, tied them to the wagon and fed them, and then walked to the depot. The train came in due season, and stopped opposite the depot platform, where father and I were standing. We faced each other, and I said, "Good-bye, father;" he responded, "Good-bye, Leander, take care of yourself." We shook hands, then he instantly turned and walked away, and I boarded the train. That was all there was to it. And yet we both knew more in regard to the dangers and perils that environ the life of a soldier in time of war than we did on the occasion of the parting at Jerseyville nearly two years ago—hence we fully realized that this farewell might be the last. Nor did this manner spring from indifference, or lack of sensibility; it was simply the way of the plain unlettered backwoods people of those days. Nearly thirty-five years later the "whirligig of time" evolved an incident which clearly brought home to me a vivid idea of what must have been my father's feelings on this occasion. The Spanish-American war began in the latter part of April, 1898, and on the 30th of that month, Hubert, my oldest son, then a lad not quite nineteen years old, enlisted in Co. A of the 22nd Kansas Infantry, a regiment raised for service in that war. On May 28th the regiment was sent to Washington, D. C., and was stationed at Camp Alger, near the city. In the early part of August it appeared that there was a strong probability that the regiment, with others at Washington, would soon be sent to Cuba or Porto Rico. I knew that meant fighting, to say nothing of the camp diseases liable to prevail in that latitude at that season of the year. So my wife and I concluded to go to Washington and have a little visit with Hubert before he left for the seat of war. We arrived at the capital on August 5th, and found the regiment then in camp near the little village of Clifton, Virginia, about twenty-six miles southwest of Washington. We had a brief but very enjoyable visit with Hubert, who was given a pass, and stayed a few days with us in the city. But the time soon came for us to separate, and on the day of our departure for home Hubert went with us to the depot of the Baltimore and Ohio railroad, where his mother and I bade him good-by. Then there came to me, so forcibly, the recollection of the parting with my father at the Alton depot in November, 1863, and for the first time I think I fully appreciated what must have been his feelings on that occasion.

But, (referring to the Washington incident,) it so happened that on the day my wife and I left that city for home, or quite soon thereafter, it was officially announced that a suspension of hostilities had been agreed on between Spain and the United States. This ended the war, and consequently Hubert's regiment was not sent to the Spanish islands. I will now resume my own story.



My route from Alton, and method of conveyance, on returning to the regiment, were the same, with one or two slight variations, as those in going home, and the return trip was uneventful. But there were no delays, the boat ran day and night, and the journey was made in remarkably quick time. I arrived at Little Rock on the evening of November 20th, only five days over my furlough,—and with a twenty-day extension to show for that, reported promptly to Capt. Keeley, and delivered to him the certificate given me by Dr. Hesser. Keeley pronounced the paper satisfactory, and further said it would have been all right if I had taken the benefit of the entire twenty days. However, it somehow seemed to me that he really was pleased to see that I had not done so, but hurried back fifteen days ahead of time. After a brief conversation with him about the folks at home, and matters and things there in general, he treated me to a most agreeable surprise. He stepped to the company office desk, and took therefrom a folded paper which he handed to me with the remark: "There, Stillwell, is something I think will please you." I unfolded and glanced at it, and saw that it was a non-commissioned officer's warrant, signed by Major Grass as commanding officer of the regiment, and countersigned by Lieut. A. C. Haskins as adjutant, appointing me First Sergeant of Co. D. The warrant was dated November 4th, but recited that the appointment took effect from September 1st, preceding. As before stated, Enoch Wallace was our original first sergeant, and as he was promoted to second lieutenant on September 3, 1863, his advancement left his old position vacant, and his mantle had now fallen on me. I was deeply gratified with this appointment, and really was not expecting it, as there were two other duty sergeants who outranked me, and in appointing me I was promoted over their heads. However, they took it in good part, and remained my friends, as they always had been. And the plain truth is, too, which may have reconciled these sergeants somewhat, the position of first or orderly sergeant, as we usually called it, was not an enviable one, by any means. His duties were incessant, involving responsibility, and frequently were very trying. He had to be right with his company every hour in the day, and it was not prudent for him to absent himself from camp for even ten minutes without the consent of his company commander, and temporarily appointing a duty sergeant to act in his place while away. Among his multifarious duties may be mentioned the following: Calling the roll of the company morning and evening, and at such other hours as might be required; attending sick calls with the sick, and carefully making a note of those excused from duty by the surgeon; making out and signing the company morning report; procuring the signature of the company commander thereto, and then delivering it to the adjutant; forming the company on its parade ground for dress parade, drills, marches, and the like; making the details of the men required from his company for the various kinds of guard and fatigue duty; drawing rations for the company, and distributing them among the various messes; seeing to it that the company grounds (when in camp) were properly policed every morning;—and just scores of little matters of detail that were occurring all the time. It was a very embarrassing incident when sometimes a boy who was a good soldier was, without permission, absent at roll call. He might have strolled up town, or to a neighboring camp to see an old-time friend, and stayed too long. On such occurrences I would, as a general rule, pass rapidly from his name to the next—and just report the boy present, and later talk to him privately and tell him not to let it happen again. It is true, sometimes an aggravated case occurred when, in order to maintain discipline, a different course had to be pursued, but not often. Speaking generally, I will say that it was bad policy for the orderly to be running to the captain about every little trouble or grievance. The thing for him to do was to take the responsibility and act on his own judgment, and depend on the captain to back him (as he almost invariably would) if the affair came to a "show-down." Beginning as far back as the summer of 1862, I had frequently temporarily acted as orderly sergeant, for weeks at a time, and so possessed a fair amount of experience when I entered on the duties of the position under a permanent appointment. But my long, solitary rambles out in the woods, beyond the lines, were at an end, and that was a matter of more regret to me than anything else connected with the office of orderly sergeant. While on this topic I will remark that it always seemed to me that the men who had the "softest snaps" of any in a regiment of infantry were the lieutenants of the respective companies. The first lieutenant had no company cares or responsibilities whatever, unless the captain was absent, or sick in quarters, and the second lieutenant was likewise exempt, unless the captain and first lieutenant were both absent, or sick. Of course there were duties that devolved on the lieutenants from time to time, such as drilling the men, serving as officer of the guard, and other matters, but when those jobs were done, they could just "go and play," without a particle of care or anxiety about the services of the morrow.