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

CHAPTER IX. THE AFFAIR AT SALEM CEMETERY. JACKSON, CARROLL STATION. DECEMBER, 1862, JANUARY, 1863. BOLIVAR. FEBRUARY-MAY, 1863. On the afternoon of December 18th, suddenly, without any previous warning or notification, the bugle sounded "Fall in!" and all the regiment fit for duty and not on guard at once formed on the regimental parade ground. From there we marched to the depot, and with the 43rd Illinois of our brigade got on the cars, and were soon being whirled over the road in a northerly direction. It was a warm, sunshiny day, and we common soldiers supposed we were going on just some little temporary scout, so we encumbered ourselves with nothing but our arms, and haversacks, and canteens. Neglecting to take our blankets was a grievous mistake, as later we found out to our sorrow. We arrived at Jackson a little before sundown, there left the cars, and, with the 43rd, forthwith marched out about two miles east of town. A little after dark we halted in an old field on the left of the road, in front of a little old country graveyard called Salem Cemetery, and there bivouacked for the night. Along in the evening the weather turned intensely cold. It was a clear, star-lit night, and the stars glittered in the heavens like little icicles. We were strictly forbidden to build any fires, for the reason, as our officers truly said, the Confederates were not more than half a mile away, right in our front. As before stated, we had no blankets, and how we suffered with the cold! I shall never forget that night of December 18th, 1862. We would form little columns of twenty or thirty men, in two ranks, and would just trot round and round in the tall weeds and broom sedge to keep from chilling to death. Sometimes we would pile down on the ground in great bunches, and curl up close together like hogs, in our efforts to keep warm. But some part of our bodies would be exposed, which soon would be stinging with cold, then up we would get and renew the trotting process. At one time in the night some of the boys, rendered almost desperate by their suffering started to build a fire with some fence rails. The red flames began to curl around the wood, and I started for the fire, intending to absorb some of that glowing heat, if, as Uncle Remus says, "it wuz de las' ack." But right then a mounted officer dashed up to the spot, and sprang from his horse. He was wearing big cavalry boots, and jumped on that fire with both feet and stamped it out in less time than I am taking to tell about it. I heard afterwards that he was Col. Engelmann, of the 43rd Illinois, then the commander of our brigade. Having put out the fire, he turned on the men standing around, and swore at them furiously. He said that the rebels were right out in our front, and in less than five minutes after we had betrayed our presence by fires, they would open on us with artillery, and "shell hell out of us;"—and more to the same effect. The boys listened in silence, meek as lambs, and no more fires were started by us that night. But the hours seemed interminably long, and it looked like the night would never come to an end. At last some little woods birds were heard, faintly chirping in the weeds and underbrush near by, then some owls set up a hooting in the woods behind us, and I knew that dawn was approaching. When it became light enough to distinguish one another, we saw that we presented a doleful appearance—all hollow-eyed, with blue noses, pinched faces, and shivering as if we would shake to pieces. Permission was then given to build small fires to cook our breakfast, and we didn't wait for the order to be repeated. I made a quart canful of strong, hot coffee, toasted some bacon on a stick, and then, with some hardtack, had a good breakfast and felt better. Breakfast over (which didn't take long), the regiment was drawn back into the cemetery, and placed in line behind the section of inclosing fence that faced to the front. The fence was of post and plank, the planks arranged lengthwise, with spaces between. We were ordered to lie flat on the ground, and keep the barrels of our guns out of sight, as much as possible. Our position in general may be described about as follows: The right of the regiment rested near the dirt road, and at right angles to it. The ground before us was open for more than half a mile. It sloped down gently, then it rose gradually to a long, bare ridge, or slight elevation of ground, which extended parallel to our front. The road was enclosed by an old-time staked and ridered fence, of the "worm" pattern. On our right, and on the other side of the road, was a thick forest of tall trees, in which the 43rd Illinois was posted. The cemetery was thickly studded with tall, native trees, and a few ornamental ones, such as cedar and pine. Soon after we had been put in position, as above stated, Col. Engelmann, the brigade commander, came galloping up, and stopped about opposite the front of the regiment. Maj. Ohr, our regimental commander, who was in the rear of the regiment on foot, walked out to meet him. Engelmann was a German, and a splendid officer. "Goot morning, Major," he said, in a loud voice we all heard. "How are de poys?" "All right," answered the Major; "we had rather a chilly night, but are feeling first rate now." "Dat iss goot," responded the Colonel; and continued in his loud tone, "our friends are right out here in de bush; I reckon dey'll show up presently. Maybe so dey will give us a touch of deir artillery practice,—but dat hurts nobody. Shoost have de poys keep cool." Then he approached the Major closer, said something in a low tone we did not hear, waved his hand to us, and then galloped off to the right. He was hardly out of sight, when sure enough, two or three cannon shots were heard out in front, followed by a scattering fire of small arms. We had a small force of our cavalry in the woods beyond the ridge I have mentioned, and they soon appeared, slowly falling back. They were spread out in a wide, extended skirmish line, and acted fine. They would trot a little ways to the rear, then face about, and fire their carbines at the advancing foe, who, as yet, was unseen by us. Finally they galloped off to the left and disappeared in the woods, and all was still for a short time. Suddenly, without a note of warning, and not preceded by even a skirmish line, there appeared coming over the ridge in front, and down the road, a long column of Confederate cavalry! They were, when first seen, at a walk, and marching by the flank, with a front of four men. How deep the column was we could not tell. The word was immediately passed down our line not to fire until at the word of command, and that we were to fire by file, beginning on the right. That is, only two men, front and rear rank, would fire together, and so on, down the line. The object of this was apparent: by the time the left of the regiment had emptied their guns, the right would have reloaded, and thus a continuous firing would be maintained. With guns cocked and fingers on the triggers, we waited in tense anxiety for the word to fire. Maj. Ohr was standing a few paces in the rear of the center of the regiment, watching the advance of the enemy. Finally, when they were in fair musket range, came the order, cool and deliberate, without a trace of excitement: "At-ten-shun, bat-tal-yun! Fire by file! Ready!—Commence firing!" and down the line crackled the musketry. Concurrently with us, the old 43rd Illinois on the right joined in the serenade. In the front file of the Confederate column was one of the usual fellows with more daring than discretion, who was mounted on a tall, white horse. Of course, as long as that horse was on its feet, everybody shot at him, or the rider. But that luckless steed soon went down in a cloud of dust, and that was the end of old Whitey. The effect of our fire on the enemy was marked and instantaneous. The head of their column crumpled up instanter, the road was full of dead and wounded horses, while several that were riderless went galloping down the road by us, with bridle reins and stirrups flapping on their necks and flanks. I think there is no doubt that the Confederates were taken completely by surprise. They stopped short when we opened on them, wheeled around, and went back much faster than they came, except a little bunch who had been dismounted. They hoisted a white rag, came in, and surrendered. The whole affair was exceedingly "short and sweet;" in duration it could not have exceeded more than a few minutes, but it was highly interesting as long as it lasted. But now the turn of the other fellows was to come. Soon after their charging column disappeared behind the ridge in our front, they put in position on the crest of the ridge two black, snaky looking pieces of artillery, and began giving us the benefit of the "artillery practice" Col. Engelmann had alluded to. They were beyond the range of our muskets; we had no artillery with our little force, and just had to lie there and take it. I know nothing about the technicalities of cannon firing, so I can only describe in my own language how it appeared to us. The enemy now knew just where we were, there were no obstructions between them and us, and they concentrated their fire on our regiment. Sometimes they threw a solid shot at us, but mostly they fired shells. They were in plain sight, and we could see every movement connected with the firing of the guns. After a piece was fired, the first thing done was to "swab" it. Two men would rush to the muzzle with the swabber, give it a few quick turns in the bore, then throw down the swabber and grab up the rammer. Another man would then run forward with the projectile and insert it in the muzzle of the piece, the rammers would ram it home, and then stand clear. The man at the breech would then pull the lanyard,—and now look out! A tongue of red flame would leap from the mouth of the cannon, followed by a billow of white smoke; then would come the scream of the missile as it passed over our heads (if a solid shot), or exploded near our front or rear (if a shell), and lastly we would hear the report of the gun. Then we all drew a long breath. When they threw shells at us their method was to elevate the muzzle of the gun, and discharge the missile in such a manner that it would describe what I suppose would be called the parabola of a curve. As it would be nearing the zenith of its flight we could follow it distinctly with the naked eye. It looked like a big, black bug. You may rest assured that we watched the downward course of this messenger of mischief with the keenest interest. Sometimes it looked as if it would hit our line, sure, but it never did. And, as stated, we could only lie there and watch all this, without the power on our part to do a thing in return. Such a situation is trying on the nerves. But firing at our line was much like shooting at the edge of a knife-blade, and their practice on us, which lasted at least two hours, for all practical results, to quote Col. Engelmann, "shoost hurt nobody." A private of Co. G had his head carried away by a fragment of a shell, and a few others were slightly injured, and that was the extent of our casualties. After enduring this cannonading for the time above stated, Col. Engelmann became apprehensive that the Confederate cavalry were flanking us, and trying to get between us and Jackson, so he ordered our force to retire. We fell back, in good order, for about a mile, then halted, and faced to the front again. Reinforcements soon came out from Jackson, and then the whole command advanced, but the enemy had disappeared. Our regiment marched in column by the flank up the road down which the Confederates had made their charge. They had removed their killed and wounded, but at the point reached by their head of column, the road was full of dead horses. Old Whitey was sprawled out in the middle of the lane, "with his nostrils all wide," and more than a dozen bullet holes in his body. Near his carcass I saw a bloody yarn sock, with a bullet hole square through the instep. I made up my mind then and there, that if ever I happened to get into the cavalry I would, if possible, avoid riding a white horse. I will now say something about poor Sam Cobb, heretofore mentioned, and then he will disappear from this history. Sam was with us at the beginning of this affair on December 19th, but the very instant that the enemy came in sight he broke from the ranks and ran, and never showed up until we returned to Jackson some days later. He then had one of his hands tied up, and claimed that he had been wounded in the fight. The nature of his wound was simply a neat little puncture, evidently made by a pointed instrument, in the ball of the forefinger of one of his hands. Not a shot had been fired at us up to the time when he fled, so it was impossible for his hurt to have been inflicted by the enemy. It was the belief of all of us that he had put his forefinger against a tree, and then jabbed the point of his bayonet through the ball thereof. I heard Capt. Reddish in bitter language charge him with this afterwards, and poor Sam just hung his head and said nothing. When the regiment veteranized in 1864, Sam didn't re-enlist, and was mustered out in February, 1865, at the end of his term of service. On returning to his old home, he found that his reputation in the army had preceded him, and it is likely that the surroundings were not agreeable. At any rate, he soon left there, emigrated to a southwestern State, and died there several years ago. In my opinion, he really was to be sincerely pitied, for I think, as he had told me at Bolivar, he just "couldn't help it." We advanced this day (December 19) only two or three miles beyond Salem Cemetery, and bivouacked for the night in an old field. The weather had changed, and was now quite pleasant; besides, the embargo on fires was lifted, so the discomfort of the previous night was only something to be laughed about. The next day we were afoot early, and marched east in the direction of Lexington about fifteen miles. But we encountered no enemy, and on December 21 turned square around and marched back to Jackson. Gen. Forrest was in command of the Confederate cavalry operating in this region, and he completely fooled Gen. J. C. Sullivan, the Union commander of the district of Jackson. While we were on this wild-goose chase towards Lexington, Forrest simply whirled around our flanks at Jackson, and swept north on the railroad, scooping in almost everything to the Kentucky line, and burning bridges and destroying culverts on the railroad in great shape. During our short stay that ensued at Jackson, an event occurred that I have always remembered with pleasure. In 1916 I wrote a brief preliminary statement touching this Salem Cemetery affair, followed by one of my army letters, the two making a connected article, and the same was published in the Erie (Kansas) "Record." It may result in some repetition, but I have concluded to here reproduce this published article, which I have called, "A Soldier's Christmas Dinner." <div class="blockquote"> A SOLDIER'S CHRISTMAS DINNER. By Judge Leander Stillwell. Christmas Day in the year eighteen hundred and sixty-two was a gloomy one, in every respect, for the soldiers of the Union army in West Tennessee. Five days before, the Confederate General Van Dorn had captured Grant's depot of supplies at Holly Springs, and government stores of the value of a million and a half of dollars had gone up in smoke and flame. About the same time Forrest had struck the Mobile and Ohio railroad, on which we depended to bring us from the north our supplies of hardtack and bacon, and had made a wreck of the road from about Jackson, Tennessee, nearly to Columbus, Kentucky. For some months previous to these disasters the regiment to which I belonged, the 61st Illinois Infantry, had been stationed at Bolivar, Tennessee, engaged in guarding the railroad from that place to Toone's Station, a few miles north of Bolivar. On December 18, with another regiment of our brigade, we were sent by rail to Jackson to assist in repelling Forrest, who was threatening that place. On the following day the two regiments, numbering in the aggregate about 500 men, in connection with a small detachment of our cavalry, had a lively and spirited little brush with the Confederate forces about two miles east of Jackson, near a country burying ground called Salem Cemetery, which resulted in our having the good fortune to give them a salutary check. Reinforcements were sent out from Jackson, and Forrest disappeared. The next day our entire command marched about fifteen miles eastwardly in the direction of the Tennessee river. It was doubtless supposed by our commanding general that the Confederates had retreated in that direction, but he was mistaken. Forrest had simply whipped around Jackson, struck the railroad a few miles north thereof, and then had continued north up the road, capturing and destroying as he went. On the succeeding day, December 21st, we all marched back to Jackson, and my regiment went into camp on a bleak, muddy hillside in the suburbs of the town, and there we remained until December 29th, when we were sent to Carroll Station, about eight miles north of Jackson. I well remember how gloomy I felt on the morning of that Christmas Day at Jackson, Tennessee. I was then only a little over nineteen years of age. I had been in the army nearly a year, lacking just a few days, and every day of that time, except a furlough of two days granted at our camp of instruction before we left Illinois for the front, had been passed with the regiment in camp and field. Christmas morning my thoughts naturally turned to the little old log cabin in the backwoods of western Illinois, and I couldn't help thinking about the nice Christmas dinner that I knew the folks at home would sit down to on that day. There would be a great chicken pot pie, with its savory crust and a superabundance of light, puffy dumplings; delicious light, hot biscuits; a big ball of our own home-made butter, yellow as gold; broad slices of juicy ham, the product of hogs of our own fattening, and home cured with hickory-wood smoke; fresh eggs from the barn in reckless profusion, fried in the ham gravy; mealy Irish potatoes, baked in their jackets; coffee with cream about half an inch thick; apple butter and crab apple preserves; a big plate of wild honey in the comb; and winding up with a thick wedge of mince pie that mother knew so well how to make—such mince pie, in fact, as was made only in those days, and is now as extinct as the dodo. And when I turned from these musings upon the bill of fare they would have at home to contemplate the dreary realities of my own possible dinner for the day—my oyster can full of coffee and a quarter ration of hardtack and sow-belly comprised the menu. If the eyes of some old soldier should light upon these lines, and he should thereupon feel disposed to curl his lip with unutterable scorn and say: "This fellow was a milksop and ought to have been fed on Christian Commission and Sanitary goods, and put to sleep at night with a warm rock at his feet;"—I can only say in extenuation that the soldier whose feelings I have been trying to describe was only a boy—and, boys, you probably know how it was yourselves during the first year of your army life. But, after all, the soldier had a Christmas dinner that day, and it is of that I have started out to speak. Several years ago my old army letters, which had been so carefully kept and cherished for all these many years, passed from the keeping of those to whom they had been addressed, back into the possession of him who penned them, and now, after the lapse of fifty-four years, one of these old letters, written to my father, shall re-tell the story of this Christmas dinner. <div class="letter"> "Jackson, Tennessee, December 27, 1862. "Mr. J. O. Stillwell, "Otter Creek, Illinois. "I wrote you a short and hasty letter the fore part of this week to let you know that I was all right, and giving you a brief account of our late ups and downs, but I doubt if you have received it. The cars have not been running since we came back to Jackson from our march after Forrest. The talk in camp is that the rebs have utterly destroyed the railroad north of here clean to the Mississippi river, and that they have also broken it in various places and damaged it badly south of here between Bolivar and Grand Junction. I have no idea when this letter will reach you, but will write it anyhow, and trust to luck and Uncle Sam to get it through in course of time. "We are now in camp on a muddy hillside in the outskirts of Jackson. I think the spot where we are must have been a cavalry camp last summer. Lots of corn cobs are scattered on the ground, old scraps of harness leather, and such other truck as accumulates where horses are kept standing around. When we left Bolivar we were in considerable of a hurry, with no time to primp or comb our hair, and neither did we bring our tents along, so we are just living out of doors now, and "boarding at Sprawl's." There is plenty of wood, though, to make fires, and we have jayhawked enough planks and boards to lie on to keep us out of the mud, so we just curl up at night in our blankets with all our clothes on, and manage to get along fairly well. Our worst trouble now is the lack of grub. The destruction of the railroad has cut off our supplies, and there is no telling just exactly how long it may be before it will be fixed and in running order again, so they have been compelled, I suppose, to cut down our rations. We get half rations of coffee, and quarter rations of hardtack and bacon. What we call small rations, such as Yankee beans, rice, and split peas, are played out; at least, we don't get any. The hardtack is so precious now that the orderly sergeant no longer knocks a box open and lets every man help himself, but he stands right over the box and counts the number of tacks he gives to every man. I never thought I'd see the day when army hardtack would be in such demand that they'd have to be counted out to the soldiers as if they were money, but that's what's the matter now. And that ain't all. The boys will stand around until the box is emptied, and then they will pick up the fragments that have fallen to the ground in the divide, and scrape off the mud with their knives, and eat the little pieces, and glad to get them. Now and then, to help out the sow-belly, we get quarter rations of fresh beef from the carcass of a Tennessee steer that the quartermaster manages to lay hands on somehow. But it's awful poor beef, lean, slimy, skinny and stringy. The boys say that one can throw a piece up against a tree, and it will just stick there and quiver and twitch for all the world like one of those blue-bellied lizards at home will do when you knock him off a fence rail with a stick. "I just wish that old Forrest, who is the cause of about all this trouble, had to go without anything to eat until he was so weak that he would have to be fed with a spoon. Maybe after he had been hungry real good for a while he'd know how it feels himself, and would let our railroads alone. "But I want to tell you that I had a real bully Christmas dinner, in spite of old Forrest and the whole caboodle. It was just a piece of the greatest good luck I've had for many a day. "When Christmas morning came I was feeling awful blue. In spite of all I could do, I couldn't help but think about the good dinner you folks at home would have that day, and I pictured it all out in my imagination. Then about every one of the boys had something to say about what he would have for Christmas dinner if he was home, and they'd run over the list of good things till it was almost enough to make one go crazy. To make matters worse, just the day before in an old camp I had found some tattered fragments of a New York illustrated newspaper with a whole lot of pictures about Thanksgiving Day in the Army of the Potomac. They were shown as sitting around piles of roast turkeys, pumpkin pies, pound cake, and goodness knows what else, and I took it for granted that they would have the same kind of fodder today. You see, the men in that army, by means of their railroads, are only a few hours from home, and old Forrest is not in their neighborhood, so it is an easy thing for them to have good times. And here we were, away down in Tennessee, in the mud and the cold, no tents, on quarter rations, and picking scraps of hardtack out of the mud and eating them—it was enough to make a preacher swear. But along about noon John Richey came to me and proposed that inasmuch as it was Christmas Day, we should strike out and forage for a square meal. It didn't take much persuasion, and straightway we sallied forth. I wanted to hunt up the old colored woman who gave me the mess of boiled roasting ears when we were here last summer, but John said he thought he had a better thing than that, and as he is ten years older than I am, I knocked under and let him take the lead. "About half a mile from our camp, in the outskirts of the town, we came to a large, handsome, two-story and a half frame house, with a whole lot of nigger cabins in the rear. John took a survey of the premises and said, 'Lee, right here's our meat.' We went into the yard at a little side gate between the big house and the nigger quarters, and were steering for one of the cabins, when out steps from the back porch of the big house the lady of the place herself. That spoiled the whole game; John whirled in his tracks and commenced to sidle away. But the lady walked towards us and said in a very kind and friendly manner: 'Do you men want anything?' 'Oh, no, ma'am,' replied John; 'we just came here to see if we could get some of the colored women to do some washing for us, but I guess we'll not bother about it today;' still backing away as he spoke. But the lady was not satisfied. Looking at us very sharply, she asked: 'Don't you men want something to eat?' My heart gave a great thump at that, but, to my inexpressible disgust, John, with his head thrown back and nose pointed skyward, answered, speaking very fast, 'Oh, no, ma'am, not at all, ma'am, a thousand times obleeged, ma'am,' and continued his sneaking retreat. By this time I had hold of the cape of his overcoat and was plucking it in utter desperation. 'John,' I said, speaking low, 'what in thunder do you mean? This is the best chance we'll ever have.' I was looking at the lady meanwhile in the most imploring manner, and she was regarding me with a kind of a pleasant, amused smile on her face. She saw, I guess, a mighty dirty looking boy, whose nose and face were pinched and blue with hunger, cold, loss of sleep, and hard knocks generally, and she brought the business to a head at once. 'You men come right in,' she said, as if she was the major-general commanding the department. 'We have just finished our dinner, but in a few minutes the servants can have something prepared for you,—and I think you are hungry.' John, with the most aggravating mock modesty that I ever saw in my life, began saying: 'We are very much obleeged, ma'am, but we haven't the slightest occasion in the world to eat, ma'am, and——' when I couldn't stand it any longer for fear he would ruin everything after all. 'Madam,' I said, 'please don't pay any attention to what my partner says, for we are most desperately hungry.' The lady laughed right out at that, and said, 'I thought so; come in.' "She led the way into the basement story of the house, where the dining room was, (all the rich people in the South have their dining rooms in the basement,) and there was a nice warm room, a dining table in the center, with the cloth and dishes yet on it, and a big fireplace at one end of the room, where a crackling wood fire was burning. I tell you, it was different from our muddy camp on the bleak hillside, where the wind blows the smoke from our fires of green logs in every direction about every minute of the day. I sat down by the fire to warm my hands and feet, which were cold. A colored girl came in and commenced to arrange the table, passing back and forth from the dining room to the kitchen, and in a short time the lady told us that our dinner was ready, to sit up to the table, and eat heartily. We didn't wait for a second invitation that time. And, oh, what a dinner we had! There was a great pile of juicy, fried beefsteak, cooked to perfection and tender as chicken; nice, warm light bread, a big cake of butter, stewed dried apples, cucumber pickles, two or three kinds of preserves, coffee with sugar and cream, and some of the best molasses I ever tasted,—none of this sour, scorched old sorghum stuff, but regular gilt-edge first class New Orleans golden syrup, almost as sweet as honey. Then, to top off with, there was a nice stewed dried apple pie, and some kind of a custard in little dishes, something different from anything in that line that I had ever seen before, but mighty good. And then, in addition to all that, we were seated on chairs, at a table with a white cloth on it, and eating out of china plates and with knives and forks, a colored girl waiting on us, and the lady of the house sitting there and talking to us as pleasantly as if we were Grant and Halleck in person. Under the influence of the good grub, John thawed out considerably, and made a full confession to the lady about his queer actions at the beginning. He told her that we were going to the nigger quarters to try to get something to eat, and that when she came out and gave us such a kind invitation to come in the house, he was too much ashamed of our appearance to accept. That we had come up from Bolivar about a week before, riding on top of the box cars, where we got all covered with smoke, dust, and cinders; then ordered out to the front that night, then the fight with Forrest the next day, then the march towards the Tennessee river and back of about forty miles, and since then in camp with no shelter, tramping around in the mud, and sleeping on the ground; that on account of all these things we looked so rough and so dirty that he just felt ashamed to go into a nice house where handsome, well-dressed ladies were. Oh! I tell you, old John is no slouch; he patched up matters remarkably well. The lady listened attentively, said she knew we were hungry the moment she saw us, that she had heard the soldiers were on short rations in consequence of the destruction of the railroad, and turning towards me she went on to say: 'There was such a pitiful, hungry look on this boy's face that it would have haunted me for a long time if I had let you go away without giving you a dinner. Many a hungry soldier,' she continued, 'both of the Northern and Southern army, has had something to eat at this table, and I expect many more will in the future, before this terrible and distressing war shall have come to an end.' She didn't say a word, though, by which we could tell whether her sympathies were on the Union side or against us, and of course we didn't try to find out. She was just the sweetest looking woman I have yet seen in the whole Southern Confederacy. If they have any angels anywhere that look kinder, or sweeter, or purer than she did, I would just like to see them trotted out. I guess she was about thirty-five years old. She was of medium height, a little on the plump order, with blue eyes, brown hair, a clear, ruddy complexion, and the whitest, softest looking little hands I ever saw in my life. "When we had finished our dinner, John and I thanked her ever so many times for her kindness, and then bade her a most respectful good-by. He and I both agreed on our way back to camp to say nothing about the lady and the nice dinner she gave us, because if we blowed about it, the result would probably be more hungry callers than her generosity could well afford. "But these close times I guess are not going to last much longer. The talk in camp this evening is that we are going to have full rations once more in a day or two, that the railroad will soon be in running order again, and then we can just snap our fingers at old Forrest and his whole outfit. "Well, I will bring my letter to a close. Don't worry if you fail to get a letter from me now as regularly as before. Things are a trifle unsettled down here yet, and we may not be able to count on the usual regularity of the mails for some time to come. "So good-by for this time. "LEANDER STILLWELL." </div> </div> Soon after we returned to Jackson a detail of some from each company was sent to Bolivar and brought up our knapsacks and blankets, and we were then more comfortable. On December 29th, my company and two others of our regiment were sent by rail to Carroll Station, about eight miles north of Jackson. There had been a detachment of about a hundred men of the 106th Illinois Infantry previously stationed here, guarding the railroad, but Forrest captured them about December 20th, so on our arrival we found nothing but a crude sort of stockade, and the usual rubbish of an old camp. There was no town there, it consisted only of a platform and a switch. Our life here was somewhat uneventful, and I recall now only two incidents which, possibly, are worth noticing. It has heretofore been mentioned how I happened to learn when on picket at night something about the nocturnal habits of different animals and birds. I had a somewhat comical experience in this respect while on guard one night near Carroll Station. But it should be preceded by a brief explanation. It was no part of the duty of a non-commissioned officer to stand a regular tour of guard duty, with his musket in his hands. It was his province simply to exercise a general supervisory control over the men at his post, and especially to see that they relieved each other at the proper time. But it frequently happened in our regiment that our numbers present for duty were so diminished, and the guard details were so heavy, that the sergeants and corporals had to stand as sentries just the same as the privates, and this was especially so at Carroll Station. On the occasion of the incident about to be mentioned, the picket post was on the crest of a low ridge, or slight elevation, and under some big oak trees by an old tumble-down deserted building which had at one time been a blacksmith shop. There were three of us on this post, and one of my turns came at midnight. I was standing by one of the trees, listening, looking, and meditating. The night was calm, with a full moon. The space in our front, sloping down to a little hollow, was bare, but the ascending ground beyond was covered with a dense growth of young oaks which had not yet shed their leaves. We had orders to be extremely watchful and vigilant, as parties of the enemy were supposed to be in our vicinity. Suddenly I heard in front, and seemingly in the farther edge of the oak forest, a rustling sound that soon increased in volume. Whatever was making the noise was coming my way, through the trees, and down the slope of the opposite ridge. The noise grew louder, and louder, until it sounded just like the steady tramp, over the leaves and dead twigs, of a line of marching men, with a front a hundred yards in width. I just knew there must be trouble ahead, and that the Philistines were upon me. But a sentinel who made a false alarm while on duty was liable to severe punishment, and, at any rate, would be laughed at all over the regiment, and never hear the last of it. So I didn't wake up my comrades, but got in the shadow of the trunk of a tree, cocked my gun, and awaited developments. And soon they came. The advancing line emerged from the forest into the moonlight, and it was nothing but a big drove of hogs out on a midnight foraging expedition for acorns and the like! Well, I let down the hammer of my gun, and felt relieved,—and was mighty glad I hadn't waked the other boys. But I still insist that this crackling, crashing uproar, made by the advance of the "hog battalion" through the underbrush and woods, under the circumstances mentioned, would have deceived "the very elect." A few days later I was again on picket at the old blacksmith shop. Our orders were that at least once during the day one of the guard should make a scout out in front for at least half a mile, carefully observing all existing conditions, for the purpose of ascertaining if any parties of the enemy were hovering around in our vicinity. On this day, after dinner, I started out alone, on this little reconnoitering expedition. I had gone something more than half a mile from the post, and was walking along a dirt road with a cornfield on the left, and big woods on the right. About a hundred yards in front, the road turned square to the left, with a cornfield on each side. The corn had been gathered from the stalk, and the stalks were still standing. Glancing to the left, I happened to notice a white cloth fluttering above the cornstalks, at the end of a pole, and slowly moving my way. And peering through the tops of the stalks I saw coming down the road behind the white flag about a dozen Confederate cavalry! I broke into a run, and soon reached the turn in the road, cocked my gun, leveled it at the party, and shouted, "Halt!" They stopped, mighty quick, and the bearer of the flag called to me that they were a flag of truce party. I then said, "Advance, One." Whereupon they all started forward. I again shouted "Halt!" and repeated the command, "Advance, One!" The leader then rode up alone, I keeping my gun cocked, and at a ready, and he proceeded to tell me a sort of rambling, disjointed story about their being a flag of truce party, on business connected with an exchange of some wounded prisoners. I told the fellow that I would conduct him and his squad to my picket post, and then send word to our commanding officer, and he would take such action as he thought fit and proper. On reaching the post, I sent in one of the guards to the station to report to Lieut. Armstrong, in command of our detachment, that there was a flag of truce party at my post who desired an interview with the officer in command at Carroll Station. The Lieutenant soon arrived with an armed party of our men, and he and the Confederate leader drew apart and talked awhile. This bunch of Confederates were all young men, armed with double-barreled shot-guns, and a decidedly tough-looking outfit. They finally left my post, escorted by Lieut. Armstrong and his guard, and I understood in a general way that he passed them on to someone higher in authority at some other point in our vicinity, possibly at Jackson. They may have been acting in good faith, but from the manner of their leader, and the story he told me, I have always believed that their use of a flag of truce was principally a device to obtain some military intelligence,—but, of course, I do not know. My responsibility ended when Lieut. Armstrong reached my picket post in response to the message sent him. We remained at Carroll Station until January 27, 1863, were then relieved by a detachment of the 62nd Illinois Infantry, and were sent by rail back to Bolivar, where we rejoined the balance of the regiment. We then resumed our former duty of guarding the railroad north to Toone's Station, and continued at this until the last of May, 1863. But before taking up what happened then, it will be in order to speak of some of the changes that in the meantime had occurred among the commissioned officers of my company and of the regiment. Capt. Reddish resigned April 3rd, 1863, First Lieutenant Daniel S. Keeley was promoted Captain in his place, and Thomas J. Warren, the sergeant-major of the regiment, was commissioned as First Lieutenant in Keeley's stead. Lieut. Col. Fry resigned May 14, 1863. His place was taken by Major Simon P. Ohr, and Daniel Grass, Captain of Co. H, was made Major. The resignations of both Fry and Reddish, as I always have understood, were because of ill-health. They were good and brave men, and their hearts were in the cause, but they simply were too old to endure the fatigue and hardships of a soldier's life. But they each lived to a good old age. Col. Fry died in Greene county, Illinois, January 27th, 1881, aged nearly 82 years; and Capt. Reddish passed away in Dallas county, Texas, December 30th, 1881, having attained the Psalmist's limit of three score and ten. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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