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

CHAPTER XXV. FRANKLIN, SUMMER OF 1865. MUSTERED OUT, SEPTEMBER 8, 1865. RECEIVE FINAL PAYMENT AT SPRINGFIELD, ILLINOIS, SEPTEMBER 27, 1865. THE REGIMENT "BREAKS RANKS" FOREVER. Soldiering at Franklin, Tennessee, in May, June, July, and August, 1865, was simply of a picnic kind. The war was over in that region, and everything there was as quiet and peaceful as it was at home in Illinois. Picket guards were dispensed with, and the only guard duty required was a small detail for the colors at regimental headquarters, and a similar one over our commissary stores. However, it was deemed necessary for the health of the men to maintain company drills to a certain extent, but they were light and easy. Near the camp was a fine blue-grass pasture field, containing in a scattered, irregular form numerous large and magnificent hard maples, and the drilling was done in this field. Capt. Warren was somewhat portly, and not fond of strenuous exercise anyhow, so all the drilling Co. D had at Franklin was conducted by myself. But I rather liked it. With the accession of those 83rd Illinois men, the old company was about as big and strong as it was at Camp Carrollton, and it looked fine. But, to tell the truth, it is highly probable that we put in fully as much time lying on the blue grass under the shade of those grand old maples as we did in company evolutions. Sometime during the course of the summer a middle aged widow lady named House began conducting a sort of private boarding establishment at her residence in the city, and Col. Nulton, Maj. Keeley, and several of the line officers, including myself, took our meals at this place during the remainder of our stay at Franklin. Among the boarders were two or three gentlemen also of the name of House, and who were brothers-in-law of our hostess. They had all served in Forrest's cavalry as commissioned officers, and were courteous and elegant gentlemen. We would all sit down together at the table of Mrs. House, with that lady at the head, and talk and laugh, and joke with each other, as if we had been comrades and friends all our lives. And yet, during the four years just preceding, the Union and the Confederate soldiers thus mingled together in friendship and amity had been doing their very best to kill one another! But in our conversation we carefully avoided anything in the nature of political discussion about the war, and in general each side refrained from saying anything on that subject which might grate on the feelings of the other. On September 4th, 1865, the regiment left Franklin and went by rail to Nashville for the purpose of being mustered out of the service. There were some unavoidable delays connected with the business, and it was not officially consummated until September 8th. In the forenoon of the following day we left Nashville on the cars, on the Louisville and Nashville railroad, for Springfield, Illinois, where we were to receive our final payment and certificates of discharge. Early on Sunday morning, September 10th, we crossed the Ohio river at Louisville, Kentucky, on a ferry boat, to Jeffersonville, Indiana. This boat was provided with a railroad track extending from bow to stern, and so arranged that when the boat landed at either bank, the rails laid along the lower deck of the boat would closely connect with the railroad track on the land. This ferry transferred our train in sections, and thus obviated any necessity for the men to leave the cars. The ferrying process did not take long, and we were soon speeding through southern Indiana. As stated, it was Sunday, and a bright, beautiful autumn day. As I have hereinbefore mentioned, our train consisted of box cars, (except one coach for the commissioned officers,) and all the men who could find room had taken, from preference, seats on top of the cars. Much of southern Indiana is rugged and broken, and in 1865 was wild, heavily timbered, and the most of the farm houses were of the backwoods class. We soon began to see little groups of the country people, in farm wagons, or on foot, making their way to Sunday school and church. Women, young girls, and children predominated, all dressed in their "Sunday-go-to-meeting" clothes. And how the women and girls cheered us, and waved their handkerchiefs! And didn't we yell! It was self-evident that we were in "God's Country" once more. These were the first demonstrations of that kind the old regiment had seen since the girls of Monticello Seminary, in February, 1862, lined the fences by the road side and made similar manifestations of patriotism and good will. We arrived at Indianapolis about noon, there got off the cars and went in a body to a Soldiers' Home close at hand, where we had a fine dinner; thence back to the old train, which thundered on the rest of the day and that night, arriving at Springfield the following day, the 11th. Here we marched out to Camp Butler, near the city, and went into camp. And now another annoying delay occurred, this time being in the matter of our final payment. What the particular cause was I do not know; probably the paymasters were so busy right then that they couldn't get around to us. The most of us (that is, of the old, original regiment) were here within sixty or seventy miles of our homes, and to be compelled to just lie around and wait here at Camp Butler was rather trying. But the boys were patient, and on the whole endured the situation with commendable equanimity. "But the day it came at last," and in the forenoon of September 27th we fell in line by companies, and each company in its turn marched to the paymaster's tent, near regimental headquarters. The roll of the company would be called in alphabetical order, and each man, as his name was called, would answer, and step forward to the paymaster's table. That officer would lay on the table before the man the sum of money he was entitled to, and with it his certificate of discharge from the army, duly signed by the proper officials. The closing of the hand of the soldier over that piece of paper was the final act in the drama that ended his career as a soldier of the Civil War. Now he was a civilian, free to come and go as he listed. Farewell to the morning drum-beats, taps, roll-calls, drills, marches, battles, and all the other incidents and events of a soldier's life. <div class="poem"> <div class="stanza"> "The serried ranks, with flags displayed, The bugle's thrilling blast, The charge, the thund'rous cannonade, The din and shout—were past." </div> </div> The scattering-out process promptly began after we received our pay and discharges. I left Springfield early the following day, the 28th, on the Chicago, Alton, and St. Louis railroad, and went to Alton. Here I luckily found a teamster who was in the act of starting with his wagon and team to Jerseyville, and I rode with him to that place, arriving there about the middle of the afternoon. I now hunted diligently to find some farm wagon that might be going to the vicinity of home, but found none. While so engaged, to my surprise and great delight, I met the old Chaplain, B. B. Hamilton. As heretofore stated, he had resigned during the previous March and had been at home for some months. His greeting to me was in his old-fashioned style. "Son of Jeremiah!" he exclaimed, as he extended his hand, "why comest thou down hither? And with whom hast thou left those few sheep in the wilderness?" I promptly informed him, in effect, that my coming was regular and legitimate, and that the "few sheep" of the old regiment were forever through and done with a shepherd. Hamilton did not reside in Jerseyville, but had just arrived there from his home in Greene county, and, like me, was trying to find some farmer's conveyance to take him about five miles into the country to the home of an old friend. I ascertained that his route, as far as he went, was the same as mine, so I proposed that we should strike out on foot. But he didn't entertain the proposition with much enthusiasm. "Son of Jeremiah," said he, "you will find that a walk of nine miles" (the distance to my father's) "will be a great weariness to the flesh on this warm day." But I considered it a mere pleasure walk, and was determined to go, so he finally concluded to do likewise. I left my valise in the care of a Jerseyville merchant, and with no baggage except my sword and belt, we proceeded to "hit the dirt." I took off my coat, slung it over one shoulder, unsnapped my sword, with the scabbard, from the belt, and shouldered it also. Our walk was a pleasant and most agreeable one, as we had much to talk about that was interesting to both. When we arrived at the mouth of the lane that led to the house of the Chaplain's friend, we shook hands and I bade him good-by, but fully expected to meet him many times later. But our paths in life diverged,—and I never saw him again. I arrived at the little village of Otterville about sundown. It was a very small place in 1865. There was just one store, (which also contained the post-office,) a blacksmith shop, the old "Stone school house," a church, and perhaps a dozen or so private dwellings. There were no sidewalks, and I stalked up the middle of the one street the town afforded, with my sword poised on my shoulder, musket fashion, and feeling happy and proud. I looked eagerly around as I passed along, hoping to see some old friend. As I went by the store, a man who was seated therein on the counter leaned forward and looked at me, but said nothing. A little further up the street a big dog sprang off the porch of a house, ran out to the little gate in front, and standing on his hind legs with his fore paws on the palings, barked at me loudly and persistently,—but I attracted no further attention. Many of the regiments that were mustered out soon after the close of the war received at home gorgeous receptions. They marched under triumphal arches, decorated with flags and garlands of flowers, while brass bands blared, and thousands of people cheered, and gave them a most enthusiastic "Welcome Home!" But the poor old 61st Illinois was among the late arrivals. The discharged soldiers were now numerous and common, and no longer a novelty. Personally I didn't care, rather really preferred to come back home modestly and quietly, and without any "fuss and feathers" whatever. Still, I would have felt better to have met at least one person as I passed through the little village who would have given me a hearty hand-shake, and said he was glad to see me home, safe from the war. But it's all right, for many such were met later. I now had only two miles to go, and was soon at the dear old boyhood home. My folks were expecting me, so they were not taken by surprise. There was no "scene" when we met, nor any effusive display, but we all had a feeling of profound contentment and satisfaction which was too deep to be expressed by mere words. When I returned home I found that the farm work my father was then engaged in was cutting up and shocking corn. So, the morning after my arrival, September 29th, I doffed my uniform of first lieutenant, put on some of father's old clothes, armed myself with a corn knife, and proceeded to wage war on the standing corn. The feeling I had while engaged in this work was "sort of queer." It almost seemed, sometimes, as if I had been away only a day or two, and had just taken up the farm work where I had left off. Here this story will close. In conclusion I will say that in civil life people have been good to me. I have been honored with different positions of trust, importance, and responsibility, and which I have reason to believe I filled to the satisfaction of the public. I am proud of the fact of having been deemed worthy to fill those different places. But, while that is so, I will further say, in absolute sincerity, that to me my humble career as a soldier in the 61st Illinois during the War for the Union is the record that I prize the highest of all, and is the proudest recollection of my life. <hr class="long"> <h3> Footnotes </h3>   1 Some years after this sketch was written I ascertained that this battery was Richardson's, Co. D, 1st Missouri Light Artillery.   2 See "Military History of Ulysses S. Grant," by Adam Badeau, Vol. 1, page 456. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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