LEANDER STILLWELL Late of Co. D, 61st Illinois Infantry (continued 7)

CHAPTER XXIV.

THE SOLDIER'S PAY. RATIONS; ALLUSIONS TO SOME OF THE USEFUL LESSONS LEARNED BY SERVICE IN THE ARMY IN TIME OF WAR. COURAGE IN BATTLE.

This story is now drawing to a close, so I will here speak of some things of a general nature, and which have not been heretofore mentioned, except perhaps casually.

One important feature in the life of a soldier was the matter of his pay, and a few words on that subject may not be out of place. When I enlisted in January, 1862, the monthly pay of the enlisted men of a regiment of infantry was as follows: First sergeant, $20; duty sergeants, $17; corporals and privates, $13. By act of Congress of May 1st, 1864, the monthly pay of the enlisted men was increased, and from that date was as follows: First sergeant, $24; duty sergeants, $20; corporals, $18; privates, $16. That rate existed as long, at least, as we remained in the service. The first payment made to our regiment was on May 1st, 1862, while we were in camp at Owl Creek, Tennessee. The amount I received was $49.40, and of this I sent $45 home to my father at the first opportunity. For a poor man, he was heavily in debt at the time of my enlistment, and was left without any boys to help him do the work upon the farm, so I regarded it as my duty to send him every dollar of my pay that possibly could be spared, and did so as long as I was in the service. But he finally got out of debt during the war. He had good crops, and all manner of farm products brought high prices, so the war period was financially a prosperous one for him. And, to be fair about it, I will say that he later repaid me, when I was pursuing my law studies at the Albany, New York, Law School, almost all the money I had sent him while in the army. So the result really was that the money received by me, as a soldier, was what later enabled me to qualify as a lawyer.

I have heretofore said in these reminiscences that the great "stand-bys" in the way of the food of the soldiers of the western armies were coffee, sow-belly, Yankee beans, and hardtack. But other articles of diet were also issued to us, some of which we liked, while others were flat failures. I have previously said something about the antipathy I had for rice. The French General, Baron Gourgaud, in his "Talks of Napoleon at St. Helena" (p. 240), records Napoleon as having said, "Rice is the best food for the soldier." Napoleon, in my opinion, was the greatest soldier that mankind ever produced,—but all the same, I emphatically dissent from his rice proposition. His remark may have been correct when applied to European soldiers of his time and place,—but I know it wouldn't fit western American boys of 1861-65.

There were a few occasions when an article of diet was issued called "desiccated potatoes." For "desiccated" the boys promptly substituted "desecrated," and "desecrated potatoes" was its name among the rank and file from start to finish. It consisted of Irish potatoes cut up fine and thoroughly dried. In appearance it much resembled the modern preparation called "grape nuts." We would mix it in water, grease, and salt, and make it up into little cakes, which we would fry, and they were first rate. There was a while when we were at Bolivar, Tennessee, that some stuff called "compressed vegetables" was issued to us, which the boys, almost unanimously, considered an awful fraud. It was composed of all sorts of vegetables, pressed into small bales, in a solid mass, and as dry as threshed straw. The conglomeration contained turnip-tops, cabbage leaves, string-beans (pod and all), onion blades, and possibly some of every other kind of a vegetable that ever grew in a garden. It came to the army in small boxes, about the size of the Chinese tea-boxes that were frequently seen in this country about fifty years ago. In the process of cooking, it would swell up prodigiously,—a great deal more so than rice. The Germans in the regiment would make big dishes of soup out of this "baled hay," as we called it, and they liked it, but the native Americans, after one trial, wouldn't touch it. I think about the last box of it that was issued to our company was pitched into a ditch in the rear of the camp, and it soon got thoroughly soaked and loomed up about as big as a fair-sized hay-cock. "Split-peas" were issued to us, more or less, during all the time we were in the service. My understanding was that they were the ordinary garden peas. They were split in two, dried, and about as hard as gravel. But they yielded to cooking, made excellent food, and we were all fond of them. In our opinion, when properly cooked, they were almost as good as Yankee beans.

When our forces captured Little Rock in September, 1863, we obtained possession, among other plunder, of quite a quantity of Confederate commissary stores. Among these was a copious supply of "jerked beef." It consisted of narrow, thin strips of beef, which had been dried on scaffolds in the sun, and it is no exaggeration to say that it was almost as hard and dry as a cottonwood chip. Our manner of eating it was simply to cut off a chunk about as big as one of our elongated musket balls, and proceed to "chaw." It was rather a comical sight to see us in our cabins of a cold winter night, sitting by the fire, and all solemnly "chawing" away, in profound silence, on the Johnnies' jerked beef. But, if sufficiently masticated, it was nutritious and healthful, and we all liked it. I often thought it would have been a good thing if the government had made this kind of beef a permanent and regular addition to our rations. As long as kept in the dry, it would apparently keep indefinitely, and a piece big enough to last a soldier two or three days would take up but little space in a haversack.

Passing from the topic of army rations, I will now take leave to say here, with sincerity and emphasis, that the best school to fit me for the practical affairs of life that I ever attended was in the old 61st Illinois during the Civil War. It would be too long a story to undertake to tell all the benefits derived from that experience, but a few will be alluded to. In the first place, when I was a boy at home, I was, to some extent, a "spoiled child." I was exceedingly particular and "finicky" about my food. Fat meat I abhorred, and wouldn't touch it, and on the other hand, when we had chicken to eat, the gizzard was claimed by me as my sole and exclusive tid-bit, and "Leander" always got it. Let it be known that in the regiment those habits were gotten over so soon that I was astonished myself. The army in time of war is no place for a "sissy-boy;" it will make a man of him quicker, in my opinion, than any other sort of experience he could undergo. And suffice it to say, on the food question, that my life as a soldier forever cured me of being fastidious or fault-finding about what I had to eat. I have gone hungry too many times to give way to such weakness when sitting down in a comfortable room to a table provided with plenty that was good enough for any reasonable man. I have no patience with a person who is addicted to complaining or growling about his food. Some years ago there was an occasion when I took breakfast at a decent little hotel at a country way-station on a railroad out in Kansas. It was an early breakfast, for the accommodation of guests who would leave on an early morning train, and there were only two at the table,—a young traveling commercial man and myself. The drummer ordered (with other things) a couple of fried eggs, and that fellow sent the poor little dining room girl back with those eggs three times before he got them fitted to the exact shade of taste to suit his exquisite palate. And he did this, too, in a manner and words that were offensive and almost brutal. It was none of my business, so I kept my mouth shut and said nothing, but I would have given a reasonable sum to have been the proprietor of that hotel about five minutes. That fool would then have been ordered to get his grip and leave the house,—and he would have left, too.

I do not know how it may have been with other regiments in the matter now to be mentioned, but I presume it was substantially the same as in ours. And the course pursued with us had a direct tendency to make one indifferent as to the precise cut of his clothes. It is true that attention was paid to shoes, to that extent, at least, that the quartermaster tried to give each man a pair that approximated to the number he wore. But coats, trousers, and the other clothes were piled up in separate heaps, and each man was just thrown the first garment on the top of the heap; he took it and walked away. If it was an outrageous fit, he would swap with some one if possible, otherwise he got along as best he could. Now, in civil life, I have frequently been amused in noting some dudish young fellow in a little country store trying to fit himself out with a light summer coat, or something similar. He would put on the garment, stand in front of a big looking glass, twist himself into all sorts of shapes so as to get a view from every possible angle, then remove that one, and call for another. Finally, after trying on about every coat in the house, he would leave without making a purchase, having found nothing that suited the exact contour of his delicately moulded form. A very brief experience in a regiment that had a gruff old quartermaster would take that tuck out of that Beau Brummell, in short order.

Sometimes I have been, at a late hour on a stormy night, at a way-station on some "jerk-water" railroad, waiting for a belated train, with others in the same predicament. And it was comical to note the irritation of some of these fellows and the fuss they made about the train being late. The railroad, and all the officers, would be condemned and abused in the most savage terms on account of this little delay. And yet we were in a warm room, with benches to sit on, with full stomachs, and physically just as comfortable as we possibly could be. The thought would always occur to me, on such episodes, that if those kickers had to sit down in a dirt road, in the mud, with a cold rain pelting down on them, and just endure all this until a broken bridge in front was fixed up so that the artillery and wagon train could get along,—then a few incidents of that kind would be a benefit to them. And instances like the foregoing might be multiplied indefinitely. On the whole, life in the army in a time of war tended to develop patience, contentment with the surroundings, and equanimity of temper and mind in general. And, from the highest to the lowest, differing only in degree, it would bring out energy, prompt decision, intelligent action, and all the latent force of character a man possessed.

I suppose, in reminiscences of this nature, one should give his impressions, or views, in relation to that much talked about subject,—"Courage in battle." Now, in what I have to say on that head, I can speak advisedly mainly for myself only. I think that the principal thing that held me to the work was simply pride; and am of the opinion that it was the same thing with most of the common soldiers. A prominent American functionary some years ago said something about our people being "too proud to fight." With the soldiers of the Civil War it was exactly the reverse,—they were "too proud to run";—unless it was manifest that the situation was hopeless, and that for the time being nothing else could be done. And, in the latter case, when the whole line goes back, there is no personal odium attaching to any one individual; they are all in the same boat. The idea of the influence of pride is well illustrated by an old-time war story, as follows: A soldier on the firing line happened to notice a terribly affrighted rabbit running to the rear at the top of its speed. "Go it, cotton-tail!" yelled the soldier. "I'd run too if I had no more reputation to lose than you have."

It is true that in the first stages of the war the fighting qualities of American soldiers did not appear in altogether a favorable light. But at that time the fact is that the volunteer armies on both sides were not much better than mere armed mobs, and without discipline or cohesion. But those conditions didn't last long,—and there was never but one Bull Run.

Enoch Wallace was home on recruiting service some weeks in the fall of 1862, and when he rejoined the regiment he told me something my father said in a conversation that occurred between the two. They were talking about the war, battles, and topics of that sort, and in the course of their talk Enoch told me that my father said that while he hoped his boy would come through the war all right, yet he would rather "Leander should be killed dead, while standing up and fighting like a man, than that he should run, and disgrace the family." I have no thought from the nature of the conversation as told to me by Enoch that my father made this remark with any intention of its being repeated to me. It was sudden and spontaneous, and just the way the old backwoodsman felt. But I never forgot it, and it helped me several times. For, to be perfectly frank about it, and tell the plain truth, I will set it down here that, so far as I was concerned, away down in the bottom of my heart I just secretly dreaded a battle. But we were soldiers, and it was our business to fight when the time came, so the only thing to then do was to summon up our pride and resolution, and face the ordeal with all the fortitude we could command. And while I admit the existence of this feeling of dread before the fight, yet it is also true that when it was on, and one was in the thick of it, with the smell of gun-powder permeating his whole system, then a signal change comes over a man. He is seized with a furious desire to kill. There are his foes, right in plain view, give it to 'em, d—— 'em!—and for the time being he becomes almost oblivious to the sense of danger.

And while it was only human nature to dread a battle,—and I think it would be mere affectation to deny it, yet I also know that we common soldiers strongly felt that when fighting did break loose close at hand, or within the general scope of our operations, then we ought to be in it, with the others, and doing our part. That was what we were there for, and somehow a soldier didn't feel just right for fighting to be going on all round him, or in his vicinity, and he doing nothing but lying back somewhere, eating government rations.

But, all things considered, the best definition of true courage I have ever read is that given by Gen. Sherman in his Memoirs, as follows:

"I would define true courage," (he says,) "to be a perfect sensibility of the measure of danger, and a mental willingness to endure it." (Sherman's Memoirs, revised edition, Vol. 2, p. 395.) But, I will further say, in this connection, that, in my opinion, much depends, sometimes, especially at a critical moment, on the commander of the men who is right on the ground, or close at hand. This is shown by the result attained by Gen. Milroy in the incident I have previously mentioned. And, on a larger scale, the inspiring conduct of Gen. Sheridan at the battle of Cedar Creek, Virginia, is probably the most striking example in modern history of what a brave and resolute leader of men can accomplish under circumstances when apparently all is lost. And, on the other hand, I think there is no doubt that the battle of Wilson's Creek, Missouri, on August 10, 1861, was a Union victory up to the time of the death of Gen. Lyon, and would have remained such if the officer who succeeded Lyon had possessed the nerve of his fallen chief. But he didn't, and so he marched our troops off the field, retreated from a beaten enemy, and hence Wilson's Creek figures in history as a Confederate victory. (See "The Lyon Campaign," by Eugene F. Ware, pp. 324-339.) I have read somewhere this saying of Bonaparte's: "An army of deer commanded by a lion is better than an army of lions commanded by a deer." While that statement is only figurative in its nature, it is, however, a strong epigrammatic expression of the fact that the commander of soldiers in battle should be, above all other things, a forcible, determined, and brave man.

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.

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.

Footnotes

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.