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THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER OF ARMY LIFE IN THE CIVIL WAR 1861-1865
Second Edition
by
LEANDER STILLWELL
Late of Co. D, 61st Illinois Infantry
[Illustration: JUDGE LEANDER STILLWELL
December, 1909.]
Franklin Hudson Publishing Co.
1920
Copyright 1920 by
Leander Stillwell
DEDICATED TO MY YOUNGEST SON,
JEREMIAH E. STILLWELL.
DEAR JERRY:
You have earnestly asked me to write something in the nature of an
extended account of my career as a soldier in the Union army during the
Civil War. It will be a rather strenuous undertaking for a man of my
age. I shall be seventy-three years old in about three months, and the
truth is, I am now becoming somewhat indolent, and averse to labor of
any kind, either mental or physical. But I have concluded to comply
with your request, and undertake the work. Whether I shall complete it,
or not, I cannot now positively say, but I will do the best I can. And
I will also say, for whatever you may think it worth, that YOU are the
only person, now living, whose request could induce me to undertake the
sketch that you desire.
L. STILLWELL.
Erie, Kansas,
July 3, 1916.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
CHAPTER I.--The Beginning of the War. Life at Camp Carrollton,
January and February, 1862 9
CHAPTER II.--Benton Barracks. St. Louis, March, 1862 22
CHAPTER III.--Off for the Seat of War. The Battle of Shiloh.
March and April, 1862 30
CHAPTER IV.--Some Incidents of the Battle of Shiloh 54
CHAPTER V.--The Siege of Corinth. In Camp at Owl Creek. April
and May, 1862 69
CHAPTER VI.--Bethel. Jackson. June and July, 1862 78
CHAPTER VII.--Bolivar. July, August, and September, 1862 90
CHAPTER VIII.--Bolivar. The Movement to the Vicinity of Iuka,
Mississippi. September-December, 1862 98
CHAPTER IX.--The Affair at Salem Cemetery. Jackson, Carroll
Station. December, 1862, January, 1863. Bolivar. February-May,
1863 114
CHAPTER X.--The Siege of Vicksburg. June and July, 1863 133
CHAPTER XI.--Helena, Arkansas. Life in a Hospital. August, 1863 149
CHAPTER XII.--Devall's Bluff. Little Rock. August-October, 1863 157
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 165
CHAPTER XIV.--Little Rock. Winter of 1863-4. Re-enlist for
Three Years More 182
CHAPTER XV.--Little Rock. Expeditions to Augusta and Springfield.
March, April, and May, 1864 190
CHAPTER XVI.--Devall's Bluff; The Clarendon Expedition. June
and July, 1864 203
CHAPTER XVII.--Devall's Bluff Grand Reviews and Inspections.
Surgeon J. P. Anthony. Private Press Allender. June and July,
1864 209
CHAPTER XVIII.--The Regiment Goes Home on Veteran Furlough.
Interview with General W. T. Sherman After the War. A Short
Tour of Soldiering at Chester, Illinois. August, September,
and October, 1864 216
CHAPTER XIX.--Expedition to North Missouri. Back in Tennessee
Once More. Murfreesboro. October and November, 1864 225
CHAPTER XX.--The Affair at Overall's Creek. Murfreesboro.
December, 1864 233
CHAPTER XXI.--The Battle of Wilkinson's Pike. December 7, 1864 238
CHAPTER XXII.--The Fight on the Railroad Near Murfreesboro,
December 15, 1864 247
CHAPTER XXIII.--Murfreesboro. Winter of 1864-1865. Franklin.
Spring and Summer of 1865 258
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 265
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 275
PREFACE.
When I began writing these reminiscences it did not occur to me that
anything in the nature of a preface was necessary. It was thought that
the dedication to my son Jerry contained sufficient explanation. But I
have now finished writing these recollections, and in view of all that
they set forth, I believe that a few brief prefatory remarks may now be
appropriate. In the first place it will be said that when I began the
work it was only to gratify my son, and without any thought or
expectation that it would ever be published. I don't know yet that such
will be done, but it may happen. The thought occurred to me after I had
written some part of it, and it is possible that about at that point
some change began to take place in the style, and phraseology, and which
perhaps may be observed. So much for that. Next I will say that all
statements of fact herein made, based upon my own knowledge, can be
relied on as absolutely true. My mother most carefully preserved the
letters I wrote home from the army to her and to my father. She died on
February 6, 1894, and thereafter my father (who survived her only about
three years) gave back to me these old letters. In writing to my parents
I wrote, as a rule, a letter every week when the opportunity was
afforded, and now in this undertaking with these letters before me it
was easy to follow the regiment every mile of its way from Camp
Carrollton in January, 1862, to Camp Butler, in September, 1865.
Furthermore, on June 1, 1863, at Memphis, Tennessee, as we passed
through there on our way to join Grant's army at Vicksburg, I bought a
little blank book about four inches long, three inches wide, and half an
inch thick. From that time until we were mustered out, I kept a sort of
very brief diary in this little book, and have it yet. The old letters
and this book have been invaluable to me in writing my recollections,
and having been written at or near the time of the happening of the
events they mention, can be relied on as accurate and truthful.
Though I attained the rank of a commissioned officer while in the
service, yet that did not occur until near the end of my time, and after
the war was over. So it is submitted that the title given these
sketches, "The Story of a Common Soldier," is warranted by the facts.
If this manuscript should ever be published, it will go to the world
without any apology or commendation from me whatever. It is, though,
only fair to say that I make no pretensions to being a "literary" man.
This is simply the story of a common soldier who served in the army
during the great war, and who faithfully tried to do his duty.
L. STILLWELL.
December 30, 1916.
CHAPTER I.
THE BEGINNING OF THE WAR. LIFE AT CAMP CARROLLTON, JANUARY AND FEBRUARY,
1862.
I was born September 16, 1843, on a farm, in Otter Creek precinct,
Jersey County, Illinois. I was living with my parents, in the little old
log house where I was born, when the Civil war began. The Confederates
fired on Fort Sumter on April 12, 1861, and thus commenced the war. On
April 15, 1861, President Lincoln issued a call for 75,000 men, to aid
in putting down the existing rebellion. Illinois promptly furnished her
quota, and in addition, thousands of men were turned away, for the
reason that the complement of the State was complete, and there was no
room for them. The soldiers under this call were mustered in for three
months' service only, for the government then seemed to be of the
opinion that the troubles would be over by the end of that time. But on
May 3, 1861, Mr. Lincoln issued another call for volunteers, the number
specified being a little over 42,000, and their term of service was
fixed at three years, unless sooner discharged. The same call provided
for a substantial increase in the regular army and navy. I did not
enlist under either of these calls. As above stated, the belief then was
almost universal throughout the North that the "war" would amount to
nothing much but a summer frolic, and would be over by the 4th of July.
We had the utmost confidence that Richmond would be taken by that time,
and that Jeff Davis and his cabinet would be prisoners, or fugitives.
But the battle of Bull Run, fought on July 21, 1861, gave the loyal
people of the Nation a terrible awakening. The result of this battle was
a crushing disappointment and a bitter mortification to all the friends
of the Union. They realized then that a long and bloody struggle was
before them. But Bull Run was probably all for the best. Had it been a
Union victory, and the Rebellion then been crushed, negro slavery would
have been retained, and the "irrepressible conflict" would have been
fought out likely in your time, with doubtless tenfold the loss of life
and limb that ensued in the war of the sixties.
The day after the battle of Bull Run Congress passed a law authorizing
Mr. Lincoln to call for five hundred thousand three-years volunteers. It
was under this law, supplemented by authority from the Secretary of War,
that the regiment was organized in which I subsequently enlisted. I was
then only a boy, but somehow I felt that the war was going to be a long
one, and that it was the duty of every young fellow of the requisite
physical ability to "go for a soldier," and help save the Nation. I had
some talk with my father on the subject. He was a strong Union man, and
in sympathy with my feelings, but I could see that naturally he dreaded
the idea of his boy going to the war, with the result that maybe he
would be killed, or come home a cripple for life. But I gave him to
understand that when they began organizing a regiment in our vicinity,
and which would contain a fair proportion of my neighbor boys and
acquaintances, I intended then to volunteer. It was simply intolerable
to think that I could stay at home, among the girls, and be pointed at
by the soldier boys as a stay-at-home coward.
The work of organizing and recruiting for a regiment in our corner of
the State began early in the autumn of 1861. The various counties in
that immediate locality were overwhelmingly Democratic in politics, and
many of the people were strong "Southern sympathizers," as they were
then called, and who later developed into virulent Copperheads and
Knights of the Golden Circle. Probably 90 per cent of the inhabitants of
Greene, Jersey, Scott, Morgan, and adjoining counties came from the
Southern States, or were the direct descendants of people from that part
of the country. Kentuckians, Tennesseeans, and North and South
Carolinians were especially numerous. But it is only fair and the truth
to say that many of the most prominent and dangerous of this Copperhead
element were men from remote Eastern States. What caused these persons
to pursue this shameful course I do not know. President Lincoln was
personally well aware of these political conditions in our locality, as
his old home, at Springfield, the State Capital, was not far away, and
he doubtless knew every man of reasonable prominence in our entire
Congressional District. He wanted soldiers, regardless of politics, but
it was necessary, in that locality, to hold out some special inducements
to his constituents of the Democratic faith. So, for that reason, (with
others,) as was well understood at the time, Gen. Jacob Fry of Greene
County, a Kentuckian by birth and a life-long Democrat, was selected as
the one to recruit and organize, and to be the colonel of the regiment
to be raised from the counties above named and their vicinity. Aside
from the political consideration, this selection of Gen. Fry was
regarded at the time as a very good and appropriate one. He was an
old-timer, having been a resident of Greene county from his boyhood, had
been sheriff of the county, and had held other responsible offices. And,
what was considered still more important, he had served with credit and
distinction in the "Black Hawk War" in 1831-2, where he held the rank of
Colonel. Soon after the close of this Indian disturbance, he was made
Brigadier-General, and subsequently Major-General, of the Illinois
militia. He was a grand old man, of temperate habits, strict integrity,
and unflinching bravery. But he was sixty-two years old, and that proved
to be a handicap that eventually resulted in his resignation, as will
appear later.
The Fair Grounds, about half a mile east of Carrollton, the county seat
of Greene County, were designated as the "Camp of Instruction" for Col.
Fry's regiment. Recruiting for it began about the last of September, but
it proceeded very slowly. Several of the boys from my neighborhood had
previously enlisted in other regiments, and it looked as if the "wiry
edge" of volunteering had somewhat worn off. Co. F of the 14th Illinois
Infantry had been raised almost entirely in Jersey county, and several
of my old schoolmates were in that company. And there were little squads
that had joined other regiments. The 22nd and the 27th Illinois Infantry
and the 9th Missouri Infantry, (afterwards designated as the 59th
Illinois Infantry,) each had some men and boys from our part of the
county.
Up in the northwest corner of Jersey County and close to the Greene
county line lived an old farmer by the name of John H. Reddish. He, too,
had served in the Black Hawk War, and under the command of Col. Fry. The
highest position he attained in that scrap, as shown by the records, was
that of corporal, but, regardless of his rank, it is entirely safe to
say that he was a fighter. As soon as it was announced that Col. Fry was
raising a regiment, and was to be its colonel, Uncle John Reddish
forthwith took the field to recruit a company for this organization. The
fact that he had been a Black Hawk war soldier gave him immense
prestige, and settled in his favor the question of his military
qualifications without further evidence. The truth is that at that time
almost any man of good repute and fair intelligence, who had seen
service in this Black Hawk racket, or the Mexican war, was regarded as
fit and desirable for a commissioned officer, or, at the least, pretty
high up in the non-commissioned line. But, as it afterwards turned out,
that was an erroneous notion. There were exceptions, of course, but in
any event, as regards the Black Hawk episode, service during it was of
no practical benefit whatever to a man who became thereby an officer in
the Civil war. Capt. Reddish was kind hearted, and as brave an old
fellow as a reckless and indiscriminating bull dog, but, aside from his
personal courage, he had no military qualities whatever, and failed to
acquire any during his entire service. He never could learn the drill,
except the most simple company movements. He was also very illiterate,
and could barely write his name. And his commands on drill were
generally laughable. For instance, in giving the command of right or
left wheel, he would supplement it by saying, "Swing around, boys, just
like a gate." Such directions would mortify us exceedingly, and caused
the men of the other companies to laugh at and twit us about our
Captain. He would have made a first-class duty sergeant, and that was as
high a rank as he was capable of properly filling. But he was a good old
man, and furiously patriotic. He loved a fighter and abominated a
coward, and, on the whole, his men couldn't help but like him. Capt.
Reddish selected for his first, or orderly sergeant, as the position was
generally designated, Enoch W. Wallace, of my neighborhood. Enoch, as we
usually called him, was an old acquaintance and intimate friend of my
parents, and I too had known him from the time I was quite a little boy.
Take him all in all, he was just one of the best men I ever knew. He had
seen service as a Mexican war soldier, but owing to his youth, being
only about sixteen when that war began, I think he did not get in till
towards the last, and hence his service was short. But he learned
something about company drill. When I heard that Wallace was to be the
first sergeant of Capt. Reddish's company, I made up my mind, right
then, that I would enlist in that company, and told my father I was
going to do so. He listened in silence, with his eyes fixed on the
ground. Finally he said, "Well, Leander, if you think it's your duty to
go, I shall make no objection. But you're the only boy I now have at
home big enough to work, so I wish you'd put it off until we get the
wheat sowed, and the corn gathered. Then, if you're still of the same
mind, it'll be all right." I felt satisfied that the regiment would not
leave for the front until after we had done that work, so I at once
consented to my father's request.
[Illustration: J. O. Stillwell
(Father of Leander Stillwell.)]
An incident happened about this time that greatly stimulated my desire
to get into the army. Harvey Edsall, a neighbor boy some four or five
years my senior, had enlisted that summer in the 22nd Illinois Infantry.
Harvey, with his regiment, was in the battle of Belmont on November 7,
1861, and in the action received a rather severe gun shot wound in the
calf of one of his legs. As soon as he was able to stand the travel, he
was sent home on furlough, and I met him soon after his arrival at his
father's house, where the people had gathered to listen to "the
preaching of the word" by Elder Harrison Rowden. (We had no regular
church building in our immediate neighborhood then, and religious
services were held at private houses.) Harvey was rapidly recovering,
but his wounded leg was still swathed in bandages, and he walked on
crutches. I well remember how we boys stood around and looked at him
with wide-eyed admiration. And he had to tell us the story of the fight,
and all about the circumstances connected with the shot he got in his
leg, until he probably was sick and tired of the subject. But, for my
part, I thought Harvey's story was just grand, and it somehow impressed
me with the idea that the only life worth living was that of a soldier
in time of war. The idea of staying at home and turning over senseless
clods on the farm with the cannon thundering so close at hand that the
old men said that when the wind was from the south they sometimes
smelled the powder!--was simply intolerable.
Remember all the time, as you read these recollections of an old man,
that I am trying to give you merely some conception of the thoughts,
feelings, hopes, and ambitions of one who, at the time of which I am now
speaking, was only an eighteen year old boy.
In the meantime, I went on helping my father do the fall work on the
farm. In due time the wheat was sowed, the corn gathered, and a huge
stack of firewood for winter cut and brought in, and piled near the
dwelling-house. By this time the holiday season was approaching, which I
wanted to spend at home, thinking, maybe, it might be the last. And the
regiment was doing nothing but recruit, and drill at Camp Carrollton,
and, as I looked at it, there was no special need to hurry. But
Christmas and New Year's Day soon came, and went, and one evening I told
my parents I intended to go to Carrollton the next day, and "maybe"
would come back a soldier. Early next morning, which was Monday, January
6, 1862, I saddled and bridled Bill, the little black mule, and struck
out. Carrollton was about twenty miles from our home, almost due north,
and the road ran mainly through big woods, with an occasional farm on
either side of the road. It is likely those woods are all gone now. I
reached the camp about the middle of the afternoon, went to the quarters
of Reddish's company, found Enoch Wallace, and told him I had come to
enlist. He took me to Capt. Reddish, gave me a short introduction to
him, and told him my business. The old Captain gave me a hearty
greeting, and was so plain, kind and natural in his manner and talk,
that I took a liking to him at once. He told me that the first step
necessary was to be examined by the regimental surgeon as to my physical
fitness, so we at once went to the surgeon's tent. I had previously
heard all sorts of stories as to the thoroughness of this examination,
that sometimes the prospective recruits had to strip, stark naked, and
jump about, in order to show that their limbs were perfect. But I was
agreeably disappointed in that regard. The surgeon, at that time, was a
fat, jolly old doctor by the name of Leonidas Clemmons. I was about
scared to death when the Captain presented me to him, and requested him
to examine me. I reckon the good old doctor saw I was frightened, and he
began laughing heartily and saying some kind things about my general
appearance. He requested me to stand up straight, then gave me two or
three little sort of "love taps" on the chest, turned me round, ran his
hands over my shoulders, back, and limbs, laughing and talking all the
time, then whirled me to the front, and rendered judgment on me as
follows: "Ah, Capt. Reddish! I only wish you had a hundred such fine
boys as this one! He's all right, and good for the service." I drew a
long breath, and felt much relieved. Then we went to the adjutant's
tent, there I signed something, and was duly sworn in. Then to the
quartermaster's tent, where I drew my clothing. I got behind a big bale
of stuff, took off my citizen's apparel and put on my soldier clothes
then and there,--and didn't I feel proud! The clothing outfit consisted
of a pair of light-blue pantaloons, similar colored overcoat with a cape
to it, dark blue jacket, heavy shoes and woolen socks, an ugly,
abominable cocky little cap patterned after the then French army style,
gray woolen shirt, and other ordinary under-clothing. Was also given a
knapsack, but I think I didn't get a haversack and canteen until later.
Right here I will say that the regimental records give the date of my
enlistment as the 7th of January, which is wrong. The date was the 6th.
It was a day I did not forget, and never shall. How the authorities
happened to get the date wrong I do not know, but it is a matter of only
one day, and never was of any importance.
It was the custom then in the regiment to give each recruit when he
enlisted a two-days furlough, but I deferred asking for mine until the
next morning. I spent that afternoon in the camp, and the night at the
quarters of my company. As already stated, the camp was on the county
Fair Grounds. They contained forty acres, and were thickly studded with
big native trees, mainly white and black oak and shag-bark hickory. The
grounds were surrounded by an inclosure seven or eight feet high,
consisting of thick, native timber planks with the lower ends driven in
the ground, and the upper parts firmly nailed to cross-wise stringers.
There was only one opening, which was at the main gate about the center
of the north side of the grounds. A line of guards was maintained at the
gate and all round the inside of the inclosure, with the beat close to
the fence, for the purpose of keeping the men in camp. No enlisted man
could go out except on a pass signed by his captain, and approved by the
colonel. The drilling of the men was conducted principally inside the
grounds, but on skirmish drill we went outside, in order to have room
enough. The quarters or barracks of the men were, for each company, a
rather long, low structure, crudely built of native lumber and covered
with clapboards and a top dressing of straw, containing two rows of
bunks, one above and one below. These shacks looked like a Kansas stable
of early days,--but they were abodes of comfort and luxury compared to
what we frequently had later.
Next morning, after an early breakfast, I pulled out for home, with my
two-days furlough in my pocket. I was accompanied by John Jobson, one of
Reddish's company, and who had enlisted about a month previous. He had
obtained a short furlough for some purpose or other, and had hired a
horse on which to make the trip. Prior to his enlistment he had been
working as a farm hand for Sam Dougherty, one of our nearest neighbors,
and I had become well acquainted with him. He was about twenty-five
years old, of English birth, a fine, sensible young fellow, and made a
good soldier. I well remember our high spirits on this journey home. We
were young, glowing with health and overflowing with liveliness and
animation. There was a heavy snow on the ground, but the sky was clear,
and the air was keen and bracing. Occasionally, when we would strike a
stretch of level road, we would loose all the buttons of our overcoats
save the top one, put the gad to our steeds, and waving our caps, with
our long coat tails streaming in the wind, would yell like Comanches,
and "let on" that we were making a cavalry charge. I have no doubt that
we believed we presented a most terror-striking appearance.
Happy is man that to him the future is a sealed book. In the summer of
1863, while we were stationed near Vicksburg, Jobson was taken seriously
ill, and was put on a transport to be taken to a general hospital at
Mound City, Illinois. He died en route, on the boat, and was hastily
buried in a sand bar at the mouth of White River. The changing currents
of the mighty Mississippi have long since swallowed up that sand bar,
and with it all that may have been left of the mortal remains of poor
Jobson.
I reached home sometime in the afternoon, relieved Bill of his
equipments, put him in the stable, and fed him. No one was stirring
about outside, and I walked into the house unannounced. My mother was
seated in an old rocking-chair, engaged in sewing. She looked up, saw me
in the uniform of a soldier, and she knew what that meant. Her work
dropped in her lap, she covered her face with her hands, and the tears
gushed through her fingers and she trembled in her chair with the
intensity of her emotions. There was no sobbing, or other vocal
manifestation of feeling, but her silence made her grief seem all the
more impressive. I was distressed, and didn't know what to say, so I
said nothing, and walked out into the kitchen, thence back to the barn.
There I met father, who had come in from some out-door work. He looked
at me gravely, but with an impassive countenance, and merely remarked,
"Well, I reckon you've done right."
Next morning everybody seemed more cheerful, and I had much to say at
breakfast about things at Camp Carrollton.
On the expiration of my furlough I promptly reported at the camp and
entered on my duties as a soldier. The absorbing duty was the drill, and
that was persistent, and consumed the most of the time. I knew nothing
about it when I enlisted, and had never seen any except on the previous
Monday afternoon. The system we then had was Hardee's Infantry Tactics.
It was simple, and easily learned. The main things required were
promptness, care, and close attention. All day long, somewhere in the
camp, could be heard the voice of some officer, calling, "Left! left!
left, right, left!" to his squad or company, to guide them in the
cadence of the step. We were drilled at Carrollton in the "school of the
soldier," "school of the company," and skirmish drill, with dress parade
at sunset. We had no muskets, and did not receive them until we went to
Benton Barracks, at St. Louis. I do not remember of our having any
battalion drill at Camp Carrollton. The big trees in the fair grounds
were probably too thick and numerous to permit that. Our fare consisted
of light bread, coffee, fresh meat at some meals, and salt meat at
others, Yankee beans, rice, onions, and Irish and sweet potatoes, with
stewed dried apples occasionally for supper. The salt meat, as a rule,
was pickled pork and fat side meat, which latter "table comfort" the
boys called "sow-belly." We got well acquainted with that before the war
was over. On the grub question I will say now that the great "stand-bys"
of the Union soldiers during the war, at least those of the western
armies, were coffee, sow-belly, Yankee beans, and hardtack. It took us,
of course, some time to learn how to cook things properly, especially
the beans, but after we had learned how, we never went back on the above
named old friends. But the death of many a poor boy, especially during
our first two or three months in the field, is chargeable to the bad
cooking of his food.
At Carrollton the jolliest time of the day was from the close of dress
parade until taps sounded "Lights out." There was then a good deal of
what you might call "prairie dogging," that is, the boys would run
around and visit at the quarters of other companies. And Oh, how they
would sing! All sorts of patriotic songs were in vogue then, and what
was lacking in tone we made up in volume. The battle of Mill Springs, in
Kentucky, was fought on January 19, 1862, resulting in a Union victory.
A Confederate general, Felix K. Zollicoffer, was killed in the action.
He had been a member of Congress from Tennessee, and was a man of
prominence in the South. A song soon appeared in commemoration of this
battle. It was called "The Happy Land of Canaan," and I now remember
only one stanza, which is as follows:
"Old Zolly's gone,
And Secesh will have to mourn,
For they thought he would do to depend on;
But he made his last stand
On the rolling Cumberland,
And was sent to the happy land of Canaan."
There was a ringing, rolling chorus to each verse, of course, and which
was not at all germane to the text, and, moreover, as the newspapers
sometimes say, is "not adapted for publication,"--so it will be
omitted. Well, I can now shut my eyes and lean back in my chair and let
my memory revert to that far away time, and it just seems to me that I
can see and hear Nelse Hegans, of Co. C, singing that song at night in
our quarters at old Camp Carrollton. He was a big, strong six-footer,
about twenty-one years of age, with a deep bass voice that sounded when
singing like the roll of distant thunder. And he was an all-around good
fellow. Poor Nelse! He was mortally wounded by a musket ball in the
neck early in the morning of the first day at Shiloh, and died a few
days thereafter.
The health of the boys while at Camp Carrollton was fine. There were a
few cases of measles, but as I remember, none were fatal. Once I caught
a bad cold, but I treated it myself with a backwoods remedy and never
thought of going to the surgeon about it. I took some of the bark of a
hickory tree that stood near our quarters, and made about a quart of
strong hickory-bark tea. I drank it hot, and all at once, just before
turning in for the night. It was green in color, and intensely bitter,
but it cured the cold.
A few weeks after my enlistment, I was appointed to the position of
corporal. There are, or were in my time, eight corporals in an infantry
company, each designated by a number, in numerical order. I was fifth.
I owed this appointment to the friendship and influence of Enoch
Wallace, and this was only one of the countless acts of kindness that
he rendered me during my term of service. I just cannot tell you how
proud I was over this modest military office. I am telling you the
truth when I say that I felt more pride and pleasure in being a
"Corporal of Co. D" than I ever did later in the possession of any
other office, either military or civil. The boys framed up a story on
me, to the effect that soon after my appointment I was seen in the rear
of the company quarters, stooping over an empty barrel, with my head
projected into it as far as possible, and exclaiming in a deep,
guttural tone, "CORPORAL STILLWELL!" "CORPORAL STILLWELL!" This was
being done, so the boys said, in order that I might personally enjoy
the sound. In order to be strictly accurate, I will state that,
although the appointment was made while we were at Carrollton, my
official warrant was not issued until our arrival at Benton Barracks.
The only thing recalled now that was sort of disagreeable at Camp
Carrollton was the utter absence of privacy. Even when off duty, one
couldn't get away by himself, and sit down in peace and quiet anywhere.
And as for slipping off into some corner and trying to read, alone, a
book or paper, the thing was impossible. To use a modern expression,
there was always "something doing." Many a time after supper, on very
cold nights, when the boys would all be in the barracks, singing or
cutting up, I would sneak out and walk around under the big trees, with
the snow crackling under my feet, for no other purpose whatever than
just to be alone a while. But that condition of things changed for the
better after we got down South, and were no longer cooped up in a forty
acre lot.
General Grant gained his great victory at Fort Donelson on February 16,
1862, and the news reached us a few days later. The boys talked about
it with feelings of mingled exultation,--and mortification. Exultation,
of course, over the "glorious victory," but mortification in regard to
its effects and consequences on our future military career. We all
thought, from the officers down, that now the war would end, that we
would see no actual service, and never fire a shot. That we would be
discharged, and go home just little "trundle-bed soldiers," and have to
sit around and hear other sure-enough warriors tell the stories of
actual war and fighting. If we only had known, we were borrowing
unnecessary trouble,--as we found out later.