BENTON BARRACKS. ST. LOUIS, MARCH, 1862.
Sometime during the last of February, the welcome news was given out
from regimental headquarters that we were soon to leave Camp
Carrollton. Our first objective point was to be St. Louis, Mo., and
what next nobody knew. Definite orders for the movement were issued
later, and it then occurred to us that possibly all our recent
apprehensions about not seeing any fighting were somewhat premature.
Right here I will say that in the brief sketch of the regiment
published in the reports of the Adjutant-General of the State of
Illinois, the date of our leaving Carrollton is given as February 21,
which is wrong. That date is either a mistake of the person who wrote
that part of the sketch, or a typographical error. I have in my
possession, and now lying before me, a letter I wrote to my father from
Benton Barracks, of date March 2, 1862, in which the date of our
arrival at St. Louis is given as February 28th. And I well know that we
were only two days on the trip. And besides the date given in my
letter, I distinctly remember several unwritten facts and circumstances
that satisfy me beyond any doubt, that the day we left Carrollton was
February 27, 1862. Early in the morning of that day, the regiment filed
out at the big gate, and marched south on the dirt road. Good-bye to
old Camp Carrollton! Many of the boys never saw it again, and I never
have seen it since but once, which was in the summer of 1894. I was
back then in Jersey county, on a sort of a visit, and was taken with a
desire to run up to Carrollton and look at the old camp. There was then
a railroad constructed during the last years of the war, (or about that
time), running south from the town, and less than an hour's ride from
Jerseyville, where I was stopping, so I got on a morning train, and,
like Jonah when moved to go to Tarshish, "paid the fare and went." I
found the old camp still being used as a county fair ground, and the
same big trees, or the most of them, were there yet, and looked about
as they did thirty-two years before. Of course, every vestige of our
old barracks was gone. I stood around and looked at things awhile,--and
thought--then left, and have never been there again.
[Illustration: Ann Eliza Stillwell
(Mother of Leander Stillwell.)]
The regiment arrived at Jerseyville about sunset. The word had gone
out, all through the country, that Fry's regiment was leaving for the
front, and the country people had come to town, from miles around, in
their farm wagons, to have one last look, and bid us good-bye. The
regiment, in column by companies, company distance, marched up the main
street running south, and on reaching the center of the little town, we
wheeled into line, dressed on the colors, and stood at attention. The
sidewalks were thronged with the country people all intently scanning
the lines, each little family group anxiously looking for their boy,
brother, husband or father, as the case may have been. (But right here
it will be said that the overwhelming majority of the enlisted men of
the regiment, and the most of the line officers, were unmarried.) I was
satisfied that my parents were somewhere among the crowd of spectators,
for I had specially written them as to when we would pass through
Jerseyville. I was in the front rank, and kept my face rigidly fixed to
the front, but glanced as best I could up and down the sidewalk, trying
to locate father and mother. Suddenly I saw them, as they struggled to
the edge of the walk, not more than ten feet from me. I had been
somewhat dreading the meeting, and the parting that was to come. I
remembered the emotion of my mother when she first saw me in my
uniform, and I feared that now she might break down altogether. But
there she stood, her eyes fixed on me intently, with a proud and happy
smile on her face! You see, we were a magnificent-looking body of young
fellows, somewhere between 800 and 900 strong. Our uniforms were clean
and comparatively new, and our faces were ruddy and glowing with
health. Besides the regimental colors, each company, at that time,
carried a small flag, which were all fluttering in the breeze, and our
regimental band was playing patriotic tunes at its best. I reckon it
was a somewhat inspiring sight to country people like those who, with
possibly very few exceptions, had never seen anything like that before.
Anyhow, my mother was evidently content and glad to see me there, under
the shadow of the flag, and going forth to fight for the old Union,
instead of then being sneaking around at home, like some great hulking
boys in our neighborhood who were of Copperhead sympathies and
parentage.
Arrangements had been made to quarter the regiment that night in
different public buildings in the town, and the companies were soon
marched to their respective places. Co. D had been assigned to the
Baptist church, and there my parents and I met, and had our final
interview. They were nine miles from home, in the old farm wagon, the
roads (in the main) were through dense woods, and across ridges and
hollows, the short winter day was drawing to a close and night
approaching, so our farewell talk was necessarily brief. Our parting
was simple and unaffected, without any display of emotion by anybody.
But mother's eyes looked unusually bright, and she didn't linger after
she had said, "Good-bye Leander." As for my father,--he was an old
North Carolinian, born and reared among the Cherokee Indians at the
base of the Great Smoky Mountains, and with him, and all other men of
his type, any yielding to "womanish" feelings was looked on as almost
disgraceful. His farewell words were few, and concise, and spoken in
his ordinary tone and manner, he then turned on his heel, and was gone.
Mother left with me a baked chicken, the same being a big, fat hen full
of stuffing, rich in sage and onions; also some mince pie, old time
doughnuts, and cucumber pickles. I shared it all with Bill Banfield (my
chum), and we had plenty for supper and breakfast the next day, with
the drum-sticks and some other outlying portions of the chicken for
dinner.
Early the next morning we pulled out for Alton, on the Mississippi
River. But we did not have to march much that day. The country people
around and near Jerseyville turned out in force with their farm wagons,
and insisted on hauling us to Alton, and their invitations were
accepted with pleasure. A few miles north of Alton we passed what was
in those days (and may be yet) a popular and celebrated school for
girls, called the "Monticello Female Seminary." The girls had heard of
our coming, and were all out by the side of the road, a hundred or
more, with red, white and blue ribbons in their hair and otherwise on
their persons. They waved white handkerchiefs and little flags at us,
and looked their sweetest. And didn't we cheer them! Well, I should say
so. We stood up in the wagons, and swung our caps, and just whooped and
hurrahed as long as those girls were in sight. We always treasured this
incident as a bright, precious link in the chain of memory, for it was
the last public manifestation, of this nature, of good-will and
patriotism from girls and women that was given the regiment until we
struck the soil of the State of Indiana, on our return home some months
after the close of the war.
We arrived at Alton about sundown, and at once marched aboard the big
side-wheel steamboat, "City of Alton," which was lying at the wharf
waiting for us, and guards were promptly stationed to prevent the men
leaving the boat. But "some one had blundered," and no rations had been
provided for our supper. We were good and hungry, too, for our dinner,
at least that of Co. D, consisted only of the left-over scraps of
breakfast. But the officers got busy and went up town and bought, with
their own money, something for us to eat. My company was furnished a
barrel of oyster crackers, called in those days "butter crackers," and
our drink was river water.
The novelty and excitement of the last two days had left me nerveless
and tired out, and to tell the truth, I was feeling the first touch of
"home-sickness." So, after supper I went up on the hurricane deck of
the boat, spread my blanket on the floor, and with my knapsack for a
pillow, laid down and soon fell asleep. The boat did not leave Alton
until after dark, and when it pulled out, the scream of the whistle,
the dashing of the paddles, and the throbbing and crash of the engines,
aroused me from my slumber. I sat up and looked around and watched the
lights of Alton as they twinkled and glimmered in the darkness, until
they were lost to sight by a bend in the river. Then I laid down and
went to sleep again, and did not wake until daylight the next morning,
and found that our boat was moored to the wharf at St. Louis. We soon
debarked, and marched out to Benton Barracks, which were clear out of
town and beyond the suburbs. The shape of Benton Barracks, as I now
remember, was a big oblong square. The barracks themselves consisted of
a continuous connected row of low frame buildings, the quarters of each
company being separated from the others by frame partitions, and
provided with two rows of bunks around the sides and ends. At the rear
of the quarters of each company was the company kitchen. It was a
detached, separate frame structure, and amply provided with
accommodations for cooking, including a brick furnace with openings for
camp kettles, pots, boilers and the like. Both barracks and kitchen
were comfortable and convenient, and greatly superior to our home-made
shacks at Carrollton. The barracks inclosed a good sized tract of land,
but its extent I do not now remember. This space was used for drilling
and parades, and was almost entirely destitute of trees. The commander
of the post, at that time, was Colonel Benjamin L. E. Bonneville, an
old regular army officer, and who had been a noted western explorer in
his younger days. I frequently saw him riding about the grounds. He was
a little dried-up old Frenchman, and had no military look about him
whatever. All the same, he was a man who had, as a soldier, done long
and faithful service for his adopted country. Should you ever want to
post up on him (if you have not already done so), read "Adventures of
Captain Bonneville, U.S.A., in the Rocky Mountains and the Far West,"
by Washington Irving. You will find it deeply interesting.
We remained at Benton Barracks about four weeks. Life there was
monotonous and void of any special interest. We drilled but little, as
I now remember, the reason for that being it rained the most of the
time we were there and the drill grounds were oceans of mud. The
drainage was wretched, and the most of the rain that fell stayed on the
surface until the ground soaked it up. And how it did rain at Benton
Barracks in March, 1862! While there, I found in some recently vacated
quarters an old tattered, paper bound copy of Dickens' "Bleak House,"
and on those rainy days I would climb up in my bunk (an upper one), and
lie there and read that book. Some of the aristocratic characters
mentioned therein had a country residence called "Chesney Wold," where
it seemed it always rained. To quote (in substance) from the book, "The
rain was ever falling, drip, drip, drip, by day and night," at "the
place in Lincolnshire." 'Twas even so at Benton Barracks. When weary of
reading, I would turn and look a while through the little window at the
side of my bunk that gave a view of the most of the square which the
barracks inclosed. The surface of the earth was just a quagmire of mud
and water, and nothing stirring abroad could be seen save occasionally
a mounted orderly, splashing at a gallop across the grounds. Since then
I have frequently read "Bleak House," and whenever that chapter is
reached depicting the rainy weather at the Dedlock place, I can again
see, and smell, and hear, and feel, those gloomy wearisome conditions
at Benton Barracks of over half a century ago. I have read, somewhere
in Gen. Sherman's Memoirs, a statement in substance to the effect that
rain in camp has a depressing effect upon soldiers, but is enlivening
to them on a march. From personal experience I know that observation to
be true. Many a time while on a march we would be caught in heavy
rains. The dirt road would soon be worked into a loblolly of sticky
yellow mud. Thereupon we would take off our shoes and socks, tie them
to the barrel of our muskets a little below the muzzle and just above
the end of the stock, poise the piece on the hammer on either shoulder,
stock uppermost, and roll up our breeches to the knees. Then like Tam
O'Shanter, we "skelpit on through dub and mire, despising wind, and
rain, and fire," and singing "John Brown's Body," or whatever else came
handy. But rainy days in camp, especially such as we had at Benton
Barracks, engender feelings of gloom and dejection that have to be
experienced in order to be realized. They are just too wretched for any
adequate description.
One day while strolling around the grounds sight seeing, I fell in with
a soldier who said he belonged to the 14th Wisconsin Infantry. He was
some years older than me, but was quite sociable, and seemed to be a
sensible, intelligent fellow. He was full of talk about his
regiment,--said they were nearly all young men, big stalwart lumbermen
from the pine woods of Wisconsin, and urged me to come around some
evening when they were on dress parade, and look at them. I had found
out by this time that almost every soldier would brag about his
regiment, so allowance was made for what he said. But he excited my
curiosity to see those Wisconsin boys, so one evening when I was at
liberty, I did go and view them while they were on dress parade, and
found that the soldier had not exaggerated. They were great, tall
fellows, broad across the shoulders and chest, with big limbs.
Altogether, they simply were, from a physical standpoint, the finest
looking soldiers I ever saw during my entire term of service. I speak
now of this incident and of these men, for the reason that later I may
say something more about this 14th Wisconsin.
While at Benton Barracks we were given our regimental
number,--Sixty-first--and thenceforth the regiment was known and
designated as the Sixty-first Illinois Infantry. We also drew our guns.
We were furnished with the Austrian rifle musket. It was of medium
length, with a light brown walnut stock,--and was a wicked shooter. At
that time the most of the western troops were armed with foreign-made
muskets, imported from Europe. Many regiments had old Belgian muskets,
a heavy, cumbersome piece, and awkward and unsatisfactory every way. We
were glad to get the Austrians, and were quite proud of them. We used
these until June, 1863, when we turned them in and drew in lieu thereof
the Springfield rifle musket of the model of 1863. It was not as heavy
as the Austrian, was neater looking, and a very efficient firearm. No
further change was made, and we carried the Springfield thenceforward
until we were mustered out.
It was also here at Benton Barracks that the mustering of the regiment
into the service of the United States was completed. Ten companies, at
that time, constituted a regiment of infantry, but ours had only nine.
We lacked Company K, and it was not recruited, and did not join the
regiment until in March, 1864. On account of our not having a full
regiment, Col. Fry (as we always called him) was commissioned as
Lieutenant Colonel only, which was his rank all the time he was with
us, and Capt. Simon P. Ohr, of Co. A, was commissioned Major. Owing to
our lack of one company, and the further fact that when that company
did join us the other companies had become much depleted in numbers,
the regiment therefore never had an officer of the full rank of Colonel
until the summer of 1865, when it became entitled to one under the
circumstances which will be stated further on.