THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. IN CAMP AT OWL CREEK. APRIL AND MAY, 1862.
A few days after the battle Gen. H. W. Halleck came down from St. Louis,
and assumed command of the Union forces in the field near Pittsburg
Landing. Then, or soon thereafter, began the so-called siege of Corinth.
We mighty near dug up all the country within eight or ten miles of that
place in the progress of this movement, in the construction of forts,
long lines of breast-works, and such like. Halleck was a "book soldier,"
and had a high reputation during the war as a profound "strategist," and
great military genius in general. In fact, in my opinion (and which, I
think, is sustained by history), he was a humbug and a fraud. His idea
seemed to be that our war should be conducted strictly in accordance
with the methods of the old Napoleonic wars of Europe, which, in the
main, were not at all adapted to our time and conditions. Moreover, he
seemed to be totally deficient in sound, practical common sense. Soon
after the Confederates evacuated Corinth he was transferred to
Washington to serve in a sort of advisory capacity, and spent the
balance of the war period in a swivel-chair in an office. He never was
in a battle, and never heard a gun fired, except distant cannonading
during the Corinth business,--and (maybe) at Washington in the summer of
1864.
During the operations against Corinth, the 61st made some short marches,
and was shifted around, from time to time, to different places. About
the middle of May we were sent to a point on Owl creek, in the right
rear of the main army. Our duty there was to guard against any possible
attack from that direction, and our main employment was throwing up
breast-works and standing picket. And all this time the sick list was
frightfully large. The chief trouble was our old enemy, camp diarrhea,
but there were also other types of diseases--malaria and the like. As
before stated, the boys had not learned how to cook, nor to take proper
care of themselves, and to this ignorance can be attributed much of the
sickness. And the weather was rainy, the camps were muddy and gloomy,
and about this time many of the boys had home-sickness bad. A genuine
case of downright home-sickness is most depressing. I had some touches
of it myself, so I can speak from experience. The poor fellows would sit
around in their tents, and whine, and talk about home, and what good
things they would have there to eat, and kindred subjects, until
apparently they lost every spark of energy. I kept away from such cases
all I could, for their talk was demoralizing. But one rainy day while in
camp at Owl creek I was in our big Sibley tent when some of the boys got
well started on their pet topics. It was a dismal day, the rain was
pattering down on the tent and dripping from the leaves of the big oak
trees in the camp, while inside the tent everything was damp and mouldy
and didn't smell good either. "Jim," says one, "I wish I could jest be
down on Coon crick today, and take dinner with old Bill Williams; I'll
tell you what I'd have: first, a great big slice of fried ham, with
plenty of rich brown gravy, with them light, fluffy, hot biscuits that
Bill's wife could cook so well, and then I'd want some big baked Irish
'taters, red hot, and all mealy, and then----" "Yes, Jack," interrupted
Jim, "I've et at old Bill's lots of times, and wouldn't I like to be
with you? You know, old Bill always mast-fed the hogs he put up for his
own eatin', they jest fattened on hickory nuts and big white- and
bur-oak acorns, and he'd smoke his meat with hickory wood smoke, and oh,
that meat was jest so sweet and nutty-like!--why, the meat of corn-fed
hogs was nowhere in comparison." "Yes, Jim," continued Jack, "and then
I'd want with the biscuits and 'taters plenty of that rich yaller butter
that Bill's wife made herself, with her own hands, and then you know
Bill always had lots of honey, and I'd spread honey and butter on one of
them biscuits, and----" "And don't you remember, Jack," chimed in Jim,
"the mince pies Bill's wife could make? They were jest stuffed with
reezons, and all manner of goodies, and----" But here I left the tent in
disgust. I wanted to say, "Oh, hell!" as I went out, but refrained. The
poor fellows were feeling bad enough, anyhow, and it wouldn't have
helped matters to make sarcastic remarks. But I preferred the shelter of
a big tree, and enduring the rain that filtered through the leaves,
rather than listen to this distracting talk of Jack and Jim about the
flesh-pots of old Bill Williams. But while on this subject, I believe
I'll tell you about a royal dinner I had myself while the regiment was
near Pittsburg Landing. It was a few days after the battle, while we
were still at our old camp. I was detailed, as corporal, to take six men
and go to the Landing and load three or four of our regimental wagons
with army rations for our regiment. We reached the Landing about ten
o'clock, reported to the proper officer, who showed us our stuff, and we
went to piling it into the wagons. It consisted of big slabs of fat
side-bacon ("sow-belly"), boxes of hardtack, sacks of rice, beans,
coffee, sugar, and soap and candles. I had an idea that I ought to help
in the work, and was trying to do so, altho so weak from illness that it
required some effort to walk straight. But a big, black haired, black
bearded Irishman, Owen McGrath of my company, one of the squad,
objected. He laid a big hand kindly on my shoulder, and said:
"Carparral, yez is not sthrong enough for this worrk, and yez don't have
to do it, ayether. Jist give me the 't'ority to shupirintind it, and you
go sit down." "I guess you're right, McGrath," I answered, and then, in
a louder tone, for the benefit of the detail, "McGrath, you see to the
loading of the grub. I am feeling a little out of sorts," (which was
true,) "and I believe I'll take a rest." McGrath was about thirty years
old, and a splendid soldier. He had served a term in the British army in
the old country, and was fully onto his present job. (I will tell
another little story about him later.) I sat down in the shade a short
distance from my squad, with my back against some big sacks full of
something. Suddenly I detected a pungent, most agreeable smell. It came
from onions, in the sack behind me. I took out my pocket knife and
stealthily made a hole in that sack, and abstracted two big ones and
slipped them into my haversack. My conscience didn't trouble me a bit
over the matter. I reckon those onions were hospital goods, but I
thought I needed some just as much as anybody in the hospital, which was
probably correct. I had asked Capt. Reddish that morning if, when the
wagons were loaded, I could send them on to camp, and return at my
leisure in the evening, and the kindhearted old man had given a cheerful
consent. So, when the teams were ready to start back, I told McGrath to
take charge, and to see that the stuff was delivered to our
quartermaster, or the commissary sergeant, and then I shifted for
myself, planning for the good dinner that was in prospect. There were
many steamboats lying at the Landing, I selected one that looked
inviting, went on board, and sauntered aft to the cook's quarters. It
was near dinner time, and the grub dispenser was in the act of taking
from his oven a number of nice cakes of corn bread. I sidled up to him,
and displaying that dime the cavalryman gave me for those apples, asked
him in a discreetly low tone, if he would let me have a cake of corn
bread. He gave a friendly grin, pushed a cake towards me, I slipped it
in my haversack, and handed him the dime. Now I was fixed. I went
ashore, and down the river for a short distance to a spring I knew of,
that bubbled from the ground near the foot of a big beech tree. It did
not take long to build a little fire and make coffee in my oyster can of
a quart's capacity, with a wire bale attachment. Then a slice of
sow-belly was toasted on a stick, the outer skin of the onions
removed--and dinner was ready. Talk about your gastronomic feasts! I
doubt if ever in my life I enjoyed a meal better than this one, under
that old beech, by the Tennessee river. The onions were big red ones,
and fearfully strong, but my system craved them so much that I just
chomped them down as if they were apples. And every crumb of the corn
bread was eaten, too. Dinner over, I felt better, and roamed around the
rest of the afternoon, sight-seeing, and didn't get back to camp till
nearly sundown. By the way, that spring and that beech tree are there
yet, or were in October, 1914, when I visited the Shiloh battlefield. I
hunted them up on this occasion and laid down on the ground and took a
long, big drink out of the spring for the sake of old times.
Taking up again the thread of our life in camp at Owl creek, I will say
that when there I was for a while in bad physical condition, and nearly
"all in." One day I accidentally overheard two intelligent boys of my
company talking about me, and one said, "If Stillwell aint sent north
purty soon, he's goin' to make a die of it;" to which the other
assented. That scared me good, and set me to thinking. I had no use for
the hospital, wouldn't go there, and abominated the idea of taking
medicine. But I was so bad off I was not marked for duty, my time was
all my own, so I concluded to get out of camp as much as possible, and
take long walks in the big woods. I found a place down on the creek
between two picket posts where it was easy to sneak through and get out
into the country, and I proceeded to take advantage of it. It was where
a big tree had fallen across the stream, making a sort of natural
bridge, and I "run the line" there many a time. It was delightful to get
out into the clean, grand old woods, and away from the mud, and filth,
and bad smells of the camp, and my health began to improve. On some of
these rambles, Frank Gates, a corporal of my company, was my companion.
He was my senior a few years, a lively fellow, with a streak of humor in
him, and was good company. One day on one of our jaunts we came to a
little old log house near the foot of a densely timbered ridge. There
was nobody at home save some women and children, and one of the women
was engaged on an old-fashioned churn, churning butter. Mulberries were
ripe, and there was a large tree in the yard fairly black with the ripe
fruit. We asked the women if we could eat some of the berries, and they
gave a cheerful consent. Thereupon Frank and I climbed the tree, and
proceeded to help ourselves. The berries were big, dead ripe, and tasted
mighty good, and we just stuffed ourselves until we could hold no more.
The churning was finished by the time we descended from the tree, and we
asked for some buttermilk. The women gave us a gourd dipper and told us
to help ourselves, which we did, and drank copiously and greedily. We
then resumed our stroll, but before long were seized with most horrible
pains in our stomachs. We laid down on the ground and rolled over and
over in agony. It was a hot day, we had been walking rapidly, and it is
probable that the mulberries and the buttermilk were in a state of
insurrection. But Frank didn't think so. As he rolled over the ground
with his hands on his bulging stomach he exclaimed to me, "Lee, by ----,
I believe them ---- Secesh wimmen have pizened us!" At the time I hardly
knew what to think,--but relief came at last. I will omit the details.
When able to navigate, we started back to camp, almost as weak and
helpless as a brace of sick kittens. After that I steered clear of any
sort of a combination of berries and buttermilk.
Soon after this Frank and I had another adventure outside the picket
lines, but of an amusing nature only. We came to an old log house where,
as was usual at this time and locality, the only occupants were women
and children. The family consisted of the middle-aged mother, a tall,
slab-sided, long legged girl, seemingly sixteen or seventeen years old,
and some little children. Their surname was Leadbetter, which I have
always remembered by reason of the incident I will mention. The house
was a typical pioneer cabin, with a puncheon floor, which was uneven,
dirty, and splotched with grease. The girl was bare-footed and wearing a
dirty white sort of cotton gown of the modern Mother Hubbard type, that
looked a good deal like a big gunny sack. From what came under my
observation later, it can safely be stated that it was the only garment
she had on. She really was not bad looking, only dirty and mighty
slouchy. We wanted some butter, and asked the matron if she had any she
could sell us. She replied that they were just going to churn, and if
we'd wait until that was done, she could furnish us a little. We waited,
and when the job was finished, handed the girl a pint tin cup we had
brought along, which she proceeded to fill with the butter. As she
walked towards us to hand over the cup, her bare feet slipped on a
grease spot on the floor, and down she went on her back, with her gown
distinctly elevated, and a prodigal display of limbs. At the same time
the cup fell from her grasp, and the contents rolled out on the dirty
floor, like melted lard. The girl arose to a sitting posture, surveyed
the wreck, then laid down on one side, and exploded with laughter--and
kicked. About this time her mother appeared on the scene. "Why, Sal
Leadbetter!" she exclaimed, "you dirty slut! Git a spoon and scrape that
butter right up!" Sal rose (cow fashion) to her feet, still giggling
over the mishap, and the butter was duly "scraped" up, restored to the
cup, and this time safely delivered. We paid for the "dairy product,"
and left, but I told Frank I wanted none of it in mine. Frank responded
in substance, that it was all right, every man had to eat his "peck of
dirt" in his life time anyway,--and the incident was closed. I never
again saw nor heard of the Leadbetter family from that day, but have
often wondered what finally became of poor "Sal."
While we were at Owl creek the medical authorities of the army put in
operation a method for the prevention and cure of malaria that was
highly popular with some of the boys. It consisted of a gill of whisky,
largely compounded with quinine, and was given to each man before
breakfast. I drank my first "jigger," as it was called, and then quit.
It was too intensely bitter for my taste, and I would secretly slip my
allowance to John Barton, or Frank Burnham, who would have drunk it, I
reckon, if it had been one-half aqua fortis. I happened to be mixed up
in an incident rather mortifying to me, when the first whisky rations
were brought to the regimental hospital in our camp for use in the above
manner. The quartermaster came to Capt. Reddish and handed him a
requisition for two camp kettlefuls of whisky, and told him to give it
to two non-commissioned officers of his company who were strictly
temperate and absolutely reliable, and order them to go to the Division
commissary headquarters, get the whisky, bring it to camp, and deliver
it to him, the quartermaster. Capt. Reddish selected for this delicate
duty Corporal Tim Gates (a brother of Frank, above mentioned) and
myself. Tim was about ten years my senior, a tall, slim fellow, and
somewhat addicted to stuttering when he became nervous or excited. Well,
we each procured a big camp kettle, went and got the whisky, and started
back with it to camp. On the way we passed through a space where a large
number of army wagons were parked, and when we were in about the middle
of the park were then out of sight of everybody. Here Tim stopped,
looked carefully around to see if the coast was clear, and then said,
"Sti-Sti-Stillwell, l-l-less t-t-take a swig!" "All right," I responded.
Thereupon Tim poised his camp-kettle on a wagon hub, inclined the brim
to his lips, and took a most copious draught, and I followed suit. We
then started on, and it was lucky, for me at any rate, that we didn't
have far to go. I hadn't previously during my army career taken a
swallow of whisky since one time at Camp Carrollton; I was weak and
feeble, and this big drink of the stuff went through my veins like
electricity. Its effects were felt almost instantly, and by the time we
reached camp, and had delivered the whisky, I was feeling a good deal
like a wild Indian on the war path. I wanted to yell, to get my musket
and shoot, especially at something that when hit would jingle--a
looking-glass, an eight-day clock, or a boat's chandelier, or something
similar But it suddenly occurred to me that I was drunk, and liable to
forever disgrace myself, and everybody at home, too. I had just sense
enough left to know that the thing to do was to get out of camp at once,
so I struck for the woods. In passing the tent of my squad, I caught a
glimpse of Tim therein. He had thrown his cap and jacket on the ground,
rolled up his sleeves, and was furiously challenging another fellow to
then and there settle an old-time grudge by the "ordeal of battle." I
didn't tarry, but hurried on the best I could, finally got into a
secluded patch of brush, and tumbled down. I came to my senses along
late in the evening, with a splitting headache, and feeling awful
generally, but reasonably sober.
And such was the conduct, when trusted with whisky, of the two
non-commissioned officers of Co. D, "men who were strictly temperate and
absolutely reliable." But Tim had no trouble about his break. I suppose
he gave some plausible explanation, and as for me, I had lived up to the
standard, so far as the public knew, and maintained a profound silence
in regard to the episode. Tim and I in private conversation, or
otherwise, both carefully avoided the subject until the time came when
we could talk and laugh about it without any danger of "tarnishing our
escutcheons."
In the meantime the alleged siege of Corinth was proceeding in the
leisurely manner that characterized the progress of a suit in chancery
under the ancient equity methods. From our camp on Owl creek we could
hear, from time to time, sporadic outbursts of cannonading, but we
became so accustomed to it that the artillery practice ceased to excite
any special attention. The Confederates began quietly evacuating the
place during the last days of May, completed the operation on the 30th
of the month, and on the evening of that day our troops marched into the
town unopposed.