BETHEL. JACKSON. JUNE AND JULY, 1862.
Soon after our occupation of Corinth a change in the position of our
forces took place, and all the command at Owl creek was transferred to
Bethel, a small station on the Mobile and Ohio railroad, some twenty or
twenty-five miles to the northwest. We left Owl creek on the morning of
June 6th, and arrived at Bethel about dark the same evening. Thanks to
my repeated long walks in the woods outside of our lines, I was in
pretty fair health at this time, but still somewhat weak and shaky. On
the morning we took up the line of march, while waiting for the "fall
in" call, I was seated at the foot of a big tree in camp, with my
knapsack, packed, at my side. Enoch Wallace came to me and said:
"Stillwell, are you going to try to carry your knapsack?" I answered
that I reckoned I had to, that I had asked Hen. King (our company
teamster) to let me put it in his wagon, and he wouldn't,--said he
already had too big a load. Enoch said nothing more, but stood silently
looking down at me a few seconds, then picked up my knapsack and threw
it into our wagon, which was close by, saying to King, as he did so,
"Haul that knapsack;"--and it was hauled. I shall never forget this
act of kindness on the part of Enoch. It would have been impossible for
me to have made the march carrying the knapsack. The day was hot, and
much of the road was over sandy land, and through long stretches of
black-jack barrens, that excluded every breath of a breeze. The men
suffered much on the march, and fell out by scores. When we stacked arms
at Bethel that evening, there were only four men of Co. D in line, just
enough to make one stack of guns,--but my gun was in the stack.
There was no earthly necessity for making this march in one day. We were
simply "changing stations;" the Confederate army of that region was down
in Mississippi, a hundred miles or so away, and there were no armed foes
in our vicinity excepting some skulking bands of guerrillas. Prior to
this our regiment had made no marches, except little short movements
during the siege of Corinth, none of which exceeded two or three miles.
And nearly all the men were weak and debilitated by reason of the
prevailing type of illness, and in no condition whatever to be cracked
through twenty miles or more on a hot day. We should have marched only
about ten miles the first day, with a halt of about ten minutes every
hour, to let the men rest a little, and get their wind. Had that course
been pursued, we would have reached our destination in good shape, with
the ranks full, and the men would have been benefited by the march. As
it was, it probably caused the death of some, and the permanent
disabling of more. The trouble at that time was the total want of
experience on the part of the most of our officers of all grades,
combined with an amazing lack of common sense by some of high authority.
I am not blaming any of our regimental officers for this foolish "forced
march,"--for it amounted to that,--the responsibility rested higher up.
Our stay at Bethel was brief and uneventful. However, I shall always
remember the place on account of a piece of news that came to me while
we were there, and which for a time nearly broke me all up. It will be
necessary to go back some years in order to explain it. I began
attending the old Stone school house at Otter creek when I was about
eight years old. One of my schoolmates was a remarkably pretty little
girl, with blue eyes and auburn hair, nearly my own age. We kept about
the same place in our studies, and were generally in the same classes. I
always liked her, and by the time I was about fifteen years old was head
over heels in love. She was far above me in the social scale of the
neighborhood. Her folks lived in a frame house on "the other side of the
creek," and were well-to-do, for that time and locality. My people lived
in a log cabin, on a little farm in the broken country that extended
from the south bank of Otter creek to the Mississippi and Illinois
rivers. But notwithstanding the difference in our respective social and
financial positions, I knew that she had a liking for me, and our mutual
relations became quite "tender" and interesting. Then the war came
along, I enlisted and went South. We had no correspondence after I left
home; I was just too deplorably bashful to attempt it, and, on general
principles, didn't have sense enough to properly carry on a proceeding
of that nature. It may be that here was where I fell down. But I thought
about her every day, and had many boyish day dreams of the future, in
which she was the prominent figure. Soon after our arrival at Bethel I
received a letter from home. I hurriedly opened it, anxious, as usual,
to hear from the folks, and sitting down at the foot of a tree, began
reading it. All went well to nearly the close, when I read these fatal
words:
"Billy Crane and Lucy Archer got married last week."
The above names are fictitious, but the bride was my girl.
I can't explain my feelings,--if you ever have had such an experience,
you will understand. I stole a hurried glance around to see if anybody
was observing my demeanor, then thrust the letter into my jacket
pocket, and walked away. Not far from our camp was a stretch of swampy
land, thickly set with big cypress trees, and I bent my steps in that
direction. Entering the forest, I sought a secluded spot, sat down on
an old log, and read and re-read that heart-breaking piece of
intelligence. There was no mistaking the words; they were plain,
laconic, and nothing ambiguous about them. And, to intensify the
bitterness of the draught, it may be set down here that the groom was a
dudish young squirt, a clerk in a country store, who lacked the pluck
to go for a soldier, but had stayed at home to count eggs and measure
calico. In my opinion, he was not worthy of the girl, and I was amazed
that she had taken him for a husband. I remember well some of my
thoughts as I sat with bitterness in my heart, alone among those gloomy
cypresses. I wanted a great big battle to come off at once, with the
61st Illinois right in front, that we might run out of cartridges, and
the order would be given to fix bayonets and charge! Like Major Simon
Suggs, in depicting the horrors of an apprehended Indian war, I wanted
to see blood flow in a "great gulgin' torrent, like the Tallapoosa
river." Well, it was simply a case of pure, intensely ardent boy-love,
and I was hit, hard,--but survived. And I now heartily congratulate
myself on the fact that this youthful shipwreck ultimately resulted in
my obtaining for a wife the very best woman (excepting only my mother)
that I ever knew in my life.
I never again met my youthful flame, to speak to her, and saw her only
once, and then at a distance, some years after the close of the war
when I was back in Illinois on a visit to my parents. Several years ago
her husband died, and in course of time she married again, this time a
man I never knew, and the last I heard of or concerning her, she and
her second husband were living somewhere in one of the Rocky Mountain
States.
For a short time after the evacuation of Corinth, Pittsburg Landing
continued to be our base of supplies, and commissary stores were
wagoned from there to the various places where our troops were
stationed. And it happened, while the regiment was at Bethel, that I
was one of a party of about a hundred men detailed to serve as guards
for a wagon train destined for the Landing, and, return to Bethel with
army rations. There was at the Landing at this time, serving as guards
for the government stores, a regiment of infantry. There were only a
few of them visible, and they looked pale and emaciated, and much like
"dead men on their feet." I asked one of them what regiment was
stationed there, and he told me it was the 14th Wisconsin Infantry.
This was the one I had seen at Benton Barracks and admired so much on
account of the splendid appearance of the men. I mentioned this to the
soldier, and expressed to him my surprise to now see them in such bad
shape. He went on to tell me that the men had suffered fearfully from
the change of climate, the water, and their altered conditions in
general; that they had nearly all been prostrated by camp diarrhea, and
at that time there were not more than a hundred men in the regiment fit
for duty, and even those were not much better than shadows of their
former selves. And, judging from the few men that were visible, the
soldier told the plain, unvarnished truth. Our regiment and the 14th
Wisconsin soon drifted apart, and I never saw it again. But as a matter
of history, I will say that it made an excellent and distinguished
record during the war.
On June 16 our brigade left Bethel for Jackson, Tennessee, a town on
the Mobile and Ohio railroad, and about thirty-five or forty miles, by
the dirt road, northwest of Bethel. On this march, like the preceding
one, I did not carry my knapsack. It was about this time that the most
of the boys adopted the "blanket-roll" system. Our knapsacks were
awkward, cumbersome things, with a combination of straps and buckles
that chafed the shoulders and back, and greatly augmented heat and
general discomfort. So we would fold in our blankets an extra shirt,
with a few other light articles, roll the blanket tight, double it over
and tie the two ends together, then throw the blanket over one
shoulder, with the tied ends under the opposite arm--and the
arrangement was complete. We had learned by this time the necessity of
reducing our personal baggage to the lightest possible limit. We had
left Camp Carrollton with great bulging knapsacks, stuffed with all
sorts of plunder, much of which was utterly useless to soldiers in the
field. But we soon got rid of all that. And my recollection is that
after the Bethel march the great majority of the men would, in some
way, when on a march, temporarily lay aside their knapsacks, and use
the blanket roll. The exceptions to that method, in the main, were the
soldiers of foreign birth, especially the Germans. They carried theirs
to the last on all occasions, with everything in them the army
regulations would permit, and usually something more.
Jackson, our objective point on this march, was the county seat of
Madison county, and a portion of our line of march was through the
south part of the county. This region had a singular interest for me,
the nature of which I will now state. Among the few books we had at
home was an old paper-covered copy, with horrible wood-cuts, of a
production entitled, "The Life and Adventures of John A. Murrell, the
Great Western Land Pirate," by Virgil A. Stewart. It was full of
accounts of cold-blooded, depraved murders, and other vicious, unlawful
doings. My father had known, in his younger days, a good deal of
Murrell by reputation, which was probably the moving cause for his
purchase of the book. When a little chap I frequently read it and it
possessed for me a sort of weird, uncanny fascination. Murrell's home,
and the theater of many of his evil deeds, during the year 1834, and
for some time previously, was in this county of Madison, and as we
trudged along the road on this march I scanned all the surroundings
with deep interest and close attention. Much of the country was rough
and broken, and densely wooded, with high ridges and deep ravines
between them. With the aid of a lively imagination, many places I
noticed seemed like fitting localities for acts of violence and crime.
I have in my possession now (bought many years ago) a duplicate of that
old copy of Murrell we had at home. I sometimes look into it, but it no
longer possesses for me the interest it did in my boyhood days.
On this march I was a participant in an incident which was somewhat
amusing, and also a little bit irritating. Shortly before noon of the
first day, Jack Medford, of my company, and myself, concluded we would
"straggle," and try to get a country dinner. Availing ourselves of the
first favorable opportunity, we slipped from the ranks, and struck out.
We followed an old country road that ran substantially parallel to the
main road on which the column was marching, and soon came to a nice
looking old log house standing in a grove of big native trees. The only
people at the house were two middle-aged women and some children. We
asked the women if we could have some dinner, saying that we would pay
for it. They gave an affirmative answer, but their tone was not cordial
and they looked "daggers." Dinner was just about prepared, and when all
was ready, we were invited, with evident coolness, to take seats at the
table. We had a splendid meal, consisting of corn bread, new Irish
potatoes, boiled bacon and greens, butter and buttermilk. Compared with
sow-belly and hardtack, it was a feast. Dinner over, we essayed to pay
therefor. Their charge was something less than a dollar for both of us,
but we had not the exact change. The smallest denomination of money
either of us had was a dollar greenback, and the women said that they
had no money at all to make change. Thereupon we proffered them the
entire dollar. They looked at it askance, and asked if we had any
"Southern" or Confederate money. We said we had not, that this was the
only kind of money we had. They continued to look exceedingly sour, and
finally remarked that they were unwilling to accept any kind of money
except "Southern." We urged them to accept the bill, told them it was
United States money, and that it would pass readily in any place in the
South occupied by our soldiers; but no, they were obdurate, and
declined the greenback with unmistakable scorn. Of course we kept our
temper; it never would have done to be saucy or rude after getting such
a good dinner, but, for my part, I felt considerably vexed. But there
was nothing left to do except thank them heartily for their kindness
and depart. From their standpoint their course in the matter was
actuated by the highest and most unselfish patriotism, but naturally we
couldn't look at it in that light. I will say here, "with malice
towards none, and with charity for all," that in my entire sojourn in
the South during the war, the women were found to be more intensely
bitter and malignant against the old government of the United States,
and the national cause in general, than were the men. Their attitude is
probably another illustration of the truth of Kipling's saying, "The
female of the species is more deadly than the male."
We arrived at Jackson on the evening of June 17, and went into camp in
the outskirts of the town, in a beautiful grove of tall young oaks. The
site was neither too shady nor too sunny, and, all things considered, I
think it was about the nicest camping ground the regiment had during
its entire service. We settled down here to a daily round of battalion
drill, being the first of that character, as I now remember, we had so
far had. A battalion drill is simply one where the various companies
are handled as a regimental unit, and are put through regimental
evolutions. Battalion drill at first was frequently very embarrassing
to some commanding officers of companies. The regimental commander
would give a command, indicating, in general terms, the movement
desired, and it was then the duty of a company commander to see to the
details of the movement that his company should make, and give the
proper orders. Well, sometimes he would be badly stumped, and ludicrous
"bobbles" would be the result. As for the men in the ranks, battalion
drill was as simple as any other, for we only had to obey specific
commands which indicated exactly what we were to do. To "form square,"
an antique disposition against cavalry, was a movement that was
especially "trying" to some company officers. But so far as forming
square was concerned, all our drill on that feature was time thrown
away. In actual battle we never made that disposition a single
time--and the same is true of several other labored and intricate
movements prescribed in the tactics, and which we were industriously
put through. But it was good exercise, and "all went in the day's
work."
While thus amusing ourselves at battalion drill suddenly came marching
orders, and which required immediate execution. Tents were forthwith
struck, rolled and tied, and loaded in the wagons, with all other camp
and garrison equipage. Our knapsacks were packed with all our effects,
since special instructions had been given on that matter. Curiosity was
on the qui vive to know where we were going, but apart from the fact
that we were to be transported on the cars, apparently nobody knew
whither we were bound. Col. Fry was absent, sick, and Major Ohr was
then in command of the regiment. He was a fine officer, and, withal, a
very sensible man, and I doubt if any one in the regiment except
himself had reliable knowledge as to our ultimate destination. As soon
as our marching preparations were complete, which did not take long,
the bugle sounded "Fall in!" and the regiment formed in line on the
parade ground. In my "mind's eye" I can now see Major Ohr in our front,
on his horse, his blanket strapped behind his saddle, smoking his
little briar root pipe, and looking as cool and unconcerned as if we
were only going a few miles for a change of camp. Our entire brigade
fell in, and so far as we could see, or learn, all of the division at
Jackson, then under the command of Gen. John A. McClernand, was doing
likewise. Well, we stood there in line, at ordered arms, and waited. We
expected, every moment, to hear the orders which would put us in
motion--but they were never given. Finally we were ordered to stack
arms and break ranks, but were cautioned to hold ourselves in readiness
to fall in at the tap of the drum. But the day wore on and nothing was
done until late in the evening, when the summons came. We rushed to the
gun stacks and took arms. The Major had a brief talk with the company
officers, and then, to our great surprise, the companies were marched
back to their dismantled camps, and after being instructed to stay
close thereto, were dismissed. This state of affairs lasted for at
least two days, and then collapsed. We were told that the orders had
been countermanded; we unloaded our tents, pitched them again on the
old sites, and resumed battalion drill. It was then gossiped around
among the boys that we actually had been under marching orders for
Virginia to reinforce the Army of the Potomac! Personally I looked on
that as mere "camp talk," and put no confidence in it, and never found
out, until about fifteen years later, that this rumor was a fact. I
learned it in this wise: About nine years after the close of the war,
Congress passed an act providing for the publication, in book form, of
all the records, reports correspondence, and the like, of both the
Union and Confederate armies. Under this law, about one hundred and
thirty large volumes were published, containing the matter above
stated. When the law was passed I managed to arrange to procure a set
of these Records and they were sent to me from Washington as fast as
printed. And from one of these volumes I ascertained that on June 28,
1862, E. M. Stanton, the Secretary of War, had telegraphed Gen. Halleck
(who was then in command of the western armies) as follows:
"It is absolutely necessary for you immediately to detach 25,000 of
your force, and send it by the nearest and quickest route by way of
Baltimore and Washington to Richmond. [This] is rendered imperative
by a serious reverse suffered by Gen. McClellan before Richmond
yesterday, the full extent of which is not known." (Rebellion
Records, Series 1, Vol. 16, Part 2, pp. 69 and 70.)
In obedience to the above, General Halleck wired General McClernand on
June 30 as follows:
"You will collect as rapidly as possible all the infantry regiments
of your division, and take advantage of every train to transport
them to Columbus [Ky.] and thence to Washington City." (Id. p. 76.)
But that same day (June 30) a telegram was sent by President Lincoln
to Gen. Halleck, which operated to revoke the foregoing order of
Stanton's--and so the 61st Illinois never became a part of the Army of
the Potomac, and for which I am very thankful. That army was composed
of brave men, and they fought long and well, but, in my opinion, and
which I think is sustained by history, they never had a competent
commander until they got U. S. Grant. So, up to the coming of Grant,
their record, in the main, was a series of bloody disasters, and their
few victories, like Antietam and Gettysburg, were not properly and
energetically followed up as they should have been, and hence were
largely barren of adequate results. Considering these things, I have
always somehow "felt it in my bones" that if Mr. Lincoln had not sent
the brief telegram above mentioned, I would now be sleeping in some
(probably) unmarked and unknown grave away back in old Virginia.
While at Jackson an incident occurred while I was on picket in which
Owen McGrath, the big Irishman I have previously mentioned, played an
interesting part. As corporal I had three men under me, McGrath being
one, and the others were a couple of big, burly young fellows belonging
to Co. A. Our post was on the railroad a mile or two from the outskirts
of Jackson, and where the picket line for some distance ran practically
parallel with the railroad. The spot at this post where the picket
stood when on guard was at the top of a bank on the summit of a slight
elevation, just at the edge of a deep and narrow railroad cut. A bunch
of guerrillas had recently been operating in that locality, and making
mischief on a small scale, and our orders were to be vigilant and on
the alert, especially at night. McGrath was on duty from 6 to 8 in the
evening, and at the latter hour I notified one of the Co. A men that
his turn had come. The weather was bad, a high wind was blowing,
accompanied by a drizzling rain, and all signs portended a stormy
night. The Co. A fellow buckled on his cartridge box, picked up his
musket, and gave a scowling glance at the surroundings. Then, with much
profanity, he declared that he wasn't going to stand up on that bank,
he was going down into the cut, where he could have some shelter from
the wind and rain. I told him that would never do, that there he could
see nothing in our front, and might as well not be on guard at all. But
he loudly announced his intention to stick to his purpose. The other
Co. A man chimed in, and with many expletives declared that Bill was
right, that he intended to stand in the cut too when his time came,
that he didn't believe there was a Secesh within a hundred miles of us,
anyway, and so on. I was sorely troubled, and didn't know what to do.
They were big, hulking fellows, and either could have just smashed me,
with one hand tied behind him. McGrath had been intently listening to
the conversation, and saying nothing, but, as matters were evidently
nearing a crisis, he now took a hand. Walking up to the man who was to
relieve him, he laid the forefinger of his right hand on the fellow's
breast, and looking him square in the eyes, spoke thus:
"It's the ar-r-dhers of the car-r-parral that the sintry stand here,"
(indicating,) "and the car-r-parral's ar-r-dhers will be obeyed. D'ye
moind that, now?"
I had stepped to the side of McGrath while he was talking, to give him
my moral support, at least, and fixed my eyes on the mutineer. He
looked at us in silence a second or two, and then, with some muttering
about the corporal being awful particular, finally said he could stand
it if the rest could, assumed his post at the top of the bank, and the
matter was ended. The storm blew over before midnight and the weather
cleared up. In the morning we had a satisfying soldier breakfast, and
when relieved at 9 o'clock marched back to camp with the others of the
old guard, all in good humor, and with "peace and harmony prevailing."
But I always felt profoundly grateful to grand old McGrath for his
staunch support on the foregoing occasion; without it, I don't know
what could have been done.