BOLIVAR. JULY, AUGUST, AND SEPTEMBER, 1862.
On July 17 our brigade, then under the command of Gen. L. F. Ross, left
Jackson for Bolivar, Tennessee, a town about twenty-eight miles
southwest of Jackson, on what was then called the Mississippi Central
Railroad. (Here I will observe that the sketch of the regiment before
mentioned in the Illinois Adjutant General's Reports is wrong as to the
date of our departure from Jackson. It is inferable from the statement
in the Reports that the time was June 17, which really was the date of
our arrival there from Bethel.) We started from Jackson at about four
o'clock in the morning, but marched only about eight miles when we were
brought to an abrupt halt, caused by the breaking down, under the
weight of a cannon and its carriage, of an ancient Tennessee bridge
over a little stream. The nature of the crossing was such that the
bridge simply had to be rebuilt, and made strong enough to sustain the
artillery and army wagons, and it took the balance of the day to do it.
We therefore bivouacked at the point where we stopped until the next
morning. Soon after the halt a hard rain began falling, and lasted all
afternoon. We had no shelter, and just had to take it, and "let it
rain." But it was in the middle of the summer, the weather was hot, and
the boys stood around, some crowing like chickens, and others quacking
like ducks, and really seemed to rather enjoy the situation. About the
only drawback resulting from our being caught out in the summer rains
was the fact that the water would rust our muskets. In our time we were
required to keep all their metal parts (except the butt-plate) as
bright and shining as new silver dollars. I have put in many an hour
working on my gun with an old rag and powdered dirt, and a corncob, or
pine stick, polishing the barrel, the bands, lock-plate, and
trigger-guard, until they were fit to pass inspection. The inside of
the barrel we would keep clean by the use of a greased wiper and plenty
of hot water. In doing this, we would ordinarily, with our
screw-drivers, take the gun to pieces, and remove from the stock all
metallic parts. I never had any head for machinery, of any kind, but,
from sheer necessity, did acquire enough of the faculty to take apart,
and put together, an army musket,--and that is about the full extent of
my ability in that line. We soon learned to take care of our pieces in
a rain by thoroughly greasing them with a piece of bacon, which would
largely prevent rust from striking in.
We resumed our march to Bolivar early in the morning of the 18th. Our
route was practically parallel with the railroad, crossing it
occasionally. At one of these crossings, late in the afternoon, and
when only five or six miles from Bolivar, I "straggled" again, and took
to the railroad. I soon fell in with three Co. C boys, who had done
likewise. We concluded we would endeavor to get a country supper, and
with that in view, an hour or so before sundown went to a nice looking
farm-house not far from the railroad, and made our wants known to the
occupants. We had selected for our spokesman the oldest one of our
bunch, a soldier perhaps twenty-five years old, named Aleck Cope. He
was something over six feet tall, and about as gaunt as a sand-hill
crane. He was bare-footed, and his feet, in color and general
appearance, looked a good deal like the flappers of an alligator. His
entire garb, on this occasion, consisted of an old wool hat and his
government shirt and drawers. The latter garment, like the "cuttie
sark" of witch Nannie in "Tam O'Shanter," "in longitude was sorely
scanty," coming only a little below his knees, and both habiliments
would have been much improved by a thorough washing. But in the duty
assigned him he acquitted himself well with the people of the house,
and they very cheerfully said they would prepare us a supper. They
seemingly were well-to-do, as several colored men and women were about
the premises, who, of course, were slaves. Soon were audible the death
squawks of chickens in the barn-yard, which we heard with much
satisfaction. In due time supper was announced, and we seated ourselves
at the table. And what a banquet we had! Fried chicken, nice hot
biscuits, butter, butter-milk, honey, (think of that!) preserved
peaches, fresh cucumber pickles,--and so forth. And a colored
house-girl moved back and forth behind us, keeping off the flies with a
big peacock-feather brush. Aleck Cope sat opposite me, and when the
girl was performing that office for him, the situation looked so
intensely ludicrous that I wanted to scream. Supper over, we paid the
bill, which was quite reasonable, and went on our way rejoicing, and
reached Bolivar soon after dark, about the same time the regiment did.
But it will now be set down that this was the last occasion when I
"straggled" on a march. A day or so after arriving at Bolivar the word
came to me in some way, I think from Enoch Wallace, that our first
lieutenant, Dan Keeley, had spoken disapprovingly of my conduct in that
regard. He was a young man, about twenty-five years old, of education
and refinement, and all things considered, the best company officer we
had. I was much attached to him, and I know that he liked me. Well, I
learned that he had said, in substance, that a non-commissioned officer
should set a good example to the men in all things, and that he hadn't
expected of Stillwell that he would desert the ranks on a march. That
settled the matter. My conduct had simply been thoughtless, without any
shirking intentions, but I then realized that it was wrong, and, as
already stated, straggled no more.
We went into camp at Bolivar a little south of the town, in a grove of
scattered big oak trees. A few days after our arrival a good-sized body
of Confederate cavalry, under the command of Gen. Frank C. Armstrong,
moved up from the south, and began operating near Bolivar and vicinity.
Our force there was comparatively small, and, according to history, we
were, for a time, in considerable danger of being "gobbled up," but of
that we common soldiers knew nothing. Large details were at once put to
work throwing up breast-works, while the men not on that duty were kept
in line of battle, or with their guns in stack on the line, and
strictly cautioned to remain close at hand, and ready to fall in at the
tap of a drum. This state of things continued for some days, then the
trouble would seemingly blow over, and later would break out again.
While we were thus on the ragged edge, and expecting a battle almost
any hour, a little incident occurred which somehow made on me a deep
and peculiar impression. To explain it fully, I must go back to our
first days at Pittsburg Landing. A day or two after our arrival there,
Lt. Keeley said to me that the regimental color guard, to consist of a
sergeant and eight corporals, was being formed, that Co. D had been
called on for a corporal for that duty, and that I should report to
Maj. Ohr for instructions. Naturally I felt quite proud over this, and
forthwith reported to the Major, at his tent, and stated my business.
He looked at me in silence, and closely, for a few seconds, and then
remarked, in substance, that I could go to my quarters, and if needed,
would be notified later. This puzzled me somewhat, but I supposed it
would come out all right in due time. There was a corporal in our
company to whom I will give a fictitious name, and call him Sam Cobb.
He was a big, fine looking fellow, and somewhere between twenty-five
and thirty years old. And an hour or two after my dismissal by Maj.
Ohr, I heard Sam loudly proclaiming, with many fierce oaths, to a
little group of Co. D. boys, that he "had been promoted." That he was a
"color corporal, by ----!" This announcement was accompanied by sundry
vociferous statements in regard to Maj. Ohr knowing exactly the kind of
men to get to guard the colors of the regiment in time of battle, and
so on, and so on. I heard all this with mortification and bitterness of
spirit. The reason now dawned on me why I had been rejected. I was only
a boy, rather small for my age, and at this time feeble in appearance.
Maj. Ohr, quite properly, wanted strong, stalwart, fine looking men for
the color guard. A little reflection convinced me that he was right,
and could not be blamed for his action. But he found out later, (in
this particular case, at least) that something more than a fine
appearance was required to make a soldier. Only two or three days after
Sam's "promotion," came the battle of Shiloh, and at the very first
volley the regiment received, he threw down his gun, and ran like a
whipped cur. The straps and buckles of his cartridge box were new and
stiff, so he didn't take the time to release them in the ordinary way,
but whipped out his jack-knife and cut them as he ran. I did not see
this personally, but was told it by boys who did. We saw no more of Sam
until after the battle, when he sneaked into camp, with a fantastic
story of getting separated from the regiment in a fall-back movement,
that he then joined another, fought both days, and performed prodigies
of valor. But there were too many that saw the manner of his alleged
"separation" for his story ever to be believed.
I will now return to the Bolivar incident. While the Confederates were
operating in the vicinity of this place, as above mentioned, the "fall
in" call was sounded one evening after dark, and the regiment promptly
formed in line on the parade ground. We remained there an hour or so,
when finally the command was given to stack arms, and the men were
dismissed with orders to hold themselves in readiness to form in line,
on the parade grounds, at a moment's warning. As I was walking back to
our company quarters, Sam Cobb stepped up to me and took me to one
side, under the shadow of a tall oak tree. It was a bright moonlight
night, with some big, fleecy clouds in the sky. "Stillwell," asked Sam,
"do you think we are going to have a fight?" "I don't know, Sam," I
answered, "but it looks very much like it. I reckon Gen. Ross is not
going out to hunt a fight; he prefers to stay here, protect the
government stores, and fight on the defensive. If our cavalry can stand
the Rebs off, then maybe they will let us alone,--but if our cavalry
are driven in, then look out." Sam held his head down, and said
nothing. As above stated, he was a grown man, and I was only a boy, but
the thing that was troubling him was apparent from his demeanor, and I
felt sorry for him. I laid a hand kindly on his shoulder, and said,
"And Sam, if we should have a fight, now try, old fellow, and do better
than you did before." He looked up quickly--at that instant the moon
passed from behind a big cloud and shone through a rift in the branches
of the tree, full in his face, which was as pale as death, and he said,
in a broken voice: "Stillwell, I'll run; I just know I'll run,--by God,
I can't help it!" I deeply pitied the poor fellow, and talked to him a
few minutes, in the kindest manner possible, trying to reason him out
of that sort of a feeling. But his case was hopeless. He was a genial,
kind-hearted man, but simply a constitutional coward, and he doubtless
told the truth when he said he "couldn't help it." In the very next
fight we were in he verified his prediction. I may say something about
that further on.
Since leaving Camp Carrollton, Co. D had lost two sergeants, one by
death from sickness, the other by discharge for disability, so while we
were at Bolivar these vacancies were filled by appointments made by
Maj. Ohr, who was then commanding the regiment. In accordance with the
custom in such matters, the appointments were announced in orders,
which were read on dress parade. As I now write, it is a little over
fifty-four years since this event took place, but even now my heart
beats faster as the fact is recalled that as the adjutant read the
list, there came the name "Corporal Leander Stillwell, Co. D, to be 4th
Sergeant."
In the early part of August, 1862, while our regiment was at Bolivar, I
cast my first vote, which was an illegal one, as then I was not quite
nineteen years old. The circumstances connected with my voting are not
lengthy, so the story will be told. In the fall of 1861 the voters of
the state of Illinois elected delegates to a Constitutional Convention,
to frame and submit to the people a new Constitution. A majority of the
delegates so elected were Democrats, so they prepared a Constitution in
accordance with their political views. It therefore became a party
measure, the Democrats supporting and the Republicans opposing it. By
virtue of some legal enactment all Illinois soldiers in the field, who
were lawful voters, were authorized to vote on the question of the
adoption of the proposed constitution, and so, on the day above
indicated the election for this purpose was held in our regiment. An
election board was duly appointed, consisting of commissioned officers
of the regiment; they fixed up under a big tree some hardtack boxes to
serve for a table, and the proceedings began. I had no intention of
voting, as I knew I had not the legal right, but Enoch Wallace came to
me and suggested that I go up and vote. When I said I was not old
enough, he simply laughed, and took me by the arm and marched me to the
voting place. The manner of voting was by word of mouth, the soldier
gave his name, and stated that he was "For" or "Against" the
constitution, as the case might be, and his vote was recorded. I voted
"Against," and started away, no questions being asked me as to my age.
But before getting out of hearing I heard one of the board say,
somewhat sotto voce, "That's a mighty young looking voter." Capt.
Ihrie, of Co. C, also on the board, responded carelessly in the same
tone, "Oh well, it's all right; he's a dam good soldier." That remark
puffed me away up, and almost made me feel as if I had grown maybe
three feet, or more, in as many seconds, and needed only a fierce
mustache to be a match for one of Napoleon's Old Guard. And my vote was
not the same as Ihrie's, either, as he was a Democrat, and supporting
the new constitution. When the regiment was recruited it was Democratic
by a large majority, but under the enlightening experiences of the war
it had become Republican, and out of a total vote of about two hundred
and fifty, it gave a majority against the new constitution of
twenty-five. The final result was that the proposed constitution was
beaten by the "home vote" alone, which gave something over 16,000
majority against it. Consequently the soldier vote (although heavily
against the measure) cut no figure, as it was not needed, and my
illegal exercise of the right of suffrage did neither good nor
harm;--and the incident has long since been barred by the statute of
limitations.
During the latter part of July, and throughout August and September,
things were lively and exciting at Bolivar, and in that region
generally. There was a sort of feeling of trouble in the air most of
the time. Gen. Grant was in command in this military district, and he
has stated in his Memoirs that the "most anxious" period of the war, to
him, was, practically, during the time above stated. But we common
soldiers were not troubled with any such feeling. We were devoid of all
responsibility, except simply to look out for and take care of
ourselves, and do our duty to the best of our ability. And, speaking
for myself, I will say that this condition was one that was very "full
of comfort." We had no planning nor thinking to do, and the world could
just wag as it willed.