BOLIVAR. THE MOVEMENT TO THE VICINITY OF IUKA, MISSISSIPPI.
SEPTEMBER-DECEMBER, 1862.
On September 16 the regiment (with the rest of our brigade) left
Bolivar, on the cars, went to Jackson, and thence to Corinth,
Mississippi, where we arrived about sundown. From here, still on the
cars, we started east on the Memphis and Charleston railroad. The train
proceeded very slowly, and after getting about seven or eight miles
from Corinth, it stopped, and we passed the rest of the night on the
cars. Early next morning the train started, and we soon arrived at the
little town of Burnsville, about fifteen miles southeast of Corinth,
where we left the cars, and went into bivouac near the eastern
outskirts of the town.
On the morning of the 19th, before daylight, we marched about two miles
east of Burnsville, and formed in line of battle, facing the south, in
thick woods, consisting mainly of tall pines. It was talked among us
that the Confederate pickets were only a short distance from our front,
and it certainly looked like a battle was impending. By this time the
military situation was pretty well understood by all of us. A
Confederate force of about eight thousand men under Gen. Sterling Price
was at the town of Iuka, about two miles south of us, and Gen. Grant
and Gen. Rosecrans had formulated a plan for attacking this force on
two sides at once. Gen. Rosecrans was to attack from the south, while
our column, under the immediate command of Gen. E. O. C. Ord, was to
close in from the north. Gen. Grant was on the field, and was with the
troops on the north. The plan was all right, and doubtless would have
succeeded, if the wind, on September 19, 1862, in that locality had
been blowing from the south instead of the north. It is on such
seemingly little things that the fate of battles, and sometimes that of
nations, depends. Gen. Rosecrans on the afternoon of the 19th
encountered the enemy south of Iuka, had a severe battle, and was quite
roughly handled. Only a few miles to the north was all of Ord's
command, in line of battle, and expecting to go in every minute, but
the order never came. So all day we just stood around in those pine
woods, wondering what in the world was the matter. As already stated,
the woods were dense, and the wind blowing from the north carried from
us all sounds of the battle. I personally know that this was the case.
There were a few cannon shots next morning, fired by a battery in Gen.
Rosecrans' column, and those we distinctly heard from our position, and
thought at the time they indicated a battle, but they were fired mainly
as "feelers," and to ascertain if the enemy were present in force. But,
as stated, all day on the 19th we heard not a sound to indicate that a
desperate battle was in progress only a few miles from our front.
Early in the morning of the 19th I witnessed an incident that inspired
in me my first deep-seated hatred of whisky, and which has abided with
me ever since. We had formed in line of battle, but the command had
been given, "In place, rest!" (which we were allowed to give a liberal
construction), and we were scattered around, standing or sitting down,
near the line. About this time two young assistant surgeons came from
the rear, riding up the road on which the left of the regiment rested.
They belonged to some infantry regiment of the division, but personally
I didn't know them. They were both fool drunk. On reaching our line of
battle they stopped, but kept in their saddles, pulling their horses
about, playing "smarty," and grinning and chattering like a brace of
young monkeys. I looked at these drunk young fools, and thought that
maybe, in less than an hour, one of them might be standing over me,
probing a bullet wound in one of my legs, and then and there promptly
deciding the question whether the leg should be sawed off, or whether
it could be saved. And what kind of intelligent judgment on this
matter, on which my life or death might depend, could this
whisky-crazed young gosling be capable of exercising? I felt so
indignant at the condition and conduct of these men, right on the eve
of what we supposed might be a severe battle and in which their care
for the wounded would be required, that it almost seemed to me it would
be doing the government good service to shoot both the galoots right on
the spot. And there were other boys who felt the same way, who began
making ominous remarks. The drunken young wretches seemed to have sense
enough to catch the drift of something that was said, they put spurs to
their horses and galloped off to the rear, and we saw them no more.
On the morning of the 20th some regiments of our division moved forward
and occupied the town of Iuka, but Gen. Price had in the meantime
skipped out, so there was no fighting. Our regiment, with some others,
remained in the original position, so that I never got to see the old
town of Iuka until several years after the war. Sometime during the
afternoon of the 20th I went to Capt. Reddish and said to him that I
had become so tired of just standing around, and asked him if I could
take a short stroll in the woods. The old man gave his consent (as I
felt satisfied he would) but cautioned me not to go too far away. The
main thing in view, when I made the request, was the hope of finding
some wild muscadine grapes. They were plentiful in this section of the
country, and were now ripe, and I wanted a bait. I think a wild
muscadine grape is just the finest fruit of that kind in existence.
When ripe it has a strong and most agreeable fragrance, and when one is
to the leeward of a vine loaded with grapes, and a gentle wind is
blowing from the south, he is first made aware of their proximity by
their grateful odor. I soon found some on this occasion, and they were
simply delicious. Having fully satisfied my craving, I proceeded to
make my way back to the regiment, when hearing the trampling sound of
cavalry, I hurried through the woods to the side of the road, reaching
there just as the head of the column appeared. It was only a small
body, not more than a hundred or so, and there, riding at its head, was
Grant! I had not seen him since the battle of Shiloh and I looked at
him with intense interest. He had on an old "sugar-loaf" hat, with
limp, drooping brim, and his outer coat was the ordinary uniform coat,
with a long cape, of a private in the cavalry. His foot-gear was
cavalry boots, splashed with mud, and the ends of his trousers' legs
were tucked inside the boots. No shoulder-straps were visible, and the
only evidence of rank about him that was perceptible consisted of a
frayed and tarnished gold cord on his hat. He was looking downward as
he rode by, and seemed immersed in thought. As the column passed along,
I asked a soldier near the rear what troops they were, and he answered,
"Co. A, Fourth Illinois Cavalry--Gen. Grant's escort." This was the
last time that I saw Grant during the war.
On the evening of the 20th the regiment was drawn back into Burnsville,
and that night Co. D bivouacked in the "Harrison Hotel," which formerly
had evidently been the principal hotel in the town. It was a rambling,
roomy, old frame building, two stories and a half high, now vacant,
stripped of all furniture, and with a thick layer of dust and dirt on
the floors. We occupied a room on the second floor, that evidently had
been the parlor. Being quartered in a hotel was a novel experience, and
the boys got lots of fun out of it. One would call out, "Bill, ring the
clerk to send up a pitcher of ice water, and to be quick about it;"
while another would say, "And while you're at it, tell him to note a
special order from me for quail on toast for breakfast;" and so on. But
these pleasantries soon subsided, and it was not long before we were
wrapped in slumber. It was a little after midnight, and I was sound
asleep, when I heard someone calling, "Sergeant Stillwell! Where is
Sergeant Stillwell?" I sprang to my feet, and answered, "Here! What's
wanted?" The speaker came to me, and then I saw that it was Lt.
Goodspeed, who was acting as adjutant of the regiment. He proceeded to
inform me that I was to take charge of a detail of three corporals and
twelve men and go to a point about a mile and a half east of
Burnsville, to guard a party of section men while clearing and
repairing the railroad from a recent wreck. He gave me full
instructions, and then said, "Stillwell, a lieutenant should go in
charge of this detail, but all that I could find made pretty good
excuses and I think you'll do. It is a position of honor and
responsibility, as there are some prowling bands of guerrillas in this
vicinity, so be careful and vigilant." I was then acting as first
sergeant, and really was exempt from this duty, but of course the idea
of making that claim was not entertained for a moment. I took charge of
my party, went to where the laborers were waiting for us with hand
cars, and we soon arrived at the scene of the wreck. A day or two
before our arrival at Burnsville a party of Confederate cavalry had
torn up the track at this point, and wrecked and burnt a freight train.
Some horses on the train had been killed in the wreck; their carcasses
were lying around, and were rather offensive. The trucks and other
ironwork of the cars were piled on the track, tangled up, and all out
of shape, some rails removed and others warped by heat, and things
generally in a badly torn-up condition. The main dirt road forked here,
one fork going diagonally to the right of the track and the other to
the left--both in an easterly direction. I posted three men and a
corporal about a quarter of a mile to the front on the track, a similar
squad at the same distance on each fork of the dirt road, and the
others at intervals on each side of the railroad at the place of the
wreck. The laborers went to work with a will, and about the time the
owls were hooting for day the foreman reported to me that the track was
clear, the rails replaced, and that they were ready to return to
Burnsville. I then drew in my guards, we got on the hand cars, and were
soon back in town. And thus ended my first, and only, personal
supervision of the work of repairing a break in a railroad.
I barely had time to make my coffee and toast a piece of bacon when the
bugle sounded "Fall in!" and soon (that being the morning of September
21st) we started on the back track, and that day marched to Corinth. It
so happened that on this march our regiment was at the head of the
column. The proper place of my company, according to army regulations,
was the third from the right or head of the line, but from some
cause--I never knew what--on that day we were placed at the head. And,
as I was then acting as first sergeant of our company, that put me the
head man on foot. These details are mentioned for the reason that all
that day I marched pretty close to the tail of the horse that Gen. Ord
was riding, and with boyish curiosity, I scanned the old general
closely. He was a graduate of West Point, and an old regular. He had
served in the Florida and the Mexican wars, and he also had been in
much scrapping with hostile Indians in the vicinity of the Pacific
Coast. He looked old to me, but really he was, at this time, only about
forty-four years of age. He certainly was indifferent to his personal
appearance, as his garb was even plainer, and more careless, than
Grant's. He wore an old battered felt hat, with a flapping brim, and
his coat was one of the old-fashioned, long-tailed oil-cloth
"wrap-rascals" then in vogue. It was all splattered with mud, with
several big torn places in it. There was not a thing about him, that I
could see, to indicate his rank. Later he was transferred to the
eastern armies, eventually was assigned to the command of the Army of
the James, and took an active and prominent part in the operations that
culminated in the surrender of Lee at Appomattox.
We reached Corinth that evening, went into bivouac, and remained there
a couple of days. On the morning of September 24th we fell in, marched
down to the depot, climbed on cars, and were soon being whirled north
to Jackson, on the Mobile and Ohio railroad. We arrived there about
noon, and at once transferred to a train on the Mississippi Central
track and which forthwith started for Bolivar. I think the train we
came on to Jackson went right back to Corinth to bring up more troops.
We common soldiers could not imagine what this hurried rushing around
meant, and it was some time before we found out. But history shows that
Grant was much troubled about this time as to whether a threatened
Confederate attack would be delivered at Corinth or at Bolivar.
However, about the 22nd, the indications were that Bolivar would be
assailed, and troops were at once brought from Corinth to resist this
apprehended movement of the Confederates.
This probably is a fitting place for something to be said about our
method of traveling by rail during the Civil war, as compared with the
conditions of the present day in that regard. At the time I am now
writing, about fifteen thousand United States soldiers have recently
been transported on the cars from different places in the interior of
the country, to various points adjacent to the Mexican border, for the
purpose of protecting American interests. And it seems that in some
cases the soldiers were carried in ordinary passenger coaches.
Thereupon bitter complaints were made on behalf of such soldiers
because Pullman sleepers were not used! And these complaints were
effective, too, for, according to the press reports of the time, the
use of passenger coaches for such purposes was summarily stopped and
Pullmans were hurriedly concentrated at the places needed, and the
soldiers went to war in them. Well, in our time, the old regiment was
hauled over the country many times on trains, the extent of our travels
in that manner aggregating hundreds and hundreds of miles. And such a
thing as even ordinary passenger coaches for the use of the enlisted
men was never heard of. And I have no recollection now that (during the
war) any were provided for the use of the commissioned officers,
either, unless they were of pretty high rank. The cars that we rode in
were the box or freight cars in use in those days. Among them were
cattle cars, flat or platform cars, and in general every other kind of
freight car that could be procured. We would fill the box cars, and in
addition clamber upon the roofs thereof and avail ourselves of every
foot of space. And usually there was a bunch on the cow-catchers. The
engines used wood for fuel; the screens of the smoke-stacks must have
been very coarse, or maybe they had none at all, and the big cinders
would patter down on us like hail. So, when we came to the journey's
end, by reason of the cinders and soot we were about as dirty and black
as any regiment of sure-enough colored troops that fought under the
Union flag in the last years of the war. When the regiment was sent
home in September, 1865, some months after the war was over, the
enlisted men made even that trip in our old friends, the box cars. It
is true that on this occasion there was a passenger coach for the use
of the commissioned officers, and that is the only time that I ever saw
such a coach attached to a train on which the regiment was taken
anywhere. Now, don't misunderstand me. I am not kicking because, more
than half a century after the close of the Civil War, Uncle Sam sent
his soldier boys to the front in Pullmans. The force so sent was small
and the government could well afford to do it, and it was right. I just
want you to know that in my time, when we rode, it was in any kind of
an old freight car, and we were awful glad to get that. And now on this
matter, "The words of Job are ended."
The only railroad accident I ever happened to be in was one that befell
our train as we were in the act of leaving Jackson on the afternoon of
the 24th. There was a good deal of hurry and confusion when we got on
the cars, and it looked like it was every fellow for himself. Jack
Medford (my chum) and I were running along the side of the track
looking for a favorable situation, when we came to a flat car about the
middle of the train, as yet unoccupied. "Jack," said I, "let's get on
this!" He was a little slow of speech; he stopped, looked and commenced
to say something, but his hesitation lost us the place,--and was
fraught with other consequences. Right at that moment a bunch of the
12th Michigan on the other side of the track piled on the car quicker
than a flash, and took up all available room. Jack and I then ran
forward and climbed on top of a box car, next to the tender of the
engine, and soon after the train started. It had not yet got under full
head-way, and was going only about as fast as a man could walk, when,
from some cause, the rails spread, and the first car to leave the rails
was the flat above mentioned. But its trucks went bouncing along on the
ties, and doubtless nobody would have been hurt, had it not been for
the fact that the car plunged into a cattle guard, of the kind then in
use. This guard was just a hole dug in the track, probably four or five
feet deep, the same in length, and in width extending from rail to
rail. Well, the front end of the car went down into that hole, and then
the killing began. They stopped the train very quickly, the entire
event couldn't have lasted more than half a minute, but that flat car
was torn to splinters, three soldiers on it were killed dead, being
frightfully crushed and mangled, and several more were badly injured.
The men on the car jumped in every direction when the car began
breaking up, and so the most of them escaped unhurt. If the train had
been going at full speed, other cars would have been involved, and
there is simply no telling how many would then have been killed and
wounded.
On what little things does the fate of man sometimes depend! If in
response to my suggestion Jack Medford had promptly said, "All right,"
we would have jumped on that flat car, and then would have been caught
in the smash-up. But he took a mere fraction of time to look and think,
and that brief delay was, perhaps, our temporal salvation.
We arrived at Bolivar during the afternoon of the 24th and re-occupied
our old camp. The work of fortifying that place was pushed with renewed
vigor, and strong lines of breastworks, with earthen forts at
intervals, were constructed which practically inclosed the entire town.
But we never had occasion to use them. Not long after our return to
Bolivar, Gen. Grant became satisfied that the point the enemy would
assail was Corinth, so the most of the troops at Bolivar were again
started to Corinth, to aid in repelling the impending attack, but this
time they marched overland. Our regiment and two others, with some
artillery, were left to garrison Bolivar. And so it came to pass that
the battle of Corinth was fought, on our part, by the command of Gen.
Rosecrans on October 4th, and the battle of Hatchie Bridge the next day
by the column from Bolivar, under the command of Gen. Ord,--and we
missed both battles. For my part, I then felt somewhat chagrined that
we didn't get to take part in either off those battles. Here we had
been rushed around the country from pillar to post, hunting for
trouble, and then to miss both these fights was just a little
mortifying. However, the common soldier can only obey orders, and stay
where he is put, and doubtless it was all for the best.
Early on the morning of October 9th, a force of about four thousand
men, including our regiment, started from Bolivar, marching southwest
on the dirt road. We arrived at Grand Junction at dark, after a march
of about twenty miles. Grand Junction was the point where the Memphis &
Charleston and the Mississippi Central railroads crossed. We had not
much more than stacked arms, and of course before I had time to cook my
supper, when I was detailed for picket, and was on duty all night. But
I didn't go supperless by any means, as I made coffee and fried some
bacon at the picket post. Early next morning the command fell in line,
and we all marched back to Bolivar again. We had hardly got started
before it began to rain, and just poured down all day long. But the
weather was pleasant, we took off our shoes and socks and rolled up our
breeches, after the manner heretofore described, and just "socked on"
through the yellow mud, whooping and singing, and as wet as drowned
rats. We reached Bolivar some time after dark. The boys left there in
camp in some way had got word that we were on the return, and had
prepared for us some camp-kettles full of hot, strong coffee, with
plenty of fried sow-belly,--so we had a good supper. What the object of
the expedition was, and what caused us to turn back, I have never
learned, or if I did, have now forgotten.
On returning to Bolivar we settled down to the usual routine of
battalion drill and standing picket. The particular guard duty the
regiment performed nearly all the time we were at Bolivar (with some
casual exceptions) was guarding the railroad from the bridge over
Hatchie river, north to Toone's Station, a distance of about seven
miles. Toone's Station, as its name indicates, was nothing but a
stopping point, with a little rusty looking old frame depot and a
switch. The usual tour of guard duty was twenty-four hours all the
while I was in the service, except during this period of railroad
guarding, and for it the time was two days and nights. Every foot of
the railroad had to be vigilantly watched to prevent its being torn up
by bands of guerrillas or disaffected citizens. One man with a
crow-bar, or even an old ax, could remove a rail at a culvert, or some
point on a high grade, and cause a disastrous wreck.
I liked this railroad guard duty. Between Bolivar and Toone's the road
ran through dense woods, with only an occasional little farm on either
side of the road, and it was pleasant to be out in those fine old
woods, and far away from the noise and smells of the camps. And there
are so many things that are strange and attractive, to be seen and
heard, when one is standing alone on picket, away out in some lonesome
place, in the middle of the night. I think that a man who has never
spent some wakeful hours in the night, by himself, out in the woods,
has simply missed one of the most interesting parts of life. The night
is the time when most of the wild things are astir, and some of the
tame ones, too. There was some kind of a very small frog in the swamps
and marshes near Bolivar that gave forth about the most plaintive
little cry that I ever heard. It was very much like the bleating of a
young lamb, and, on hearing it the first time, I thought sure it was
from some little lamb that was lost, or in distress of some kind. I
never looked the matter up to ascertain of what particular species
those frogs were. They may be common throughout the South, but I never
heard this particular call except around and near Bolivar. And the
woods between Bolivar and Toone's were full of owls, from great big
fellows with a thunderous scream, down to the little screech owls, who
made only a sort of chattering noise. One never failing habit of the
big owls was to assemble in some grove of tall trees just about
daybreak, and have a morning concert, that could be heard half a mile
away. And there were also whippoorwills, and mocking birds, and, during
the pleasant season of the year, myriads of insects that would keep
sounding their shrill little notes the greater part of the night. And
the only time one sees a flying squirrel, (unless you happen to cut
down the tree in whose hollow he is sleeping,) is in the night time.
They are then abroad in full force.
When on picket in my army days I found out that dogs are great
nocturnal ramblers. I have been on guard at a big tree, on some
grass-grown country road, when something would be heard coming down the
road towards me; pat, pat, pitty-pat,--then it would stop short. The
night might be too dark for me to see it, but I knew it must be a dog.
It would stand silent for a few seconds, evidently closely scrutinizing
that man alone under the tree, with something like a long shining stick
in his hands; then it would stealthily leave the road, and would be
heard rustling through the leaves as it made a half circle through the
woods to get by me. On reaching the road below me, its noise would
cease for a little while,--it was then looking back over its shoulder
to see if that man was still there. Having satisfied itself on that
point, then--pat, pat, pitty-pat, and it went off in a trot down the
road. When you see an old farm dog asleep in the sun on the porch in
the day time, with his head between his paws, it is, as a general rule,
safe to assume that he was up and on a scout all the previous night,
and maybe traveled ten or fifteen miles. Cats are also confirmed night
prowlers, but I don't think they wander as far as dogs. Later, when we
were in Arkansas, sometimes a full grown bear would walk up to some
drowsy picket, and give him the surprise of his life.
One quiet, star-lit summer night, while on picket between Bolivar and
Toone's, I had the good fortune to witness the flight of the largest
and most brilliant meteor I ever have seen. It was a little after
midnight, and I was standing alone at my post, looking, listening, and
thinking. Suddenly there came a loud, rushing, roaring sound, like a
passenger train close by, going at full speed, and there in the west
was a meteor! Its flight was from the southwest to the northeast,
parallel with the horizon, and low down. Its head, or body, looked like
a huge ball of fire, and it left behind a long, immense tail of
brilliant white, that lighted up all the western heavens. While yet in
full view, it exploded with a crash like a near-by clap of thunder,
there was a wide, glittering shower of sparks,--and then silence and
darkness. The length of time it was visible could not have been more
than a few seconds, but it was a most extraordinary spectacle.
On October 19th the regiment (except those on guard duty) went as
escort of a foraging expedition to a big plantation about twelve miles
from Bolivar down the Hatchie river. We rode there and back in the big
government wagons, each wagon being drawn by a team of six mules. Like
Joseph's brethren when they went down into Egypt, we were after corn.
The plantation we foraged was an extensive one on the fertile bottom
land of the Hatchie river, and the owner that year had grown several
hundred acres of corn, which had all been gathered, or shocked, and we
just took it as we found it. The people evidently were wealthy for that
time and locality, many slaves were on the place, and it was abounding
in live stock and poultry of all kinds. The plantation in general
presented a scene of rural plenty and abundance that reminded me of the
home of old Baltus Van Tassel, as described by Washington Irving in the
story of "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow,"--with this difference:
Everything about the Tennessee plantation was dirty, out of order, and
in general higgledy-piggledy condition. And the method of farming was
slovenly in the extreme. The cultivated land had been cleared by
cutting away the underbrush and small trees, while the big ones had
merely been "deadened," by girdling them near the ground. These dead
trees were all standing in ghastly nakedness, and so thick in many
places that it must have been difficult to plow through them, while
flocks of crows and buzzards were sailing around them or perched in
their tops, cawing and croaking, and thereby augmenting the woe-begone
looks of things. The planter himself was of a type then common in the
South. He was a large, coarse looking man, with an immense paunch, wore
a broad-brimmed, home-made straw hat and butter nut jeans clothes. His
trousers were of the old-fashioned, "broad-fall" pattern. His hair was
long, he had a scraggy, sandy beard, and chewed "long green" tobacco
continually and viciously. But he was shrewd enough to know that ugly
talk on his part wouldn't mend matters, but only make them worse, so he
stood around in silence while we took his corn, but he looked as
malignant as a rattlesnake. His wife was directly his opposite in
appearance and demeanor. She was tall, thin, and bony, with reddish
hair and a sharp nose and chin. And goodness, but she had a temper! She
stood in the door of the dwelling house, and just tongue-lashed us
"Yankees," as she called us, to the full extent of her ability. The
boys took it all good naturedly, and didn't jaw back. We couldn't
afford to quarrel with a woman. A year later, the result of her abuse
would have been the stripping of the farm of every hog and head of
poultry on it, but at this time the orders were strict against
indiscriminate, individual foraging, and except one or two bee-stands
full of honey, nothing was taken but the corn. And I have no doubt that
long ere this the Government has paid that planter, or his heirs, a
top-notch price for everything we took. It seems to be easy,
now-a-days, to get a special Act through Congress, making "full
compensation" in cases of that kind.
Not long after the foregoing expedition, I witnessed a somewhat amusing
incident one night on the picket line. One day, for some reason, the
regiment was required, in addition to the railroad guards, to furnish a
number of men for picket duty. First Lieut. Sam T. Carrico, of Co. B,
was the officer, and it fell to my lot to be the sergeant of the guard.
We picketed a section of the line a mile or so southwest of Bolivar,
and the headquarters post, where the lieutenant and the sergeant of the
guard stayed, was at a point on a main traveled road running southwest
from the town. It was in the latter part of October, and the night was
a bad and cold one. Lieut. Carrico and I had "doubled up," spread one
of our blankets on the ground, and with the other drawn over us, were
lying down and trying to doze a little, when about ten o'clock we heard
a horseman coming at full speed from the direction of Bolivar. We
thereupon rose to a sitting posture, and awaited developments. The
horseman, on nearing our post and being challenged, responded, "Friend,
without the countersign!" and in a peremptory manner told the sentinel
on duty that he wanted to see the officer of the guard. Lieut. Carrico
and I walked up to the horseman, and, on getting close to him, saw that
he was a Union officer of the rank of Captain. Addressing himself to
the lieutenant, in a loud and hasty manner he told him his story,
which, in substance, was that he was Captain ---- (giving his name), on
Gen. Grant's staff, that he had just arrived in Bolivar on the train
from Memphis, that he had important business a few miles outside of the
lines, and being in a great hurry, he had not gone to post headquarters
to get the countersign, as he felt satisfied that the statement of his
rank and business would be sufficient to insure his being passed
through the picket line, and so on. Lieut. Carrico listened in silence
until the fellow finished, and then said, quietly but very firmly,
"Captain, if you claimed to be Gen. Grant himself, you shouldn't pass
through my line without the countersign." At this the alleged "staff
officer" blew up, and thundered and bullied at a great rate. Carrico
was not much more than a boy, being only about twenty-two years old,
and of slight build, but he kept perfectly cool and remained firm as a
rock. Finally the officer wheeled his horse around and started back to
town at a furious gallop. Carrico then walked up to the sentinel on
duty and said to him, "Now, if that fellow comes back, you challenge
him, and make him conform to every item of the army regulations;" and
to make sure about it, he gave the guard specific instructions as to
his duties in such cases. We stood around and waited, and it was not
long before we heard the horseman returning at his usual rate of speed.
He never checked his gait until the challenge of the sentinel rang out,
"Halt! Who comes there?" "Friend, with the countersign!" was the
answer. "Dismount, friend, advance, and give the countersign!" cried
the sentinel. Kuh-sock, went the fine, high-top boots of the rider in
the mud, and leading his horse, he walked up, gave the talismanic word,
to which the response was made, "Countersign's correct! Pass, friend."
The officer then sprang into the saddle, and rode up to the lieutenant
and me. Taking a memorandum book and pencil from one of his pockets, he
said to Carrico, "Give me your name, company, and regiment, sir."
"Samuel T. Carrico, first lieutenant Co. B, 61st Illinois Infantry."
The officer scribbled in his note-book, then turned to me, "And yours?"
"Leander Stillwell, sergeant Co. D, 61st Illinois Infantry;" and that
answer was also duly recorded. "Good night, gentlemen; you'll render an
account for this outrage later;" and with this parting salutation, the
officer galloped away. "All right!" Carrico called after him, "you know
where to find us." The victim of the "outrage" had not returned when we
were relieved at 9 o'clock the next morning, and we never saw or heard
of him any more. Of course his threat on leaving us was pure bluff, for
Lieut. Carrico had only done his plain and simple duty. The fellow was
probably all right; his returning with the countersign would indicate
it. But his "important business" was doubtless simply to keep a date
with some lady-love out in the country, and he wanted to meet her under
the friendly cover of the night.
[Illustration: Samuel T. Carrico
1st Lieutenant Co. B, 61st Illinois Infantry.
Bolivar, Tenn., Oct., 1862.]
A few words will here be said in the nature of a deserved tribute to
Lieut. Carrico. Later he rose to the rank of Captain of his company,
and was one among the very best and bravest of the line officers of the
regiment. He had nerves like hammered steel, and was as cool a man in
action as I ever have known. Of all the officers of the regiment who
were mustered in at its organization, he is now the only survivor. He
is living at Alva, Oklahoma, and is a hale, hearty old man.