DEVALL'S BLUFF. LITTLE ROCK. AUGUST-OCTOBER, 1863.
On the morning of August 21st, the "Pike" cast off, and started down
the Mississippi river. On reaching the mouth of White river, we turned
up that stream, and on August 26th arrived at Devall's Bluff, on the
west bank, where we debarked. Our trip from Helena was slow and
uneventful. The country along White river from its mouth to Devall's
Bluff was wild, very thinly settled, and practically in a state of
nature. We passed only two towns on the stream--St. Charles and
Clarendon, both small places. On different occasions I saw several
bears and deer on the river bank, they having come there for water. Of
course they ran back into the woods when the boat got near them. All of
Steele's infantry was temporarily in camp at Devall's Bluff, while his
cavalry was some miles further out. I soon found the old regiment, and
received a warm welcome from all of Co. D. They were much surprised to
see me, as they had no idea that I would be able to leave the hospital
so soon. They had had no fighting on this campaign, so far, and they
said that their march across the country from Helena had been
monotonous and devoid of any special interest.
During my first night at Devall's Bluff there came a heavy and
protracted rain storm, and on waking up the following morning I found
myself about half hip-deep in a puddle of water. And this was the
beginning of more trouble. My system was full of quinine taken to break
the fever while in the hospital, and the quinine and this soaking in
the water did not agree. In a short time I began to feel acute
rheumatic twinges in the small of my back, and in a day or two was
practically helpless, and could not get up, or walk around, without
assistance.
[Illustration: Enoch W. Wallace
2nd Lieutenant Co. D, 61st Illinois Infantry.]
The regiment left Devall's Bluff, with the balance of the army, on
September 1st, advancing towards Little Rock. I was totally unable to
march, but was determined to go along some way, and with Capt. Keeley's
permission, the boys put me into one of the regimental wagons. This
wagon happened to be loaded with barrels of pickled pork, standing on
end, and my seat was on top of one of the barrels, and it was just the
hardest, most painful day's ride in a wagon I ever endured. I was
suffering intensely from acute rheumatism in the "coupling region," and
in this condition trying to keep steady on the top of a barrel, and
being occasionally violently pitched against the ends of the barrel
staves when the wagon gave a lurch into a deep rut,--which would give
me well-nigh intolerable pain. To make matters worse, the day was very
hot, so, when evening came and the column halted, I was mighty near
"all in." But some of the boys helped me out and laid me on my blanket
in the shade, and later brought me some supper of hardtack, bacon, and
coffee. Except the rheumatism, I was all right, and had a good
appetite, and after a hearty supper, felt better. Next morning, in
consequence of the active exertions of Capt. Keeley in the matter, an
ambulance drove up where I was lying, and I was loaded into it, and oh,
it was a luxury! Poor Enoch Wallace had been taken down with a malarial
fever, and he was also a passenger, likewise two other soldiers whose
names I have forgotten. Enoch had been promoted to second lieutenant
and had been acting as such for some months, but his commission was not
issued until September 3rd,--a day when he was a very sick man. From
this on, until September 10th, the day our forces captured Little Rock,
my days were spent in the ambulance. At night, the sick of each
division (of whom there were hundreds) would bivouac by the side of
some lagoon, or small water course, the attendants would prepare us
some supper, and the surgeons would make their rounds, administering
such medicine as the respective cases required. The prevailing type of
sickness was malarial fever, for which, the sovereign specific seemed
to be quinine. As for me, I was exempt from the taking of medicine, for
which I was thankful. The surgeon, after inquiry into my case, would
sententiously remark, "Ah! acute rheumatism," and pass on. I was at a
loss to understand this seeming neglect, but a sort of explanation was
given me later, which will be mentioned in its order. The food that was
given the sick was meager and very unsatisfactory, but it was probably
the best that could be furnished, under the circumstances. Each man was
given an oyster-can full of what seemed to be beef-soup, with some rice
or barley grains in it. By the time it got around to us there was
usually a thin crust of cold tallow on the top, and the mere looks of
the mess was enough to spoil one's appetite,--if he had any. One
evening, Wallace and I were sitting side by side with our backs against
a tree, when an attendant came to us and gave each one his can of the
decoction above mentioned. It was comical to see the look of disgust
that came over the face of poor Enoch. He turned towards me, and
tilting his can slightly to enable me to see the contents, spoke thus:
"Now, ain't this nice stuff to give a sick man? I've a good notion to
throw the whole business in that fellow's face;" (referring to the
attendant). "The trouble with you, Enoch," I said, "is that you are
losing your patriotism, and I shouldn't be surprised if you'd turn
Secesh yet. Kicking on this rich, delicious soup! Next thing you'll be
ordering turtle-soup and clamoring for napkins and finger-bowls. You
remind me of a piece of poetry I have read somewhere, something like
this:
'Jeshurun waxed fat,
And down his belly hung,
Against the government he kicked,
And high his buttocks flung'."
The poor old fellow leaned back against the tree, and indulged in a
long, silent laugh that really seemed to do him good. I would joke with
him, after this fashion, a good deal, and long afterwards he told me
that he believed he would have died on that march if I hadn't kept his
spirits up by making ridiculous remarks. (In speaking of Wallace as
"old," the word is used in a comparative sense, for the fact is he was
only about thirty-four years of age at this time.)
On the evening of September 9th, the sick of our division bivouacked by
the side of a small bayou, in a dense growth of forest trees. Next
morning the rumor spread among us that on that day a battle was
impending, that our advance was close to the Confederates, and that a
determined effort would be made for the capture of Little Rock. Sure
enough, during the forenoon, the cannon began to boom a few miles west
of us, and our infantry was seen rapidly moving in that direction. As I
lay there helpless on the ground, I could not avoid worrying somewhat
about the outcome of the battle. If our forces should be defeated, we
sick fellows would certainly be in a bad predicament. I could see, in
my mind's eye, our ambulance starting on a gallop for Devall's Bluff,
while every jolt of the conveyance would inflict on me excruciating
pain. But this suspense did not last long. The artillery practice soon
began moving further towards the west, and was only of short duration
anyhow. And we saw no stragglers, which was an encouraging sign, and
some time during the afternoon we learned that all was going in our
favor. From the standpoint of a common soldier, I have always thought
that General Steele effected the capture of Little Rock with
commendable skill and in a manner that displayed sound military
judgment. The town was on the west side of the Arkansas river, and our
army approached it from the east. Gen. Price, the Confederate
commander, had constructed strong breastworks a short distance east of
the town, and on the east side of the river, commanding the road on
which we were approaching. The right of these works rested on the
river, and the left on an impassable swamp. But Gen. Steele did not
choose to further Price's plans by butting his infantry up against the
Confederate works. He entertained him at that point by ostentatious
demonstrations, and attacked elsewhere. The Arkansas was very low, in
many places not much more than a wide sandbar, and was easily fordable
at numerous points. So Steele had his cavalry and some of his infantry
ford the river to the west side, below the town, and advance along the
west bank, which was not fortified. Gen. Price, seeing that his
position was turned and that his line of retreat was in danger of being
cut off, withdrew his troops from the east side and evacuated Little
Rock about five o'clock in the afternoon, retreating southwest. Our
troops followed close on his heels, and marched in and took possession
of the capital city of the State of Arkansas. Our loss, in the entire
campaign, was insignificant, being only a little over a hundred, in
killed, wounded, and missing. The 61st was with the troops that
operated on the east side of the river, and sustained no loss whatever.
A few cannon balls, poorly aimed and flying high, passed over the
regiment, but did no mischief,--beyond shaking the nerves of some
recruits who never before had been under fire.
About sundown on the evening of the 10th, the ambulance drivers hitched
up, and the sick were taken to a division hospital located near the
east bank of the river. Capt. Keeley came over the next day to see
Wallace and myself, and, at my urgent request, he arranged for me to be
sent to the regiment. As heretofore stated, I just loathed the idea of
being in a hospital. There were so many disagreeable and depressing
things occurring there every day, and which could not be helped, that
they inspired in me a sort of desperate determination to get right out
of such a place,--and stay out, if possible. Early next morning an
ambulance drove up, I was put in it, and taken to the camp of the old
regiment. Some of the boys carried me into a tent, and laid me down on
a cot, and I was once more in the society of men who were not groaning
with sickness, but were cheerful and happy. But it was my fate to lie
on that cot for more than a month, and unable even to turn over without
help. And I shall never forget the kindness of Frank Gates during that
time. He would come every day, when not on duty, and bathe and rub my
rheumatic part with a rag soaked in vinegar, almost scalding hot, which
seemed to give me temporary relief. There was an old doctor, of the
name of Thomas D. Washburn, an assistant surgeon of the 126th Illinois
Infantry, who, for some reason, had been detailed to serve temporarily
with our regiment, and he would sometimes drop in to see me. He was a
tall old man, something over six feet high, and gaunt in proportion. I
don't remember that he ever gave me any medicine, or treatment of any
kind, for the reason, doubtless, that will now be stated. One day I
said to him, "Doctor, is there nothing that can be done for me? Must I
just lie here and suffer indefinitely?" He looked down at me sort of
sympathetically, and slowly said: "I will answer your question by
telling you a little story. Once upon a time a young doctor asked an
old one substantially the same question you have just asked me, which
the old doctor answered by saying: 'Yes, there is just one remedy:--six
weeks'." And, patting me lightly on the shoulder, he further remarked,
"That's all;" and left. The sequel in my case confirmed Dr. Washburn's
story.
The spot where the regiment went into camp on the day of the capture of
Little Rock was opposite the town, on the east bank of the Arkansas,
not far from the river, and in a scattered grove of trees. The locality
was supposed to be a sort of suburb of the town, and was designated at
the time in army orders as "Huntersville." But the only house that I
now remember of being near our camp was a little, old, ramshackle
building that served as a railroad depot. Speaking of the railroad, it
extended only from here to Devall's Bluff, a distance of about fifty
miles, and was the only railroad at that time in the State of Arkansas.
The original project of the road contemplated a line from Little Rock
to a point on the Mississippi opposite Memphis. Work was begun on the
western terminus, and the road was completed and in operation as far as
Devall's Bluff before the war, and then the war came along and the work
stopped. Since then the road has been completed as originally planned.
This little old sawed-off railroad was quite a convenience to our army
at the Rock, as it obviated what otherwise would have been the
necessity of hauling our supplies in wagons across the country from
Devall's Bluff. It also frequently came handy for transporting the
troops, and several times saved our regiment, and, of course, others,
from a hot and tiresome march.
For some weeks while in camp at Huntersville, we lived high on several
articles of food not included in the army rations. There were a good
many sheep in the country round about that the military authorities
confiscated, and so we had many a feast on fine, fresh mutton. Corn was
plentiful also, and corn meal was issued to us liberally. Last, but not
least, the rich Arkansas river bottom lands abounded in great big
yellow sweet potatoes that the country people called "yams," and we
just reveled in them to our entire satisfaction.
There was a boy in my company named William Banfield, about the same
age as myself. We had been near neighbors at home, and intimate
friends. Bill was a splendid soldier, seldom sick, and always performed
his soldier duties cheerfully and without grumbling. And Bill was
blessed with a good digestion, and apparently was always hungry. The
place where he would build his cook-fire in this camp was near the
front of my tent, where I had a good view of his operations. I was
lying helpless on my cot, and, like others so situated from time
immemorial, had nothing to do, and scarcely did anything else but watch
the neighbors. Among the cherished possessions of our company was an
old-fashioned cast-iron Dutch oven, of generous proportions, which was
just the dandy for baking mutton. Well, Bill would, in the first place,
get his chunk of mutton, a fine big piece of the saddle, or of a ham,
and put it on to cook in the oven. Then we had another oven, a smaller
affair of the skillet order, in which Bill would set to cooking a corn
meal cake. At the right stage of the proceedings he would slice up some
yams, and put them in with the mutton. Next, and last, he would make at
least a quart of strong, black coffee. Both from long experience and
critical observation, Bill knew to the fraction of a minute how long it
would take for all his converging columns of table comforts to reach
the done point on time and all together, and the resulting harmony was
perfection itself, and (to use an overworked phrase) "left nothing to
be desired." Dinner now being ready, the first thing Bill did was to
bring me an ample allowance of the entire bill of fare, and which, by
the way, I had to dispose of as best I could lying down, as it was
impossible for me to sit up. Having seen to the needs of a disabled
comrade, Bill next proceeded to clear his own decks for action. He
seated himself at the foot of a big tree, on the shady side, with his
back against the trunk; then spreading his legs apart in the shape of a
pair of carpenter's compasses, he placed between them the oven
containing the mutton and yams, at his left hand the skillet with the
cornbread, and on his right his can of coffee--and then the services
began. And how Bill would enjoy his dinner! There was no indecent haste
about it, no bolting of the delicacies, or anything of the sort. He
proceeded slowly and with dignity, while occasionally he would survey
the landscape with a placid, contented air. But everything was
devoured,--the last crumb of cornbread did duty in sopping up the final
drop of grease. The banquet over, Bill would sit there a while in
silence, gazing, perchance, at the shimmering waters of the Arkansas,
and its sandbars, glittering in the sun. But ere long his head would
begin to droop, he would throw one leg over the Dutch oven, swinging
the limb clear of that utensil, settle himself snugly against the tree,
and in about five minutes would be asleep.
At the time I am now writing, (October, 1916,) Bill is yet alive, and
residing at Grafton, Illinois. He is a good old fellow, and "long may
he wave."