DEVALL'S BLUFF. GRAND REVIEWS AND INSPECTIONS. SURGEON J. P. ANTHONY.
PRIVATE PRESS ALLENDER. JUNE AND JULY, 1864.
I have said nothing so far about "grand reviews," or other functions of
that sort, and here is as good a place as any to notice them. From some
cause or other we had what seemed to us an undue proportion of grand
reviews in Arkansas in the summer of 1864. They were not a bit popular
with the common soldiers. It became a saying among us, when a grand
review was ordered, that the reviewing officer had got a new uniform
and wanted to show it--but, of course, that was only soldier talk.
On June 10th, while in camp at Huntersville, all the troops at Little
Rock were reviewed by Maj. Gen. Daniel E. Sickles, late of the Army of
the Potomac. He lost a leg at the battle of Gettysburg, which
incapacitated him for active service, so President Lincoln gave him a
sort of roving commission to visit and inspect all the western troops.
In conducting the review at Little Rock, on account of his maimed
condition he rode along the line in an open carriage. The day was
exceedingly hot, the troops on our side of the river were reviewed on
low grounds where the air was stifling, we wore our jackets tightly
buttoned, and we all suffered fearfully from heat. One man in the line
near me went over with a crash, all in a pile, from sunstroke, and I
heard that there were several other such cases. Nine days later, (June
19th,) we had division grand review conducted by our division
commander, Gen. C. C. Andrews, and on July 11th another grand review by
the same officer. And interspersed with the reviews were several
brigade inspections of arms. But as those did not involve any marching,
they were not as fatiguing as the reviews. I will mention specifically
but one of these inspections, and do so for the reason that there were
some things connected with it I have always remembered with interest
and pleasure. It was held on July 4th, at Devall's Bluff, the
inspecting officer being Col. Randolph B. Marcy, Inspector-General U.S.
Army. He was a regular army officer, a graduate of West Point, and
at this time was about fifty-two years of age. He was over six feet
tall, straight as an arrow, and a splendid looking man in general. We
had very short notice of this inspection, and having returned only a
few days before from the Clarendon expedition, had not yet had time or
opportunity to wash our shirts, and were in quite a rough and tough
condition. And the fact that this inspection was to be conducted by the
Inspector-General of the United States Army, an old regular, and a West
Point graduate, made us nervous, and we apprehended all sorts of
trouble. So far as I ever knew, the volunteers had not much love for
the regular army officers. We regarded them as unreasonably strict and
technical, and were of the impression that they were inclined to "look
down" on volunteers. Whether this feeling was well founded, or not, I
cannot say, but there is no question that it existed. On this occasion
we went to work with a will, and soon had our muskets, bayonets,
belt-plates, and accouterments in general, bright and shining, and in
the very pink of condition. It was to be an inspection of arms only,
and did not include knapsacks. About 9 o'clock on the morning of July
4th, we fell in on the regimental parade ground, broke into columns of
companies, right in front, in open order, and the greatly feared
Inspector-General entered on his duty. As already stated, we looked
hard. Many of us were barefoot, and our clothes in general were dirty
and ragged. But Col. Marcy knew we had just come off a march, he was a
very sensible man, and capable of making some allowances. In accordance
with the regulations, he passed in front of us, walking slowly and
looking at us critically. As he came opposite each soldier, the latter
brought his piece into the prescribed position for examination, but
Col. Marcy contented himself with a sweeping glance, and did not take
the musket in his hands. Then he passed to the rear of the ranks, and
walked slowly along behind us, while we stood immovable, with eyes
fixed to the front. It was soon all over. He then approached Col. Ohr,
said something I did not hear, but which was evidently pleasant, for
the Colonel smiled, then turned round facing us, and with a sweep of
his arm in our direction said,--loud enough for many of us to hear,
"Good soldiers!" whereupon we all felt much relieved and proud,--and
the dreaded inspection was a thing of the past. Several years
afterwards, when in civil life out in Kansas, I learned that Col. Marcy
was not only a grand old soldier, but also a most interesting writer. I
have two of his books in my library now, and have had for many years,
one being his official report of the "Exploration of the Red River of
Louisiana, in the year 1852;" the other, "Thirty Years of Army Life on
the Border." Both are highly interesting, and I frequently take them
from the shelf and look them over. And when I do so, there always rises
up on about every page the recollection of the tall, imposing figure of
Col. Marcy, as he stood beneath the oaks at Devall's Bluff, Arkansas,
on the morning of July 4th, 1864, and waved his arm towards us, and
said in a kind tone, and with approving look: "Good soldiers!"
There was in Company D an original sort of a character, by the name of
Ambrose Pressley Allender,--for short, generally called "Press." He was
at this time (1864) about thirty-five years old. He had been a private
in a regiment of Kentucky infantry during the Mexican War, but what the
length of his service may have been I do not know. But in his Mexican
War experience he had at least learned every possible trick and device
that could be resorted to in "playing off," as the boys called it; that
is, avoiding duty on the plea of sickness or any other excuse that
would serve. He was not a bad man, by any means, but a good-hearted old
fellow. He had re-enlisted, along with the rest of us, when the
regiment "veteranized." But his propensity for shirking duty,
especially anything severe or unpleasant, seemed inveterate and
incurable. He made me lots of trouble, for some time, after I became
first sergeant. I was only a boy, and he was a man of mature age, about
fifteen years my senior, and looking back to those days, I can see now
where many times he pulled the wool over my eyes completely and induced
me to grant him favors in the matter of details that he was not
entitled to. But it was not long before I began to understand Press,
and then, if he was excused from duty, or passed over for a lighter
job, the authority had to come from the regimental surgeon. Dr. Julius
P. Anthony, of Brown county, Illinois, was appointed surgeon of the
regiment in September, 1863, and remained with us in that capacity
until we were mustered out of the service. He was not a handsome man,
by any means. He was hawk-nosed, with steel-blue eyes, and had a most
peculiar sort of a high-keyed, nasal toned voice. But he was an
excellent physician, and a shrewd, accurate judge of men. So, when
Press bucked up against Dr. Anthony, he found a foeman worthy of his
steel, and the keen-eyed old doctor was a different proposition from a
boy orderly sergeant. Press would keep close watch of the details as
they progressed down the company roll, and when he was next in turn,
and the impending duty was one he did not fancy, would then retire to
his tent or shack, and when wanted for picket, or some laborious
fatigue duty, would be found curled up in his bunk and groaning
dismally. When we were at Devall's Bluff, at a time about the last of
July, 1864, I discovered him in this condition one morning before
sick-call, when I went to apprise him (out of abundant caution) that he
was next for duty, and not to wander from the camp. He forthwith told
me he was very sick, hadn't slept a wink all night, and that I must
pass over him for the time being. I replied that if he was sick, he
must fall in at sick-call, and have the surgeon pass on his case, so he
climbed out of his bunk, put on his trousers, and made ready. Sick-call
was sounded pretty soon, and I went with Press and two or three of the
other boys to the surgeon's tent. Press kept in the background until
the other cases were disposed of, and then stepped forward. His
breeches were unbuttoned down to nearly the last button, he was holding
them up with his hands, and his stomach protruded like the belly of a
brood-sow. "Well, Allender," inquired Dr. Anthony, "egad, what's the
matter with you?" Press was careful to put on all the military frills
at such a time, and he began thus: "Major Anthony, First Sergeant
Stillwell has several times putten me on duty when I was not fitten for
duty, and so I am now compelled to come to you, and----" "That'll do,
Allender," interrupted the doctor, "what are your symptoms?" Press then
began the story of his woes. He had racking pains in the stomach,
headache, couldn't sleep, "all bloated up," he said, "as you can see
for yourself;" with a comprehensive gesture towards his abdominal
region,--and numerous other troubles, including "night sweats." Dr.
Anthony heard him patiently, and without interruption, but scanned him
closely all the time he was talking. Press at last stopped to take
breath, and then the doctor, in his rasping voice, spoke as follows:
"Allender, the trouble with you is simply exercising too little, and
eating too much. And if you don't quit stuffing yourself, and get
around more, I shall instruct Sergeant Stillwell to put you on fatigue
duty every day until you are rid of that mass of fermenting fecal
matter in your bowels, and your stomach is restored to normal
condition. That's all." Then addressing me, he said: "Allender's able
for duty;" and Press and I walked out. As soon as we were beyond the
hearing of Dr. Anthony, Press turned loose. He was a terribly profane
fellow when, in his opinion, ordinary language would not do the subject
justice, and had accumulated a stock of the most unique and outrageous
expressions that could be invented, and all these he now fired at the
Doctor. Having no desire to put salt on a green wound, I said nothing.
In perhaps an hour or so the first sergeant's call was sounded at the
adjutant's tent, which meant a detail. I responded to the call, and the
Sergeant-Major, consulting the regimental detail slip he held in his
hand, told me he wanted a corporal and five privates from my company,
with two days' rations, to help make up a scouting party going up White
river on a steamboat, and for them to report in fifteen minutes. That
caught old Press, and I went to his shack expecting a scene. He was
found lying on his bunk, in his drawers and shirt--as usual in such
emergencies. I proceeded to detail him as one of the scouting party,
and told him to be all ready within fifteen minutes. In the meantime,
the weather had changed, and a disagreeable, drizzling rain was
falling. Press heaved a deep sigh when informed of his detail, and
began to beg and protest. I told him that the doctor had refused to
excuse him, that he was the next man on the roll for duty, that I had
no discretion in the matter, and he would have to get ready and go.
But, if he was feeling worse, I would go with him again to the doctor,
and request him to look further into his case. Press sprang out of his
bunk with a bound, and grabbed his trousers. "Before I'll ever go
again," he said, "to that hawk-nosed old blankety-blank-blank, to get
excused from duty, I'll see him in hell further than a pigeon can fly
in a leap year. He hasn't got sense enough, anyhow, to doctor an old
dominecker hen that is sick with a sore [anus], much less a civilized
human being. You could let me off this detail, if you wanted to, and
let me tell you, Stillwell, if this trip kills me, which it probably
will, I want you to remember, as long as you live, that the
responsibility for my death lies on your head!" This last statement, I
will confess, rather staggered me, and had it been delivered in a weak
and pitiful tone, there is no telling what I might have done. But he
didn't "roar" me "as gently as a sucking dove," by a long shot, for his
voice was full and loud, and quivering with energy and power. So I made
no response to this dire prediction; Press got ready, and went. The
weather cleared up in a few hours, and was bright and pleasant, but
nevertheless I became very uneasy about Press. If the old fellow really
was sick, and if, by any possibility, this detail should result in his
death, why, then, I felt that his last words would haunt me as long as
I lived. I waited anxiously for the return of the scouting party, and
when the whistle of the boat was heard on its arrival at the Bluff,
went at once to the landing to learn the fate of Press, and stood on
the bank where the men could be seen as they came ashore. Presently
here came Press, very much alive, and looking fine! He bore, transfixed
on his bayonet, a home-cured ham of an Arkansas hog; the tail feathers
of a chicken were ostentatiously protruding from the mouth of his
haversack, and which receptacle was also stuffed well-nigh to bursting
with big, toothsome yams. And later the fact was developed that his
canteen was full of sorghum molasses. As he trudged up the road cut
through the bank, his step was springy and firm, his face was glowing
with health, and beaded with perspiration. I felt greatly relieved and
happy, and, inspired by the joy of the moment, called to him: "Hello,
Press! You seem to be all right!" He glanced up at me, and in a sort of
sheepish manner responded: "Ya-a-ss. As luck would have it, the trip
'greed with me." And from this time on, I had no more trouble with old
Press. He turned over a new leaf, cut out completely his old-time
malingering practices, and thenceforward was a good, faithful soldier.
We were in some close places afterwards, and he never flinched, but
stood up to the work like a man. He was mustered out with the rest of
us in September, 1865, and after some going and coming, settled down in
Peoria county, Illinois, where he died March 15, 1914, at the age of
nearly eighty-five years.