FRANKLIN, SUMMER OF 1865. MUSTERED OUT, SEPTEMBER 8, 1865. RECEIVE
FINAL PAYMENT AT SPRINGFIELD, ILLINOIS, SEPTEMBER 27, 1865. THE
REGIMENT "BREAKS RANKS" FOREVER.
Soldiering at Franklin, Tennessee, in May, June, July, and August,
1865, was simply of a picnic kind. The war was over in that region, and
everything there was as quiet and peaceful as it was at home in
Illinois. Picket guards were dispensed with, and the only guard duty
required was a small detail for the colors at regimental headquarters,
and a similar one over our commissary stores. However, it was deemed
necessary for the health of the men to maintain company drills to a
certain extent, but they were light and easy. Near the camp was a fine
blue-grass pasture field, containing in a scattered, irregular form
numerous large and magnificent hard maples, and the drilling was done
in this field. Capt. Warren was somewhat portly, and not fond of
strenuous exercise anyhow, so all the drilling Co. D had at Franklin
was conducted by myself. But I rather liked it. With the accession of
those 83rd Illinois men, the old company was about as big and strong as
it was at Camp Carrollton, and it looked fine. But, to tell the truth,
it is highly probable that we put in fully as much time lying on the
blue grass under the shade of those grand old maples as we did in
company evolutions.
Sometime during the course of the summer a middle aged widow lady named
House began conducting a sort of private boarding establishment at her
residence in the city, and Col. Nulton, Maj. Keeley, and several of the
line officers, including myself, took our meals at this place during
the remainder of our stay at Franklin. Among the boarders were two or
three gentlemen also of the name of House, and who were brothers-in-law
of our hostess. They had all served in Forrest's cavalry as
commissioned officers, and were courteous and elegant gentlemen. We
would all sit down together at the table of Mrs. House, with that lady
at the head, and talk and laugh, and joke with each other, as if we had
been comrades and friends all our lives. And yet, during the four years
just preceding, the Union and the Confederate soldiers thus mingled
together in friendship and amity had been doing their very best to kill
one another! But in our conversation we carefully avoided anything in
the nature of political discussion about the war, and in general each
side refrained from saying anything on that subject which might grate
on the feelings of the other.
On September 4th, 1865, the regiment left Franklin and went by rail to
Nashville for the purpose of being mustered out of the service. There
were some unavoidable delays connected with the business, and it was
not officially consummated until September 8th. In the forenoon of the
following day we left Nashville on the cars, on the Louisville and
Nashville railroad, for Springfield, Illinois, where we were to receive
our final payment and certificates of discharge.
Early on Sunday morning, September 10th, we crossed the Ohio river at
Louisville, Kentucky, on a ferry boat, to Jeffersonville, Indiana. This
boat was provided with a railroad track extending from bow to stern,
and so arranged that when the boat landed at either bank, the rails
laid along the lower deck of the boat would closely connect with the
railroad track on the land. This ferry transferred our train in
sections, and thus obviated any necessity for the men to leave the
cars. The ferrying process did not take long, and we were soon speeding
through southern Indiana. As stated, it was Sunday, and a bright,
beautiful autumn day. As I have hereinbefore mentioned, our train
consisted of box cars, (except one coach for the commissioned
officers,) and all the men who could find room had taken, from
preference, seats on top of the cars. Much of southern Indiana is
rugged and broken, and in 1865 was wild, heavily timbered, and the most
of the farm houses were of the backwoods class. We soon began to see
little groups of the country people, in farm wagons, or on foot, making
their way to Sunday school and church. Women, young girls, and children
predominated, all dressed in their "Sunday-go-to-meeting" clothes. And
how the women and girls cheered us, and waved their handkerchiefs! And
didn't we yell! It was self-evident that we were in "God's Country"
once more. These were the first demonstrations of that kind the old
regiment had seen since the girls of Monticello Seminary, in February,
1862, lined the fences by the road side and made similar manifestations
of patriotism and good will.
We arrived at Indianapolis about noon, there got off the cars and went
in a body to a Soldiers' Home close at hand, where we had a fine
dinner; thence back to the old train, which thundered on the rest of
the day and that night, arriving at Springfield the following day, the
11th. Here we marched out to Camp Butler, near the city, and went into
camp.
And now another annoying delay occurred, this time being in the matter
of our final payment. What the particular cause was I do not know;
probably the paymasters were so busy right then that they couldn't get
around to us. The most of us (that is, of the old, original regiment)
were here within sixty or seventy miles of our homes, and to be
compelled to just lie around and wait here at Camp Butler was rather
trying. But the boys were patient, and on the whole endured the
situation with commendable equanimity. "But the day it came at last,"
and in the forenoon of September 27th we fell in line by companies, and
each company in its turn marched to the paymaster's tent, near
regimental headquarters. The roll of the company would be called in
alphabetical order, and each man, as his name was called, would answer,
and step forward to the paymaster's table. That officer would lay on
the table before the man the sum of money he was entitled to, and with
it his certificate of discharge from the army, duly signed by the
proper officials. The closing of the hand of the soldier over that
piece of paper was the final act in the drama that ended his career as
a soldier of the Civil War. Now he was a civilian, free to come and go
as he listed. Farewell to the morning drum-beats, taps, roll-calls,
drills, marches, battles, and all the other incidents and events of a
soldier's life.
"The serried ranks, with flags displayed,
The bugle's thrilling blast,
The charge, the thund'rous cannonade,
The din and shout--were past."
The scattering-out process promptly began after we received our pay and
discharges. I left Springfield early the following day, the 28th, on
the Chicago, Alton, and St. Louis railroad, and went to Alton. Here I
luckily found a teamster who was in the act of starting with his wagon
and team to Jerseyville, and I rode with him to that place, arriving
there about the middle of the afternoon. I now hunted diligently to
find some farm wagon that might be going to the vicinity of home, but
found none. While so engaged, to my surprise and great delight, I met
the old Chaplain, B. B. Hamilton. As heretofore stated, he had resigned
during the previous March and had been at home for some months. His
greeting to me was in his old-fashioned style. "Son of Jeremiah!" he
exclaimed, as he extended his hand, "why comest thou down hither? And
with whom hast thou left those few sheep in the wilderness?" I promptly
informed him, in effect, that my coming was regular and legitimate, and
that the "few sheep" of the old regiment were forever through and done
with a shepherd. Hamilton did not reside in Jerseyville, but had just
arrived there from his home in Greene county, and, like me, was trying
to find some farmer's conveyance to take him about five miles into the
country to the home of an old friend. I ascertained that his route, as
far as he went, was the same as mine, so I proposed that we should
strike out on foot. But he didn't entertain the proposition with much
enthusiasm. "Son of Jeremiah," said he, "you will find that a walk of
nine miles" (the distance to my father's) "will be a great weariness to
the flesh on this warm day." But I considered it a mere pleasure walk,
and was determined to go, so he finally concluded to do likewise. I
left my valise in the care of a Jerseyville merchant, and with no
baggage except my sword and belt, we proceeded to "hit the dirt." I
took off my coat, slung it over one shoulder, unsnapped my sword, with
the scabbard, from the belt, and shouldered it also. Our walk was a
pleasant and most agreeable one, as we had much to talk about that was
interesting to both. When we arrived at the mouth of the lane that led
to the house of the Chaplain's friend, we shook hands and I bade him
good-by, but fully expected to meet him many times later. But our paths
in life diverged,--and I never saw him again.
I arrived at the little village of Otterville about sundown. It was a
very small place in 1865. There was just one store, (which also
contained the post-office,) a blacksmith shop, the old "Stone school
house," a church, and perhaps a dozen or so private dwellings. There
were no sidewalks, and I stalked up the middle of the one street the
town afforded, with my sword poised on my shoulder, musket fashion, and
feeling happy and proud. I looked eagerly around as I passed along,
hoping to see some old friend. As I went by the store, a man who was
seated therein on the counter leaned forward and looked at me, but said
nothing. A little further up the street a big dog sprang off the porch
of a house, ran out to the little gate in front, and standing on his
hind legs with his fore paws on the palings, barked at me loudly and
persistently,--but I attracted no further attention. Many of the
regiments that were mustered out soon after the close of the war
received at home gorgeous receptions. They marched under triumphal
arches, decorated with flags and garlands of flowers, while brass bands
blared, and thousands of people cheered, and gave them a most
enthusiastic "Welcome Home!" But the poor old 61st Illinois was among
the late arrivals. The discharged soldiers were now numerous and
common, and no longer a novelty. Personally I didn't care, rather
really preferred to come back home modestly and quietly, and without
any "fuss and feathers" whatever. Still, I would have felt better to
have met at least one person as I passed through the little village who
would have given me a hearty hand-shake, and said he was glad to see me
home, safe from the war. But it's all right, for many such were met
later.
I now had only two miles to go, and was soon at the dear old boyhood
home. My folks were expecting me, so they were not taken by surprise.
There was no "scene" when we met, nor any effusive display, but we all
had a feeling of profound contentment and satisfaction which was too
deep to be expressed by mere words.
When I returned home I found that the farm work my father was then
engaged in was cutting up and shocking corn. So, the morning after my
arrival, September 29th, I doffed my uniform of first lieutenant, put
on some of father's old clothes, armed myself with a corn knife, and
proceeded to wage war on the standing corn. The feeling I had while
engaged in this work was "sort of queer." It almost seemed, sometimes,
as if I had been away only a day or two, and had just taken up the farm
work where I had left off.
Here this story will close.
In conclusion I will say that in civil life people have been good to
me. I have been honored with different positions of trust, importance,
and responsibility, and which I have reason to believe I filled to the
satisfaction of the public. I am proud of the fact of having been
deemed worthy to fill those different places. But, while that is so, I
will further say, in absolute sincerity, that to me my humble career as
a soldier in the 61st Illinois during the War for the Union is the
record that I prize the highest of all, and is the proudest
recollection of my life.