RE-ENLISTMENT AND RETURN TO FRONTIERS, 1860.
It is not my intention to describe in detail my experiences as a
civilian during the period between my first and second enlistments,
but to restrict this story to my army career. I will only state here
that my lack of knowledge of civil life made it hard for me to obtain
any remunerative or permanent employment. I made all kinds of efforts,
answering advertisements by letter or in person; in the latter case
often finding a crowd of applicants ahead of me, most of whom had some
experience in the kind of work offered. I often walked the streets
looking for work and felt heartsick and discouraged at my failure to
find employment. My little stock of money diminished day by day
although I practiced the strictest economy, spending a few pennies for
a mid-day meal when I was tramping about the city. After a time,
during the summer, I found occasional employment; but it was not until
fall that I secured a steady job where, however, the hours were long,
the pay small and the work uncongenial.
About the middle of March, 1860, I was visited by two discharged
soldiers from my company who had also come to New York, their former
home, in search of employment, but without success. They had made up
their minds to re-enlist and asked me to join them. I considered the
matter carefully, and seeing no prospects for advancement, finding
myself poorer financially than if I had remained in the service, and
having a real fondness for a soldier's life, I decided to give up my
employment and try my fortune once more in the military service.
On the twenty-fourth day of March, 1860, my two comrades and I
re-enlisted to serve for five years in the United States Army. The
recruiting office was in Chatham Street (now called Park Row), New
York city. First Lieutenant Thomas W. Sweeney of my old company was
the recruiting officer. He remembered us, seemed glad to have us
return to the service and promised to see to it that we would be
restored to our former regiment and company. It was just one year,
lacking a week, since I had been discharged at Fort Randall, Nebraska
Territory. My age at my re-enlistment was nineteen years, less three
months.
We passed the medical examination, were sworn into the service by a
notary, and on the same day were sent to Governor's Island, New York
harbor. As I was no longer a musician I was assigned to quarters in
the upper casemates of Castle Williams, along with a number of raw
recruits. I found no changes or improvements on the island since I had
left it more than five years before; it seemed the same as I have
already described it, only the officers had all been changed. Major T.
H. Holmes of the Eighth Infantry was in command.
In a few days I drew my kit and clothing at the quartermaster's stores
and had to commence drilling along with other recruits who were being
instructed by the drill-sergeants in their facings, marching, etc. The
officer in command of the drilling squads soon discovered that I was
well versed in all that was to be taught the recruits and detailed me
to take a few of the stupidest of the lot to one side and try to
instruct them. I disliked drilling this awkward squad, as it was very
trying to my patience. They did not seem to know the left foot from
the right; and when ordered to keep their heads up, out would go their
stomachs. When it came to an "about face," some of them fell over
themselves.
One afternoon a comrade and myself were detailed for fatigue duty to
dig a grave for a soldier who had died in the hospital. We were
supplied with pick and shovel and conducted to the island graveyard by
a sergeant who marked out the location and the dimensions of the grave
and then left, after admonishing us to be sure to have the job
finished before two o'clock in the afternoon, when the funeral was to
take place. Neither my comrade nor I had ever handled a pick or shovel
before and we found the work hard. It was a warm day in April. We soon
grew tired and felt very hot and dry. Opportunely the sutler's store
was close by and beer by the glass was sold there. We found it
necessary to refresh ourselves several times during the forenoon and
to take a good long rest at noon-time. At two o'clock we were still
digging when we heard the drums and fifes playing the dead-march and
saw the funeral approaching from the hospital close by. The procession
entered the graveyard and lined up at the grave; the corpse was ready,
but we were not, for we had dug a hole only about four feet deep.
After a scolding we were ordered to quit--much to our satisfaction. A
couple of strong and husky Irishmen soon dug the hole to the required
depth of six feet and the ceremonies were completed.
After a few weeks I was transferred from the castle to the garrison,
where both the quarters and food were better. As I understood all the
necessary drill, a rifle and accoutrements were issued to me and I had
to take my turn at guard duty twice a week. I well remember that, the
first time I was a sentinel on post, I was stationed on the shore
facing Brooklyn, in front of some store houses, where I paced for two
hours at a time and then was relieved and had four hours off before
going on post again. In the day-time I could interest myself in
watching the movements of steamboats and small craft on the river, but
at night it was lonesome and the time on post seemed much longer. We
had a little rest at night, during the four hours off, when we lay
down on a hard wooden platform in the guard-house which was built for
that purpose. We had to keep all our clothing and accoutrements on,
and were generally disturbed after midnight by sentinel number one in
front of the guard-house calling out, "Turn out the guard for the
officer of the day" when we hurried out, formed ranks and were
inspected by the officer of the day, who usually made the rounds of
all the sentinels on the different posts at that hour.
There was on the island at that time a sergeant with a Polish name who
had the immediate charge of the raw recruits. He was a martinet, a
tyrannical bully in his treatment of the poor and ignorant recruits,
who feared and hated him, but he was artful enough to keep aloof from
the old soldiers who understood their rights and privileges. He seemed
to be the most detested non-commissioned officer in the army.
I was impatient to rejoin my regiment on the frontier and to get away
from Governor's Island, where my former experience was not a happy
one; but it was not until early in June that a detachment of recruits
for the Ninth Infantry, then serving in Oregon, was ready to depart.
With this detachment of one hundred and fifty, another of fifty,
destined for the Second United States Infantry, stationed in Dakota
Territory, was to travel a part of the way. I secured a pass to be
absent for forty-eight hours and went to the city to bid farewell to
my mother and friends. One morning a few days later we formed on the
parade ground, fully equipped with knapsack, haversack, tin cup, tin
plate, knife, fork and spoon, a canteen and three days' rations of
boiled salt pork and hard bread stowed in our haversacks; but without
arms. We were escorted to the wharf by the post band, playing the
usual airs, and embarked on a steamboat for the Erie Railroad depot in
Jersey City.
Upon our arrival at the railroad depot we found a special train
waiting to take us out West. The soldiers traveled in emigrant cars
with bare wooden seats, very uncomfortable to ride in and very
fatiguing, as we could sleep but little in our cramped positions. My
experience on this journey was similar to that of my first trip West
five years before. We lived on our rations with a quart-cupful of hot
coffee with milk twice a day at some of the stations.
Upon arriving at Chicago the fifty recruits for the Second United
States Infantry, of whom I was one, changed cars for St. Louis,
Missouri, while the larger party kept on West as far as the railroad
went and then had a long march across the plains to Oregon. From St.
Louis we went South a few miles by cars to Jefferson Barracks, on the
west bank of the Mississippi River, where we arrived about the middle
of June. There were few soldiers at the barracks at that time, about a
dozen reenlisted men awaiting an opportunity to rejoin their
regiments, like myself, and a few score recruits in addition to our
detachment. The barracks was pleasantly situated on high ground
overlooking the river and was quite extensive. The country round about
was sparsely settled, with large stretches of still uncultivated land
and woods. A good road led to the village of Carondelet about half-way
to St. Louis. Midway between the barracks and the village was a tavern
called "The Stone House," which was much frequented by the soldiers.
I was appointed lance-corporal and helped to drill the recruits. I was
also corporal of the guard about once a week and, as such, posted and
relieved the sentinels. This gave me plenty of spare time for roving
about the country, and for fishing and swimming in the Mississippi
River. I was exceedingly fond of swimming and for nearly three months,
except when on guard, I had a swim immediately after the reveille
roll-call before breakfast, rain or shine. The weather was very hot
that summer and I went into the water generally twice more during the
day and always had a short swim in the evening after sundown to fasten
a fish-line to a snag in the river about fifty yards from the shore,
where I often found a catfish when I examined the line in the morning.
It was pleasant to sit in the cool shade on the river-bank and see
some of the famous Mississippi river steam-boats racing by, for at
that time there were still many boats plying the river and the levee
at St. Louis was crowded with them. Several times I secured a pass for
a twenty-four hours' visit to St. Louis, and walked six or seven miles
to Carondelet a few times without a pass.
Farm produce was very cheap; we improved our rations at very little
expense and lived fairly well during the summer.
Early in September about sixty-five of the recruits destined for the
Second United States Infantry, myself among the number, received
orders to proceed to St. Louis and there to embark on a steamboat for
St. Paul, Minnesota. We boarded the cars of the Iron Mountain Railroad
at the barracks station and rode to St. Louis. It was a long distance
from the railroad depot to the steamboat, which was near the north end
of the levee; the day was hot and I staggered along under my heavily
loaded knapsack and was ready to drop when we reached the steamer. My
excessive swimming had weakened me to an extent that I was not aware
of.
The steamer was a regular passenger and freight boat of the usual
type; there were no bunks nor any kind of accommodations for us and we
had to stay on the lower deck with the freight, spreading out blankets
and sleeping any place we could find room. This proved to be a great
hardship for me, for on the second day of our journey I became ill
with a violent attack of what we called dumb-ague, which lasted until
we reached St. Paul. It seemed that every time I traveled on the
Missouri or the Mississippi rivers I was to have a fever of some sort.
Dr. Andrew K. Smith, our surgeon, dosed me so liberally with quinine
that I was in a stupor, so that my memory is almost a blank regarding
this trip up the river. I could not eat the rations, but, fortunately,
had some money and could bribe the cabin cooks to give me nourishing
soup and a few delicacies, for which I was grateful. When we landed at
St. Paul I felt better and was able to march to a camp prepared for us
a few miles from the city, where Sibley tents had been put up and a
train of about twenty army wagons with their six-mule teams were ready
to load up with commissary and quartermaster's stores for Fort
Abercrombie, Dakota Territory, which was our destination.
In a few days we started on our long march, passing through
Minneapolis, and then in a northwesterly direction through a sparsely
settled country to the town of St. Cloud, on the Mississippi, which
dwindled to a small river at that point. Captain Deluzier Davidson,
together with a lieutenant and a surgeon, were the officers of our
detachment. I was still weak, but improved rapidly under the influence
of the healthy atmosphere and the out-of-door life. I could not make a
full day's march, however, although we carried no knapsacks; sometimes
I rode the doctor's horse when he wanted to walk, or rode in one of
the wagons when I was tired out. We did not attempt hard marches, but
started at sunrise and generally encamped in the early afternoon, for
Captain Davidson loved his ease and comfort, and there was no
necessity to rush us along. At St. Cloud we rested for a day and
washed our clothing in the river.
A day's march after we left St. Cloud all signs of settlements
disappeared and we saw no more until we came to the town of
Alexandria, a cluster of houses on a lake, about half-way between St.
Paul and Fort Abercrombie. We were now in a country full of lakes,
large and small, some of them were beautiful--the water clear and
teeming with fish. When we arrived at the Otter Tail Lake, which was
larger than any we had seen, we rested for another day and were amazed
at the countless numbers of pelicans that we saw. These birds, when
not fishing, rested on the islands in the lake, completely covering
them, and from a distance it seemed as though they were covered with
snow. We made a sort of seine out of feed bags, sewed together end to
end, about twenty-five feet in length, and fastened to a stick at each
end. Two men would wade into the lake for a short distance, extend
this seine and drag it towards the shore, bringing with them many fish
that struggled and wriggled when they got into shallow water, where we
picked out with our hands such of them as we fancied.
Although we were in the country of the Chippawa Indian, we saw none of
them until we reached Breckenridge, an old trading-post, where we met
a few of the savages. Breckenridge was an easy day's march from Fort
Abercrombie. We had just finished establishing our camp there for the
night when several wagons and a small escort of soldiers arrived and
halted for a while. They were from the fort on their way to St. Paul,
and with them was Captain William M. Gardner of my company, going home
on a six-months' furlough, accompanied by his wife and negro servants.
They rode in a spring wagon (about the size of an ambulance) drawn by
two horses. The captain was somewhat surprised to find me back in the
army again. He talked with me for a long while and mentioned that he
would make me a non-commissioned officer as soon as there was a
vacancy in the company. He advised me to study with a view to being
admitted to the military academy at West Point, and promised to use
his influence, along with that of some other officers, to obtain for
me an "appointment at large" from the President when I could qualify
for admission. Much to my regret, I never saw Captain Gardner again.
He resigned his commission before his furlough expired (while at his
home in Georgia) and joined the Confederate Army.
The next day we arrived at Fort Abercrombie. The fort was situated on
the west bank of the Red River of the North, which here marked the
dividing line between Dakota and Minnesota Territories. This river
flows north and empties into Lake Winnipeg in the British possessions,
while the Mississippi, but little more than a hundred miles to the
east, flows south. The Red river was but a small stream, navigable for
canoes only. The most interesting thing about it and the Wild Rice
river, a tributary a few miles away, were the dams built by beavers,
which were plentiful on both rivers. Muskrats were also abundant.
The place was a fort in name only; it was in a bend of the river,
whose course was marked by a fringe of woods in places, while all else
was a bleak, level prairie as far as the eye could see. Two companies
of my regiment had arrived here from Fort Randall in the spring and
had built the customary log huts, which they were now occupying, in
the woods on the low bottom-land of the river. Two other companies
made the long march from Fort Laramie, via Fort Randall, and had
arrived here in midsummer. These companies were engaged in building
permanent quarters of hewn logs, with board floors and shingled roofs,
on the plateau which formed the edge of the prairie. The soldiers'
quarters consisted of one large room to house an entire company with a
wing for the kitchen and mess-room. These buildings had not yet been
completed upon our arrival and the two companies were in camp in
Sibley tents. It was the end of September, the nights were getting
cold and we had an occasional white frost in the morning; we were a
few degrees further north than at Fort Pierre and on a higher
elevation.
Our detachment of recruits was apportioned to the different companies
and I rejoined Company D, in which I had served during my first
enlistment. I missed a number of my old comrades--they had been
discharged and had scattered throughout the West--but most of the
former non-commissioned officers had re-enlisted. The first, or
orderly sergeant, as he was also called, had me appointed as company
clerk, which was an easy job and excused me from guard duty and from
work upon the new quarters. This lasted for about two months, when we
had a dispute and I was ordered back to do duty the same as any other
private.
Fort Abercrombie was a dreary, lonesome place. The Chippawa Indians
seldom came there and only in small parties and for a short stay.
Their villages were much farther north--as far as Pembina, near the
British lines.
A paymaster arrived at the post shortly after we did, accompanied by
Major Irving McDowell, who was an assistant inspector general. He was
a fine looking and apparently genial officer. He made a thorough
inspection of the post and the soldiers. I little thought then that I
would next see him in Washington after the battle of Bull Run, a
defeated general. The commander of the post was Major Hannibal Day of
the Second Infantry, a dignified old gentleman with long white hair
and beard and a cold austere look in his eyes. The company commanders
were Captains Christopher S. Lovell and Deluzier Davidson; a first
lieutenant was in command of the third company, and my own was
commanded by Second Lieutenant Wm. H. Jordan of the Ninth Infantry,
who was temporarily attached to my regiment, our captain being absent
on furlough and the first lieutenant on recruiting service in New York
city. A few other second lieutenants and the surgeon made up the
complement of officers at this time.
In October we began to have frosts and some snow; the Sibley tents
were cold and uncomfortable, as no sheet-iron stoves had been provided
and when we attempted to build fires in them the smoke drove us out.
This led to various contrivances to warm our tents. In my own we dug a
deep pit on one side and a covered trench with two lateral branches
extending from it under the dirt floor, with openings outside of the
tent for the smoke to escape from the fire which was built in the pit.
This system of heating kept the tent comfortably warm except when the
wind was contrary.
A great snow-storm and blizzard struck us in November and caused much
suffering. Fortunately our quarters were completed about the end of
the month; we moved in and enjoyed the comfort of sleeping in bunks on
bedsacks filled with dried leaves, and warming ourselves at the two
stoves with which our quarters were provided, although the large room
except directly around the stoves was freezing cold. In January and
February the thermometer sometimes fell to more than forty degrees
below zero. We had a number of frost-bite cases in our little
log-house hospital--some of them very severe--before our unsympathetic
post commander issued an order to relieve all sentinels except Post
No. 1, in front of the guard-house, who, with the temperature twenty
degrees minus zero, was to be relieved every thirty minutes.
I had to take my tour of guard duty about once a week and was on post
for two hours at a time with four hours off. I was warmly clothed, but
when the temperature was down to thirty or lower I was chilled to the
bone in less than an hour. In the night I often leaned my gun against
a snowbank and beat my hands against my shoulders vigorously and ran
to and fro the extent of my beat to keep my feet from freezing. On my
hands I wore a pair of heavy woolen gloves and over them mittens made
of buffalo skin with the hair on the inside, yet my fingers became so
numb with the cold that, if I had had occasion to fire off my gun, I
could not have reloaded it. From a board fence close to my post the
intense cold forced out nails, which whirred through the air with a
whizzing sound.
Wolves were plentiful; they came howling around our kitchens at night
and close to the sentinels--less than a hundred feet away sometimes,
when I shouted and rushed at them with my bayonet to scare them away.
When a horse or a mule died, he was dragged out on the prairie a short
distance and there devoured by the wolves. Traps were set in the snow
about the carcass and many wolves were caught, while the others picked
the bones clean.
I was frequently excused from the severe guard duty by being selected
as commanding officer's orderly. This was a reward for the soldier
whose clothing, arms and equipment the adjutant considered the
cleanest and neatest. A speck of rust or a small spot on the clothing
often put a man out of the race. There was great rivalry for this
selection among the soldiers, for the orderly had an easy time. He
could sit in a warm room in the commanding officer's quarters, carry a
few messages during the day and sleep in his own bunk all night.
During the long, dreary winter we kept within doors, when not on duty,
for the inclemency of the weather permitted but little out-of-door
exercise. In compliance with Captain Gardner's advice, I borrowed
text-books from Lieutenant Jordan, who was but lately from West Point,
also from some other officers, and studied them all through the winter
during my spare time. Some soldiers read papers and magazines, but the
favorite pastime was playing checkers and cards; the games were
euchre, seven-up, forty-five and poker, at which the stakes were dried
beans instead of money.
An enterprising citizen established an express service between St.
Paul and Fort Abercrombie with way-stations for the changing of
drivers and horses. This gave us a mail service once a week, when the
weather permitted, and kept us in touch with the world. The expressman
took orders from us for any articles we wished from St. Paul and
brought up the packages, as well as goods for the sutler.
There was a Scotchman in my company, whom we called Sandy, who was an
excellent cook and a born caterer. During the winter he proposed to
get up a dinner to be followed by dancing in the company's mess-room.
Permission was obtained for "Sandy's ball," as we called it; most of
the company subscribed, as well as some soldiers from the other
companies. Sandy shrewdly collected the cash and gave no credit, then
he sent to St. Paul for stone china dishes, for we had only tin cups
and plates in our mess-room. He ordered hams, tongues, sardines,
pickles, preserves, lemons, etc., not forgetting a few dozen bottles
of American champagne, which had been carefully packed with sawdust
into barrels both for safety and concealment. These goods arrived in
due time and Sandy was a busy man, cooking hams and venison and baking
pies and cakes. We helped him put up a few decorations and a lot of
candles around the walls.
All was ready when the eventful evening arrived. The dinner was to be
at eight o'clock, followed by dancing until midnight, with two
fiddlers and a flute player to furnish the music. A half dozen
soldiers' wives were the only ladies present; but we had as many more
of the younger men dressed up in borrowed female clothes. The dinner
was voted a great success and we lauded Sandy. We had bottled ale from
the sutler's and topped off with whiskey punch, which continued to be
served throughout the evening. Then the tables and benches were moved
into a corner, the dishes piled on them, and the dancing commenced.
Everything went well for a while and we had lots of fun, until trouble
started between the fiddlers. One of them, Mike Burns, had partaken of
too much punch and wanted to play an Irish jig, while his German
partner held out for a waltz. This enraged Mike so that he exclaimed,
"Oi despises no nation, but damn the Dutch!" and smashed his fiddle
over his partner's head. The combatants were separated, Mike was put
out, order restored and the dancing resumed. While the dance went on
Sandy had been busy in the kitchen selling Ohio champagne to the
soldiers at steep prices. This, together with liberal quantities of
whiskey punch, began to show its effects and the fun became fast and
furious, until near midnight a fight started in one end of the room
and in a moment a dozen or more of the soldiers were in the midst of
it. Bottles and dishes were thrown about the room; the women screamed
and rushed for the door; Sandy was up on a table waving his arms and
shouting, "Quit yer fechting! dinna be breaking me dishes, I'm a puir
mon," when the table upset and he went down to the floor among his
broken dishes. The officer of the day and a few files of the guard,
together with the corporal, now made their appearance and quelled the
disturbance. All those who showed marks of having been fighting or
were drunk were marched off to the guard-house and all others ordered
to their quarters.
Sandy's ball had a sad sequel for him. He was a canny Scot and took
good care of his bawbees (pence), saving much of his pay for some
years, and it was assumed that he had made money out of the ball. A
few weeks later, during midwinter, Sandy was missing for nearly a week
and when he was at last brought back to the post in the express sleigh
he had to be put into the hospital with his feet so badly frozen that
all of his toes on both feet had to be amputated. He remained in the
hospital until spring, when he was able to go about on crutches. He
was then dishonorably discharged, forfeiting his pay due and all
allowances. In the woods close to the post we built a shack for him to
live in, also a stable, for he bought some cows and had them sent up
from the settlements. There he made his living by selling milk and
butter to the soldiers and ice cream, at which he was an adept. By the
time we left the post he had discarded his crutches and was able to
hobble about on his stumps.
Newspapers kept us informed of what transpired in the southern states
after Lincoln's election to the presidency in November; how the
violent threats of the south culminated in the secession of South
Carolina from the Union on December twentieth, 1860, soon to be
followed by other southern states. We read how Major Anderson
transferred his small force from Fort Moultry to Sumpter, and about
the firing on the steamer "Star of the West" with reinforcements for
Fort Sumpter. We also heard that the Secretary of War, John B. Floyd,
was accused of robbing the Indian Trust Funds and of depleting the
Northern arsenals of arms and ammunition and of sending them south
while still in office; also how in February General Twiggs
traitorously surrendered the Seventh United States Infantry and other
troops serving in Texas to the Confederacy; and how the rank and file
refused the inducements held out to them to join the Confederate army,
but were paroled and later on exchanged and did valiant service in the
Union army, while a large number of their officers joined the standard
of the enemy. We discussed these events earnestly and were much
stirred when we learned that Fort Sumpter had been bombarded on April
twelfth and evacuated by Major Anderson. We then understood that this
was the commencement of war.
Militia soldiers from Pennsylvania reached Washington a few days later
and on the fifteenth of April the President called out seventy-five
thousand volunteers to serve for three months. Another proclamation of
the President, dated May third for an increase of the regular army by
twenty-two thousand and of the navy by eighteen thousand, was read to
us on dress parade. In the meantime hundreds of the officers of the
regular army had resigned their commissions and nearly all joined the
Confederacy, among them my captain and some other officers of my
regiment. To the credit of the rank and file be it said that, with
very few exceptions, they remained loyal to the Government in the hour
of its need. We began to wonder whether we were likely to take any
part in putting down the rebellion before it was over, or whether we
were to remain here in the Indian country.
Spring had come. When the snow had melted and the prairie became dry,
we began to drill from three to four hours each day except on Saturday
afternoons and Sundays. We had company, battalion, skirmish and
bayonet drills, as well as target practice, and in a few months we
became very expert in all of them. I was fond of the free action in
skirmish drill, but did not like drilling in close formation. I also
liked the bayonet exercise, and at target practice few could show a
better score.
When not on duty we spent much of our time at the river, fishing, and
swimming after the water had become warm enough. A favorite diversion
was to go up the river a few miles and build a small raft of sticks to
hold our clothes, swimming and pushing the raft before us down the
current which flowed through shady woods. A small party of Chippawa
Indians and squaws appeared a few times during the early summer and
danced for rations, which was the only thing that relieved the
monotony at this post.
We read of small engagements that had taken place between the opposing
forces in various parts of the country and that an army was being
concentrated at Washington, where two companies of our regiment from
Fort Snelling, Minnesota, had gone. We envied these companies; they
had a chance to see something of the war, which would soon be over, as
we imagined, while we fretted and chafed in this lonely, far-off
place, seemingly forgotten by the Government. At last, about the
middle of July, we received the joyful news that two companies of the
Second Minnesota Volunteers were on the way from St. Paul to relieve
us and that we were ordered to Washington. In a few days the two
companies arrived, weary and footsore from their long march. Most of
them were very young lads who, though strong and hearty, were
unaccustomed to marching on the burning hot prairies in midsummer.
They had arms and accoutrements, but as yet no uniforms. We gave them
a hearty reception, fraternized with them and helped to make them
comfortable in their camp until they could occupy our quarters.
We packed our dress uniforms, hats and surplus clothing into
packing-cases from the quartermaster's department, which were received
some time after our arrival in Washington. In a few days our
wagon-train was made up, we put our knapsacks on board, and left Fort
Abercrombie without any regrets, early on a forenoon, amidst mutual
cheering and a salute of "Present arms!" from the battalion of
volunteers. All of the officers' ladies, as they called themselves,
and the soldiers' wives and children went with us, riding in
ambulances and in the army wagons.
Our first day's march ended at Breckenridge; our second day's march
was a much longer one--we pursued about the same route as in the
previous fall when we came up from St. Paul, but did not have the
short marches we had enjoyed with the easy-going Captain Davidson. We
soon found out that Major Hannibal Day was forcing us along at a rate
of from twenty-four to thirty miles a day, which was very severe in
the scorching heat of a July sun on the prairies. A number of men gave
out on these long marches and were picked up by the rear-guard and put
into the wagons. To be sure, we were anxious to get to Washington
before the war would be over, but we did not want to kill ourselves in
trying to get there. The men cursed the Major for an old tyrant, not
loud but very deep.
We had completed about one-half of our journey to St. Paul when we
encountered the express wagon carrying the mail to Fort Abercrombie
and from newspapers received learned of the disaster and rout of the
Union Army at Bull Run. This sad news staggered us--we could scarcely
believe it. The northern press, from which we derived our information
and shaped our opinions, had boasted so much about the patriotism and
valor of the militia, who so promptly responded to the President's
first call for troops, that we had fondly believed a single real
battle would be enough to give the Confederacy a terrible lesson and
break up the rebellion. We were indignant at the conduct of some of
the Union troops, as we then understood it, the news of Bull Run cast
a deep gloom over our battalion and we realized that we were likely to
arrive at Washington in ample time to see something of the war.
Major Day, upon whom we looked as a very unfeeling man, allowed us
some unusual privileges on this march. At St. Cloud a brewery had been
erected, and when we were within four days' march of the town one
forenoon we met a two-horse wagon loaded with kegs of lager beer,
packed in ice and carefully covered over to shield it from the fierce
rays of the sun. There was a man on the wagon beside the driver who,
we noticed, had some talk with the Major and then turned the wagon
around and followed our column until we halted for a rest, when we
learned that each man who desired to do so might purchase a quart cup
of beer for ten cents (a non-commissioned officer saw to it that no
one got more than a quart). A rush was made for the beer wagon and keg
after keg was tapped. It tasted delicious and cheered us. The officers
also drank it, sending their servants for it; indeed, old Major Day,
himself, did not disdain it. The beer wagon met us every day
thereafter, near noontime, all the way down to St. Paul, and when it
appeared we halted for a longer rest at the next convenient place and
ate our lunch.
The Union sentiment was strong in the few small settlements through
which we passed. At St. Cloud, where we encamped about a mile from
town and rested for a day, the citizens gave us a generous welcome. A
lady named Jane G. C. Swisshelm, who edited a newspaper there called
"The Visitor," assisted by a committee of citizens and accompanied by
the St. Cloud band, drove out to our camp, bringing with them a fine
lunch and kegs of beer, for which we were very grateful. We gave her
and the citizens of St. Cloud three rousing cheers when they departed.
The last day's march but one brought us to Minneapolis, where we
encamped for the night on some fields just outside of the town, too
tired and worn out to care for anything but to lie down and rest. This
had been the hardest day's march of all--Major Day had made us cover
thirty-two miles. Many men dropped out along the dusty road, overcome
by the heat and fatigue; some fell asleep in shady places and did not
reach camp until midnight. I was one of only a third of my company
that was able to keep in the ranks until we reached camp. As the race
is not always to the swift, so marching is not always the forte of the
biggest and strongest men in a company of soldiers.
Next morning we resumed our march somewhat later than was customary,
passing through Minneapolis, which was but a small town then, on to
St. Paul, about ten miles away. The road between the two places had
only farms and a few clusters of houses scattered along it. Upon
arriving at St. Paul we marched to the steamboat wharf with closed
ranks and received much attention and cheering from the citizens. When
our wagon-train arrived, we got our knapsacks and the four companies
boarded a steamboat which was waiting for us; we stowed ourselves away
wherever we could find room, except on the cabin deck, which was
reserved for passengers. There was no railroad at St. Paul then. We
were to go down the Mississippi as far as La Crosse, Wisconsin, and
take the cars there.
We sailed in the early afternoon; the boat was crowded and the weather
very hot. When night came on my bunkie and I, along with others,
spread our blankets on the hurricane deck back of the smokestacks. We
took off our shoes and blouses, used our knapsacks for pillows and the
starry sky for a covering. Being very tired, we were soon in a deep
sleep. During the night I was awakened by a terrific yell and saw that
my bunkie was sitting up, clutching at his chest and roaring with
pain. I was confused, and for a moment I imagined the boat was on
fire, as I saw fiery sparks in the air. We soon discovered the cause
of the trouble. A large red-hot cinder from the smokestack (the boat
burned wood for fuel and had high-pressure engines) had lodged on his
bare breast through his open shirt and burned him severely enough to
raise a large blister. We moved our bed to a safer place and slept
peacefully for the remainder of the hot night.
Early in the afternoon on the following day we disembarked at La
Crosse, where we noticed a train made up of one passenger car and a
lot of empty box cars which was apparently waiting for us. We were
indignant and loudly expressed our determination not to enter these
cars and travel like cattle. The officers who, no doubt, overheard us,
must have been of the same opinion, for we were not ordered into the
cars but stacked arms and waited about three hours until a number of
cars with hard wooden seats came along to replace the others. We
embarked and started for Chicago.
After a weary night we arrived in Chicago the next day, where a change
of cars was made, much for the better, as we got cushioned seats this
time. We remained there about two hours and during that time crowds of
citizens surrounded us and served us with coffee, sandwiches and pies,
and presented us with cigars and tobacco. At Chicago we lost two men
by desertion--the only ones on the entire trip. We also lost Captain
Davidson, who remained behind and later on resigned his commission. He
was an elderly man, very corpulent and unable to stand the hardships
of a campaign.
All through the loyal western states across which we traveled there
had been an uprising for the Union. The people were enthusiastic and
gave us a hearty welcome wherever we stopped. At a town in Indiana,
where we arrived near midnight, the citizens must have been informed
of our coming. The station platform was crowded with people and they
had a band playing patriotic airs. A group of young ladies, all
dressed in white and wearing red-white-and-blue sashes, sang "The Star
Spangled Banner" for us. Since the news of defeat at Bull Run the
people were ready to make any sacrifice; the Northern papers clamored
for the formation of a new army and an immediate advance "on to
Richmond." It must have been during the time of this national
excitement and enthusiasm that Josh Billings wrote the memorable
words, "The Union must and shall be preserved, if I sacrifice all my
wife's relations."
On our arrival in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, in the forenoon, the depot
was jammed with people. Provisions enough for a feast and baskets of
fruit were brought into our cars; it seemed as though everyone in the
crowd wished to do something for us. After leaving Harrisburg we
received orders to load our rifles, for there were rumors of expected
trouble in Baltimore while the troops were traversing the city from
one depot to another, for at this time the trains did not pass through
to the Washington depot and it was necessary to march a long distance
through the streets of the city. We reached Baltimore about four in
the afternoon, formed ranks in the street, fixed bayonets and marched
by fours in close order with the venerable Major Hannibal Day leading
us. We carried our knapsacks, haversacks and canteens; we were dusty
and dirty and bronzed by the hot sun on our recent march across the
prairies. There were four companies of us and we looked more seasoned
and determined than the militia troops that had passed through
Baltimore before. We marched silently, only words of command being
heard. There were many people on the streets regarding us with close
attention. Sometimes a ruffian yelled out, "Bull Run!" which provoked
no reply from us. A large, red-headed woman leaning out of a
third-story window shouted, "Three cheers for Jeff Davis!" but got
very scant encouragement from the people in the street.
We reached the depot without having any trouble, but were kept waiting
there a long time and it was quite dusk in the evening when we
embarked for Washington, arriving at the national capitol late in the
evening. In Washington we formed ranks and marched to the "Soldiers'
Rest," a large shed-building north of the capitol and but a short
distance from it, where newly arrived troops received food and rested
for a short time before going to their camps or quarters. The place
had a board floor on which we spread our blankets. We were glad to
stretch ourselves for we were very tired and stiff after our ride of
three days and nights in a cramped position on the narrow seats of the
cars. I think I fell asleep as soon as I lay down, and no ordinary
noise could have waked me up before morning.