The column halted about midnight, we bivouacked in the woods by the side of the road, and I was asleep about as soon as I struck the ground.

We resumed the march early in the morning, and during the forenoon arrived at Messinger's ford, on Black river, where we went into camp. We remained here only until July 17, and on that day marched a few miles south to the railroad crossing on Black river, and bivouacked on the west bank of the stream. The Confederates during the campaign had thrown up breastworks of cotton bales, which evidently had extended for quite a distance above and below the railroad crossing. When our fellows came along they tore open the bales and used the cotton to sleep on, and when we arrived at the place the fleecy stuff was scattered over the ground, in some places half-knee deep, all over that portion of the river bottom. It looked like a big snowfall. Cotton, at that very time, was worth one dollar a pound in the New York market, and scarce at that. A big fortune was there in the dirt, going to waste, but we were not in the cotton business just then, so it made no difference to us. At the beginning of the war, it was confidently asserted by the advocates of the secession movement that "Cotton was king;" that the civilized world couldn't do without it, and as the South had a virtual monopoly of the stuff, the need of it would compel the European nations to recognize the independence of the Southern Confederacy, and which would thereby result in the speedy and complete triumph of the Confederate cause. But in thus reasoning they ignored a law of human nature. Men, under the pressure of necessity, can get along without many things which they have previously regarded as indispensable. At this day, in my opinion, many of the alleged wants of mankind are purely artificial, and we would be better off if they were cut out altogether. Aside from various matters of food and drink and absurdities in garb and ornaments, numbers of our rich women in eastern cities regard life as a failure unless they each possess a thousand dollar pet dog, decorated with ribbons and diamond ornaments and honored at dog-functions with a seat at the table, where, on such occasions, pictures of the dogs, with their female owners sitting by them, are taken and reproduced in quarter-page cuts in the Sunday editions of the daily papers. If these women would knock the dogs in the head and bring into the world legitimate babies, (or even illegitimate, for their husbands are probably of the capon breed,) then they might be of some use to the human race; as it is they are a worthless, unnatural burlesque on the species. But this has nothing to do with the war, or the 61st Illinois, so I will pass on.

While we were at the Black river railroad bridge thousands of paroled Confederate soldiers captured at Vicksburg passed us, walking on the railroad track, going eastward. We had strict orders to abstain from making to them any insulting or taunting remarks, and so far as I saw, these orders were faithfully obeyed. The Confederates looked hard. They were ragged, sallow, emaciated, and seemed depressed and disconsolate. They went by us with downcast looks and in silence. I heard only one of them make any remark whatever, and he was a little drummer boy, apparently not more than fifteen years old. He tried to say something funny,—but it was a dismal failure.

While in camp at the railroad crossing on Black river, a most agreeable incident occurred, the pleasure of which has not been lessened by the flight of time, but rather augmented. But to comprehend it fully, some preliminary explanation might be advisable. Before the war there lived a few miles from our home, near the Jersey Landing settlement, a quaint and most interesting character, of the name of Benjamin F. Slaten. He owned and lived on a farm, but had been admitted to the bar, and practiced law to some extent, as a sort of a side-line. But I think that until after the war his practice, in the main, was confined to the courts of justices of the peace. He was a shrewd, sensible old man, of a remarkably kind and genial disposition, but just about the homeliest looking individual I ever saw. And he had a most singular, squeaky sort of a voice, with a kind of a nasal twang to it, which if heard once could never be forgotten. He was an old friend of my father's, and had been his legal adviser (so far as his few and trifling necessities in that line required) from time immemorial. And for a year or so prior to the outbreak of the war my thoughts had been running much on the science of law, and I had a strong desire, if the thing could be accomplished, to sometime be a lawyer myself. So, during the period aforesaid, whenever I would meet "Uncle Ben" (as we frequently called him), I would have a lot of questions to fire at him about some law points, which it always seemed to give him much pleasure to answer. I remember yet one statement he made to me that later, (and sometimes to my great chagrin,) I found out was undeniably true. "Leander," said he, "if ever you get into the practice of law, you'll find that it is just plum full of little in-trick-ate pints." (But things are not as bad now in that respect as they were then.) The war ensued, and in September, 1862, he entered the service as Captain of Co. K of the 97th Illinois Infantry. He was about forty-two years old at this time. In due course of events the regiment was sent south, and became a part of the Army of the Tennessee, but the paths of the 61st and the 97th were on different lines, and I never met Capt. Slaten in the field until the happening of the incident now to be mentioned.

When we were at Black river I was on picket one night about a mile or so from camp, at a point on an old country road. Some time shortly after midnight, while I was curled up asleep in a corner of the old worm fence by the side of the road, I was suddenly awakened by an energetic shake, accompanied by the loud calling of my name. I sprang to my feet at once, thinking maybe some trouble was afoot, and, to my surprise, saw Capt. Keeley standing in front of me, with some other gentleman. "Stillwell," said Keeley, "here's an old friend of yours. He wanted to see you, and being pressed for time, his only chance for a little visit was to come to you on the picket line." My caller stood still, and said nothing. I saw that he was an officer, for his shoulder straps were plainly visible, but I could not be sure of his rank, for there was no moon, and the night was dark. He was wearing an old "sugar-loaf" hat, seemingly much decayed, his blouse was covered with dust, and, in general, he looked tough. His face was covered with a thick, scraggy beard, and under all these circumstances it was impossible for me to recognize him. I was very anxious to do so in view of the trouble the officer had taken to come away out on the picket line, in the middle of the night, to see me, but I just couldn't, and began to stammer a sort of apology about the darkness of the night hindering a prompt recognition, when the "unknown" gave his head a slant to one side, and, in his never forgettable voice, spoke thus to Keeley: "I told you he wouldn't know me." "I know you now," said I; "I'd recognize that voice if I heard it in Richmond! This is Capt. Ben Slaten, of the 97th Illinois;" and springing forward I seized his right hand with both of mine, while he threw his left arm about my neck and fairly hugged me. It soon came out in the conversation that ensued that his regiment had been with Sherman in the recent move on Jackson; that it was now returning with that army to the vicinity of Vicksburg, and had arrived at Black river that night; that he had at once hunted up the 61st Illinois to have a visit with me, and ascertaining that I was on picket, had persuaded Capt. Keeley to come with him to the picket line, as his regiment would leave early in the morning on the march, hence this would be his only opportunity for a brief meeting. And we all certainly had a most delightful visit with the old Captain. From the time of his arrival until his departure there was no sleeping, by anybody, on that picket post. We sat on the ground in a little circle around him, and listened to his comical and side-splitting stories of army life, and incidents in camp and field generally. He was an inimitable story teller, and his peculiar tone and manner added immensely to the comicality of his anecdotes. And somehow he had the happy faculty of extracting something humorous, or absurd, from what the generality of men would have regarded as a very serious affair. He did the most of the talking that night, while the rest of us sat there and fairly screamed with laughter. It was well known and understood that there were no armed Confederates in our vicinity, so we ran no risk in being a little careless. Finally, when the owls began tuning up for day, the old Captain bade us good-by, and trudged away, accompanied by Capt. Keeley.

To fully comprehend this little episode, it is, perhaps, necessary to have some understanding and appreciation of how a soldier away down south, far from home and the friends he had left behind, enjoyed meeting some dear old friend of the loved neighborhood of home. It was almost equal to having a short furlough.

I never again met Capt. Slaten during the war. He came out of it alive, with an excellent record,—and about thirty-seven years after the close died at his old home in Jersey county, Illinois, sincerely regretted and mourned by a large circle of acquaintances and friends.

CHAPTER XI.

HELENA, ARKANSAS. LIFE IN A HOSPITAL. AUGUST, 1863.

General Sherman soon drove General Johnston out of Jackson, and beyond Pearl river, and then his column returned to the vicinity of Vicksburg. On July 22nd our division marched back to Snyder's Bluff, and resumed our old camp. But we had not been here long before it was rumored that we were under marching orders, and would soon leave for some point in Arkansas. Sure enough, on July 29th we marched to the Yazoo river and filed on board the side-wheel steamer "Sultana," steamed down the river to its mouth, and there turned up the Mississippi, headed north. I will remark here that one of the most tragical and distressing incidents of the war was directly connected with a frightful disaster that later befell the above named steamboat. It left Vicksburg for the north on or about April 25, 1865, having on board nearly 1900 Union soldiers, all of whom (with few exceptions) were paroled prisoners. On the morning of April 27th, while near Memphis, the boilers of the boat exploded, and it was burnt to the water's edge. Over 1100 of these unfortunate men perished in the wreck, in different ways; some scalded to death by escaping steam, some by fire, others (and the greatest number) by drowning. Besides the soldiers, cabin passengers and members of the boat's crew, to the number of about 140, also perished. It was the greatest disaster, of that kind, that ever occurred on the Mississippi.

It may, perhaps, be noticed that the regiment is leaving the vicinity of Vicksburg without my saying a word about the appearance, at that time, of that celebrated stronghold. There is good reason for it; namely, it so happened that we never were in the place. We were close to it, on the north and on the east, but that was all. And I never yet have seen Vicksburg, and it is not probable now that I ever shall.

We arrived at Helena, Arkansas, on July 31st, debarked and went into camp near the bank of the river, about two miles below the town. There were no trees in our camp except a few cottonwoods; the ground on which we walked, sat, and slept was, in the main, just a mass of hot sand, and we got water for drinking and cooking purposes from the Mississippi river. The country back of the town, and in that immediate vicinity generally, was wild and thinly settled, and had already been well-foraged, so we were restricted to the ordinary army diet, of which one of the principal items, as usual, was fat sow-belly. I never understood why we were not allowed to camp in the woods west of the town. There was plenty of high, well-shaded space there, and we soon could have sunk wells that would have furnished cool, palatable water. But this was not done, and the regiment remained for about two weeks camped on the river bank, in the conditions above described. A natural result was that numbers of the men were prostrated by malarial fever, and this time I happened to be one of them. I now approach a painful period of my army career. I just lay there, in a hot tent, on the sand,—oh, so sick! But I fought off going to the hospital as long as possible. I had a superstitious dread of an army hospital. I had seen so many of the boys loaded into ambulances, and hauled off to such a place, who never returned, that I was determined never to go to one if it could be avoided in any honorable way. But the time came when it was a military necessity that I should go, and there was no alternative. The campaign that was in contemplation was a movement westward against the Confederates under Gen. Sterling Price at Little Rock, with the intention of capturing that place and driving the Confederates from the State. The officer in command of the Union forces was Gen. Frederick Steele. Marching orders were issued, fixing the 13th of August as the day our regiment would start. All the sick who were unable to march (and I was among that number) were to be sent to the Division Hospital. So, on the morning before the regiment moved, an ambulance drove up to my tent, and some of the boys carried me out and put me in the vehicle. Capt. Keeley was standing by; he pressed my hand and said, "Good-by, Stillwell; brace up! You'll be all right soon." I was feeling too wretched to talk much; I only said, "Good-by, Captain," and let it go at that. Later, when I rejoined the regiment, Keeley told me that when he bade me good-by that morning he never expected to see me again.

Our Division Hospital, to which I was taken, consisted of a little village of wall tents in the outskirts of Helena. The tents were arranged in rows, with perhaps from fifteen to twenty in a row, with their ends pinned back against the sides, thus making an open space down an entire row. The sick men lay on cots, of which there was a line on each side of the interior of the tents, with a narrow aisle between. I remained at the hospital eight days, and was very sick the most of the time, and retain a distinct recollection of only a few things. But, aside from men dying all around me, both day and night, nothing important happened. All the accounts that I have read of this movement of Gen. Steele's on Little Rock agree in stating that the number of men he left sick at Helena and other places between there and Little Rock was extraordinary and beyond all usual proportions. And from what I saw myself, I think these statements must be true. And a necessary consequence of this heavy sick list was the fact that it must have been impossible to give the invalids the care and attention they should have received. We had but few attendants, and they were soldiers detailed for that purpose who were too feeble to march, but were supposed to be capable of rendering hospital service. And the medical force left with us was so scanty that it was totally inadequate for the duties they were called on to perform. Oh, those nights were so long! At intervals in the aisle a bayonet would be stuck in the ground with a lighted candle in its socket, and when a light went out, say after midnight, it stayed out, and we would toss around on those hard cots in a state of semi-darkness until daylight. If any attendants moved around among us in the later hours of the night I never saw them. We had well-water to drink, which, of course, was better than that from the river, but it would soon become insipid and warm, and sometimes, especially during the night, we didn't have enough of that. On one occasion, about midnight, soon after I was taken to the hospital, I was burning with fever, and became intolerably thirsty for a drink of water. No attendants were in sight, and the candles had all gone out but one or two, which emitted only a sort of flickering light that barely served to "render darkness visible." My suffering became well-nigh unendurable, and I could stand it no longer. I got up and staggered to the door of the tent and looking about me saw not far away a light gleaming through a tent that stood apart from the others. I made my way to it as best I could, and went in. A young fellow, maybe an assistant surgeon, was seated at the further end cf a little desk, writing. My entrance was so quiet that he did not hear me, and walking up to him, I said, in a sort of a hollow voice: "I want—a drink—of water." The fellow dropped his pen, and nearly fell off his stool. The only garment I had on was a white, sleazy sort of cotton bed-gown, which they garbed us all in when we were taken to the hospital; and this chap's eyes, as he stared at me, looked as if they would pop out of his head. Perhaps he thought I was a "gliding ghost." But he got me some water, and I drank copiously. I don't clearly remember what followed. It seems to me that this man helped me back to my tent, but I am not sure. However, I was in the same old cot next morning.

The fare at the hospital was not of a nature liable to generate an attack of the gout, but I reckon those in charge did the best they could. The main thing seemed to be a kind of thin soup, with some grains of rice, or barley, in it. What the basis of it was I don't know. I munched a hardtack occasionally, which was far better than the soup. But my appetite was quite scanty, anyhow. One day we each had at dinner, served in our tin plates, about two or three tablespoonfuls of preserved currants, for which it was said we were indebted to the U.S. Sanitary Commission. It seemed that a boat load of such goods came down the river, in charge of a committee of ladies, destined for our hospitals at Vicksburg. The boat happened to make a temporary stop at Helena, and the ladies ascertained that there was at the hospitals there great need of sanitary supplies, so they donated us the bulk of their cargo. I will remark here that that little dab of currants was all the U.S. Sanitary stuff I consumed during my army service. I am not kicking; merely stating the fact. Those goods very properly went to the hospitals, and as my stay therein was brief, my share of the delicacies was consequently correspondingly slight.

As regards the medicine given us in the hospital at Helena, my recollection is that it was almost entirely quinine, and the doses were frequent and copious, which I suppose was all right.

There was a boy in my company of about my age; a tall, lanky chap, named John Barton. He had lived in our neighborhood at home, and we were well acquainted prior to our enlistment. He was a kind hearted, good sort of a fellow, but he had, while in the army, one unfortunate weakness,—the same being a voracious appetite for intoxicating liquor. And he had a remarkable faculty for getting the stuff, under any and all circumstances. He could nose it out, in some way, as surely and readily as a bear could find a bee-tree. But to keep the record straight, I will further say that after his discharge he turned over a new leaf, quit the use of whisky, and lived a strictly temperate life. He was "under the weather" when the regiment left Helena, and so was detailed to serve as a nurse at the hospital, and was thus engaged in my tent. Since making that bad break at Owl Creek I had avoided whisky as if it were a rattlesnake, but somehow, while here in the hospital, I began to feel an intense craving for some "spiritus frumenti," as the surgeons called it. So one day I asked John Barton if he couldn't get me a canteenful of whisky. He said he didn't know, was afraid it would be a difficult job,—but to give him my canteen, and he would try. That night, as late maybe as one or two o'clock, and when the lights were nearly all out, as usual, I heard some one stealthily walking up the aisle, and stopping occasionally at different cots, and presently I heard a hoarse whisper, "Stillwell! Stillwell!" "Here!" I answered, in the same tone. The speaker then came to me,—it was old John, and stooping down, he whispered, "By God, I've got it!" "Bully for you, John!" said I. He raised me to a sitting posture, removed the cork, and put the mouth of the canteen to my lips,—and I drank about as long as I could hold my breath. John took a moderate swig himself, then carefully put the canteen in my knapsack, which was serving as my pillow, cautioned me to keep it concealed to avoid its being stolen, and went away. I was asleep in about five minutes after my head struck my knapsack, and slept all the balance of the night just like a baby. On waking up, I felt better, too, and wanted something to eat. However, let no one think, who may read these lines, that I favor the use of whisky as a medicine, for I don't. But the situation in those Helena hospitals was unusual and abnormal. The water was bad, our food was no good and very unsatisfactory, and the conditions generally were simply wretched. I am not blaming the military authorities. They doubtless did the best they could. It seemed to me that I was getting weaker every day. It looked as if something had to be done, and acting on the maxim that "desperate cases require desperate remedies," I resorted for the time being to the whisky treatment. I made one unsuccessful attempt afterwards to get some to serve as a tonic, which perhaps may be mentioned later, and then forever abandoned the use of the stuff for any purpose.

Immediately succeeding the above mentioned incident, the fever let up on me, and I began to get better, though still very weak. My great concern, right now, was to rejoin the regiment just as soon as possible. It was taking part in an active campaign, in which fighting was expected, and the idea was intolerable that the other boys should be at the front, marching and fighting, while I was in the rear, playing the part of a "hospital pimp." It was reported that a steamboat was going to leave soon, via Mississippi and White rivers, with convalescents for Steele's army, and I made up my mind to go on that boat, at all hazards. But to accomplish that it was necessary, as I was informed, to get a written permit from the Division Surgeon, Maj. Shuball York, of the 54th Illinois Infantry. So one morning, bright and early, I blacked my shoes and brushed up my old cap and clothing generally, and started to Maj. York's headquarters to get the desired permission. He was occupying a large two-story house, with shade trees in the yard, in the residence part of town, and his office was in the parlor, in the first story of the building. I walked in, and found an officer of the rank of Major seated at a table, engaged in writing. I removed my cap and, standing at attention, saluted him, and asked if this was Maj. York, and was answered in the affirmative. I had my little speech carefully prepared, and proceeded at once to deliver it, as follows:

"My name is Leander Stillwell; I am a sergeant of Co. D, of the 61st Illinois Infantry, which is now with Gen. Steele's army. The regiment marched about a week ago, and, as I was then sick with a fever, I could not go, but was sent to the Division Hospital, here in Helena. I am now well, and have come to you to request a permit to enable me to rejoin my regiment."

The Major looked at me closely while I was speaking, and after I had concluded he remained silent for a few seconds, still scrutinizing me intently. Then he said, in a low and very kind tone: "Why, sergeant, you are not able for duty, and won't be for some time. Stay here till you get a little stronger."

His statement was a bitter disappointment to me. I stood there in silence a little while, twisting and turning, with trembling hands, my old faded and battered cap. I finally managed to say, "I want—to go—to—my regiment;"—and here my lips began to tremble, and I got no further. Now don't laugh at this. It was simply the case of a boy, weak and broken down by illness, who was homesick to be with his comrades. The Major did not immediately respond to my last remark, but continued to look at me intently. Presently he picked up his pen, and said: "I am inclined to think that the best medical treatment for you is to let you go to your regiment;" and he thereupon wrote and handed me the permit, which was quite brief, consisting only of a few lines. I thanked him, and departed with a light heart.

I will digress here for a moment to chronicle, with deep sorrow, the sad fate that ultimately befell the kind and noble surgeon, Maj. York. While he, with his regiment, was home on veteran furlough, in March, 1864, an organized gang of Copperheads made a dastardly attack on some of the soldiers of the regiment at Charleston, Illinois, and murdered Maj. York and five privates, and also severely wounded the Colonel, Greenville M. Mitchell, and three privates. (See Official Records, War of the Rebellion, Serial No. 57, page 629, et seq.)

The war ended over half a century ago, and the feelings and passions engendered thereby, as between the people of the Nation and those of the late Confederate States, have well-nigh wholly subsided, which is right. But nevertheless I will set it down here that in my opinion the most "undesirable citizens" that ever have afflicted our country were the traitorous, malignant breed that infested some portions of the loyal States during the war, and were known as "Copperheads." The rattlesnake gives warning before it strikes, but the copperhead snake, of equally deadly venom, gives none, and the two-legged copperheads invariably pursued the same course. They deserved the name.

On leaving Maj. York's office I returned to the hospital and gathered up my stuff, which included my gun, cartridge box, knapsack, haversack, and canteen,—and said good-by to Barton and the other boys I knew. Then to the commissary tent, and exhibiting my permit, was furnished with five days' rations of hardtack, bacon, coffee, and sugar. Thence to the river landing, and on to the steamboat "Pike," which was to take the present batch of convalescents to Steele's army.

CHAPTER XII.

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.

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:

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."

CHAPTER XIII.

LITTLE ROCK, OCTOBER, 1863. GRANTED A FURLOUGH. CHAPLAIN B. B. HAMILTON. THE JOURNEY ON FURLOUGH FROM LITTLE ROCK TO JERSEY COUNTY, ILLINOIS. RETURN TO REGIMENT, NOVEMBER, 1863.

About the middle of October the regiment shifted its camp ground from Huntersville to an open space on the west side of the river, near the State penitentiary, where we remained all the ensuing winter. Soon after this change of camp it was reported among us that one man from each company would soon be granted a thirty day furlough. Prior to this, while in Tennessee, there had been a very few furloughs granted in exceptional cases, which were all the indulgencies of that kind the regiment had so far received. I made no request to be the favored man of our company in this matter, but one day Capt. Keeley told me that he had decided that I should be the furloughed man from Co. D, and could make my arrangements accordingly. By this time I had so far recovered from my rheumatism that I could walk around with the aid of a cane, but was very "shaky" on foot, and any sudden shock or jar would make me flinch with pain. I wondered how I should be able to get from the camp to the railroad depot on the other side of the river, with my knapsack, haversack and canteen, and their necessary contents, for I was utterly unable to carry them. I happened to mention this problem to the chaplain of the regiment, B. B. Hamilton. He was an old and valued friend of my parents, and, as he had lived only a few miles from our home, I knew him quite well before the war, and had heard him preach many a time. He was of the Baptist denomination, and my parents were of the same religious faith. At this time he was still what I would now call a young man, being only about forty years old. My father's given name was Jeremiah, and the Chaplain almost invariably, when speaking to me, would, in a grave, deliberate manner, address me as "Son of Jeremiah." When I mentioned to him my perplexity above indicated, he responded: "Son of Jeremiah, let not your heart be troubled. The Lord will provide." Knowing that what he said could be depended upon, I asked no questions. The precious document giving me thirty-days leave of absence was delivered to me in due time, and our little squad arranged to start on the next train, and which would leave Little Rock for Devall's Bluff early the following day. I had my breakfast betimes the next morning, and was sitting on the ground in front of my tent, with my traps by me, when Chaplain Hamilton came riding up on his horse. He dismounted, and saying to me, "Son of Jeremiah, the Lord has provided," thereupon helped me on his horse, and we started for the depot, the Chaplain walking by my side. We crossed the Arkansas on a sort of improvised army bridge, and were approaching the depot, when a locomotive on the track near-by began to let off steam. The horse evidently was not accustomed to that, he gave a frantic snort, and began to prance and rear. For a second or so I was in an agony of apprehension. I was incumbered with my knapsack and other things, was weak and feeble, and no horseman anyhow, and knew that if I should be violently thrown to the ground, it would just about break me all to pieces, and my furlough would end then and there. But it is likely that the Chaplain may have apprehended the horse's conduct; at any rate, he was on the alert. With one bound he was in front of the frightened animal, holding him firmly by the bridle bits, and had him under control at once. And about the same time the engine stopped its noise, and the trouble was over. The cars destined for Devall's Bluff were on the track, and the Chaplain, and some of our furlough party who had already arrived, helped me on the train. Of course there were no passenger coaches,—just box and gravel cars, and I seated myself on the floor of one of the latter. I gratefully thanked the Chaplain for his kindness, he said a few pleasant words, gave me a kind message for the folks at home, wished me a safe and pleasant trip, and then rode away.

This is probably a fitting place to pay a brief tribute to the memory of Chaplain Hamilton, so I will proceed to do so. The first chaplain of the regiment was a minister named Edward Rutledge. He was appointed May 16, 1862, and resigned September 3rd, of the same year. I do not remember of his ever officiating often in the capacity of chaplain. I recall just one occasion when he preached to us, and that was under somewhat peculiar circumstances. He came to the regiment when we were in camp at Owl Creek, Tennessee, and, soon after his arrival, there was read one Saturday evening at dress parade an order in substance and effect as follows: That at a designated time on the following morning the men would assemble on their respective company parade grounds, wearing their "side-arms," (which included waist- and shoulder-belts, cartridge-box, cap-pouch and bayonet,) and under the command of a commissioned officer each company would march to the grove where the chaplain would hold religious services. Well, I didn't like that order one bit, and the great majority of the boys felt the same way. The idea of having to attend church under compulsion seemed to me to infringe on our constitutional rights as free-born American citizens, that while it might have been a thing to be endured in the days described in Fox's "Book of Martyrs," nevertheless, it wasn't exactly fair right now. But orders must be obeyed, so we all turned out with the prescribed "side-arms," and, like the young oysters that were inveigled by the Walrus and the Carpenter,—

But it is much to be feared that the chaplain's discourse didn't do anybody a bit of good. For my part, I don't now remember a word, not even the text. The order aforesaid gave so much dissatisfaction to the rank and file, and perhaps to some of the line officers also, that it was never repeated, and thereafter attendance on the chaplain's preaching was a matter left to each man's pleasure and discretion. Judging only from what came under my personal notice, I don't think that much good was ever accomplished by chaplains in the Western army, as regards matters of a purely theological nature. As some one has said somewhere: "Army service in time of war is d—d hard on religion." But in practical, everyday matters, chaplains had ample opportunities for doing, and did, a great deal of good. They held the rank and wore the uniform of a captain,—and, while they had no military command over the men, they were, nevertheless, so far as I ever saw, always treated by the soldiers with the most kind and respectful consideration. To fill the vacancy caused by the resignation of Rutledge, B. B. Hamilton was commissioned chaplain on October 30, 1862, and came to us about that date. He had been active in the ministry at home for many years, and during that time had preached in Jersey, Greene, and the adjoining counties, so he was personally known to many of the officers and men. He was a man of good, sound common sense, an excellent judge of human nature, and endowed with a dry, quaint sort of humor that was delightful. When talking with intimate friends, he was prone, at times, to drop into an Oriental style of conversation, well garnished with sayings and illustrations from the Bible. I don't remember now of his preaching to us very often, and when he did he was tactful in selecting a time when the conditions were all favorable. In his discourses he ignored all questions of theology, such as faith, free-will, foreordination, the final perseverance of the saints, and such like, and got right down to matters involved in our every-day life. He would admonish us to be careful about our health, to avoid excesses of any kind that might be injurious to us in that respect, and above all things, to be faithful and brave soldiers, and conduct ourselves in such a manner that our army record would be an honor to us, and a source of pride and satisfaction to our parents and friends at home. In camp or on the march, he was a most useful and industrious man. He would visit the sick, write letters for them, and in general look after their needs in countless ways. He wrote a fine, neat, legible hand, and rendered much assistance to many of the line officers in making out the muster and pay rolls of their respective companies, and in attending to other matters connected with the company records, or official correspondence. And when the regiment had fighting to do, or a prospect of any, Chaplain Hamilton was always at the front. In the affair at Salem Cemetery, Hez. Giberson of Co. G was knocked down and rendered insensible for a short time by the near-by explosion of a shell. Hamilton ran to him, picked him up, and taking him by the arm, marched him to the rear, while shells were bursting all around us. I saw them as they walked by,—Giberson white as a sheet, staggering, and evidently deathly sick, but the chaplain clung to him, kept him on his feet, and ultimately turned him over to the surgeon.