The spring of 1865 found the regiment at Franklin, Tennessee. The war was then practically over in that region, and any organized armies of the Confederates were hundreds of miles away. Hamilton's health had become greatly impaired, and in view of all those conditions, he concluded to resign, and did so, on March 3rd, 1865, and thereupon returned to his old home in Illinois. The vacancy caused by his resignation was never filled, and thereafter we had no religious services in the regiment except on two or three occasions, rendered by volunteers, whose names I have forgotten. After leaving the army, Chaplain Hamilton led a life of activity and usefulness until incapacitated by his final illness. He died at Upper Alton, Illinois, on November 11th, 1894, at the age of nearly seventy-three years, respected and loved by all who knew him. He was a good, patriotic, brave man. I never saw him but once after he left the army, but we kept up a fraternal correspondence with each other as long as he lived.

I will now return to the little squad of furloughed Sixty-onesters that was left a while ago on the freight cars at Little Rock. The train pulled out early in the day for Devall's Bluff, where we arrived about noon. We at once made our way to the boat-landing,—and I simply am unable to describe our disappointment when we found no steamboats there. After making careful inquiry, we were unable to get any reliable information in regard to the time of the arrival of any from below,—it might be the next hour, or maybe not for several days. There was nothing to do but just bivouac there by the river bank, and wait. And there we waited for two long days of our precious thirty, and were getting fairly desperate, when one afternoon the scream of a whistle was heard, and soon the leading boat of a small fleet poked its nose around the bend about half a mile below,—and we sprang to our feet, waved our caps and yelled! We ascertained that the boats would start on the return trip to the mouth of White river as soon as they unloaded their army freight. This was accomplished by the next morning, we boarded the first one ready to start, a small stern-wheeler, and some time on the second day thereafter arrived at the mouth of White river. There we landed, on the right bank of the Mississippi, and later boarded a big side-wheeler destined for Cairo, which stopped to take us on. When it rounded in for that purpose, the members of our little squad were quite nervous, and there was a rush on the principle of every fellow for himself. I was hobbling along with my traps, as best I could, when in going down the river bank, which was high and steep, in some way I stumbled and fell, and rolled clear to the bottom, and just lay there helpless. There was one of our party of the name of John Powell, of Co. G, a young fellow about twenty-two or -three years old. He was not tall, only about five feet and eight or nine inches, but was remarkably broad across the shoulders and chest, and had the reputation of being the strongest man in the regiment. He happened to see the accident that had befallen me, and ran to me, picked me up in his arms, with my stuff, the same as if I had been a baby, and "toted" me on the boat. He hunted up a cozy corner on the leeward side, set me down carefully, and then said, "Now, you d—d little cuss, I guess you won't fall down here." And all the balance of the trip, until our respective routes diverged, he looked after me the same as if I had been his brother. He was a splendid, big-hearted fellow. While ascending the Mississippi, the weather was cloudy and foggy, the boat tied up at nights, and our progress generally was tantalizingly slow. We arrived at Cairo on the afternoon of October 26th. It was a raw, chilly, autumn day, a drizzling rain was falling, and everything looked uncomfortable and wretched. We went to the depot of the Illinois Central railroad, and on inquiry learned that our train would not leave until about nine o'clock that night, so apparently there was nothing to do but sit down and wait. My thoughts were soon dwelling on the first time I saw Cairo,—that bright sunny afternoon in the latter part of March, 1862. I was then in superb health and buoyant spirits, and inspired by radiant hopes and glowing anticipations. Only a little over a year and a half had elapsed, and I was now at the old town again, but this time in broken health, and hobbling about on a stick. But it soon occurred to me that many of my comrades had met a still more unfortunate fate, and by this comparison method I presently got in a more cheerful frame of mind. And something happened to come to pass that materially aided that consummation. Some of our party who had been scouting around the town returned with the intelligence that they had found a place called "The Soldiers' Home," where all transient soldiers were furnished food and shelter "without money and without price." This was most welcome news, for our rations were practically exhausted, and our money supply was so meager that economy was a necessity. It was nearing supper time, so we started at once for the Home, in hopes of getting a square meal. On reaching the place we found already formed a long "queue" of hungry soldiers, in two ranks, extending from the door away out into the street. We took our stand at the end of the line, and waited patiently. The building was a long, low, frame structure, of a barrack-like style, and of very unpretentious appearance,—but, as we found out soon, the inside was better. In due time, the door was opened, and we all filed in. The room was well-lighted, and warm, and long rows of rough tables extended clear across, with benches for seats. And oh, what a splendid supper we had! Strong, hot coffee, soft bread, cold boiled beef, molasses, stewed dried apples,—and even cucumber pickles! Supper over, we went back to the depot, all feeling better, and I've had a warm spot in my heart for the old town of Cairo ever since. But it certainly did look hard at this time. Its population, at the beginning of the war, was only a little over two thousand, the houses were small and dilapidated, and everything was dirty, muddy, slushy, and disagreeable in general. In October, 1914, I happened to be in Cairo again, and spent several hours there, roaming around, and looking at the town. The lapse of half a century had wrought a wonderful change. Its population was now something over fifteen thousand, the streets were well paved and brilliantly lighted, and long blocks of tall, substantial buildings had superseded the unsightly shacks of the days of the Civil War. But on this occasion I found no vestige of our "Soldiers' Home," nor was any person of whom inquiry was made able to give me the slightest information as to where it had stood. The only thing I saw in the town, or that vicinity, that looked natural, was the Ohio river, and even its placid appearance was greatly marred by a stupendous railroad bridge, over which trains of cars were thundering every hour in the day. But the river itself was flowing on in serene majesty, as it had been from the time "the morning stars sang together," and as it will continue to flow until this planet goes out of business.

We left Cairo on the cars on the night of October 26th, and for the first time in our military service, we rode in passenger coaches, which was another piece of evidence that once more we were in that part of the world that we uniformly spoke of as "God's Country." I remember an incident that occurred during our ride that night that gave us all the benefit of a hearty laugh. There was (and is yet) a station on the Illinois Central, in Jackson county, Illinois, by the name of "Makanda." It was some time after midnight when we neared this station, the boys were sprawled out on their seats, and trying to doze. The engine gave the usual loud whistle to announce a stop, the front door of our coach was thrown open, and a brakeman with a strong Hibernian accent called out in thunder tones what sounded exactly like "My-candy!" as here written,—and with the accent on the first syllable. There were several soldiers in the coach who were not of our party, also going home on furlough, and one of these, a big fellow with a heavy black beard, reared up and yelled back at the brakeman,—"Well, who the hell said it wasn't your candy?" and the boys all roared. Many years later I passed through that town on the cars, and the brakeman said "My-candy," as of yore. I felt a devilish impulse to make the same response the soldier did on that October night in 1863, but the war was over, no comrades were on hand to back me,—so I prudently refrained. At Sandoval the most of our party transferred to the Ohio and Mississippi railroad, (as it was called then,) and went to St. Louis, reaching there on the afternoon of October 27th. Here all except myself left on the Chicago, Alton and St. Louis railroad, for different points thereon, and from which they would make their way to their respective homes. There was no railroad running through Jersey county at this time, (except a bit of the last named road about a mile in length across the southeast corner of the county,) and the railroad station nearest my home was twenty miles away, so I had to resort to some other mode of travel. I went down to the wharf and boarded a little Illinois river steamboat,—the Post-Boy, which would start north that night, paid my fare to Grafton, at the mouth of the Illinois river, arranged with the clerk to wake me at that place, and then turned in. But the clerk did not have to bother on my account; I was restless, slept but little, kept a close lookout, and when the whistle blew for Grafton, I was up and on deck in about a minute. The boat rounded in at the landing, and threw out a plank for my benefit,—the lone passenger for Grafton. Two big, burly deck-hands, rough looking, bearded men, took me by the arm, one on each side, and carefully and kindly helped me ashore. I have often thought of that little incident. In those days a river deck-hand was not a saint, by any means. As a rule, he was a coarse, turbulent, and very profane man, but these two fellows saw that I was a little, broken-down boy-soldier, painfully hobbling along on a stick, and they took hold of me with their strong, brawny hands, and helped me off the boat with as much kindness and gentleness as if I had been the finest lady in the land.

I was now only five miles from home, and proposed to make the balance of my journey on foot. I climbed up to the top of the river bank, and thence made my way to the main and only street the little town then possessed, and took "the middle of the road." It was perhaps four or five o'clock in the morning, a quiet, starlight night, and the people of the village were all apparently yet wrapped in slumber. No signs of life were visible, except occasionally a dog would run out in a front yard and bark at me. The main road from Grafton, at that time, and which passed near my home, wound along the river bottom a short distance, and then, for a mile or more, ascended some high hills or bluffs north of the town. The ascent of these bluffs was steep, and hence the walking was fatiguing, and several times before reaching the summit where the road stretched away over a long, high ridge, I had to sit down and rest. The quails were now calling all around me, and the chickens were crowing for day at the farm houses, and their notes sounded so much like home! After attaining the crest, the walking was easier, and I slowly plodded on, rejoicing in the sight of the many familiar objects that appeared on every hand. About a mile or so from home, I left the main highway, and followed a country road that led to our house, where I at last arrived about nine o'clock. I had not written to my parents to advise them of my coming, for it would not have been judicious, in mere expectation of a furlough, to excite hopes that might be disappointed, and after it was issued and delivered to me, there was no use in writing, for I would reach home as soon as a letter. So my father and mother, and the rest of the family, were all taken completely by surprise when I quietly walked into the yard of the old home. I pass over any detailed account of our meeting. We, like others of that time and locality, were a simple, backwoods people, with nothing in the nature of gush or effervescence in our dispositions. I know that I was glad to see my parents, and the rest, and they were all unmistakably glad to see me, and we manifested our feelings in a natural, homely way, and without any display whatever of extravagant emotions. Greetings being over, about the first inquiry was whether I had yet had any breakfast, and my answer being in the negative, a splendid old-time breakfast was promptly prepared. But my mother was keenly disappointed at my utter lack of appetite. I just couldn't eat hardly a bit, and invented some sort of an excuse, and said I'd do better in the future, but, somehow, right then, I wasn't hungry, which was true. However, this instance of involuntary abstinence was fully made up for later.

While on my furlough I went with my father in the farm wagon occasionally to Grafton, and Jerseyville, and even once to Alton, twenty miles away, but the greater part of the time was spent at the farm, and around the old home, and in the society of the family. I reckon I rambled over every acre of the farm, and besides, took long walks in the woods of the adjacent country, for miles around. The big, gushing Sansom Spring, about half a mile from home, was a spot associated with many happy recollections. I would go there, lie flat on the ground, and take a copious drink of the pure, delicious water, then stroll through the woods down Sansom branch to its confluence with Otter creek, thence down the creek to the Twin Springs that burst out at the base of a ridge on our farm, just a few feet below a big sugar maple, from here on to the ruins of the old grist mill my father operated in the latter '40s, and then still farther down the creek to the ancient grist mill (then still standing) of the old pioneer, Hiram White. Here I would cross to the south bank of the creek and make my way home up through Limestone, or the Sugar Hollow. From my earliest youth I always loved to ramble in the woods, and somehow these around the old home now looked dearer and more beautiful to me than they ever had before.

The last time I ever saw my boyhood home was in August, 1894. It had passed into the hands of strangers, and didn't look natural. And all the old-time natural conditions in that locality were greatly changed. The flow of water from Sansom Spring was much smaller than what it had been in the old days, and only a few rods below the spring it sunk into the ground and disappeared. The big, shady pools along Sansom branch where I had gone swimming when a boy, and from which I had caught many a string of perch and silversides, were now dry, rocky holes in the ground, and the branch in general was dry as a bone. And Otter Creek, which at different places where it ran through our farm had once contained long reaches of water six feet deep and over, had now shrunk to a sickly rivulet that one could step across almost anywhere in that vicinity. And the grand primeval forest which up to about the close of the war, at least, had practically covered the country for many miles in the vicinity of my old home, had now all been cut down and destroyed, and the naked surface of the earth was baking in the rays of the sun. It is my opinion, and is stated for whatever it may be worth, that the wholesale destruction of the forests of that region had much to do with the drying up of the streams.

But it is time to return to the boy on furlough.

Shortly before leaving Little Rock for home, Capt. Keeley had confidentially informed me that if the military situation in Arkansas continued quiet, it would be all right for me before my furlough expired to procure what would effect a short extension thereof, and he explained to me the modus operandi. Including the unavoidable delays, over a third of my thirty days had been consumed in making the trip home, and the return journey would doubtless require about the same time. I therefore thought it would be justifiable to obtain an extension, if possible. My health was rapidly growing better, the rheumatism was nearly gone—but there was still room for improvement. I had closely read the newspapers in order to keep posted on the military status in the vicinity of Little Rock, and had learned from them that the troops were building winter quarters, and that in general, "All was quiet along the Arkansas." So, on November 9th, I went to Dr. J. H. Hesser, a respectable physician of Otterville, told him my business, and said that if his judgment would warrant it, I would be glad to obtain from him a certificate that would operate to extend my furlough for twenty days. He looked at me, asked a few questions, and then wrote and gave me a brief paper which set forth in substance that, in his opinion as a physician, I would not be able for duty sooner than December 5th, 1863, that being a date twenty days subsequent to the expiration of my furlough. I paid Dr. Hesser nothing for the certificate, for he did not ask it, but said that he gave it to me as a warranted act of kindness to a deserving soldier. (In September of the following year Dr. Hesser enlisted in Co. C of our regiment as a recruit, and about all the time he was with us acted as hospital steward of the regiment, which position he filled ably and satisfactorily.) But I did not avail myself of all my aforesaid extension. I knew it would be better to report at company headquarters before its expiration than after, so my arrangements were made to start back on November 16th. Some hours before sunrise that morning, I bade good-by to mother and the children, and father and I pulled out in the farm wagon for our nearest railroad station, which was Alton, and, as heretofore stated, twenty miles away, where we arrived in ample time for my train. We drove into a back street and unhitched the team—the faithful old mules, Bill and Tom, tied them to the wagon and fed them, and then walked to the depot. The train came in due season, and stopped opposite the depot platform, where father and I were standing. We faced each other, and I said, "Good-bye, father;" he responded, "Good-bye, Leander, take care of yourself." We shook hands, then he instantly turned and walked away, and I boarded the train. That was all there was to it. And yet we both knew more in regard to the dangers and perils that environ the life of a soldier in time of war than we did on the occasion of the parting at Jerseyville nearly two years ago—hence we fully realized that this farewell might be the last. Nor did this manner spring from indifference, or lack of sensibility; it was simply the way of the plain unlettered backwoods people of those days. Nearly thirty-five years later the "whirligig of time" evolved an incident which clearly brought home to me a vivid idea of what must have been my father's feelings on this occasion. The Spanish-American war began in the latter part of April, 1898, and on the 30th of that month, Hubert, my oldest son, then a lad not quite nineteen years old, enlisted in Co. A of the 22nd Kansas Infantry, a regiment raised for service in that war. On May 28th the regiment was sent to Washington, D. C., and was stationed at Camp Alger, near the city. In the early part of August it appeared that there was a strong probability that the regiment, with others at Washington, would soon be sent to Cuba or Porto Rico. I knew that meant fighting, to say nothing of the camp diseases liable to prevail in that latitude at that season of the year. So my wife and I concluded to go to Washington and have a little visit with Hubert before he left for the seat of war. We arrived at the capital on August 5th, and found the regiment then in camp near the little village of Clifton, Virginia, about twenty-six miles southwest of Washington. We had a brief but very enjoyable visit with Hubert, who was given a pass, and stayed a few days with us in the city. But the time soon came for us to separate, and on the day of our departure for home Hubert went with us to the depot of the Baltimore and Ohio railroad, where his mother and I bade him good-by. Then there came to me, so forcibly, the recollection of the parting with my father at the Alton depot in November, 1863, and for the first time I think I fully appreciated what must have been his feelings on that occasion.

But, (referring to the Washington incident,) it so happened that on the day my wife and I left that city for home, or quite soon thereafter, it was officially announced that a suspension of hostilities had been agreed on between Spain and the United States. This ended the war, and consequently Hubert's regiment was not sent to the Spanish islands. I will now resume my own story.

My route from Alton, and method of conveyance, on returning to the regiment, were the same, with one or two slight variations, as those in going home, and the return trip was uneventful. But there were no delays, the boat ran day and night, and the journey was made in remarkably quick time. I arrived at Little Rock on the evening of November 20th, only five days over my furlough,—and with a twenty-day extension to show for that, reported promptly to Capt. Keeley, and delivered to him the certificate given me by Dr. Hesser. Keeley pronounced the paper satisfactory, and further said it would have been all right if I had taken the benefit of the entire twenty days. However, it somehow seemed to me that he really was pleased to see that I had not done so, but hurried back fifteen days ahead of time. After a brief conversation with him about the folks at home, and matters and things there in general, he treated me to a most agreeable surprise. He stepped to the company office desk, and took therefrom a folded paper which he handed to me with the remark: "There, Stillwell, is something I think will please you." I unfolded and glanced at it, and saw that it was a non-commissioned officer's warrant, signed by Major Grass as commanding officer of the regiment, and countersigned by Lieut. A. C. Haskins as adjutant, appointing me First Sergeant of Co. D. The warrant was dated November 4th, but recited that the appointment took effect from September 1st, preceding. As before stated, Enoch Wallace was our original first sergeant, and as he was promoted to second lieutenant on September 3, 1863, his advancement left his old position vacant, and his mantle had now fallen on me. I was deeply gratified with this appointment, and really was not expecting it, as there were two other duty sergeants who outranked me, and in appointing me I was promoted over their heads. However, they took it in good part, and remained my friends, as they always had been. And the plain truth is, too, which may have reconciled these sergeants somewhat, the position of first or orderly sergeant, as we usually called it, was not an enviable one, by any means. His duties were incessant, involving responsibility, and frequently were very trying. He had to be right with his company every hour in the day, and it was not prudent for him to absent himself from camp for even ten minutes without the consent of his company commander, and temporarily appointing a duty sergeant to act in his place while away. Among his multifarious duties may be mentioned the following: Calling the roll of the company morning and evening, and at such other hours as might be required; attending sick calls with the sick, and carefully making a note of those excused from duty by the surgeon; making out and signing the company morning report; procuring the signature of the company commander thereto, and then delivering it to the adjutant; forming the company on its parade ground for dress parade, drills, marches, and the like; making the details of the men required from his company for the various kinds of guard and fatigue duty; drawing rations for the company, and distributing them among the various messes; seeing to it that the company grounds (when in camp) were properly policed every morning;—and just scores of little matters of detail that were occurring all the time. It was a very embarrassing incident when sometimes a boy who was a good soldier was, without permission, absent at roll call. He might have strolled up town, or to a neighboring camp to see an old-time friend, and stayed too long. On such occurrences I would, as a general rule, pass rapidly from his name to the next—and just report the boy present, and later talk to him privately and tell him not to let it happen again. It is true, sometimes an aggravated case occurred when, in order to maintain discipline, a different course had to be pursued, but not often. Speaking generally, I will say that it was bad policy for the orderly to be running to the captain about every little trouble or grievance. The thing for him to do was to take the responsibility and act on his own judgment, and depend on the captain to back him (as he almost invariably would) if the affair came to a "show-down." Beginning as far back as the summer of 1862, I had frequently temporarily acted as orderly sergeant, for weeks at a time, and so possessed a fair amount of experience when I entered on the duties of the position under a permanent appointment. But my long, solitary rambles out in the woods, beyond the lines, were at an end, and that was a matter of more regret to me than anything else connected with the office of orderly sergeant. While on this topic I will remark that it always seemed to me that the men who had the "softest snaps" of any in a regiment of infantry were the lieutenants of the respective companies. The first lieutenant had no company cares or responsibilities whatever, unless the captain was absent, or sick in quarters, and the second lieutenant was likewise exempt, unless the captain and first lieutenant were both absent, or sick. Of course there were duties that devolved on the lieutenants from time to time, such as drilling the men, serving as officer of the guard, and other matters, but when those jobs were done, they could just "go and play," without a particle of care or anxiety about the services of the morrow.

CHAPTER XIV.

LITTLE ROCK. WINTER OF 1863-4. RE-ENLIST FOR THREE YEARS MORE.

When I returned to Little Rock from my absence on furlough, the regiment was found installed in cosy, comfortable quarters of pine log cabins. There were extensive pine forests near Little Rock, the boys were furnished teams and axes to facilitate the work, and cut and shaped the logs for the cabin walls, and roofed them with lumber, boards or shingles, which they procured in various ways. The walls were chinked and daubed with mud, and each cabin was provided with an ample, old-fashioned fire-place, with a rock or stick chimney. As wood was close at hand, and in abundance, there was no difficulty whatever in keeping the cabins warm. But I will remark here that of all the mean wood to burn, a green pine log is about the worst. It is fully as bad as green elm, or sycamore. But there was no lack of dry wood to mix with the green, and the green logs had this virtue: that after the fire had once taken hold of them they would last a whole night. The winter of 1863-4 was remarkably cold, and to this day is remembered by the old soldiers as "the cold winter." On the last day of 1863 a heavy fall of snow occurred at Little Rock, and the first day of the new year, and several days thereafter, were bitterly cold. But the weather did not cause the troops in our immediate locality any special suffering, so far as I know, or ever heard. All of us not on picket were just as comfortable as heart could wish in our tight, well-warmed cabins, and those on guard duty were permitted to build rousing fires and so got along fairly well. Big fires on the picket line would not have been allowed if any enemy had been in our vicinity, but there were none; hence it was only common sense to let the pickets have fires and keep as comfortable as circumstances would permit. It was probably on account of the severe weather that active military operations in our locality were that winter practically suspended. There were a few cavalry affairs at outlying posts, but none of any material importance.

The most painful sight that I saw during the war was here at Little Rock this winter. It was the execution, by hanging, on January 8, 1864, of a Confederate spy, by the name of David O. Dodds. He was a mere boy, seemingly not more than nineteen or twenty years old. There was no question as to his guilt. When arrested there was found on his person a memorandum book containing information, written in telegraphic characters, in regard to all troops, batteries, and other military matters at Little Rock. He was tried by a court martial, and sentenced to the mode of death always inflicted on a spy, namely, by hanging. I suppose that the military authorities desired to render his death as impressive as possible, in order to deter others from engaging in a business so fraught with danger to our armies; therefore, on the day fixed for carrying out the sentence of the court, all our troops in Little Rock turned out under arms and marched to the place of execution. It was in a large field near the town; a gallows had been erected in the center of this open space, and the troops formed around it in the form of an extensive hollow square, and stood at parade rest. The spy rode through the lines to the gallows in an open ambulance, sitting on his coffin. I happened to be not far from the point where he passed through, and saw him plainly. For one so young, he displayed remarkable coolness and courage when in the immediate presence of death. The manner of his execution was wretchedly bungled, in some way, and the whole thing was to me indescribably repulsive. In the crisis of the affair there was a sudden clang of military arms and accouterments in the line not far from me, and looking in that direction I saw that a soldier in the front rank had fainted and fallen headlong to the ground. I didn't faint, but the spectacle, for the time being, well-nigh made me sick. It is true that from time immemorial the punishment of a convicted spy has been death by hanging. The safety of whole armies, even the fate of a nation, may perhaps depend on the prompt and summary extinction of the life of a spy. As long as he is alive he may possibly escape, or, even if closely guarded, may succeed in imparting his dangerous intelligence to others who will transmit it in his stead; hence no mercy can be shown. But in spite of all that, this event impressed me as somehow being unspeakably cruel and cold-blooded. On one side were thousands of men with weapons in their hands, coolly looking on; on the other was one lone, unfortunate boy. My conscience has never troubled me for anything I may have done on the firing line, in time of battle. There were the other fellows in plain sight, shooting, and doing all in their power to kill us. It was my duty to shoot at them, aim low, and kill some of them, if possible, and I did the best I could, and have no remorse whatever. But whenever my memory recalls the choking to death of that boy, (for that is what was done), I feel bad, and don't like to write or think about it. But, for fear of being misunderstood, it will be repeated that the fate of a spy, when caught, is death. It is a military necessity. The other side hanged our spies, with relentless severity, and were justified in so doing by laws and usages of war. Even the great and good Washington approved of the hanging of the British spy, Maj. Andre, and refused to commute the manner of his execution to being shot, although Andre made a personal appeal to him to grant him that favor, in order that he might die the death of a soldier. The point with me is simply this: I don't want personally to have anything to do, in any capacity, with hanging a man, and don't desire even to be in eye-sight of such a gruesome thing, and voluntarily never have. However, it fell to my lot to be an involuntary witness of two more military executions while in the service. I will speak of them now, and then be through with this disagreeable subject. On March 18th, 1864, two guerrillas were hanged in the yard of the penitentiary at Little Rock, by virtue of the sentence of a court martial, and my regiment acted as guard at the execution. We marched into the penitentiary inclosure, and formed around the scaffold in hollow square. As soon as this had been done, a door on the ground floor of the penitentiary was swung open, and the two condemned men marched out, pinioned side by side, and surrounded by a small guard. The culprits were apparently somewhere between forty and fifty years of age. They ascended the scaffold, were placed with their feet on the trap, the nooses were adjusted, the trap was sprung,—and it was all over. The crimes of which these men had been convicted were peculiarly atrocious. They were not members of any organized body of the Confederate army, but guerrillas pure and simple. It was conclusively established on their trial that they, with some associates, had, in cold blood, murdered by hanging several men of that vicinity, private citizens of the State of Arkansas, for no other cause or reason than the fact that the victims were Union men. In some cases the murdered men had been torn from their beds at night, and hanged in their own door-yards, in the presence of their well-nigh distracted wives and children. There can be no question that these two unprincipled assassins richly merited their fate, and hence it was impossible to entertain for them any feeling of sympathy. Nevertheless, I stand by my original proposition, that to see any man strung up like a dog, and hanged in cold blood, is a nauseating and debasing spectacle.

In January, 1864, while we were at Little Rock, the "veteranizing" project, as it was called, was submitted to the men. That is to say, we were asked to enlist for "three years more, or endurin' the war." Sundry inducements for this were held out to the men, but the one which, at the time, had the most weight, was the promise of a thirty-days furlough for each man who re-enlisted. The men in general responded favorably to the proposition, and enough of the 61st re-enlisted to enable the regiment to retain its organization to the end of the war. On the evening of February 1st, with several others of Co. D, I walked down to the adjutant's tent, and "went in" for three years more. I think that no better account of this re-enlistment business can now be given by me than by here inserting a letter I wrote on December 22nd, 1894, as a slight tribute to the memory of our acting regimental commander in February, 1864, Maj. Daniel Grass. He was later promoted to lieutenant-colonel, and after the war, came to Kansas, where, for many years, he was a prominent lawyer and politician. On the evening of December 18th, 1894, while he was crossing a railroad track in the town where he lived, (Coffeyville, Kansas,) he was struck by a railroad engine, and sustained injuries from which he died on December 21st, at the age of a little over seventy years. A few days thereafter the members of the bar of the county held a memorial meeting in his honor, which I was invited to attend. I was then judge of the Kansas 7th Judicial District, and my judicial duties at the time were such that I could not go, and hence was compelled to content myself by writing a letter, which was later published in the local papers of the county, and which reads as follows:

CHAPTER XV.

LITTLE ROCK. EXPEDITIONS TO AUGUSTA AND SPRINGFIELD. MARCH, APRIL AND MAY, 1864.

In the spring of 1864 it was determined by the military authorities to undertake some offensive operations in what was styled the "Red River country," the objective point being Shreveport, Louisiana. Gen. N. P. Banks was to move with an army from New Orleans, and Gen. Steele, in command of the Department of Arkansas, was to co-operate with a force from Little Rock. And here my regiment sustained what I regarded, and still regard, as a piece of bad luck. It was not included in this moving column, but was assigned to the duty of serving as provost guard of the city of Little Rock during the absence of the main army. To be left there in that capacity, while the bulk of the troops in that department would be marching and fighting was, from my standpoint, a most mortifying circumstance. But the duty that devolved on us had to be done by somebody, and soldiers can only obey orders. Our officers said at the time that only efficient and well-disciplined troops were entrusted with the position of provost-guards of a city the size of Little Rock, and hence that our being so designated was a compliment to the regiment. That sounded plausible, and it may have been true, probably was, but I didn't like the job a bit. It may, however, have all been for the best, as this Red River expedition, especially the part undertaken by Gen. Banks, was a disastrous failure. Gen. Steele left Little Rock about March 23rd, with a force, of all arms, of about 12,000 men, but got no further than Camden, Arkansas. Gen. Banks was defeated by the Confederates at the battle of Sabine Cross-Roads, in Louisiana, on April 8th, and was forced to retreat. The enemy then was at liberty to concentrate on General Steele, and so he likewise was under the necessity of retreating, and scuttling back to Little Rock just as rapidly as possible. But on this retreat he and his men did some good, hard fighting, and stood off the Confederates effectively. About the first intimation we in Little Rock had that our fellows were coming back was when nearly every soldier in the city that was able to wield a mattock or a spade was detailed for fatigue duty and set to work throwing up breastworks, and kept at it, both day and night. I happened to see Gen. Steele when he rode into town on May 2nd, at the head of his troops, and he looked tough. He had on a battered felt hat, with a drooping brim, an oil-cloth "slicker," much the worse for wear, the ends of his pantaloons were stuck in his boots, and he was just splashed and splattered with mud from head to foot. But he sat firm and erect in his saddle, (he was a magnificent horseman,) and his eyes were flashing as if he had plenty of fight left in him yet. And the rank and file of our retreating army was just the hardest looking outfit of Federal soldiers that I saw during the war, at any time. The most of them looked as if they had been rolled in the mud, numbers of them were barefoot, and I also saw several with the legs of their trousers all gone, high up, socking through the mud like big blue cranes.

In view of the feverish haste with which Little Rock had been put in a state for defensive operations, and considering also all the reports in circulation, we fully expected that Price's whole army would make an attack on us almost any day. But the Confederates had been so roughly handled in the battle of Jenkins' Ferry, April 30th, on the Saline river, that none of their infantry came east of that river, nor any of their cavalry except a small body, which soon retired. The whole Confederate army, about May 1st, fell back to Camden, and soon all was again quiet along the Arkansas.

I will now go back about two weeks in order to give an account of a little expedition our regiment took part in when Gen. Steele's army was at Camden.

Late on the evening of April 19th, we fell in, marched to the railroad depot, climbed on the cars, and were taken that night to Devall's Bluff. Next morning we embarked on the steamboat "James Raymond," and started up White river. The other troops that took part in the movement were the 3rd Minnesota Infantry and a detachment of the 8th Missouri Cavalry. We arrived at the town of Augusta, (about eighty miles by water from Devall's Bluff,) on the morning of the 21st. It was a little, old, dilapidated river town, largely in a deserted condition, situated on low, bottom land, on the east bank of White river. On arriving we at once debarked from the boat, and all our little force marched out a mile or so east of the town, where we halted, and formed in line of battle in the edge of the woods, with a large open field in our front, on the other side of which were tall, dense woods. As there were no signs or indications of any enemy in the town, and everything around was so quiet and sleepy, I couldn't understand what these ominous preparations meant. Happening to notice the old chaplain a short distance in the rear of our company, I slipped out of ranks, and walked back to him for the purpose of getting a pointer, if possible. He was by himself, and as I approached him, seemed to be looking rather serious. He probably saw inquiry in my eyes, and without waiting for question made a gesture with his hands towards the woods in our front, and said, "O Son of Jeremiah! Here is where we shall give battle to those who trouble Israel!" "What! What is that you say?" said I, in much astonishment. "It is even so," he continued; "the Philistines are abroad in the land, having among them, as they assert, many valiant men who can sling stones at a hair's breadth and not miss. They await us, even now, in the forest beyond. But, Son of Jeremiah," said he, "if the uncircumcised heathen should assail the Lord's anointed, be strong, and quit yourself like a man!" "All right, Chaplain," I responded; "I have forty rounds in the box, and forty on the person, and will give them the best I have in the shop. But, say! Take care of my watch, will you? And, should anything happen, please send it to the folks at home;"—and handing him my little old silver time-piece, I resumed my place in the ranks. After what seemed to me a most tiresome wait, we finally advanced, preceded by a line of skirmishers. I kept my eyes fixed on the woods in our front, expecting every minute to see burst therefrom puffs of white smoke, followed by the whiz of bullets and the crash of musketry, but nothing of the kind happened. Our skirmishers entered the forest, and disappeared, and still everything remained quiet. The main line followed, and after gaining the woods, we discovered plenty of evidence that they had quite recently been occupied by a body of cavalry. The ground was cut up by horses' tracks, and little piles of corn in the ear, only partly eaten, were scattered around. We advanced through the woods and swamps for some miles and scouted around considerably, but found no enemy, except a few stragglers that were picked up by our cavalry. We left Augusta on the 24th, on our steamboat, and arrived at Little Rock on the same day. I met the chaplain on the boat while on our return, and remarked to him that, "Those mighty men who could kill a jaybird with a sling-shot a quarter of a mile off didn't stay to see the show." "No," he answered; "when the sons of Belial beheld our warlike preparation, their hearts melted, and became as water; they gat every man upon his ass, and speedily fled, even beyond the brook which is called Cache." He then went on to tell me that on our arrival at Augusta there was a body of Confederate cavalry near there, supposed to be about a thousand strong, under the command of a General McRae; that they were bivouacked in the woods in front of the line of battle we formed, and that on our approach they had scattered and fled. The enemy's force really exceeded ours, but, as a general proposition, their cavalry was reluctant to attack our infantry, in a broken country, unless they could accomplish something in the nature of a surprise, or otherwise have a decided advantage at the start.

On May 16th we shifted our camp to Huntersville, on the left bank of the Arkansas river, and near our first location. We thus abandoned our log cabins, and never occupied them again. They were now getting too close and warm for comfort, anyhow. But they had been mighty good friends to us in the bitterly cold winter of '63-4, and during that time we spent many a cosy, happy day and night therein.

On May 19th we again received marching orders, and the regiment left camp that night on the cars, and went to Hicks' station, 28 miles from Little Rock. We remained here, bivouacking in the woods, until the 22nd, when, at 3 o'clock in the morning of that day, we took up the line of march, moving in a northerly direction. The troops that composed our force consisted of the 61st, 54th, and 106th Illinois, and 12th Michigan (infantry regiments), a battery of artillery, and some detachments of cavalry; Brig. Gen. J. R. West in command. We arrived at the town of Austin, 18 miles from Hicks' Station, about 2 o'clock on the afternoon of the 22nd. It was a little country village, situated on a rocky, somewhat elevated ridge. As I understand, it is now a station on the Iron Mountain railroad, which has been built since the war. I reckon if in May, 1864, any one had predicted that some day a railroad would be built and in operation through that insignificant settlement among the rocks and trees, he would have been looked on as hardly a safe person to be allowed to run at large.

Co. D started on the march with only one commissioned officer, Second Lieutenant Wallace. I have forgotten the cause of the absence of Capt. Keeley and Lieut. Warren, but there was doubtless some good reason. On the first day's march the weather was hot, and the route was through a very rough and broken country. Wallace was overcome by heat, and had to fall out, and wait for an ambulance. In consequence, it so happened that when we reached Austin, there was no commissioned officer with us, and I, as first sergeant, was in command of the company. And that gave rise to an incident which, at the time, swelled me up immensely. On arriving at the town, the regiment halted on some open ground in the outskirts, fell into line, dressed on the colors, and stood at ordered arms. Thereupon the adjutant commanded, "Commanding officers of companies, to the front and center, march!" I was completely taken by surprise by this command, and for a second or two stood, dazed and uncertain. But two or three of the boys spoke up at once and said, "You're our commanding officer, Stillwell; go!" The situation by this time had also dawned on me, so I promptly obeyed the command. But I must have been a strange looking "commanding officer." I was barefooted, breeches rolled up nearly to the knees, feet and ankles "scratched and tanned," and my face covered with sweat and dirt. The closest scrutiny would have failed to detect in me a single feature of the supposed "pomp and circumstance" of an alleged military hero. But I stalked down the line, bare feet and all, with my musket at a shoulder arms, and looking fully as proud, I imagine, as Henry of Navarre ever did at the battle of Ivry, with "a snow-white plume upon his gallant crest." By the proper and usual commands, the "commanding officers of companies" were brought up and halted within a few paces of Col. Ohr, who thereupon addressed them as follows:

"Gentleman, have your men stack arms where they now are, and at once prepare their dinner. They can disperse to get wood and water, but caution them strictly not to wander far from the gun stacks. We may possibly pass the night here, but we may be called on, at any moment, to fall in and resume the march. That's all, gentlemen."

While the Colonel was giving these instructions, I thought a sort of unusual twinkle sparkled in his eyes, as they rested on me. But, for my part, I was never more serious in my life. Returning to the company, I gave the order to stack arms, which being done, the boys crowded around me, plying me with questions. "What did the Colonel say? What's up, Stillwell?" I assumed a prodigiously fierce and authoritative look and said: "Say, do you fellows suppose that we commanding officers of companies are going to give away to a lot of lousy privates a confidential communication from the Colonel? If you are guilty of any more such impertinent conduct, I'll have every mother's son of you bucked and gagged." The boys all laughed, and after a little more fun of that kind, I repeated to them literally every word the Colonel said, and then we all set about getting dinner. About this time Lieut. Wallace rode up in an ambulance—and my reign was over. We resumed the march at 3 o'clock in the morning of the next day (May 23rd), marched 18 miles, and bivouacked that night at Peach Orchard Gap. This was no town, simply a natural feature of the country. Left here next morning (the 24th) at daylight, marched 18 miles, and bivouacked on a stream called Little Cadron. Left at daylight next morning (the 25th), marched 18 miles, and went into camp near the town of Springfield. By this time the intelligence had filtered down to the common soldiers as to the object of this expedition. It was to intercept, and give battle to, a force of Confederate cavalry, under Gen. J. O. Shelby, operating somewhere in this region, and supposed to have threatening designs on the Little Rock and Devall's Bluff railroad. But so far as encountering the Confederates was concerned, the movement was an entire failure. My experience during the war warrants the assertion, I think, that it is no use to send infantry after cavalry. It is very much like a man on foot trying to run down a jack-rabbit. It may be that infantry can sometimes head off cavalry, and thereby frustrate an intended movement, but men on horses can't be maneuvered into fighting men on foot unless the horsemen are willing to engage. Otherwise they will just keep out of the way.

We remained at Springfield until May 28th. It was a little place and its population when the war began was probably not more than a hundred and fifty, or two hundred. It was the county seat of Conway county, but there was no official business being transacted there now. About all the people had left, except a few old men and some women and small children. The houses were nearly all log cabins. Even the county jail was a log structure of a very simply and unimposing type. It has always been my opinion that this little place was the most interesting and romantic-looking spot (with one possible exception I may speak of later) that I saw in the South during all my army service. The town was situated on rather high ground, and in the heart of the primitive forest. Grand native trees were growing in the door-yards, and even in the middle of the main street,—and all around everywhere. And we were there at a season of the year when Nature was at its best, and all the scenery was most attractive and charming. I sometimes would sit down at the foot of some big tree in the center of the little village, and ponder on what surely must have been the happy, contented condition of its people before the war came along and spoiled all. Judging from the looks of the houses, the occupants doubtless had been poor people and practically all on the same financial footing, so there was no occasion for envy. And there was no railroad, nor telegraph line, nor daily papers, to keep them nervous and excited or cause them to worry. And they were far away from the busy haunts of congregated men,—