The river closed early, and cold weather was soon upon us. We passed our time as we had done the previous winter. Nothing disturbed our tranquility, until suddenly in the early part of January Company I and my company were ordered to go at once to Niabrara. Four army wagons mounted on runners were prepared to carry our provisions and baggage. One of them was fitted up with a sheet iron stove for the officers to ride and sleep in. It seemed that the Ponca Indians, whose village was close to Niabrara, had killed one of the citizens and committed depredations on the settlers. The villagers had asked the commandant of Fort Randall for protection. The commanding officer sent a message to "Big Drum," the chief of the Poncas, and the head men of the tribe to come to Fort Randall, but they paid no attention to it. After waiting a reasonable time he ordered the two companies to go and punish the Indians.
The captain of Company I, who commanded the expedition, was a corpulent, elderly man, with a large family. He loved his ease and had lost his stomach for fighting. When the Civil War broke out he soon resigned to spend his declining years peacefully keeping a store in a western town. The other officers of our little expedition were Captain Gardner and Lieutenant O'Connoll of my company and a lieutenant of Company I.
We started our march in the forenoon of a very cold but bright day and climbed the hills below Fort Randall. The snow was deep, and the thick crust on it made marching hard and tiresome. It was quickly discovered that our customary way of marching by fours was impracticable. We were reduced to twos, and as soon as the two leading men were tired out breaking a path in the deep snow, they stepped to one side, and waited to fall in line again in the rear. The officers rode their horses, but at times took to the warm sleigh which the commander hardly ever left. The days were short, and I think we accomplished only a little more than six miles on the first before darkness overtook us. We went into camp on the spot where we halted on top of a bleak hill, and waited a while for the sleighs with our baggage to come up.
It was bitter cold, probably thirty degrees below zero at least, but we had no thermometer to tell us that. We shoveled away some of the deep snow and tried to put up tents but found it impossible to drive wooden tent pins into the frozen ground. We therefore banked up the snow high to the windward, and made our beds on the frozen ground. Fortunately we had plenty of robes and blankets. I slept in the middle with three in the bed, and felt warm all night.
The cooks started a fire with wood obtained from a nearby ravine, but for water they had to melt snow. We had coffee before we went to bed, which helped to warm us up and the fire was kept burning all night. Snow had to be melted to water the horses and mules, and to make our coffee in the morning. We slept in our clothes, removing only our overcoats and boots. When we arose we found that the exhalation from our bodies had caused a thick crust of ice to form on the topmost robe, while the lowest one was frozen fast to the ground. I had imprudently left my boots and buffalo hide overboots outside of my bed. In the morning they were frozen as stiff as sheet iron. I could not put them on until a comrade had thawed them at the fire for me.
The four officers slept in the sleigh as best they could. I overheard Captain Gardner remark to another officer next morning while they warmed themselves at the fire before mounting their horses, that he had the courage, but not the constitution to stand such a march. Our corpulent commander did not leave the sleigh, and had his breakfast cooked and brought to him by his "dog-robber," as the men called an officer's soldier-servant.
We had a hard day's march the next day, for we kept near the river where it was hilly and made about twelve miles. We fared better on that and on subsequent nights, as we camped at the edge of woods where we could build roaring fires. Fortunately we had no snow storms to add to the rigor of the intense cold. We did not put up any tents during the march.
I think it was on the forenoon of the fourth day, just as we got to the brow of a hill, that about fifty mounted Indians appeared over the crest of a hill more than half a mile away. They seemed astonished on seeing us and halted for a moment. An excited soldier discharged his rifle at them without waiting for orders to fire. This caused nearly a dozen others to fire before the officer could stop them. At the first shot the Indians fled down the hill and were out of sight in a few seconds. They did not reply to our firing, which had done them no harm. We learned a few days later that this was a party of Ponca Indians on a peace journey to Fort Randall.
On the evening of the fifth day we arrived at the wooded bluffs overlooking the Niabrara River, near its junction with the Missouri. On the other side of the river was a small settlement of about a dozen houses and a hotel called "The Niabrara." Next morning we had a hard time getting the sleighs down the steep bluffs to the frozen river. The mules were unhitched, and the sleighs were slid down one at a time with ropes hitched around trees to prevent them from descending too fast. We got them all down safely, crossed the river and camped close to the settlement. With great difficulty we put up our "Sibley" tents, using steel picket-pins to drive holes in the ground before we could insert the wooden tent pins. We got brush in the woods to cover the ground inside the tents, and built fires in the company streets, as a fire within the tent would have thawed the frozen ground, and reduce it to a quagmire. The officers occupied rooms at the hotel and messed there.
The large Ponca Indian village was but a mile or two away, and the next day after our arrival orders were sent to the Indians to attend a council on the following morning. But that night a blizzard which lasted for forty-eight hours swept down upon us and caused intense suffering. The wind blew the drifting snow so fiercely that no fires could be kept going. It was evening before the kindly proprietor of the hotel sent for our cooks and allowed them to make some hot coffee for us in his kitchen. The next day the storm continued with unabated fury. All we could do was to lie in our tents covered up with our blankets and buffalo robes to keep from freezing. But we had hot coffee twice and some warm soup on the second day, which put some life into us.
The hotel at Niabrara must have been built with an idea that the settlement would grow rapidly like Sioux City. But it had failed to do so. The place seemed as large as one would expect to find in a western town of two thousand inhabitants. It was a frame building, clapboarded, three stories high with a shingled gabel roof. There was a kitchen and dining-room on the first floor, also a good sized bar-room and a sitting-room. The first two stories had been plastered, but the third was left unfinished, and had only the clapboards and the shingles as a protection against the weather.
I do not know whether it was an arrangement made by our officers, or an offer from the proprietor, influenced perhaps by the fact that at this time there were no guests at the hotel, and that all of the soldiers seemed to have money. At any rate, when the blizzard was over, we took down our tents and moved to the unfinished third floor of the hotel, which was just about large enough so that all could lie down at night. There were only about seventy of us, counting cooks, teamsters and "dog-robbers." It was very cold up there on the top floor at night, but we had plenty of bedding and during the day we were allowed to sit in the bar and the sitting-room, where there were stoves. We found it an agreeable change from the camp.
We cooked our own meals and ate them where we could, but the proprietor, who seemed a very shrewd sort of person, served some meals in the dining-room at fifty cents per head, at which we got fried bacon, corn bread, flap jacks and coffee sweetened with molasses, which was all he had to offer. He had some soft drinks at the bar, cigars and tobacco and a few candies and crackers. I do not know whether he had any liquor. If he did, he never sold any of it to the soldiers. He had his cook make large quantities of corn bread and often came into the bar-room with slabs of it, shouting: "Who'll have another section for a quarter!" Our officers occupied rooms on the second floor of the hotel, and had their meals served there.
The council with the Ponca Indians was held on the day after we had moved into the hotel. All the soldiers not on guard or other duty to the number of about fifty, were drawn up under arms in front of the hotel, when we saw Big Drum and his braves approaching. All of the officers and soldiers knew the chief. They had also met some of the other Indians, who had often been at Fort Randall, which was but "one sleep" (two days ride) from the Ponca Village. The chief, a man of about fifty years, was the tallest and most powerful member of his tribe. He was a typical savage in appearance with a large head and face strongly pock marked. I had seen him at the fort considerably under the influence of "fire water," which had been given to him by some of the officers or the sutler.
We noticed that the Indians had come to the council, contrary to custom, almost fully armed. Some had guns with them, which were but ill concealed beneath their robes or blankets. Their weapons were probably loaded, while our guns were not.
Our officers with a few citizens and some interpreters formed a group about twenty paces in front of the center of our little battalion, and faced the Indians who out-numbered us more than two to one. While the "talk" progressed the Indians spread around the flanks, and in rear of the officers, practically surrounding them. Had any trouble occurred we would have had to fire in their direction, and perhaps kill our own officers. We wondered at the unwise and negligent arrangements of our corpulent commander. I think the other officers noted it, for when the council was continued on the following day, our guns were loaded, our officers kept close to the front of our ranks, and the Indians were not allowed to spread around the flanks. At the close of the second day of the council Big Drum surrendered four Indians as prisoners. They were disarmed, and put in the guard-house, which was a small out-building belonging to the hotel.
About three days after the council, we commenced our return march to Fort Randall, taking with us the Indian prisoners, who marched in rear of the column with the camp guard. We crossed the Missouri on the ice and marched up on the east bank, where the land was more level and the distance somewhat shorter owing to the curvature of the river towards the west. We crossed the Vermillion River, almost without noticing it, where it passed through a piece of prairie. The snow being so deep that the banks were scarcely distinguishable. We accomplished the distance in three days' marching, and were fortunate not to encounter a snow storm.
About noon on the last day of the march, I succumbed to the severe fatigue of marching through the deep snow for the first time during my service. I was exhausted and unable to go further. I was put into one of the sleighs, hauled by six mules, into which some other worn out and half frozen soldiers had preceded me. We arrived at the fort after dark, where I discovered that some of my toes on both feet were badly frozen. It was about three weeks before I was able to do duty again. A number of the soldiers had been frost-bitten, but none seriously.
After a while Big Drum, accompanied by some Indians of his tribe, came to the fort, and remained for some time. He had several interviews with the colonel in command, which finally resulted in the four Indian prisoners being set free.
No further trouble occurred during the remainder of the winter. I began to count the days that remained before the expiration of my service on March 31, 1859. When the day arrived I received my discharge from the service, but remained with my company as their guest until I could get transportation to the States. A soldier of my company whose term of service had expired about the same time as mine, had built himself a staunch boat with two paddle wheels to be worked by hand power. He proposed to descend the Missouri in this boat to St. Louis, and invited me to make the journey with him. However, I preferred to wait for a steamboat. He started on his trip alone about the middle of April, but we never heard how he got along.
The ice in the Missouri broke up about a week earlier than usual, and the latter part of April I began to make frequent ascents of some of the highest hills about Fort Randall. From their summits I could look for many miles down the river and watch for a steamboat, for I was impatient to return to civilization. Finally the boat arrived on the evening of the first day of May, somewhat sooner than we had expected her. On this boat came Major James Longstreet, who was a paymaster in the United States Army and destined to become a Lieutenant General in the Confederate Army, and a conspicuous figure all through the war of the Rebellion.
Major Longstreet, with the assistance of his clerk, J. T. Bradley, paid off the troops at the fort next morning. I received all my due pay, and my retained pay of two dollars per month. The retained pay was the amount held back by the Government from each soldier since the pay had been raised in 1854, to be given to him at the expiration of his service. I also received more than fifty dollars, which I had saved on my clothing allowance and mileage to New York City, the place of my enlistment. All this amounted to over three hundred dollars—quite a sum of money for a boy not eighteen years old. It made me feel wealthy. From the pay of every soldier throughout his service there was a monthly deduction of twelve and a half cents, which went towards the maintenance of the Soldiers' Home at Washington, D.C., an institution of great benefit to old and indigent soldiers.
I engaged cabin passage on the steamer to St. Louis, as did a few other discharged soldiers, among them Sergeant John Brown of my company, whom I had first met as cockswain of the Governor's Island barge. Sergeant Brown had re-enlisted, and was going on a furlough. Later on he was made an Ordnance Sergeant. A few other discharged and furloughed soldiers took deck passage. I had sold or given away my clothing and bedding, and bought a suit of citizens' clothing at the sutler's store—regular wild western store clothes. I took with me a collection of Indian pipes, moccasins, bows and arrows, etc., and about three days after the arrival of the steamboat, I bade farewell to my comrades and to the officers of my company, receiving some good advice from Captain Gardner.
Many of my comrades advised me to remain in the west, and grow up with the country; and I came near doing so, but a strong desire to go to New York and see my mother overcame all other considerations. I was still very young, hopeful and ambitious to succeed in civil life, and I was strong and healthy in spite of the hardship and sufferings I had endured in my tender years.
I little thought at that time that in a year I should re-enlist and serve in the same company throughout the Civil War, in the Army of the Potomac. Neither did I think that I was too young and inexperienced at that time for success in civil life, or that it would require another term of service of harder experience to mature and prepare me for a permanent career outside of the army.
There were a few furloughed officers on the steamboat, among them Brevet Major Henry W. Wessells of my regiment, an estimable officer who was taking his eldest son, H. W. Wessells, Jr., whom I knew very well, to place in a school at Danbury, Connecticut. Young Wessells became a Second Lieutenant in the Army in 1865, while his father was retired as a Lieutenant Colonel and Brevet Brigadier General in 1871.
We took many passengers on the way down the river, some of them very interesting and talkative people, but Major Longstreet and his clerk, Bradley, led the conversations at the steamer's public dining-table. They were not only the most interesting talkers but received the most respectful attention.
I had not been many days on the river, when I was afflicted with the chills and fever again, and had to keep to my berth a great part of the time. It seemed as though I was to suffer from that or dumb-ague every time I traveled on this river. There was no doctor on the boat, but an elderly colored man, the chief steward, heard of my illness and came to see me. He assured me that he could cure me with three doses of medicine, so I would never have the fever again. For this he sagaciously demanded five dollars in advance. I was desperate, so I gave him the money and told him to go ahead. He brought me a dose of medicine, which was the vilest stuff I ever tasted and made me feel very sick. After an interval of a day he brought me another dose, which tasted so much worse than the first and made me feel so ill that no amount of his persuasion could induce me to take his third dose. I vowed that I would rather have the ague for ever after than to take his medicine. About this time we had reached Leavenworth, where I spent about half a day on shore. I began to feel better, and before I reached St. Louis I was entirely well.
At one of the towns along the river a gentleman and his son from Cleveland or Rochester, who were traveling on business in the west, took passage for St. Louis and struck up an acquaintance with me. The elder man seemed to be greatly interested in my experience in the Indian country, and before we reached St. Louis he invited me to visit him. He hinted that he would charge himself with my future, if I would go with him; but I declined. I was too much bent on getting back to New York, where I hoped to build up my future by my own efforts.
The river was high, and we had a quick passage to St. Louis, where my companion, Sergeant Brown, and I stayed for two days, seeing, after so long in the wilderness, the sights of a large city. We left St. Louis for New York on a Saturday afternoon, and arrived at Cincinnati on Sunday morning, where we had to lie over until midnight as no trains went out on Sunday. With a few changes of cars, we reached New York, where we separated, and I went home.
It is not my intention to describe in detail my experiences as a civilian during the period between my first and second enlistments, but to restrict this story to my army career. I will only state here that my lack of knowledge of civil life made it hard for me to obtain any remunerative or permanent employment. I made all kinds of efforts, answering advertisements by letter or in person; in the latter case often finding a crowd of applicants ahead of me, most of whom had some experience in the kind of work offered. I often walked the streets looking for work and felt heartsick and discouraged at my failure to find employment. My little stock of money diminished day by day although I practiced the strictest economy, spending a few pennies for a mid-day meal when I was tramping about the city. After a time, during the summer, I found occasional employment; but it was not until fall that I secured a steady job where, however, the hours were long, the pay small and the work uncongenial.
About the middle of March, 1860, I was visited by two discharged soldiers from my company who had also come to New York, their former home, in search of employment, but without success. They had made up their minds to re-enlist and asked me to join them. I considered the matter carefully, and seeing no prospects for advancement, finding myself poorer financially than if I had remained in the service, and having a real fondness for a soldier's life, I decided to give up my employment and try my fortune once more in the military service.
On the twenty-fourth day of March, 1860, my two comrades and I re-enlisted to serve for five years in the United States Army. The recruiting office was in Chatham Street (now called Park Row), New York city. First Lieutenant Thomas W. Sweeney of my old company was the recruiting officer. He remembered us, seemed glad to have us return to the service and promised to see to it that we would be restored to our former regiment and company. It was just one year, lacking a week, since I had been discharged at Fort Randall, Nebraska Territory. My age at my re-enlistment was nineteen years, less three months.
We passed the medical examination, were sworn into the service by a notary, and on the same day were sent to Governor's Island, New York harbor. As I was no longer a musician I was assigned to quarters in the upper casemates of Castle Williams, along with a number of raw recruits. I found no changes or improvements on the island since I had left it more than five years before; it seemed the same as I have already described it, only the officers had all been changed. Major T. H. Holmes of the Eighth Infantry was in command.
In a few days I drew my kit and clothing at the quartermaster's stores and had to commence drilling along with other recruits who were being instructed by the drill-sergeants in their facings, marching, etc. The officer in command of the drilling squads soon discovered that I was well versed in all that was to be taught the recruits and detailed me to take a few of the stupidest of the lot to one side and try to instruct them. I disliked drilling this awkward squad, as it was very trying to my patience. They did not seem to know the left foot from the right; and when ordered to keep their heads up, out would go their stomachs. When it came to an "about face," some of them fell over themselves.
One afternoon a comrade and myself were detailed for fatigue duty to dig a grave for a soldier who had died in the hospital. We were supplied with pick and shovel and conducted to the island graveyard by a sergeant who marked out the location and the dimensions of the grave and then left, after admonishing us to be sure to have the job finished before two o'clock in the afternoon, when the funeral was to take place. Neither my comrade nor I had ever handled a pick or shovel before and we found the work hard. It was a warm day in April. We soon grew tired and felt very hot and dry. Opportunely the sutler's store was close by and beer by the glass was sold there. We found it necessary to refresh ourselves several times during the forenoon and to take a good long rest at noon-time. At two o'clock we were still digging when we heard the drums and fifes playing the dead-march and saw the funeral approaching from the hospital close by. The procession entered the graveyard and lined up at the grave; the corpse was ready, but we were not, for we had dug a hole only about four feet deep. After a scolding we were ordered to quit—much to our satisfaction. A couple of strong and husky Irishmen soon dug the hole to the required depth of six feet and the ceremonies were completed.
After a few weeks I was transferred from the castle to the garrison, where both the quarters and food were better. As I understood all the necessary drill, a rifle and accoutrements were issued to me and I had to take my turn at guard duty twice a week. I well remember that, the first time I was a sentinel on post, I was stationed on the shore facing Brooklyn, in front of some store houses, where I paced for two hours at a time and then was relieved and had four hours off before going on post again. In the day-time I could interest myself in watching the movements of steamboats and small craft on the river, but at night it was lonesome and the time on post seemed much longer. We had a little rest at night, during the four hours off, when we lay down on a hard wooden platform in the guard-house which was built for that purpose. We had to keep all our clothing and accoutrements on, and were generally disturbed after midnight by sentinel number one in front of the guard-house calling out, "Turn out the guard for the officer of the day" when we hurried out, formed ranks and were inspected by the officer of the day, who usually made the rounds of all the sentinels on the different posts at that hour.
There was on the island at that time a sergeant with a Polish name who had the immediate charge of the raw recruits. He was a martinet, a tyrannical bully in his treatment of the poor and ignorant recruits, who feared and hated him, but he was artful enough to keep aloof from the old soldiers who understood their rights and privileges. He seemed to be the most detested non-commissioned officer in the army.
I was impatient to rejoin my regiment on the frontier and to get away from Governor's Island, where my former experience was not a happy one; but it was not until early in June that a detachment of recruits for the Ninth Infantry, then serving in Oregon, was ready to depart. With this detachment of one hundred and fifty, another of fifty, destined for the Second United States Infantry, stationed in Dakota Territory, was to travel a part of the way. I secured a pass to be absent for forty-eight hours and went to the city to bid farewell to my mother and friends. One morning a few days later we formed on the parade ground, fully equipped with knapsack, haversack, tin cup, tin plate, knife, fork and spoon, a canteen and three days' rations of boiled salt pork and hard bread stowed in our haversacks; but without arms. We were escorted to the wharf by the post band, playing the usual airs, and embarked on a steamboat for the Erie Railroad depot in Jersey City.
Upon our arrival at the railroad depot we found a special train waiting to take us out West. The soldiers traveled in emigrant cars with bare wooden seats, very uncomfortable to ride in and very fatiguing, as we could sleep but little in our cramped positions. My experience on this journey was similar to that of my first trip West five years before. We lived on our rations with a quart-cupful of hot coffee with milk twice a day at some of the stations.
Upon arriving at Chicago the fifty recruits for the Second United States Infantry, of whom I was one, changed cars for St. Louis, Missouri, while the larger party kept on West as far as the railroad went and then had a long march across the plains to Oregon. From St. Louis we went South a few miles by cars to Jefferson Barracks, on the west bank of the Mississippi River, where we arrived about the middle of June. There were few soldiers at the barracks at that time, about a dozen reenlisted men awaiting an opportunity to rejoin their regiments, like myself, and a few score recruits in addition to our detachment. The barracks was pleasantly situated on high ground overlooking the river and was quite extensive. The country round about was sparsely settled, with large stretches of still uncultivated land and woods. A good road led to the village of Carondelet about half-way to St. Louis. Midway between the barracks and the village was a tavern called "The Stone House," which was much frequented by the soldiers.
I was appointed lance-corporal and helped to drill the recruits. I was also corporal of the guard about once a week and, as such, posted and relieved the sentinels. This gave me plenty of spare time for roving about the country, and for fishing and swimming in the Mississippi River. I was exceedingly fond of swimming and for nearly three months, except when on guard, I had a swim immediately after the reveille roll-call before breakfast, rain or shine. The weather was very hot that summer and I went into the water generally twice more during the day and always had a short swim in the evening after sundown to fasten a fish-line to a snag in the river about fifty yards from the shore, where I often found a catfish when I examined the line in the morning. It was pleasant to sit in the cool shade on the river-bank and see some of the famous Mississippi river steam-boats racing by, for at that time there were still many boats plying the river and the levee at St. Louis was crowded with them. Several times I secured a pass for a twenty-four hours' visit to St. Louis, and walked six or seven miles to Carondelet a few times without a pass.
Farm produce was very cheap; we improved our rations at very little expense and lived fairly well during the summer.
Early in September about sixty-five of the recruits destined for the Second United States Infantry, myself among the number, received orders to proceed to St. Louis and there to embark on a steamboat for St. Paul, Minnesota. We boarded the cars of the Iron Mountain Railroad at the barracks station and rode to St. Louis. It was a long distance from the railroad depot to the steamboat, which was near the north end of the levee; the day was hot and I staggered along under my heavily loaded knapsack and was ready to drop when we reached the steamer. My excessive swimming had weakened me to an extent that I was not aware of.
The steamer was a regular passenger and freight boat of the usual type; there were no bunks nor any kind of accommodations for us and we had to stay on the lower deck with the freight, spreading out blankets and sleeping any place we could find room. This proved to be a great hardship for me, for on the second day of our journey I became ill with a violent attack of what we called dumb-ague, which lasted until we reached St. Paul. It seemed that every time I traveled on the Missouri or the Mississippi rivers I was to have a fever of some sort. Dr. Andrew K. Smith, our surgeon, dosed me so liberally with quinine that I was in a stupor, so that my memory is almost a blank regarding this trip up the river. I could not eat the rations, but, fortunately, had some money and could bribe the cabin cooks to give me nourishing soup and a few delicacies, for which I was grateful. When we landed at St. Paul I felt better and was able to march to a camp prepared for us a few miles from the city, where Sibley tents had been put up and a train of about twenty army wagons with their six-mule teams were ready to load up with commissary and quartermaster's stores for Fort Abercrombie, Dakota Territory, which was our destination.
In a few days we started on our long march, passing through Minneapolis, and then in a northwesterly direction through a sparsely settled country to the town of St. Cloud, on the Mississippi, which dwindled to a small river at that point. Captain Deluzier Davidson, together with a lieutenant and a surgeon, were the officers of our detachment. I was still weak, but improved rapidly under the influence of the healthy atmosphere and the out-of-door life. I could not make a full day's march, however, although we carried no knapsacks; sometimes I rode the doctor's horse when he wanted to walk, or rode in one of the wagons when I was tired out. We did not attempt hard marches, but started at sunrise and generally encamped in the early afternoon, for Captain Davidson loved his ease and comfort, and there was no necessity to rush us along. At St. Cloud we rested for a day and washed our clothing in the river.
A day's march after we left St. Cloud all signs of settlements disappeared and we saw no more until we came to the town of Alexandria, a cluster of houses on a lake, about half-way between St. Paul and Fort Abercrombie. We were now in a country full of lakes, large and small, some of them were beautiful—the water clear and teeming with fish. When we arrived at the Otter Tail Lake, which was larger than any we had seen, we rested for another day and were amazed at the countless numbers of pelicans that we saw. These birds, when not fishing, rested on the islands in the lake, completely covering them, and from a distance it seemed as though they were covered with snow. We made a sort of seine out of feed bags, sewed together end to end, about twenty-five feet in length, and fastened to a stick at each end. Two men would wade into the lake for a short distance, extend this seine and drag it towards the shore, bringing with them many fish that struggled and wriggled when they got into shallow water, where we picked out with our hands such of them as we fancied.
Although we were in the country of the Chippawa Indian, we saw none of them until we reached Breckenridge, an old trading-post, where we met a few of the savages. Breckenridge was an easy day's march from Fort Abercrombie. We had just finished establishing our camp there for the night when several wagons and a small escort of soldiers arrived and halted for a while. They were from the fort on their way to St. Paul, and with them was Captain William M. Gardner of my company, going home on a six-months' furlough, accompanied by his wife and negro servants. They rode in a spring wagon (about the size of an ambulance) drawn by two horses. The captain was somewhat surprised to find me back in the army again. He talked with me for a long while and mentioned that he would make me a non-commissioned officer as soon as there was a vacancy in the company. He advised me to study with a view to being admitted to the military academy at West Point, and promised to use his influence, along with that of some other officers, to obtain for me an "appointment at large" from the President when I could qualify for admission. Much to my regret, I never saw Captain Gardner again. He resigned his commission before his furlough expired (while at his home in Georgia) and joined the Confederate Army.
The next day we arrived at Fort Abercrombie. The fort was situated on the west bank of the Red River of the North, which here marked the dividing line between Dakota and Minnesota Territories. This river flows north and empties into Lake Winnipeg in the British possessions, while the Mississippi, but little more than a hundred miles to the east, flows south. The Red river was but a small stream, navigable for canoes only. The most interesting thing about it and the Wild Rice river, a tributary a few miles away, were the dams built by beavers, which were plentiful on both rivers. Muskrats were also abundant.
The place was a fort in name only; it was in a bend of the river, whose course was marked by a fringe of woods in places, while all else was a bleak, level prairie as far as the eye could see. Two companies of my regiment had arrived here from Fort Randall in the spring and had built the customary log huts, which they were now occupying, in the woods on the low bottom-land of the river. Two other companies made the long march from Fort Laramie, via Fort Randall, and had arrived here in midsummer. These companies were engaged in building permanent quarters of hewn logs, with board floors and shingled roofs, on the plateau which formed the edge of the prairie. The soldiers' quarters consisted of one large room to house an entire company with a wing for the kitchen and mess-room. These buildings had not yet been completed upon our arrival and the two companies were in camp in Sibley tents. It was the end of September, the nights were getting cold and we had an occasional white frost in the morning; we were a few degrees further north than at Fort Pierre and on a higher elevation.
Our detachment of recruits was apportioned to the different companies and I rejoined Company D, in which I had served during my first enlistment. I missed a number of my old comrades—they had been discharged and had scattered throughout the West—but most of the former non-commissioned officers had re-enlisted. The first, or orderly sergeant, as he was also called, had me appointed as company clerk, which was an easy job and excused me from guard duty and from work upon the new quarters. This lasted for about two months, when we had a dispute and I was ordered back to do duty the same as any other private.
Fort Abercrombie was a dreary, lonesome place. The Chippawa Indians seldom came there and only in small parties and for a short stay. Their villages were much farther north—as far as Pembina, near the British lines.
A paymaster arrived at the post shortly after we did, accompanied by Major Irving McDowell, who was an assistant inspector general. He was a fine looking and apparently genial officer. He made a thorough inspection of the post and the soldiers. I little thought then that I would next see him in Washington after the battle of Bull Run, a defeated general. The commander of the post was Major Hannibal Day of the Second Infantry, a dignified old gentleman with long white hair and beard and a cold austere look in his eyes. The company commanders were Captains Christopher S. Lovell and Deluzier Davidson; a first lieutenant was in command of the third company, and my own was commanded by Second Lieutenant Wm. H. Jordan of the Ninth Infantry, who was temporarily attached to my regiment, our captain being absent on furlough and the first lieutenant on recruiting service in New York city. A few other second lieutenants and the surgeon made up the complement of officers at this time.
In October we began to have frosts and some snow; the Sibley tents were cold and uncomfortable, as no sheet-iron stoves had been provided and when we attempted to build fires in them the smoke drove us out. This led to various contrivances to warm our tents. In my own we dug a deep pit on one side and a covered trench with two lateral branches extending from it under the dirt floor, with openings outside of the tent for the smoke to escape from the fire which was built in the pit. This system of heating kept the tent comfortably warm except when the wind was contrary.
A great snow-storm and blizzard struck us in November and caused much suffering. Fortunately our quarters were completed about the end of the month; we moved in and enjoyed the comfort of sleeping in bunks on bedsacks filled with dried leaves, and warming ourselves at the two stoves with which our quarters were provided, although the large room except directly around the stoves was freezing cold. In January and February the thermometer sometimes fell to more than forty degrees below zero. We had a number of frost-bite cases in our little log-house hospital—some of them very severe—before our unsympathetic post commander issued an order to relieve all sentinels except Post No. 1, in front of the guard-house, who, with the temperature twenty degrees minus zero, was to be relieved every thirty minutes.
I had to take my tour of guard duty about once a week and was on post for two hours at a time with four hours off. I was warmly clothed, but when the temperature was down to thirty or lower I was chilled to the bone in less than an hour. In the night I often leaned my gun against a snowbank and beat my hands against my shoulders vigorously and ran to and fro the extent of my beat to keep my feet from freezing. On my hands I wore a pair of heavy woolen gloves and over them mittens made of buffalo skin with the hair on the inside, yet my fingers became so numb with the cold that, if I had had occasion to fire off my gun, I could not have reloaded it. From a board fence close to my post the intense cold forced out nails, which whirred through the air with a whizzing sound.
Wolves were plentiful; they came howling around our kitchens at night and close to the sentinels—less than a hundred feet away sometimes, when I shouted and rushed at them with my bayonet to scare them away. When a horse or a mule died, he was dragged out on the prairie a short distance and there devoured by the wolves. Traps were set in the snow about the carcass and many wolves were caught, while the others picked the bones clean.
I was frequently excused from the severe guard duty by being selected as commanding officer's orderly. This was a reward for the soldier whose clothing, arms and equipment the adjutant considered the cleanest and neatest. A speck of rust or a small spot on the clothing often put a man out of the race. There was great rivalry for this selection among the soldiers, for the orderly had an easy time. He could sit in a warm room in the commanding officer's quarters, carry a few messages during the day and sleep in his own bunk all night.
During the long, dreary winter we kept within doors, when not on duty, for the inclemency of the weather permitted but little out-of-door exercise. In compliance with Captain Gardner's advice, I borrowed text-books from Lieutenant Jordan, who was but lately from West Point, also from some other officers, and studied them all through the winter during my spare time. Some soldiers read papers and magazines, but the favorite pastime was playing checkers and cards; the games were euchre, seven-up, forty-five and poker, at which the stakes were dried beans instead of money.
An enterprising citizen established an express service between St. Paul and Fort Abercrombie with way-stations for the changing of drivers and horses. This gave us a mail service once a week, when the weather permitted, and kept us in touch with the world. The expressman took orders from us for any articles we wished from St. Paul and brought up the packages, as well as goods for the sutler.
There was a Scotchman in my company, whom we called Sandy, who was an excellent cook and a born caterer. During the winter he proposed to get up a dinner to be followed by dancing in the company's mess-room. Permission was obtained for "Sandy's ball," as we called it; most of the company subscribed, as well as some soldiers from the other companies. Sandy shrewdly collected the cash and gave no credit, then he sent to St. Paul for stone china dishes, for we had only tin cups and plates in our mess-room. He ordered hams, tongues, sardines, pickles, preserves, lemons, etc., not forgetting a few dozen bottles of American champagne, which had been carefully packed with sawdust into barrels both for safety and concealment. These goods arrived in due time and Sandy was a busy man, cooking hams and venison and baking pies and cakes. We helped him put up a few decorations and a lot of candles around the walls.
All was ready when the eventful evening arrived. The dinner was to be at eight o'clock, followed by dancing until midnight, with two fiddlers and a flute player to furnish the music. A half dozen soldiers' wives were the only ladies present; but we had as many more of the younger men dressed up in borrowed female clothes. The dinner was voted a great success and we lauded Sandy. We had bottled ale from the sutler's and topped off with whiskey punch, which continued to be served throughout the evening. Then the tables and benches were moved into a corner, the dishes piled on them, and the dancing commenced.
Everything went well for a while and we had lots of fun, until trouble started between the fiddlers. One of them, Mike Burns, had partaken of too much punch and wanted to play an Irish jig, while his German partner held out for a waltz. This enraged Mike so that he exclaimed, "Oi despises no nation, but damn the Dutch!" and smashed his fiddle over his partner's head. The combatants were separated, Mike was put out, order restored and the dancing resumed. While the dance went on Sandy had been busy in the kitchen selling Ohio champagne to the soldiers at steep prices. This, together with liberal quantities of whiskey punch, began to show its effects and the fun became fast and furious, until near midnight a fight started in one end of the room and in a moment a dozen or more of the soldiers were in the midst of it. Bottles and dishes were thrown about the room; the women screamed and rushed for the door; Sandy was up on a table waving his arms and shouting, "Quit yer fechting! dinna be breaking me dishes, I'm a puir mon," when the table upset and he went down to the floor among his broken dishes. The officer of the day and a few files of the guard, together with the corporal, now made their appearance and quelled the disturbance. All those who showed marks of having been fighting or were drunk were marched off to the guard-house and all others ordered to their quarters.
Sandy's ball had a sad sequel for him. He was a canny Scot and took good care of his bawbees (pence), saving much of his pay for some years, and it was assumed that he had made money out of the ball. A few weeks later, during midwinter, Sandy was missing for nearly a week and when he was at last brought back to the post in the express sleigh he had to be put into the hospital with his feet so badly frozen that all of his toes on both feet had to be amputated. He remained in the hospital until spring, when he was able to go about on crutches. He was then dishonorably discharged, forfeiting his pay due and all allowances. In the woods close to the post we built a shack for him to live in, also a stable, for he bought some cows and had them sent up from the settlements. There he made his living by selling milk and butter to the soldiers and ice cream, at which he was an adept. By the time we left the post he had discarded his crutches and was able to hobble about on his stumps.
Newspapers kept us informed of what transpired in the southern states after Lincoln's election to the presidency in November; how the violent threats of the south culminated in the secession of South Carolina from the Union on December twentieth, 1860, soon to be followed by other southern states. We read how Major Anderson transferred his small force from Fort Moultry to Sumpter, and about the firing on the steamer "Star of the West" with reinforcements for Fort Sumpter. We also heard that the Secretary of War, John B. Floyd, was accused of robbing the Indian Trust Funds and of depleting the Northern arsenals of arms and ammunition and of sending them south while still in office; also how in February General Twiggs traitorously surrendered the Seventh United States Infantry and other troops serving in Texas to the Confederacy; and how the rank and file refused the inducements held out to them to join the Confederate army, but were paroled and later on exchanged and did valiant service in the Union army, while a large number of their officers joined the standard of the enemy. We discussed these events earnestly and were much stirred when we learned that Fort Sumpter had been bombarded on April twelfth and evacuated by Major Anderson. We then understood that this was the commencement of war.
Militia soldiers from Pennsylvania reached Washington a few days later and on the fifteenth of April the President called out seventy-five thousand volunteers to serve for three months. Another proclamation of the President, dated May third for an increase of the regular army by twenty-two thousand and of the navy by eighteen thousand, was read to us on dress parade. In the meantime hundreds of the officers of the regular army had resigned their commissions and nearly all joined the Confederacy, among them my captain and some other officers of my regiment. To the credit of the rank and file be it said that, with very few exceptions, they remained loyal to the Government in the hour of its need. We began to wonder whether we were likely to take any part in putting down the rebellion before it was over, or whether we were to remain here in the Indian country.
Spring had come. When the snow had melted and the prairie became dry, we began to drill from three to four hours each day except on Saturday afternoons and Sundays. We had company, battalion, skirmish and bayonet drills, as well as target practice, and in a few months we became very expert in all of them. I was fond of the free action in skirmish drill, but did not like drilling in close formation. I also liked the bayonet exercise, and at target practice few could show a better score.
When not on duty we spent much of our time at the river, fishing, and swimming after the water had become warm enough. A favorite diversion was to go up the river a few miles and build a small raft of sticks to hold our clothes, swimming and pushing the raft before us down the current which flowed through shady woods. A small party of Chippawa Indians and squaws appeared a few times during the early summer and danced for rations, which was the only thing that relieved the monotony at this post.
We read of small engagements that had taken place between the opposing forces in various parts of the country and that an army was being concentrated at Washington, where two companies of our regiment from Fort Snelling, Minnesota, had gone. We envied these companies; they had a chance to see something of the war, which would soon be over, as we imagined, while we fretted and chafed in this lonely, far-off place, seemingly forgotten by the Government. At last, about the middle of July, we received the joyful news that two companies of the Second Minnesota Volunteers were on the way from St. Paul to relieve us and that we were ordered to Washington. In a few days the two companies arrived, weary and footsore from their long march. Most of them were very young lads who, though strong and hearty, were unaccustomed to marching on the burning hot prairies in midsummer. They had arms and accoutrements, but as yet no uniforms. We gave them a hearty reception, fraternized with them and helped to make them comfortable in their camp until they could occupy our quarters.
We packed our dress uniforms, hats and surplus clothing into packing-cases from the quartermaster's department, which were received some time after our arrival in Washington. In a few days our wagon-train was made up, we put our knapsacks on board, and left Fort Abercrombie without any regrets, early on a forenoon, amidst mutual cheering and a salute of "Present arms!" from the battalion of volunteers. All of the officers' ladies, as they called themselves, and the soldiers' wives and children went with us, riding in ambulances and in the army wagons.
Our first day's march ended at Breckenridge; our second day's march was a much longer one—we pursued about the same route as in the previous fall when we came up from St. Paul, but did not have the short marches we had enjoyed with the easy-going Captain Davidson. We soon found out that Major Hannibal Day was forcing us along at a rate of from twenty-four to thirty miles a day, which was very severe in the scorching heat of a July sun on the prairies. A number of men gave out on these long marches and were picked up by the rear-guard and put into the wagons. To be sure, we were anxious to get to Washington before the war would be over, but we did not want to kill ourselves in trying to get there. The men cursed the Major for an old tyrant, not loud but very deep.
We had completed about one-half of our journey to St. Paul when we encountered the express wagon carrying the mail to Fort Abercrombie and from newspapers received learned of the disaster and rout of the Union Army at Bull Run. This sad news staggered us—we could scarcely believe it. The northern press, from which we derived our information and shaped our opinions, had boasted so much about the patriotism and valor of the militia, who so promptly responded to the President's first call for troops, that we had fondly believed a single real battle would be enough to give the Confederacy a terrible lesson and break up the rebellion. We were indignant at the conduct of some of the Union troops, as we then understood it, the news of Bull Run cast a deep gloom over our battalion and we realized that we were likely to arrive at Washington in ample time to see something of the war.
Major Day, upon whom we looked as a very unfeeling man, allowed us some unusual privileges on this march. At St. Cloud a brewery had been erected, and when we were within four days' march of the town one forenoon we met a two-horse wagon loaded with kegs of lager beer, packed in ice and carefully covered over to shield it from the fierce rays of the sun. There was a man on the wagon beside the driver who, we noticed, had some talk with the Major and then turned the wagon around and followed our column until we halted for a rest, when we learned that each man who desired to do so might purchase a quart cup of beer for ten cents (a non-commissioned officer saw to it that no one got more than a quart). A rush was made for the beer wagon and keg after keg was tapped. It tasted delicious and cheered us. The officers also drank it, sending their servants for it; indeed, old Major Day, himself, did not disdain it. The beer wagon met us every day thereafter, near noontime, all the way down to St. Paul, and when it appeared we halted for a longer rest at the next convenient place and ate our lunch.
The Union sentiment was strong in the few small settlements through which we passed. At St. Cloud, where we encamped about a mile from town and rested for a day, the citizens gave us a generous welcome. A lady named Jane G. C. Swisshelm, who edited a newspaper there called "The Visitor," assisted by a committee of citizens and accompanied by the St. Cloud band, drove out to our camp, bringing with them a fine lunch and kegs of beer, for which we were very grateful. We gave her and the citizens of St. Cloud three rousing cheers when they departed.
The last day's march but one brought us to Minneapolis, where we encamped for the night on some fields just outside of the town, too tired and worn out to care for anything but to lie down and rest. This had been the hardest day's march of all—Major Day had made us cover thirty-two miles. Many men dropped out along the dusty road, overcome by the heat and fatigue; some fell asleep in shady places and did not reach camp until midnight. I was one of only a third of my company that was able to keep in the ranks until we reached camp. As the race is not always to the swift, so marching is not always the forte of the biggest and strongest men in a company of soldiers.
Next morning we resumed our march somewhat later than was customary, passing through Minneapolis, which was but a small town then, on to St. Paul, about ten miles away. The road between the two places had only farms and a few clusters of houses scattered along it. Upon arriving at St. Paul we marched to the steamboat wharf with closed ranks and received much attention and cheering from the citizens. When our wagon-train arrived, we got our knapsacks and the four companies boarded a steamboat which was waiting for us; we stowed ourselves away wherever we could find room, except on the cabin deck, which was reserved for passengers. There was no railroad at St. Paul then. We were to go down the Mississippi as far as La Crosse, Wisconsin, and take the cars there.
We sailed in the early afternoon; the boat was crowded and the weather very hot. When night came on my bunkie and I, along with others, spread our blankets on the hurricane deck back of the smokestacks. We took off our shoes and blouses, used our knapsacks for pillows and the starry sky for a covering. Being very tired, we were soon in a deep sleep. During the night I was awakened by a terrific yell and saw that my bunkie was sitting up, clutching at his chest and roaring with pain. I was confused, and for a moment I imagined the boat was on fire, as I saw fiery sparks in the air. We soon discovered the cause of the trouble. A large red-hot cinder from the smokestack (the boat burned wood for fuel and had high-pressure engines) had lodged on his bare breast through his open shirt and burned him severely enough to raise a large blister. We moved our bed to a safer place and slept peacefully for the remainder of the hot night.
Early in the afternoon on the following day we disembarked at La Crosse, where we noticed a train made up of one passenger car and a lot of empty box cars which was apparently waiting for us. We were indignant and loudly expressed our determination not to enter these cars and travel like cattle. The officers who, no doubt, overheard us, must have been of the same opinion, for we were not ordered into the cars but stacked arms and waited about three hours until a number of cars with hard wooden seats came along to replace the others. We embarked and started for Chicago.
After a weary night we arrived in Chicago the next day, where a change of cars was made, much for the better, as we got cushioned seats this time. We remained there about two hours and during that time crowds of citizens surrounded us and served us with coffee, sandwiches and pies, and presented us with cigars and tobacco. At Chicago we lost two men by desertion—the only ones on the entire trip. We also lost Captain Davidson, who remained behind and later on resigned his commission. He was an elderly man, very corpulent and unable to stand the hardships of a campaign.
All through the loyal western states across which we traveled there had been an uprising for the Union. The people were enthusiastic and gave us a hearty welcome wherever we stopped. At a town in Indiana, where we arrived near midnight, the citizens must have been informed of our coming. The station platform was crowded with people and they had a band playing patriotic airs. A group of young ladies, all dressed in white and wearing red-white-and-blue sashes, sang "The Star Spangled Banner" for us. Since the news of defeat at Bull Run the people were ready to make any sacrifice; the Northern papers clamored for the formation of a new army and an immediate advance "on to Richmond." It must have been during the time of this national excitement and enthusiasm that Josh Billings wrote the memorable words, "The Union must and shall be preserved, if I sacrifice all my wife's relations."
On our arrival in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, in the forenoon, the depot was jammed with people. Provisions enough for a feast and baskets of fruit were brought into our cars; it seemed as though everyone in the crowd wished to do something for us. After leaving Harrisburg we received orders to load our rifles, for there were rumors of expected trouble in Baltimore while the troops were traversing the city from one depot to another, for at this time the trains did not pass through to the Washington depot and it was necessary to march a long distance through the streets of the city. We reached Baltimore about four in the afternoon, formed ranks in the street, fixed bayonets and marched by fours in close order with the venerable Major Hannibal Day leading us. We carried our knapsacks, haversacks and canteens; we were dusty and dirty and bronzed by the hot sun on our recent march across the prairies. There were four companies of us and we looked more seasoned and determined than the militia troops that had passed through Baltimore before. We marched silently, only words of command being heard. There were many people on the streets regarding us with close attention. Sometimes a ruffian yelled out, "Bull Run!" which provoked no reply from us. A large, red-headed woman leaning out of a third-story window shouted, "Three cheers for Jeff Davis!" but got very scant encouragement from the people in the street.
We reached the depot without having any trouble, but were kept waiting there a long time and it was quite dusk in the evening when we embarked for Washington, arriving at the national capitol late in the evening. In Washington we formed ranks and marched to the "Soldiers' Rest," a large shed-building north of the capitol and but a short distance from it, where newly arrived troops received food and rested for a short time before going to their camps or quarters. The place had a board floor on which we spread our blankets. We were glad to stretch ourselves for we were very tired and stiff after our ride of three days and nights in a cramped position on the narrow seats of the cars. I think I fell asleep as soon as I lay down, and no ordinary noise could have waked me up before morning.
When I awoke on my first morning in Washington, I hastened out of doors to have a look around. The first prominent object I saw was the great white capitol building, the steel ribs of its unfinished dome strongly outlined against a clear sky. I took a long look at everything in view and then answered roll-call and had breakfast in the "Soldiers' Rest," after which we formed ranks in the street, where we "stacked arms" and waited for orders, watching meanwhile the arrival of some volunteer troops who had just come in on the cars and marched into the "Soldiers' Rest." Troops were beginning to arrive daily in large numbers in response to the President's call for "four hundred thousand more." About ten o'clock in the forenoon we received orders to "fall in" and the four companies separated, being sent to quarters in different parts of the city.
My company marched up Pennsylvania Avenue toward the White House. On the way some ladies presented each man with a Havelock, which is a cover for the forage cap and was made of white muslin and with a hood to protect the back of the head and neck from the sun's rays. They had been much worn by English soldiers in India during Major-General Sir Henry Havelock's time, and looked very fine when an entire regiment wore them on parade; but in less than a year their use was abandoned, as they were too conspicuous and kept the air from our necks. Our march ended at a house on the north side of K, near Eighteenth Street, which was to be our quarters. It was a three-story and basement private dwelling of the usual type and was devoid of any furniture. It belonged to a secessionist and, like a number of others, had been taken charge of by the Government. We drew rations and did our cooking in the basement and used the upper floors for sleeping, at night spreading our blankets on the bare floor. We had only light duties to perform, which left us plenty of time to wander about the city, visit the capitol and other public buildings. Only the principal streets in Washington were paved at this time, the remainder were mud roads rendered almost impassable in rainy weather by the artillery and army wagons.
It was the first week in August; most of the three-months' warriors had left for their homes and order was being restored. The streets were patrolled by regulars and all soldiers found in the city without permission were arrested, taken to a central guard-house and then returned to their respective commands. General George B. McClellan had been called to Washington immediately after the battle of Bull Run and placed in command of the Army of the Potomac. He was busy with his staff in organizing a great army. Our quarters being but a short distance from the headquarters of General McClellan, I had frequent opportunities of seeing him there and also riding through the streets, followed by a brilliant staff, among whom were a number of foreign officers in showy uniforms adorned with decorations and much gold lace. I also saw President Lincoln on the avenue a few times and saw his boys in Zouave uniforms "playing soldier" with some companions on the lawn in front of the White House.
There were probably not more than fifty thousand troops in and about Washington upon our arrival, but they soon began to come in at a rate of forty thousand a month, so that by the first of November, 1861, the numbers had reached one hundred and seventy thousand. They were young men who enlisted for three years or the duration of the war; they were patriotic and earnest and were not tempted to enlist by the payment of bounties. These soldiers became the flower of the Army of the Potomac and, I think, were not equaled by any subsequent levies.
A thousand regular soldiers had preceded our small command to Washington and about eight hundred of them had been in the engagement at Bull Run, including some marines. Among them were also the two companies of our regiment previously mentioned. From them we learned many details of what occurred on that disastrous day. This small body of eight hundred regulars and marines were unaffected by the panic and covered the retreat of the Federal Army. Many of the regulars were quartered near the then outskirts of the city on the north side in hastily constructed wooden buildings, which were called Kalorama Barracks. There were at that time six companies of my regiment in Washington, also the regiment headquarters and the band. Four other companies were with the western armies and remained there throughout the war. During my entire ten years' service I never saw more than six companies of the regiment together at one time.
After a stay of about two weeks in the K Street house in Washington my company (D) and Company A were ordered to Georgetown and quartered in Forrest Hall, a large sized building on the corner of what were then called High and Gay Streets. This building is still standing at this date (1913). There was a large entertainment hall on the second floor with a raised stage at one end and many wooden benches on the floor. Company A occupied this apartment, while my company took the third floor, which was divided into rooms. We slept on the bare floors, as we had done in K Street, but had the additional comfort of some of the wooden benches to sit on. The first floor was used for a guard-house with a large room for prisoners brought in by the patrols; the basement, which had an alley on the rear leading out into Gay Street, was used for our kitchen.
On the hot day that we moved into this building a severe thunderstorm broke out in the afternoon and the rain fell in torrents. We thought this a good opportunity to get a refreshing bath, and as the high roof of the building could not be overlooked from any of the houses in the neighborhood, a number of us took off our clothing and ascended to the roof and remained there until the storm was over; later on we took our baths in Rock Creek and our swims in the Potomac above the Aqueduct Bridge.
It was the custom then in the regular army for every private soldier to serve a term of two weeks as company cook. There were two cooks to each company, a head cook and an assistant. After serving as assistant for a week, one then became chef, unless the chef was satisfactory and desired to remain longer. It often happened that both of the cooks remained for months; they got no extra pay, but were relieved from all other duties and had some perquisites in selling soap-grease, if there was a market for it. It was my hard luck to be detailed as assistant cook after we arrived at Forrest Hall, much to my disgust. After a week's service I was declared to be a failure and returned to company duty.
A few days later a vacancy occurred and I was promoted to corporal with two dollars per month additional pay, making fifteen dollars per month, for the pay of the army had been raised from eleven to thirteen dollars per month for a private soldier. About this time we received four months' pay in greenbacks with coupons attached to the larger notes—the ten and twenty dollar bills, I think. Heretofore we had always been paid in gold and silver.
We were busy while in Georgetown; we kept a main guard with a sergeant at the hall in charge of the prisoners, a corporal and six privates at the Aqueduct Bridge, and the same at the foot of High Street, where there was a flat-boat rope ferry to Analostan Island in the Potomac opposite Georgetown. The two companies in Georgetown did not have their full complement of men; some had been detailed as clerks in the War Department, and others as orderlies at army headquarters on "extra duty," as it was called. This made us somewhat short on the "present for duty" number and caused a tour of twenty-four hours on guard every three days or less. We also did considerable drilling in company and skirmish drills, sometimes brigade drills and a few reviews for General McClellan and staff. We had to patrol the streets of Georgetown from eight A.M. till ten P.M. for two hours on and two off. The patrol was a squad of eight privates under a sergeant or a corporal, often accompanied by an officer in the daytime. This patrol had authority to enter saloons and other places and search them for soldiers and demand their passes; every soldier on the street was halted, and if he had no pass or a poor excuse he was told to fall into the ranks and march with the patrol until it repassed or returned to the main guard, where he was turned over to the sergeant, who recorded his name, company and regiment and then locked him up. There was, however, considerable leniency both on the part of the officers and the non-commissioned officers in command of the patrol; if the soldier were sober and had some sort of a plausible excuse, he was often simply ordered to get out of town quickly and return to his camp. It was the drunks that gave us trouble, when we tried to march them in the ranks. In some extreme cases we took them to the guard-house in a borrowed hand-cart. One day the patrol arrived just in time to save the "Eagle Bakery," where a drunken soldier was wrecking the place because he failed to get a baked eagle he had ordered.
About this time a very young officer named William Kidd, who belonged to a prominent New York family, joined my company as second lieutenant. He was a civil appointee and knew very little about drill or military matters in general, but was trying to learn. He was well liked by the men for his genial nature. Often when I was on patrol with him he would say, "Now, Corporal, you head her in any direction you like and don't march too fast." He let many a soldier off with a reprimand such as, "If I catch you in town again without a pass I'll have you court-martialed and shot before sunrise." Sometimes he stopped at a cigar store and bought cigars for the patrol, which he handed to us when we were dismissed. Lieutenant Kidd, to our great regret and sorrow, was killed in less than a year at the second battle of Bull Run.
One evening I received word from a friend, a sergeant of a New York regiment which was encamped a short distance from Georgetown on the Tennalytown road that he had been arrested by the patrol and wished me to try and have him released so that he might return to his camp that night, as he feared that if he was returned to his regiment from the central guard-house it would mean the loss of his sergeant's stripes and reduction to the ranks. I implored the sergeant of our main guard to release him, but he refused as he had just reported the number of his prisoners to the officer of the day. He agreed, however, to make an exchange with me if I brought him another prisoner when I went out on patrol from eight to ten that evening. I started out with my squad at the appointed time. It was a stormy night, the wind howled and the rain beat fiercely upon us; the streets seemed deserted and there were no soldiers in sight. Instead of resting at times in a sheltered place, as we were accustomed to do in bad weather, I kept my patrol moving and visited most of the places where soldiers were in the habit of congregating, despite the grumbling of my squad. Our time was nearly up and I had encountered but two or three soldiers, whom I could not arrest as they showed me passes. I was in despair, when suddenly, while passing along Bridge Street on our return to the guard-house, I caught a glimpse of a blue uniform in the back room of a saloon, through a partly opened door. I halted my squad and went into the saloon, where I found a soldier asleep on a chair. I shook him and demanded to see his pass. He was mildly inebriated, but managed to explain that he was on duty as a nurse in the hospital close by and did not require a pass in Georgetown, but not having a pass was enough for me. I took him out, put him into the ranks and turned him over to the sergeant of the guard in exchange for my friend, who hurried off to his camp. The man I arrested was soon released by the sergeant when he satisfied him as to the truth of his story.
Every morning at eight o'clock when the guard was relieved, the old guard was obliged to take the prisoners picked up during the twenty-four hours and march them to the Central Guard-House in Washington, situated just off Pennsylvania Avenue near the market. This was a long and tiresome tramp after a night on guard. We often had a couple of dozen prisoners, some of them unruly and others scarcely able to march after their spree. After our return from the Central guard-house the old guard was excused from duty and rested until retreat that evening. The men whom we arrested in the streets were volunteer soldiers, almost without exception, from the different camps about Washington.
Occasionally I was corporal of the main guard at Forrest Hall and was surprised to observe the effect of drink on the prisoners at different times. They were all locked up together in one large room with a sentinel outside of the door. The prisoners from our own command, when we had any, were confined in a smaller room. In the large room the prisoners were sometimes hilarious and noisy with laughter, while at other times they were sad and melancholy, many of them crying for "home and mother," and others shedding silent tears. At still other times they seemed to have imbibed fighting whiskey and were quarrelsome, fighting fiercely among themselves or against the guard who had to go in and separate them; some we could only subdue by tying their limbs. It was a job we did not relish. Some of them threw bottles at the guards and other objects which had escaped the sergeant's search at the time of their admission.
Our two companies had the free run of Georgetown to go where we pleased when not on duty, but if we crossed the Rock Creek bridge and went into Washington without a pass, we were in turn liable to be arrested by the provost-guard's patrol and put into the Central guard-house. We were well posted on the time and route of the patrols and knew how to elude them.
Another of our duties was to furnish an escort to the cemetery for all the soldiers who died in what was called the Seminary Hospital located at Georgetown. The cemetery was in the grounds of the Soldiers' Home, a long way from Georgetown, a very tiresome march over a poor road. At these funerals there was no music or ceremony of any kind; no one but the escort of eight privates and a corporal marched with the ambulance which carried the corpse. On the arrival at the cemetery we found only grave-diggers constantly busy digging graves for the many soldiers who died in the hospitals or camps in or about Washington. The coffin was unloaded and left on the ground beside the grave to await the leisure of the grave-diggers; the escort fired the three customary rounds of blank cartridges over the coffin and hurried away. At some distance from the cemetery, where the road was lonely, we climbed into the ambulance and rode to the outskirts of Georgetown. During the winter when the weather was bad and the mud ankle-deep on the road, the escort took their chances and halted the ambulance near a road-house about half-way, fired the three rounds and waited at the road-house playing cards until the driver, whom they bound to secrecy, passed on his return. This went on for some time until one day a firing squad was discovered at it and punished.
Towards the close of 1861 many changes had taken place among the officers of my regiment. Aside from the few who had resigned to join the Confederate army, nearly all were advanced in rank; colonels and majors and some captains became brigadier-generals or colonels of volunteers. The twelve new regiments added to the regular army absorbed many of our captains and first lieutenants who gained a step in rank by the transfer. The lower grades were filled mainly by civilian appointments, many of them through influence more than any adaptability for a military life, as was demonstrated later on. The Government began to make some appointments from the ranks and later on increased them. These men, appointed from the ranks, as a rule made efficient and reliable officers, whom the rank and file could respect. Dixon S. Miles became colonel of my regiment and remained so until he was killed at Harper's Ferry in 1862, but we never saw him, as he had a higher volunteer rank. All of our former field officers were promoted and replaced by others, some of whom we never saw. The regular army, small in numbers, was stripped of many of its best officers. All through the war, companies were largely in command of first lieutenants and regiments were often commanded by senior captains. My company was particularly unfortunate at this time in having for its captain, and serving with it, the lieutenant who had joined the regiment in 1857 at Fort Randall whom we had dubbed our "Alcoholic Lieutenant," and whose name I withhold because I cannot say anything to his credit. He had gained the rank of captain by seniority because of the general promotions at this time. Our first lieutenant was William H. Jordan of the Ninth Infantry, who had never as yet seen his own regiment in the West since he left West Point in 1860. He was an estimable officer, who remained with my company until he was severely wounded at the battle of Gaines' Mill in 1862. Our second lieutenant was William Kidd, who was killed in battle, as previously mentioned. Major William Chapman was in command of the six companies of my regiment in Washington at this time; he was well along in years and retired early in the war. He was a good disciplinarian and an excellent drillmaster.