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Story of a Common Soldier of Army Life in the Civil War, 1861-1865, The

CHAPTER X. THE SIEGE OF VICKSBURG. JUNE AND JULY, 1863. General Grant closed up against Vicksburg on May 19, and on that day assaulted the Confederate defenses of the place, but without success. On the 22nd a more extensive assault was made, but it also failed, and it was then evident to Grant that Vicksburg would have to be taken by a siege. To do this he would need strong reinforcements, and they were forthwith sent him from various quarters. So it came to pass that we went also. On May 31st we climbed on the cars, headed for Memphis, and steamed away from old Bolivar—and I have never seen the place since. For my part, I was glad to leave. We had been outside of the main track of the war for several months, guarding an old railroad, while the bulk of the western army had been actively engaged in the stirring and brilliant campaign against Vicksburg, and we were all becoming more or less restless and dissatisfied. From my standpoint, one of the most mortifying things that can happen to a soldier in time of war is for his regiment to be left somewhere as a "guard," while his comrades of the main army are in the field of active operations, seeing and doing "big things," that will live in history. But, as before remarked, the common soldier can only obey orders, and while some form the moving column, others necessarily have stationary duties. But at last the old 61st Illinois was on the wing,—and the Mississippi Central Railroad could "go hang." The regiment at this time was part of Gen. Nathan Kimball's division of the 16th Corps, and the entire division left Tennessee to reinforce Grant at Vicksburg. We arrived at Memphis in the afternoon of the same day we left Bolivar, the distance between the two places being only about 72 miles. The regiment bivouacked that night on a sandbar on the water front of Memphis, which said bar extended from the water's edge back to a high, steep sand-and-clay bank. And that, by the way, is the only night I have ever spent within the limits of the city of Memphis. While we were there on this occasion, I witnessed a pathetic incident, which is yet as fresh and vivid in my memory as if it had happened only yesterday. Soon after our arrival I procured a pass for a few hours, and took a stroll through the city. While thus engaged I met two hospital attendants carrying on a stretcher a wounded Union soldier. They halted as I approached, and rested the stretcher on the sidewalk. An old man was with them, apparently about sixty years old, of small stature and slight frame, and wearing the garb of a civilian. I stopped, and had a brief conversation with one of the stretcher-bearers. He told me that the soldier had been wounded in one of the recent assaults by the Union troops on the defenses of Vicksburg, and, with others of our wounded, had just arrived at Memphis on a hospital boat. That the old gentleman present was the father of the wounded boy, and having learned at his home in some northern State of his son being wounded, had started to Vicksburg to care for him; that the boat on which he was journeying had rounded in at the Memphis wharf next to the above mentioned hospital boat, and that he happened to see his son in the act of being carried ashore, and thereupon at once went to him, and was going with him to a hospital in the city. But the boy was dying, and that was the cause of the halt made by the stretcher-bearers. The soldier was quite young, seemingly not more than eighteen years old. He had an orange, which his father had given him, tightly gripped in his right hand, which was lying across his breast. But, poor boy! it was manifest that that orange would never be tasted by him, as the glaze of death was then gathering on his eyes, and he was in a semi-unconscious condition. And the poor old father was fluttering around the stretcher, in an aimless, distracted manner, wanting to do something to help his boy—but the time had come when nothing could be done. While thus occupied I heard him say in a low, broken voice, "He is—the only boy—I have." This was on one of the principal streets of the city, and the sidewalks were thronged with people, soldiers and civilians, rushing to and fro on their various errands,—and what was happening at this stretcher excited no attention beyond careless, passing glances. A common soldier was dying,—that was all, nothing but "a leaf in the storm." But for some reason or other the incident impressed me most sadly and painfully. I didn't wait for the end, but hurried away,—tried to forget the scene, but couldn't. On the evening of June 1st we filed on board the big, side-wheel steamer "Luminary," which soon cast off from the wharf, and in company with other transports crowded with soldiers, went steaming down the Mississippi. Co. D, as usual, was assigned to a place on the hurricane deck of the boat. After we had stacked arms, and hung our belts on the muzzles of the guns, I hunted up a corner on the forward part of the deck, sat down, looked at the river and the scenery along the banks,—and thought. There came vividly to my mind the recollection of the time, about fourteen months previous, when we started out from St. Louis, down the "Father of Waters," bound for the "seat of war." The old regiment, in every respect, had greatly changed since that time. Then we were loud, confident, and boastful. Now we had become altogether more quiet and grave in our demeanor. We had gradually realized that it was not a Sunday school picnic excursion we were engaged in, but a desperate and bloody war, and what the individual fate of each of us might be before it was over, no one could tell. There is nothing which, in my opinion, will so soon make a man out of a boy as actual service in time of war. Our faces had insensibly taken on a stern and determined look, and soldiers who a little over a year ago were mere laughing, foolish boys, were now sober, steady, self-relying men. We had been taking lessons in what was, in many important respects, the best school in the world. Our voyage down the river was uneventful. We arrived at the mouth of the Yazoo river on the evening of June 3rd. There our fleet turned square to the left, and proceeded up that stream. Near the mouth of the Chickasaw Bayou, the fleet landed on the left bank of the stream, the boats tied up for the night, we went on the shore and bivouacked there that night. It was quite a relief to get on solid ground, and where we could stretch our legs and stroll around a little. Next morning we re-embarked at an early hour, and continued up the Yazoo. During the forenoon we learned from one of the boat's crew that we were approaching a point called "Alligator Bend," and if we would be on the lookout we would see some alligators. None of us, so far as I know, had ever seen any of those creatures, and, of course, we were all agog to have a view of them. A few of the best shots obtained permission from the officers to try their muskets on the reptiles, in case any showed up. On reaching the bend indicated, there were the alligators, sure enough, lazily swimming about, and splashing in the water. They were sluggish, ugly looking things, and apparently from six to eight feet long. Our marksmen opened fire at once. I had read in books at home that the skin of an alligator was so hard and tough that it was impervious to an ordinary rifle bullet. That may have been true as regards the round balls of the old small-bore rifle, but it was not the case with the conical bullets of our hard-hitting muskets. The boys would aim at a point just behind the fore-shoulder, the ball would strike the mark with a loud "whack," a jet of blood would spurt high in the air, the alligator would give a convulsive flounce,—and disappear. It had doubtless got its medicine. But this "alligator practice" didn't last long. Gen. Kimball, on learning the cause, sent word mighty quick from the headquarters boat to "Stop that firing!"—and we stopped. About noon on the 4th we arrived at the little town of Satartia on the left bank of the Yazoo, and about 40 miles above its mouth; there the fleet halted, tied up, and the troops debarked, and marched out to the highlands back of the town. We were now in a region that was new to us, and we soon saw several novel and strange things. There was a remarkable natural growth, called "Spanish moss," that was very plentiful, and a most fantastic looking thing. It grew on nearly all the trees, was of a grayish-white color, with long, pendulous stems. The lightest puff of air would set it in motion, and on a starlight night, or when the moon was on the wane and there was a slight breeze, it presented a most ghostly and uncanny appearance. And the woods were full of an unusual sort of squirrels, being just as black as crows. They were in size, as I now remember, of a grade intermediate the fox-and gray-squirrels we had at home. But all their actions and habits appeared to be just the same as those of their northern cousins. And there was a most singular bird of the night that was quite numerous here, called the "chuck-will's widow," on account of the resemblance its note bore to those words. It belonged to the whippoorwill family, but was some larger. It would sound its monotonous call in the night for hours at a stretch, and I think its mournful cry, heard when alone, on picket at night out in dense, gloomy woods, is just the most lonesome, depressing strain I ever heard. On the afternoon of the 4th all our force advanced in the direction of the little town of Mechanicsburg, which lay a few miles back of the river. Those in the front encountered Confederate cavalry, and a lively little skirmish ensued, in which our regiment was not engaged. Our troops burnt Mechanicsburg, and captured about forty of the Confederates. I was standing by the side of the road when these prisoners were being taken to the rear. They were all young chaps, fine, hearty looking fellows, and were the best looking little bunch of Confederates I saw during the war. Early in the morning of June 6th we fell into line and marched southwest, in the direction of Vicksburg. Our route, in the main, was down the valley of the Yazoo river. And it will be said here that this was the hottest, most exhausting march I was on during my entire service. In the first place, the weather was intensely hot. Then the road down the valley on which we marched mostly ran through immense fields of corn higher than our heads. The fields next the road were not fenced, and the corn grew close to the beaten track. Not the faintest breeze was stirring, and the hot, stifling dust enveloped us like a blanket. Every now and then we would pass a soldier lying by the side of the road, overcome by the heat and unconscious, while one or two of his comrades would be standing by him, bathing his face and chest with water, and trying to revive him. I put green hickory leaves in my cap, and kept them well saturated with water from my canteen. The leaves would retain the moisture and keep my head cool, and when they became stale and withered, would be thrown away, and fresh ones procured. Several men died on this march from sun-stroke; none, however, from our regiment, but we all suffered fearfully. And pure drinking water was very scarce too. It was pitiful to see the men struggling for water at the farm house wells we occasionally passed. In their frenzied desperation they would spill much more than they saved, and ere long would have the well drawn dry. But one redeeming feature about this march was—we were not hurried. There were frequent halts, to give the men time to breathe, and on such occasions, if we were fortunate enough to find a pool of stagnant swamp-water, we would wash the dirt and dust from our faces and out of our eyes. As we trudged down the Yazoo valley, we continued to see things that were new and strange. We passed by fields of growing rice, and I saw many fig trees, loaded with fruit, but which was yet green. And in the yards of the most of the farm houses was a profusion of domestic flowers, such as did not bloom in the north, of wonderful color and beauty. But, on the other hand, on the afternoon of the second day's march, I happened to notice by the side of the road an enormous rattlesnake, which evidently had been killed by some soldier only a short time before we passed. It seemingly was between five and six feet long, and the middle of its body appeared to be as thick as a man's thigh. Its rattles had been removed, presumably as a trophy. It was certainly a giant among rattlesnakes, and doubtless was an "old-timer." On the evening of June 7th, about sundown, we arrived at Haines' Bluff on the Yazoo river, and there went into camp. This point was about twelve miles north of Vicksburg, and had been strongly fortified by the Confederates, but Grant's movements had compelled them to abandon their works without a battle. There had been a large number of the Confederates camped there, and the ground was littered with the trash and rubbish that accumulates in quarters. And our friends in gray had left some things in these old camps which ere long we all fervently wished they had taken with them, namely, a most plentiful quantity of the insect known as "Pediculus vestimenti," which forthwith assailed us as voraciously as if they had been on quarter rations, or less, ever since the beginning of the war. On June 16th we left Haines' Bluff, and marched about two miles down the Yazoo river to Snyder's Bluff, where we went into camp. Our duties here, as they had been at Haines', were standing picket, and constructing fortifications. We had the usual dress parade at sunset, but the drills were abandoned; we had more important work to do. General Joe Johnston, the Confederate commander outside of Vicksburg, was at Jackson, Mississippi, or in that immediate vicinity, and was collecting a force to move on Grant's rear, in order to compel him to raise the siege. Grant thought that if Johnston attacked, it would be from the northeast, so he established a line of defense extending southeast, from Haines' Bluff on the north to Black river on the south, and placed Gen. Sherman in command of this line. As Grant has said somewhere in his Memoirs, the country in this part of Mississippi "stands on edge." That is to say, it consists largely of a succession of high ridges with sharp, narrow summits. Along this line of defense, the general course of these ridges was such that they were admirably adapted for defensive purposes. We went to work on the ridges with spades and mattocks, and constructed the strongest field fortifications that I ever saw during the war. We dug away the crests, throwing the dirt to the front, and made long lines of breastworks along our entire front, facing, of course, the northeast. Then, at various places, on commanding points, were erected strong redoubts for artillery, floored, and revetted on the inner walls with thick and strong green lumber and timbers. On the exterior slopes of the ridges were dug three lines of trenches, or rifle pits, extending in a parallel form from near the base of the ridges almost to the summit, with intervals between the lines. All the trees and bushes in our front on the slopes of the ridges were cut down, with their tops outwards, thus forming a tangled abattis which looked as if a rabbit could hardly get through. And finally, on the inner slope of the ridges, a little below their summits, was constructed a "covered way;" that is, a road dug along the sides of the ridges, and over which an army, with batteries of artillery, could have marched with perfect safety. The purpose of these covered ways was to have a safe and sheltered road right along our rear by which any position on the line could be promptly reinforced, if necessary. Sometimes I would walk along the parapet of our works, looking off to the northeast where the Confederates were supposed to be, and I ardently wished that they would attack us. Our defenses were so strong that in my opinion it would have been a physical impossibility for flesh and blood to have carried them. Had Johnston tried, he simply would have sacrificed thousands of his men without accomplishing anything to his own advantage. It will be said here that I have no recollection of having personally taken part in the construction of the fortifications above mentioned. In fact, I never did an hour's work in the trenches, with spade and mattock, during all my time. I never "took" willingly to that kind of soldiering. But there were plenty of the boys who preferred it to standing picket, because when on fatigue duty, as it was called, they would quit about sundown, and then get an unbroken night's sleep. So, when it fell to my lot to be detailed for fatigue, I would swap with someone who had been assigned to picket,—he would do my duty, and I would perform his; we were both satisfied, and the fair inference is that no harm was thereby done to the cause. And it was intensely interesting to me, when on picket at night on the crest of some high ridge, to stand and listen to the roar of our cannon pounding at Vicksburg, and watch the flight of the shells from Grant's siege guns and from the heavy guns of our gunboats on the Mississippi. The shells they threw seemed principally to be of the "fuse" variety, and the burning fuse, as the shell flew through the air, left a stream of bright red light behind it like a rocket. I would lean on my gun and contemplate the spectacle with far more complacency and satisfaction than was felt when anxiously watching the practice on us by the other fellows at Salem Cemetery about six months before. There was another thing I was wont to observe with peculiar attention, when on picket at night during the siege; namely, the operations of the Signal Corps. In the night time they used lighted lanterns in the transmission of intelligence, and they had a code by which the signals could be read with practically the same accuracy as if they had been printed words. The movements of the lights looked curious and strange, something elf-like, with a suspicion of witchcraft, or deviltry of some kind, about them. They would make all sorts of gyrations, up, down, a circle, a half circle to the right, then one to the left, and so on. Sometimes they would be unusually active. Haines' Bluff would talk to Snyder's; Snyder's to Sherman's headquarters; Sherman's to Grant's, and back and forth, all along the line. Occasionally at some station the lights would act almost like some nervous man talking at his highest speed in a perfect splutter of excitement,—and then they would seem as if drunk, or crazy. Of course, I knew nothing of the code of interpretation, and so understood nothing,—could only look and speculate. In modern warfare the telephone has probably superseded the Signal Service, but the latter certainly played an important part in our Civil War. During the siege we lived high on some comestibles not included in the regular army rations. Corn was in the roasting ear state, and there were plenty of big fields of it beyond and near the picket lines, and we helped ourselves liberally. Our favorite method of cooking the corn was to roast it in the "shuck." We would "snap" the ears from the stalk, leaving the shuck intact, daub over the outside a thin plaster of mud (or sometimes just saturate the ears in water), then cover them with hot ashes and live coals. By the time the fire had consumed the shuck down to the last or inner layer, the corn was done, and it made most delicious eating. We had no butter to spread on it, but it was good enough without. And then the blackberries! I have never seen them so numerous and so large as they were there on those ridges in the rear of Vicksburg. I liked them best raw, taken right from the vine, but sometimes, for a change, would stew them in my coffee can, adding a little sugar, and prepared in this manner they were fine. But, like the darkey's rabbit,—they were good any way. The only serious drawback that we had on our part of the line was the unusual amount of fatal sickness that prevailed among the men. The principal types of disease were camp diarrhea and malarial fevers, resulting, in all probability, largely from the impure water we drank. At first we procured water from shallow and improvised wells that we dug in the hollows and ravines. Wild cane grew luxuriantly in this locality, attaining a height of fifteen or twenty feet, and all other wild vegetation was rank in proportion. The annual growth of all this plant life had been dying and rotting on the ground for ages, and the water would filter through this decomposing mass, and become well-nigh poisonous. An order was soon issued that we should get all water for drinking and cooking purposes from the Yazoo river, and boil it before using, but it was impossible to compel complete obedience to such an order. When men got thirsty, they would drink whatever was handy,—orders to the contrary notwithstanding. And the water of the river was about as bad as the swamp water. I have read somewhere that "Yazoo" is an Indian word, signifying "The River of Death," and if so, it surely was correctly named. It is just my opinion, as a common soldier, that the epidemic of camp diarrhea could have been substantially prevented if all the men had eaten freely of blackberries. I didn't have a touch of that disorder during all the time we were in that locality, and I attribute my immunity to the fact that I ate liberally of blackberries about every day. But camp diarrhea is something that gets in its work quick, and after the men got down with it, they possibly had no chance to get the berries. And all the time we were at Snyder, nearly every hour of the day, could be heard the doleful, mournful notes of the "Dead March," played by the military bands, as some poor fellow was being taken to his long home. It seemed to me at the time, and seems so yet, that they should have left out that piece of music. It did no good, and its effect was very depressing, especially on the sick. Under such circumstances, it would seem that common sense, if exercised, would have dictated the keeping dumb of such saddening funeral strains. Sometime during the latter part of June the regiment was paid two months' pay by Major C. L. Bernay, a Paymaster of the U.S. Army. He was a fine old German, of remarkably kind and benevolent appearance, and looked more like a venerable Catholic priest than a military man. After he had paid off the regiment, his escort loaded his money chest and his personal stuff into an ambulance, and he was soon ready to go to some other regiment. Several of our officers had assembled to bid him good-by, and I happened to be passing along, and witnessed what transpired. The few farewell remarks of the old man were punctuated by the roar of the big guns of our army and navy pounding away at Vicksburg, and the incident impressed me as somewhat pathetic. "Goot-by, Colonel," said Major Bernay, extending his hand; (Boom!) "Goot-by Major;" (Boom!) "Goot-by, Captain;" (Boom!) and so on, to the others. Then, with a wave of his hand to all the little group, "Goot-by, shentlemens, all." (Boom!) "Maybe so (Boom!) we meet not again." (Boom, boom, boom!) It was quite apparent that he was thinking of the so-called "fortunes of war." Then he sprang into his ambulance, and drove away. His prediction proved true—we never met again. The morning of the Fourth of July opened serene and peaceful, more so, in fact, than in old times at home, for with us not even the popping of a fire-cracker was heard. And the stillness south of us continued as the day wore on,—the big guns of the army and navy remained absolutely quiet. Our first thought was that because the day was a national holiday, Grant had ordered a cessation of the firing in order to give his soldiers a day of needed rest. It was not until some time in the afternoon that a rumor began to circulate among the common soldiers that Vicksburg had surrendered, and about sundown we learned that such was the fact. So far as I saw or heard, we indulged in no whooping or yelling over the event. We had been confident, all the time, that the thing would finally happen, so we were not taken by surprise. There was a feeling of satisfaction and relief that the end had come, but we took it coolly and as a matter of course. On the same day that Vicksburg surrendered Grant started the greater part of his army, under the command of Gen. Sherman, in the direction of Jackson for the purpose of attacking Gen. Johnston. Our division, however, remained at Snyder's until July 12th, when we left there, marching southeast. I remember this march especially, from the fact that the greater part of it was made during the night. This was done in order to avoid the excessive heat that prevailed in the daytime. As we plodded along after sunset, at route step, and arms at will, a low hum of conversation could be heard, and occasionally a loud laugh, "that spoke the vacant mind." By ten o'clock we were tired (we had been on the road since noon), and moreover, getting very sleepy. Profound silence now prevailed in the ranks, broken only by the rattle of canteens against the shanks of the bayonets, and the heavy, monotonous tramp of the men. As Walter Scott has said somewhere in one of his poetical works: <div class="poem"> <div class="stanza"> "No cymbal clashed, no clarion rang, Still were the pipe and drum; Save heavy tread and armor's clang, The sullen march was dumb." </div> </div> The column halted about midnight, we bivouacked in the woods by the side of the road, and I was asleep about as soon as I struck the ground. We resumed the march early in the morning, and during the forenoon arrived at Messinger's ford, on Black river, where we went into camp. We remained here only until July 17, and on that day marched a few miles south to the railroad crossing on Black river, and bivouacked on the west bank of the stream. The Confederates during the campaign had thrown up breastworks of cotton bales, which evidently had extended for quite a distance above and below the railroad crossing. When our fellows came along they tore open the bales and used the cotton to sleep on, and when we arrived at the place the fleecy stuff was scattered over the ground, in some places half-knee deep, all over that portion of the river bottom. It looked like a big snowfall. Cotton, at that very time, was worth one dollar a pound in the New York market, and scarce at that. A big fortune was there in the dirt, going to waste, but we were not in the cotton business just then, so it made no difference to us. At the beginning of the war, it was confidently asserted by the advocates of the secession movement that "Cotton was king;" that the civilized world couldn't do without it, and as the South had a virtual monopoly of the stuff, the need of it would compel the European nations to recognize the independence of the Southern Confederacy, and which would thereby result in the speedy and complete triumph of the Confederate cause. But in thus reasoning they ignored a law of human nature. Men, under the pressure of necessity, can get along without many things which they have previously regarded as indispensable. At this day, in my opinion, many of the alleged wants of mankind are purely artificial, and we would be better off if they were cut out altogether. Aside from various matters of food and drink and absurdities in garb and ornaments, numbers of our rich women in eastern cities regard life as a failure unless they each possess a thousand dollar pet dog, decorated with ribbons and diamond ornaments and honored at dog-functions with a seat at the table, where, on such occasions, pictures of the dogs, with their female owners sitting by them, are taken and reproduced in quarter-page cuts in the Sunday editions of the daily papers. If these women would knock the dogs in the head and bring into the world legitimate babies, (or even illegitimate, for their husbands are probably of the capon breed,) then they might be of some use to the human race; as it is they are a worthless, unnatural burlesque on the species. But this has nothing to do with the war, or the 61st Illinois, so I will pass on. While we were at the Black river railroad bridge thousands of paroled Confederate soldiers captured at Vicksburg passed us, walking on the railroad track, going eastward. We had strict orders to abstain from making to them any insulting or taunting remarks, and so far as I saw, these orders were faithfully obeyed. The Confederates looked hard. They were ragged, sallow, emaciated, and seemed depressed and disconsolate. They went by us with downcast looks and in silence. I heard only one of them make any remark whatever, and he was a little drummer boy, apparently not more than fifteen years old. He tried to say something funny,—but it was a dismal failure. While in camp at the railroad crossing on Black river, a most agreeable incident occurred, the pleasure of which has not been lessened by the flight of time, but rather augmented. But to comprehend it fully, some preliminary explanation might be advisable. Before the war there lived a few miles from our home, near the Jersey Landing settlement, a quaint and most interesting character, of the name of Benjamin F. Slaten. He owned and lived on a farm, but had been admitted to the bar, and practiced law to some extent, as a sort of a side-line. But I think that until after the war his practice, in the main, was confined to the courts of justices of the peace. He was a shrewd, sensible old man, of a remarkably kind and genial disposition, but just about the homeliest looking individual I ever saw. And he had a most singular, squeaky sort of a voice, with a kind of a nasal twang to it, which if heard once could never be forgotten. He was an old friend of my father's, and had been his legal adviser (so far as his few and trifling necessities in that line required) from time immemorial. And for a year or so prior to the outbreak of the war my thoughts had been running much on the science of law, and I had a strong desire, if the thing could be accomplished, to sometime be a lawyer myself. So, during the period aforesaid, whenever I would meet "Uncle Ben" (as we frequently called him), I would have a lot of questions to fire at him about some law points, which it always seemed to give him much pleasure to answer. I remember yet one statement he made to me that later, (and sometimes to my great chagrin,) I found out was undeniably true. "Leander," said he, "if ever you get into the practice of law, you'll find that it is just plum full of little in-trick-ate pints." (But things are not as bad now in that respect as they were then.) The war ensued, and in September, 1862, he entered the service as Captain of Co. K of the 97th Illinois Infantry. He was about forty-two years old at this time. In due course of events the regiment was sent south, and became a part of the Army of the Tennessee, but the paths of the 61st and the 97th were on different lines, and I never met Capt. Slaten in the field until the happening of the incident now to be mentioned. When we were at Black river I was on picket one night about a mile or so from camp, at a point on an old country road. Some time shortly after midnight, while I was curled up asleep in a corner of the old worm fence by the side of the road, I was suddenly awakened by an energetic shake, accompanied by the loud calling of my name. I sprang to my feet at once, thinking maybe some trouble was afoot, and, to my surprise, saw Capt. Keeley standing in front of me, with some other gentleman. "Stillwell," said Keeley, "here's an old friend of yours. He wanted to see you, and being pressed for time, his only chance for a little visit was to come to you on the picket line." My caller stood still, and said nothing. I saw that he was an officer, for his shoulder straps were plainly visible, but I could not be sure of his rank, for there was no moon, and the night was dark. He was wearing an old "sugar-loaf" hat, seemingly much decayed, his blouse was covered with dust, and, in general, he looked tough. His face was covered with a thick, scraggy beard, and under all these circumstances it was impossible for me to recognize him. I was very anxious to do so in view of the trouble the officer had taken to come away out on the picket line, in the middle of the night, to see me, but I just couldn't, and began to stammer a sort of apology about the darkness of the night hindering a prompt recognition, when the "unknown" gave his head a slant to one side, and, in his never forgettable voice, spoke thus to Keeley: "I told you he wouldn't know me." "I know you now," said I; "I'd recognize that voice if I heard it in Richmond! This is Capt. Ben Slaten, of the 97th Illinois;" and springing forward I seized his right hand with both of mine, while he threw his left arm about my neck and fairly hugged me. It soon came out in the conversation that ensued that his regiment had been with Sherman in the recent move on Jackson; that it was now returning with that army to the vicinity of Vicksburg, and had arrived at Black river that night; that he had at once hunted up the 61st Illinois to have a visit with me, and ascertaining that I was on picket, had persuaded Capt. Keeley to come with him to the picket line, as his regiment would leave early in the morning on the march, hence this would be his only opportunity for a brief meeting. And we all certainly had a most delightful visit with the old Captain. From the time of his arrival until his departure there was no sleeping, by anybody, on that picket post. We sat on the ground in a little circle around him, and listened to his comical and side-splitting stories of army life, and incidents in camp and field generally. He was an inimitable story teller, and his peculiar tone and manner added immensely to the comicality of his anecdotes. And somehow he had the happy faculty of extracting something humorous, or absurd, from what the generality of men would have regarded as a very serious affair. He did the most of the talking that night, while the rest of us sat there and fairly screamed with laughter. It was well known and understood that there were no armed Confederates in our vicinity, so we ran no risk in being a little careless. Finally, when the owls began tuning up for day, the old Captain bade us good-by, and trudged away, accompanied by Capt. Keeley. To fully comprehend this little episode, it is, perhaps, necessary to have some understanding and appreciation of how a soldier away down south, far from home and the friends he had left behind, enjoyed meeting some dear old friend of the loved neighborhood of home. It was almost equal to having a short furlough. I never again met Capt. Slaten during the war. He came out of it alive, with an excellent record,—and about thirty-seven years after the close died at his old home in Jersey county, Illinois, sincerely regretted and mourned by a large circle of acquaintances and friends. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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