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

CHAPTER XVII. DEVALL'S BLUFF. GRAND REVIEWS AND INSPECTIONS. SURGEON J. P. ANTHONY. PRIVATE PRESS ALLENDER. JUNE AND JULY, 1864. I have said nothing so far about "grand reviews," or other functions of that sort, and here is as good a place as any to notice them. From some cause or other we had what seemed to us an undue proportion of grand reviews in Arkansas in the summer of 1864. They were not a bit popular with the common soldiers. It became a saying among us, when a grand review was ordered, that the reviewing officer had got a new uniform and wanted to show it—but, of course, that was only soldier talk. On June 10th, while in camp at Huntersville, all the troops at Little Rock were reviewed by Maj. Gen. Daniel E. Sickles, late of the Army of the Potomac. He lost a leg at the battle of Gettysburg, which incapacitated him for active service, so President Lincoln gave him a sort of roving commission to visit and inspect all the western troops. In conducting the review at Little Rock, on account of his maimed condition he rode along the line in an open carriage. The day was exceedingly hot, the troops on our side of the river were reviewed on low grounds where the air was stifling, we wore our jackets tightly buttoned, and we all suffered fearfully from heat. One man in the line near me went over with a crash, all in a pile, from sunstroke, and I heard that there were several other such cases. Nine days later, (June 19th,) we had division grand review conducted by our division commander, Gen. C. C. Andrews, and on July 11th another grand review by the same officer. And interspersed with the reviews were several brigade inspections of arms. But as those did not involve any marching, they were not as fatiguing as the reviews. I will mention specifically but one of these inspections, and do so for the reason that there were some things connected with it I have always remembered with interest and pleasure. It was held on July 4th, at Devall's Bluff, the inspecting officer being Col. Randolph B. Marcy, Inspector-General U.S. Army. He was a regular army officer, a graduate of West Point, and at this time was about fifty-two years of age. He was over six feet tall, straight as an arrow, and a splendid looking man in general. We had very short notice of this inspection, and having returned only a few days before from the Clarendon expedition, had not yet had time or opportunity to wash our shirts, and were in quite a rough and tough condition. And the fact that this inspection was to be conducted by the Inspector-General of the United States Army, an old regular, and a West Point graduate, made us nervous, and we apprehended all sorts of trouble. So far as I ever knew, the volunteers had not much love for the regular army officers. We regarded them as unreasonably strict and technical, and were of the impression that they were inclined to "look down" on volunteers. Whether this feeling was well founded, or not, I cannot say, but there is no question that it existed. On this occasion we went to work with a will, and soon had our muskets, bayonets, belt-plates, and accouterments in general, bright and shining, and in the very pink of condition. It was to be an inspection of arms only, and did not include knapsacks. About 9 o'clock on the morning of July 4th, we fell in on the regimental parade ground, broke into columns of companies, right in front, in open order, and the greatly feared Inspector-General entered on his duty. As already stated, we looked hard. Many of us were barefoot, and our clothes in general were dirty and ragged. But Col. Marcy knew we had just come off a march, he was a very sensible man, and capable of making some allowances. In accordance with the regulations, he passed in front of us, walking slowly and looking at us critically. As he came opposite each soldier, the latter brought his piece into the prescribed position for examination, but Col. Marcy contented himself with a sweeping glance, and did not take the musket in his hands. Then he passed to the rear of the ranks, and walked slowly along behind us, while we stood immovable, with eyes fixed to the front. It was soon all over. He then approached Col. Ohr, said something I did not hear, but which was evidently pleasant, for the Colonel smiled, then turned round facing us, and with a sweep of his arm in our direction said,—loud enough for many of us to hear, "Good soldiers!" whereupon we all felt much relieved and proud,—and the dreaded inspection was a thing of the past. Several years afterwards, when in civil life out in Kansas, I learned that Col. Marcy was not only a grand old soldier, but also a most interesting writer. I have two of his books in my library now, and have had for many years, one being his official report of the "Exploration of the Red River of Louisiana, in the year 1852;" the other, "Thirty Years of Army Life on the Border." Both are highly interesting, and I frequently take them from the shelf and look them over. And when I do so, there always rises up on about every page the recollection of the tall, imposing figure of Col. Marcy, as he stood beneath the oaks at Devall's Bluff, Arkansas, on the morning of July 4th, 1864, and waved his arm towards us, and said in a kind tone, and with approving look: "Good soldiers!" There was in Company D an original sort of a character, by the name of Ambrose Pressley Allender,—for short, generally called "Press." He was at this time (1864) about thirty-five years old. He had been a private in a regiment of Kentucky infantry during the Mexican War, but what the length of his service may have been I do not know. But in his Mexican War experience he had at least learned every possible trick and device that could be resorted to in "playing off," as the boys called it; that is, avoiding duty on the plea of sickness or any other excuse that would serve. He was not a bad man, by any means, but a good-hearted old fellow. He had re-enlisted, along with the rest of us, when the regiment "veteranized." But his propensity for shirking duty, especially anything severe or unpleasant, seemed inveterate and incurable. He made me lots of trouble, for some time, after I became first sergeant. I was only a boy, and he was a man of mature age, about fifteen years my senior, and looking back to those days, I can see now where many times he pulled the wool over my eyes completely and induced me to grant him favors in the matter of details that he was not entitled to. But it was not long before I began to understand Press, and then, if he was excused from duty, or passed over for a lighter job, the authority had to come from the regimental surgeon. Dr. Julius P. Anthony, of Brown county, Illinois, was appointed surgeon of the regiment in September, 1863, and remained with us in that capacity until we were mustered out of the service. He was not a handsome man, by any means. He was hawk-nosed, with steel-blue eyes, and had a most peculiar sort of a high-keyed, nasal toned voice. But he was an excellent physician, and a shrewd, accurate judge of men. So, when Press bucked up against Dr. Anthony, he found a foeman worthy of his steel, and the keen-eyed old doctor was a different proposition from a boy orderly sergeant. Press would keep close watch of the details as they progressed down the company roll, and when he was next in turn, and the impending duty was one he did not fancy, would then retire to his tent or shack, and when wanted for picket, or some laborious fatigue duty, would be found curled up in his bunk and groaning dismally. When we were at Devall's Bluff, at a time about the last of July, 1864, I discovered him in this condition one morning before sick-call, when I went to apprise him (out of abundant caution) that he was next for duty, and not to wander from the camp. He forthwith told me he was very sick, hadn't slept a wink all night, and that I must pass over him for the time being. I replied that if he was sick, he must fall in at sick-call, and have the surgeon pass on his case, so he climbed out of his bunk, put on his trousers, and made ready. Sick-call was sounded pretty soon, and I went with Press and two or three of the other boys to the surgeon's tent. Press kept in the background until the other cases were disposed of, and then stepped forward. His breeches were unbuttoned down to nearly the last button, he was holding them up with his hands, and his stomach protruded like the belly of a brood-sow. "Well, Allender," inquired Dr. Anthony, "egad, what's the matter with you?" Press was careful to put on all the military frills at such a time, and he began thus: "Major Anthony, First Sergeant Stillwell has several times putten me on duty when I was not fitten for duty, and so I am now compelled to come to you, and——" "That'll do, Allender," interrupted the doctor, "what are your symptoms?" Press then began the story of his woes. He had racking pains in the stomach, headache, couldn't sleep, "all bloated up," he said, "as you can see for yourself;" with a comprehensive gesture towards his abdominal region,—and numerous other troubles, including "night sweats." Dr. Anthony heard him patiently, and without interruption, but scanned him closely all the time he was talking. Press at last stopped to take breath, and then the doctor, in his rasping voice, spoke as follows: "Allender, the trouble with you is simply exercising too little, and eating too much. And if you don't quit stuffing yourself, and get around more, I shall instruct Sergeant Stillwell to put you on fatigue duty every day until you are rid of that mass of fermenting fecal matter in your bowels, and your stomach is restored to normal condition. That's all." Then addressing me, he said: "Allender's able for duty;" and Press and I walked out. As soon as we were beyond the hearing of Dr. Anthony, Press turned loose. He was a terribly profane fellow when, in his opinion, ordinary language would not do the subject justice, and had accumulated a stock of the most unique and outrageous expressions that could be invented, and all these he now fired at the Doctor. Having no desire to put salt on a green wound, I said nothing. In perhaps an hour or so the first sergeant's call was sounded at the adjutant's tent, which meant a detail. I responded to the call, and the Sergeant-Major, consulting the regimental detail slip he held in his hand, told me he wanted a corporal and five privates from my company, with two days' rations, to help make up a scouting party going up White river on a steamboat, and for them to report in fifteen minutes. That caught old Press, and I went to his shack expecting a scene. He was found lying on his bunk, in his drawers and shirt—as usual in such emergencies. I proceeded to detail him as one of the scouting party, and told him to be all ready within fifteen minutes. In the meantime, the weather had changed, and a disagreeable, drizzling rain was falling. Press heaved a deep sigh when informed of his detail, and began to beg and protest. I told him that the doctor had refused to excuse him, that he was the next man on the roll for duty, that I had no discretion in the matter, and he would have to get ready and go. But, if he was feeling worse, I would go with him again to the doctor, and request him to look further into his case. Press sprang out of his bunk with a bound, and grabbed his trousers. "Before I'll ever go again," he said, "to that hawk-nosed old blankety-blank-blank, to get excused from duty, I'll see him in hell further than a pigeon can fly in a leap year. He hasn't got sense enough, anyhow, to doctor an old dominecker hen that is sick with a sore [anus], much less a civilized human being. You could let me off this detail, if you wanted to, and let me tell you, Stillwell, if this trip kills me, which it probably will, I want you to remember, as long as you live, that the responsibility for my death lies on your head!" This last statement, I will confess, rather staggered me, and had it been delivered in a weak and pitiful tone, there is no telling what I might have done. But he didn't "roar" me "as gently as a sucking dove," by a long shot, for his voice was full and loud, and quivering with energy and power. So I made no response to this dire prediction; Press got ready, and went. The weather cleared up in a few hours, and was bright and pleasant, but nevertheless I became very uneasy about Press. If the old fellow really was sick, and if, by any possibility, this detail should result in his death, why, then, I felt that his last words would haunt me as long as I lived. I waited anxiously for the return of the scouting party, and when the whistle of the boat was heard on its arrival at the Bluff, went at once to the landing to learn the fate of Press, and stood on the bank where the men could be seen as they came ashore. Presently here came Press, very much alive, and looking fine! He bore, transfixed on his bayonet, a home-cured ham of an Arkansas hog; the tail feathers of a chicken were ostentatiously protruding from the mouth of his haversack, and which receptacle was also stuffed well-nigh to bursting with big, toothsome yams. And later the fact was developed that his canteen was full of sorghum molasses. As he trudged up the road cut through the bank, his step was springy and firm, his face was glowing with health, and beaded with perspiration. I felt greatly relieved and happy, and, inspired by the joy of the moment, called to him: "Hello, Press! You seem to be all right!" He glanced up at me, and in a sort of sheepish manner responded: "Ya-a-ss. As luck would have it, the trip 'greed with me." And from this time on, I had no more trouble with old Press. He turned over a new leaf, cut out completely his old-time malingering practices, and thenceforward was a good, faithful soldier. We were in some close places afterwards, and he never flinched, but stood up to the work like a man. He was mustered out with the rest of us in September, 1865, and after some going and coming, settled down in Peoria county, Illinois, where he died March 15, 1914, at the age of nearly eighty-five years. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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