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

CHAPTER XXI. THE BATTLE OF WILKINSON'S PIKE. DECEMBER 7, 1864. Early in the morning of December 7th, General Rousseau started out General Milroy with seven regiments of infantry, (which included our regiment,) a battery of artillery, and a small detachment of cavalry, to find out what Gen. Forrest wanted. Our entire force consisted of a trifle over thirty-three hundred men. We first marched south from Murfreesboro, on the Salem pike, but gradually executed a right wheel, crossed Stone river, and worked to the northwest. We soon jumped up the Confederate cavalry vedettes, and a portion of the 61st was thrown out as skirmishers, and acted with our cavalry in driving back these scattered outposts of the enemy. Finally, about noon, we ran up against the main line of the Confederates, on the Wilkinson pike, protected by slight and hastily constructed breastworks, made of dirt, rails, and logs. Their artillery opened on us before we came in musket range, and we halted and formed in line of battle in some tall woods, with an open field in front. We were standing here in line when Gen. Milroy with some of his staff rode up right in front of our regiment, and stopped on a little elevated piece of ground. Then the old man took out his field-glass, and proceeded carefully and deliberately to scrutinize the country before him. My place in the line was only two or three rods from him, and I watched his proceedings with the deepest interest. He would look a while at the front, then sweep his glass to the right and scan that locality, then to the left and examine that region. While he was thus engaged, we all remained profoundly silent, his staff sat near him on their horses, also saying nothing. His survey of the country before him could not have lasted more than five minutes, but to me it seemed terribly long. At last he shut up his glass, returned it to its case, gave his horse a sort of a "haw" pull, and said something in a low tone to the different members of his staff, who forthwith dispersed in a gallop up and down our line. "Now," thought I, "something is going to happen." One of the staff stopped and said something to Col. Grass, and then came the command: "Attention, battalion! Shoulder arms! Face to the rear! Battalion, about face! Right shoulder shift arms! Forward, guide center, march!" And that, I thought, told the story. The other fellows were too many for us, and we were going to back out. They probably had someone up a tree, watching us, for we had hardly begun our rearward movement before their artillery opened on us furiously, and the cannon balls went crashing through the tree tops, and bringing down the limbs in profusion. But, as usual, the artillery hurt nobody, and we went on, quietly and in perfect order. After retiring through the woods for some distance, we gradually changed the direction of our march to the left, the result being that we executed an extensive left wheel, and pivoted towards the left flank of the enemy. Here our entire regiment was deployed as skirmishers, and we again advanced. We later learned that the enemy had made all their preparations to meet us at the point where we first encountered their line, so they were not fully prepared for this new movement. Gen. Milroy, in his official report of the battle, in describing this advance, says: <div class="blockquote"> "The Sixty-first Illinois was deployed as skirmishers in front of the first line, [and the] line advanced upon the enemy through the brush, cedars, rocks, and logs, under a heavy fire of artillery. * * * * Skirmishing with small arms began soon after commencing my advance, but my skirmish line advanced, rapidly, bravely, and in splendid order, considering the nature of the ground, driving the rebels before them for about a mile," [when their main line was struck]. See Serial number 93, Official Records of the War of the Rebellion, p. 618. </div> As we were advancing in this skirmish line across an old cotton field, the Confederates ran forward a section of artillery, placed it on some rising ground and opened on us a rapid fire. The shot and shell fell all around us, throwing up showers of red dirt, but doing no harm. While these guns were thus engaged, I noticed a large, fine-looking man, mounted on an iron gray horse, near one of the pieces, and who was intently watching our advance across the field. He evidently was a Confederate officer, and I thought possibly of high rank; so, taking careful aim each time, I gave him two shots from "Trimthicket," (the pet name of my old musket,) but without effect, so far as was perceivable. After each shot he remained impassive in his saddle, and soon after galloped away. After the battle I talked about the incident with some of the Confederates we captured, and they told me that this officer was Gen. Forrest himself. He was probably too far away when I fired at him for effective work, but he doubtless heard the bullets and perhaps concluded that he had better not expose himself unnecessarily. Our skirmish line continued to advance across the cotton field before mentioned. In our front was a dense thicket of small cedars occupied by the Confederate skirmishers, and as we approached these woods our progress was somewhat slow. I happened to notice in the edge of the thicket, and only a few rods in my front, a big, heavy log, which was lying parallel to our line, and would afford splendid protection. Thereupon I made a rush, and dropped behind this log. It was apparently a rail-cut, and had been left lying on the ground. A little fellow of Co. H, named John Fox, a year or two my junior, saw me rush for this log, he followed me, and dropped down behind it also. He had hardly done this when he quickly called to me—"Look out, Stillwell! You'll get shot!" I hardly understood just what caused his remark, but instinctively ducked behind the log, and at that instant "whis-sh" went a bullet from the front through the upper bark of the log, right opposite where my breast was a second or two before, scattering worm-dust and fragments of bark over my neck and shoulders. "I seed him a-takin' aim," dryly remarked little Fox. "Where is he?" I quickly inquired. "Right yander," answered Fox, indicating the place by pointing. I looked and saw the fellow—he was a grown man, in a faded gray uniform, but before I could complete my hasty preparations to return his compliment he disappeared in the jungle of cedar. An incident will now be described, the result of which was very mortifying to me at the time, and which, to this day, I have never been able to understand, or account for. We had passed through the cedar woods before mentioned, and entered another old cotton field. And right in the hither edge of that field we came plump on a Confederate cavalry vedette, seated on his horse. The man had possibly been on duty all the previous night, and perhaps was now dozing in his saddle, or he never would have stayed for us to slip up on him as we did. But if asleep, he waked up promptly at this stage of the proceedings. All along our line the boys began firing at him, yelling as they did so. The moment I saw him, I said to myself, with an exultant thrill, "You're my game." He was a big fellow, broad across the back, wearing a wool hat, a gray jacket, and butternut trousers. My gun was loaded, I was all ready, and what followed didn't consume much more than two seconds of time. I threw my gun to my shoulder, let the muzzle sink until I saw through the front and rear sights the center of that broad back—and then pulled the trigger. Porting my musket, I looked eagerly to the front, absolutely confident that my vision would rest on the horse flying riderless across the field, and the soldier lying dead upon the ground. But to my utter amazement, there was the fellow yet on his horse, and, like John Gilpin of old, going, <div class="poem"> <div class="stanza"> "Like an arrow swift Shot by an archer strong." </div> </div> He had a small gad, or switch, in his right hand, with which he was belaboring his horse every jump, and the upshot of the matter was, he reached and disappeared in the woods beyond, without a scratch, so far as any of us on our side ever knew. How my shot happened to miss that man is just one of the most unaccountable things that ever happened to me in my life. I was perfectly cool and collected at the time, and my nerves were steady as iron; he was a splendid mark, at close range, and I took a deadly aim. And then to think that all our other fellows missed him too! It was certainly a thing that surpasses all comprehension. At the time I am now writing these lines, a little over half a century has passed away since this incident occurred, and it will here be recorded that now I am sincerely thankful that I failed to kill that man. Considering his marvelous escape on this occasion, the presumption is strong that he lived through the war, married some good woman, and became the father of a family of interesting children, and likely some one of his boys fought under the old flag in the Spanish-American War,—so it is probably all for the best. But,—how in the world did I happen to miss him? Only a few minutes after this incident I experienced the closest call (so far as can be stated with certainty) that befell me during my service. On this day it so happened that Co. D was assigned a position on the extreme right of the skirmish line. This was not the regulation place for the company in the regimental line, and just how this came about I don't know, but so it was. As the first sergeant of D, my position was on the extreme right of the company, consequently I was the right hand man of the whole skirmish line. We were continuing our advance across the field where we came on the vedette just mentioned, and all in high spirits. I had on a broad-brimmed felt hat, my overcoat, and beneath that what we called a "dress-coat," with the ends of my trouser legs tucked in my socks; was carrying my gun at a ready, and eagerly looking for something to shoot at. There was a little bunch of Confederates in the woods on our right that were sort of "pot-shooting" at us as we were moving across the field, but we paid no attention to them, as the main force of the enemy was in our front. Suddenly I was whirled around on my feet like a top, and a sensation went through me similar, I suppose, to that which one feels when he receives an electric shock. I noticed that the breast of my overcoat was torn, but saw no blood nor felt any pain, so it was manifest that I wasn't hurt. It was clear that the ball which struck me had come from the right, so some of us paid attention to those fellows at once, and they soon disappeared. At the first opportunity after the battle was over I examined my clothes to find out what this bullet had done. As stated, it came from the right, and first went through the cape of my overcoat, then through the right-arm sleeves of my overcoat and dress coat, thence through the right breast of both those coats, and then through the left breast thereof, and from thence went on its way. All told, it made nine holes in my clothes, but never touched my flesh. But it was a fine line-shot and had it been two inches further back all would have been over with me. Just after this episode, as we approached a rise in the field we came in sight of the main line of the enemy, in the edge of the woods on the opposite side of the field. The right wing of our skirmish line then took ground to the right and the other wing to the left in order to uncover our main line. It then marched up, and the action became general. The musketry firing on both sides was heavy and incessant, and, in addition, the enemy had a battery of artillery, which kept roaring most furiously. We also had a battery, but it was not now in evidence, the reason being as we afterwards learned, that it had exhausted its ammunition during the previous course of the day, and had returned to Fortress Rosecrans for a further supply, but before it got back the fight was over. The engagement had lasted only a short time, when the command was given to charge, and our whole line went forward. And thereupon I witnessed the bravest act that I ever saw performed by an officer of the rank of general. The regiment immediately on the left of the right wing of our regiment was the 174th Ohio. It was a new regiment, and had never been under fire but once before, that occasion being the affair at Overall's creek three days previous. So, when we started on this charge, I anxiously watched this big, new Ohio regiment, for it was perfectly plain that if it faltered and went back, our little right wing of the 61st Illinois would have to do likewise. And presently that Ohio regiment stopped!—and then we stopped too. I looked at those Ohio fellows; there was that peculiar trembling, wavy motion along their line which precedes a general going to pieces, and it seemed like the game was up. But just at that supreme moment, old Gen. Milroy appeared, on his horse, right in front of that Ohio regiment, at a point opposite the colors. He was bareheaded, holding his hat in his right hand, his long, heavy, iron-gray hair was streaming in the wind, and he was a most conspicuous mark. The Confederates were blazing away along their whole line, yelling like devils, and I fairly held my breath, expecting to see the old General forthwith pitch headlong from his horse, riddled with bullets. But he gave the enemy very little time to practice on him. I was not close enough to hear what he said, but he called to those Ohio men in a ringing tone, and waved his hat towards the enemy. The effect was instantaneous and sublime. The whole line went forward with a furious yell, and surged over the Confederate works like a big blue wave,—and the day was ours! The Confederates retreated on a double quick, but in good order. We captured two pieces of their artillery, a stand of colors, and about two hundred prisoners. We followed them a short distance, but saw them no more, and about sundown we marched back to Fortress Rosecrans. But before finally passing from this affair, a few other things connected therewith will be mentioned. As we went over the Confederate works on our charge, I saw lying on the ground, inside, a dead Confederate lieutenant-colonel. He was on his back, his broad-brimmed hat pulled over his face, and a pair of large gauntlet gloves tucked in his belt. His sword was detached from the belt, in the scabbard, and was lying transversely across his body. As I ran by him I stooped down and with my left hand picked up the sword, and carried it along. I brought it to camp with me, kept it until we were mustered out, and then brought it home. Later a Masonic lodge was organized in Otterville, and some of the officers thereof borrowed from me this sword for the use of the tyler of the lodge, in his official duties. In 1868 I came to Kansas, leaving the sword with the lodge. After the lapse of some years there came a time when I desired to resume possession of this relic of the war, but on taking action to obtain it, it was ascertained that in the meantime the lodge building, with all its furniture and paraphernalia, including the sword in question, had been accidentally destroyed by fire. And thus passed away the only trophy that I ever carried off a battlefield. Many years later I met here in Kansas the late Confederate Gen. John B. Gordon, of Georgia, and had a long and interesting conversation with him. I told him the facts connected with my obtaining this sword, and of its subsequent loss, as above stated. He listened to me with deep attention, and at the close of my story, said he was satisfied from my general description of the dead Confederate officer that the body on which I found the sword was that of W. W. Billopp, lieutenant-colonel of the 29th Georgia, who was killed in this action. Gen. Gordon also said that he was well acquainted with Col. Billopp in his life time, and that he was a splendid gentleman and a brave soldier. It has always been a matter of regret with me that the sword was destroyed, for I intended, at the time I sought to reclaim it from the Masonic lodge, to take steps to restore it to the family of the deceased officer, in the event that it could be done. When the Confederates retired from this battlefield of December 7th, they left their dead and severely wounded on the field, as it was impossible for them to do otherwise. I walked around among these unfortunates, and looked at them, and saw some things that made me feel sorrowful indeed. I looked in the haversacks of some of the dead to see what they had to eat,—and what do you suppose was found? Nothing but raw, shelled corn! And many of them were barefooted, and judging from appearances, had been so indefinitely. Their feet were almost as black as those of a negro, with the skin wrinkled and corrugated to that extent that it looked like the hide of an alligator. These things inspired in me a respect for the Confederate soldiers that I never had felt before. The political leaders of the Davis and Toombs type who unnecessarily brought about the war are, in my opinion, deserving of the severest condemnation. But there can be no question that the common soldiers of the Confederate army acted from the most deep-seated convictions of the justice and the righteousness of their cause, and the fortitude and bravery they displayed in support of it are worthy of the highest admiration. After the engagement of December 7th, the Confederates still remained in our vicinity, and showed themselves at intervals, but made no aggressive movement. Cold weather set in about this time, the ground was covered with sleet, and our situation, cooped up in Fortress Rosecrans, was unpleasant and disagreeable. We had long ago turned in our big Sibley tents, and drawn in place of them what we called "pup-tents." They were little, squatty things, composed of different sections of canvas that could be unbuttoned and taken apart, and carried by the men when on a march. They were large enough for only two occupants, and there were no facilities for building fires in them, as in the case of the Sibleys. Owing to the fact that the Confederates were all around us, we were short of fire-wood too. Stone river ran through the fortress, and there were some big logs in the river, which I suppose had been there ever since the work was constructed, and we dragged them out and used them to eke out our fires. They were all water-soaked, and hardly did more than smoulder, but they helped some. At night we would crowd into those little pup-tents, lie down with all our clothes on, wrap up in our blankets and try to sleep, but with poor success. I remember that usually about midnight I would "freeze out," and get up and stand around those sobbing, smouldering logs,—and shiver. To make matters worse, we were put on half rations soon after we came to Murfreesboro, and full rations were not issued again until the Confederates retreated from Nashville after the battle of December 15-16. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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