There was a humorous, as well as a pathetic side to the war. Soldiers or students, young men were quick to see this. The penchant which boys have to trifle with subjects the most grave, gave rise to a funny incident in Ypsilanti (Michigan). There were two rival schools in that town—the "State Normal" and the "Union Seminary." The young men in these two flourishing institutions were never entirely at ease except when playing practical jokes upon each other. Soon after the secession of South Carolina, some of the Seminary boys conceived the idea of compelling the Normal people to show their colors. The first-named had put up the stars and stripes, a thing that the latter had neglected to do. One morning when the citizens of the town arose and cast their eyes toward the building dedicated to the education and training of teachers, they were astonished to see, flying from the lightning rod on the highest peak of the cupola, a flag of white, whereon was painted a Palmetto tree, beneath the shade of which was represented a rattle snake in act to strike. How it came there no one could conjecture, but there it was, floating impudently in the breeze, and how to get it down was the question.
I believe that the authorities of the school never learned who it was that performed this daring feat, but it will be violating no confidence, at this late day, to say that the two heroes of this daring boyish escapade, which was at the time a nine-days' wonder, served in the war, one of them in what was known as the "Normal" company, and are now gray-haired veterans, marching serenely down the western slope, toward the sunset of their well-spent lives.
CHAPTER IV
THE SUMMER OF 1862
The summer of 1862 was one of the darkest periods of the war. Though more than a year had elapsed since the beginning of hostilities, things were apparently going from bad to worse. There was visible nowhere a single ray of light to illumine the gloom that had settled down upon the land. All the brilliant promise of McClellan's campaign had come to naught, and the splendid army of Potomac veterans, after having come within sight of the spires of Richmond, was in full retreat to the James. The end seemed farther away than in the beginning. Grant's successful campaign against Forts Henry and Donelson had been succeeded by a condition of lethargy in all the Western armies. Notwithstanding the successes at Pittsburg Landing and at Corinth, and the death of Albert Sidney Johnston, who had been regarded as the ablest of all the officers of the old army who had taken service with the confederates, there had been a total absence of decisive results. McClellan had disappointed the hopes of the people; Grant was accused of blundering and of a fondness for drink; the great ability of Sherman was not fully recognized; and the country did not yet suspect that in Sheridan it had another Marlborough. Stonewall Jackson was in full tilt in Virginia, and Robert E. Lee had given evidence that he could easily overmatch any leader who might be pitted against him. With more of hope than of confidence, the eyes of the Nation were turned towards Halleck, Buell, and Pope.
It was a dismal outlook. Union commanders were clamoring for more men and the Union cause was weak, because of the lack of confidence which Union generals had in each other. The patriotism of the volunteers, under these most trying and discouraging circumstances, was still the only reliance. Big bounties had not been offered and the draft had not yet been thought of, much less resorted to. War meetings were being held all over the state, literally in every school house, and recruiting went on vigorously. During the year 1862, Michigan equipped three regiments of cavalry, four batteries, two companies of sharpshooters, and fifteen regiments of infantry, which were mustered into the service of the United States.
About the time that the college year closed, President Lincoln issued a call for 300,000 more. This call was dated July 2, 1862, the last previous one having been made on July 25, 1861—almost a year before. Under this call, Congressman Francis W. Kellogg, of the then Fourth congressional district of Michigan, came home from Washington with authority to raise two more regiments of cavalry. This authority was direct from Secretary Stanton, with whom, for some reason, Mr. Kellogg had much influence, and from whom he received favors such as were granted to but few. He looked like Mr. Stanton. Perhaps that fact may have accounted, in part at least, for the strong bond of friendship between him and the great War Secretary. Under similar authority he had been instrumental, during the year 1861, in putting into the field the Second and Third regiments of Michigan cavalry. They had made an excellent record and that, likewise, may have counted to his credit with the War Department. Be that as it may, Mr. Kellogg went at this work with his accustomed vigor and, in a very short space of time, the Sixth and Seventh regiments were ready for muster, though the latter did not leave the state until January, 1863. The Fourth and Fifth regiments had been recruited under a previous call.
To show how little things often change the course of men's lives, an incident of personal experience is here related. The Fifth Michigan cavalry was recruited under the title of "Copeland's Mounted Riflemen." One of the most picturesque figures in America before the war was John C. Fremont, known as "The Pathfinder," whose "Narrative," in the fifties, was read by boys with the same avidity that they displayed in the perusal of the "Arabian Nights." Fremont had a regiment of "Mounted Riflemen" in the Mexican war, though it served in California, and the youthful imagination of those days idealized it into a corps d'elite, as it idealized the Mexican war veterans, Marion's men, or the Old Guard of Napoleon Bonaparte. The name had a certain fascination which entwined it around the memory, and when flaming posters appeared on the walls, announcing that Captain Gardner, of the village of Muir, was raising a company of "Mounted Riflemen" for Copeland's regiment, four young men, myself being one of them, hired a livery team and drove to that modest country four-corners to enlist. The "captain" handed us a telegram from Detroit saying that the regiment was full and his company could not be accepted. The boys drove back with heavy hearts at the lost opportunity. That is how it happened that I was not a private in the Fifth Michigan cavalry instead of a captain in the Sixth when I went out, for, in a few days from that time, Mr. Kellogg authorized me to raise a troop, a commission as captain being conditional on my being in camp with a minimum number of men, within fifteen days from the date of the appointment.
The conditions were complied with. Two of the other boys became captains in the Sixth Michigan cavalry; the other went out as sergeant-major of the Twenty-first Michigan infantry and arose in good time to be a captain in his regiment.