I liked this railroad guard duty. Between Bolivar and Toone's the road ran through dense woods, with only an occasional little farm on either side of the road, and it was pleasant to be out in those fine old woods, and far away from the noise and smells of the camps. And there are so many things that are strange and attractive, to be seen and heard, when one is standing alone on picket, away out in some lonesome place, in the middle of the night. I think that a man who has never spent some wakeful hours in the night, by himself, out in the woods, has simply missed one of the most interesting parts of life. The night is the time when most of the wild things are astir, and some of the tame ones, too. There was some kind of a very small frog in the swamps and marshes near Bolivar that gave forth about the most plaintive little cry that I ever heard. It was very much like the bleating of a young lamb, and, on hearing it the first time, I thought sure it was from some little lamb that was lost, or in distress of some kind. I never looked the matter up to ascertain of what particular species those frogs were. They may be common throughout the South, but I never heard this particular call except around and near Bolivar. And the woods between Bolivar and Toone's were full of owls, from great big fellows with a thunderous scream, down to the little screech owls, who made only a sort of chattering noise. One never failing habit of the big owls was to assemble in some grove of tall trees just about daybreak, and have a morning concert, that could be heard half a mile away. And there were also whippoorwills, and mocking birds, and, during the pleasant season of the year, myriads of insects that would keep sounding their shrill little notes the greater part of the night. And the only time one sees a flying squirrel, (unless you happen to cut down the tree in whose hollow he is sleeping,) is in the night time. They are then abroad in full force.
When on picket in my army days I found out that dogs are great nocturnal ramblers. I have been on guard at a big tree, on some grass-grown country road, when something would be heard coming down the road towards me; pat, pat, pitty-pat,—then it would stop short. The night might be too dark for me to see it, but I knew it must be a dog. It would stand silent for a few seconds, evidently closely scrutinizing that man alone under the tree, with something like a long shining stick in his hands; then it would stealthily leave the road, and would be heard rustling through the leaves as it made a half circle through the woods to get by me. On reaching the road below me, its noise would cease for a little while,—it was then looking back over its shoulder to see if that man was still there. Having satisfied itself on that point, then—pat, pat, pitty-pat, and it went off in a trot down the road. When you see an old farm dog asleep in the sun on the porch in the day time, with his head between his paws, it is, as a general rule, safe to assume that he was up and on a scout all the previous night, and maybe traveled ten or fifteen miles. Cats are also confirmed night prowlers, but I don't think they wander as far as dogs. Later, when we were in Arkansas, sometimes a full grown bear would walk up to some drowsy picket, and give him the surprise of his life.
One quiet, star-lit summer night, while on picket between Bolivar and Toone's, I had the good fortune to witness the flight of the largest and most brilliant meteor I ever have seen. It was a little after midnight, and I was standing alone at my post, looking, listening, and thinking. Suddenly there came a loud, rushing, roaring sound, like a passenger train close by, going at full speed, and there in the west was a meteor! Its flight was from the southwest to the northeast, parallel with the horizon, and low down. Its head, or body, looked like a huge ball of fire, and it left behind a long, immense tail of brilliant white, that lighted up all the western heavens. While yet in full view, it exploded with a crash like a near-by clap of thunder, there was a wide, glittering shower of sparks,—and then silence and darkness. The length of time it was visible could not have been more than a few seconds, but it was a most extraordinary spectacle.
On October 19th the regiment (except those on guard duty) went as escort of a foraging expedition to a big plantation about twelve miles from Bolivar down the Hatchie river. We rode there and back in the big government wagons, each wagon being drawn by a team of six mules. Like Joseph's brethren when they went down into Egypt, we were after corn. The plantation we foraged was an extensive one on the fertile bottom land of the Hatchie river, and the owner that year had grown several hundred acres of corn, which had all been gathered, or shocked, and we just took it as we found it. The people evidently were wealthy for that time and locality, many slaves were on the place, and it was abounding in live stock and poultry of all kinds. The plantation in general presented a scene of rural plenty and abundance that reminded me of the home of old Baltus Van Tassel, as described by Washington Irving in the story of "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow,"—with this difference: Everything about the Tennessee plantation was dirty, out of order, and in general higgledy-piggledy condition. And the method of farming was slovenly in the extreme. The cultivated land had been cleared by cutting away the underbrush and small trees, while the big ones had merely been "deadened," by girdling them near the ground. These dead trees were all standing in ghastly nakedness, and so thick in many places that it must have been difficult to plow through them, while flocks of crows and buzzards were sailing around them or perched in their tops, cawing and croaking, and thereby augmenting the woe-begone looks of things. The planter himself was of a type then common in the South. He was a large, coarse looking man, with an immense paunch, wore a broad-brimmed, home-made straw hat and butter nut jeans clothes. His trousers were of the old-fashioned, "broad-fall" pattern. His hair was long, he had a scraggy, sandy beard, and chewed "long green" tobacco continually and viciously. But he was shrewd enough to know that ugly talk on his part wouldn't mend matters, but only make them worse, so he stood around in silence while we took his corn, but he looked as malignant as a rattlesnake. His wife was directly his opposite in appearance and demeanor. She was tall, thin, and bony, with reddish hair and a sharp nose and chin. And goodness, but she had a temper! She stood in the door of the dwelling house, and just tongue-lashed us "Yankees," as she called us, to the full extent of her ability. The boys took it all good naturedly, and didn't jaw back. We couldn't afford to quarrel with a woman. A year later, the result of her abuse would have been the stripping of the farm of every hog and head of poultry on it, but at this time the orders were strict against indiscriminate, individual foraging, and except one or two bee-stands full of honey, nothing was taken but the corn. And I have no doubt that long ere this the Government has paid that planter, or his heirs, a top-notch price for everything we took. It seems to be easy, now-a-days, to get a special Act through Congress, making "full compensation" in cases of that kind.
Not long after the foregoing expedition, I witnessed a somewhat amusing incident one night on the picket line. One day, for some reason, the regiment was required, in addition to the railroad guards, to furnish a number of men for picket duty. First Lieut. Sam T. Carrico, of Co. B, was the officer, and it fell to my lot to be the sergeant of the guard. We picketed a section of the line a mile or so southwest of Bolivar, and the headquarters post, where the lieutenant and the sergeant of the guard stayed, was at a point on a main traveled road running southwest from the town. It was in the latter part of October, and the night was a bad and cold one. Lieut. Carrico and I had "doubled up," spread one of our blankets on the ground, and with the other drawn over us, were lying down and trying to doze a little, when about ten o'clock we heard a horseman coming at full speed from the direction of Bolivar. We thereupon rose to a sitting posture, and awaited developments. The horseman, on nearing our post and being challenged, responded, "Friend, without the countersign!" and in a peremptory manner told the sentinel on duty that he wanted to see the officer of the guard. Lieut. Carrico and I walked up to the horseman, and, on getting close to him, saw that he was a Union officer of the rank of Captain. Addressing himself to the lieutenant, in a loud and hasty manner he told him his story, which, in substance, was that he was Captain —— (giving his name), on Gen. Grant's staff, that he had just arrived in Bolivar on the train from Memphis, that he had important business a few miles outside of the lines, and being in a great hurry, he had not gone to post headquarters to get the countersign, as he felt satisfied that the statement of his rank and business would be sufficient to insure his being passed through the picket line, and so on. Lieut. Carrico listened in silence until the fellow finished, and then said, quietly but very firmly, "Captain, if you claimed to be Gen. Grant himself, you shouldn't pass through my line without the countersign." At this the alleged "staff officer" blew up, and thundered and bullied at a great rate. Carrico was not much more than a boy, being only about twenty-two years old, and of slight build, but he kept perfectly cool and remained firm as a rock. Finally the officer wheeled his horse around and started back to town at a furious gallop. Carrico then walked up to the sentinel on duty and said to him, "Now, if that fellow comes back, you challenge him, and make him conform to every item of the army regulations;" and to make sure about it, he gave the guard specific instructions as to his duties in such cases. We stood around and waited, and it was not long before we heard the horseman returning at his usual rate of speed. He never checked his gait until the challenge of the sentinel rang out, "Halt! Who comes there?" "Friend, with the countersign!" was the answer. "Dismount, friend, advance, and give the countersign!" cried the sentinel. Kuh-sock, went the fine, high-top boots of the rider in the mud, and leading his horse, he walked up, gave the talismanic word, to which the response was made, "Countersign's correct! Pass, friend." The officer then sprang into the saddle, and rode up to the lieutenant and me. Taking a memorandum book and pencil from one of his pockets, he said to Carrico, "Give me your name, company, and regiment, sir." "Samuel T. Carrico, first lieutenant Co. B, 61st Illinois Infantry." The officer scribbled in his note-book, then turned to me, "And yours?" "Leander Stillwell, sergeant Co. D, 61st Illinois Infantry;" and that answer was also duly recorded. "Good night, gentlemen; you'll render an account for this outrage later;" and with this parting salutation, the officer galloped away. "All right!" Carrico called after him, "you know where to find us." The victim of the "outrage" had not returned when we were relieved at 9 o'clock the next morning, and we never saw or heard of him any more. Of course his threat on leaving us was pure bluff, for Lieut. Carrico had only done his plain and simple duty. The fellow was probably all right; his returning with the countersign would indicate it. But his "important business" was doubtless simply to keep a date with some lady-love out in the country, and he wanted to meet her under the friendly cover of the night.
Samuel T. Carrico
1st Lieutenant Co. B, 61st Illinois Infantry.
Bolivar, Tenn., Oct., 1862.
A few words will here be said in the nature of a deserved tribute to Lieut. Carrico. Later he rose to the rank of Captain of his company, and was one among the very best and bravest of the line officers of the regiment. He had nerves like hammered steel, and was as cool a man in action as I ever have known. Of all the officers of the regiment who were mustered in at its organization, he is now the only survivor. He is living at Alva, Oklahoma, and is a hale, hearty old man.
CHAPTER IX.