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.

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CHAPTER XI.

HELENA, ARKANSAS. LIFE IN A HOSPITAL. AUGUST, 1863.

General Sherman soon drove General Johnston out of Jackson, and beyond Pearl river, and then his column returned to the vicinity of Vicksburg. On July 22nd our division marched back to Snyder's Bluff, and resumed our old camp. But we had not been here long before it was rumored that we were under marching orders, and would soon leave for some point in Arkansas. Sure enough, on July 29th we marched to the Yazoo river and filed on board the side-wheel steamer "Sultana," steamed down the river to its mouth, and there turned up the Mississippi, headed north. I will remark here that one of the most tragical and distressing incidents of the war was directly connected with a frightful disaster that later befell the above named steamboat. It left Vicksburg for the north on or about April 25, 1865, having on board nearly 1900 Union soldiers, all of whom (with few exceptions) were paroled prisoners. On the morning of April 27th, while near Memphis, the boilers of the boat exploded, and it was burnt to the water's edge. Over 1100 of these unfortunate men perished in the wreck, in different ways; some scalded to death by escaping steam, some by fire, others (and the greatest number) by drowning. Besides the soldiers, cabin passengers and members of the boat's crew, to the number of about 140, also perished. It was the greatest disaster, of that kind, that ever occurred on the Mississippi.

It may, perhaps, be noticed that the regiment is leaving the vicinity of Vicksburg without my saying a word about the appearance, at that time, of that celebrated stronghold. There is good reason for it; namely, it so happened that we never were in the place. We were close to it, on the north and on the east, but that was all. And I never yet have seen Vicksburg, and it is not probable now that I ever shall.

We arrived at Helena, Arkansas, on July 31st, debarked and went into camp near the bank of the river, about two miles below the town. There were no trees in our camp except a few cottonwoods; the ground on which we walked, sat, and slept was, in the main, just a mass of hot sand, and we got water for drinking and cooking purposes from the Mississippi river. The country back of the town, and in that immediate vicinity generally, was wild and thinly settled, and had already been well-foraged, so we were restricted to the ordinary army diet, of which one of the principal items, as usual, was fat sow-belly. I never understood why we were not allowed to camp in the woods west of the town. There was plenty of high, well-shaded space there, and we soon could have sunk wells that would have furnished cool, palatable water. But this was not done, and the regiment remained for about two weeks camped on the river bank, in the conditions above described. A natural result was that numbers of the men were prostrated by malarial fever, and this time I happened to be one of them. I now approach a painful period of my army career. I just lay there, in a hot tent, on the sand,—oh, so sick! But I fought off going to the hospital as long as possible. I had a superstitious dread of an army hospital. I had seen so many of the boys loaded into ambulances, and hauled off to such a place, who never returned, that I was determined never to go to one if it could be avoided in any honorable way. But the time came when it was a military necessity that I should go, and there was no alternative. The campaign that was in contemplation was a movement westward against the Confederates under Gen. Sterling Price at Little Rock, with the intention of capturing that place and driving the Confederates from the State. The officer in command of the Union forces was Gen. Frederick Steele. Marching orders were issued, fixing the 13th of August as the day our regiment would start. All the sick who were unable to march (and I was among that number) were to be sent to the Division Hospital. So, on the morning before the regiment moved, an ambulance drove up to my tent, and some of the boys carried me out and put me in the vehicle. Capt. Keeley was standing by; he pressed my hand and said, "Good-by, Stillwell; brace up! You'll be all right soon." I was feeling too wretched to talk much; I only said, "Good-by, Captain," and let it go at that. Later, when I rejoined the regiment, Keeley told me that when he bade me good-by that morning he never expected to see me again.

Our Division Hospital, to which I was taken, consisted of a little village of wall tents in the outskirts of Helena. The tents were arranged in rows, with perhaps from fifteen to twenty in a row, with their ends pinned back against the sides, thus making an open space down an entire row. The sick men lay on cots, of which there was a line on each side of the interior of the tents, with a narrow aisle between. I remained at the hospital eight days, and was very sick the most of the time, and retain a distinct recollection of only a few things. But, aside from men dying all around me, both day and night, nothing important happened. All the accounts that I have read of this movement of Gen. Steele's on Little Rock agree in stating that the number of men he left sick at Helena and other places between there and Little Rock was extraordinary and beyond all usual proportions. And from what I saw myself, I think these statements must be true. And a necessary consequence of this heavy sick list was the fact that it must have been impossible to give the invalids the care and attention they should have received. We had but few attendants, and they were soldiers detailed for that purpose who were too feeble to march, but were supposed to be capable of rendering hospital service. And the medical force left with us was so scanty that it was totally inadequate for the duties they were called on to perform. Oh, those nights were so long! At intervals in the aisle a bayonet would be stuck in the ground with a lighted candle in its socket, and when a light went out, say after midnight, it stayed out, and we would toss around on those hard cots in a state of semi-darkness until daylight. If any attendants moved around among us in the later hours of the night I never saw them. We had well-water to drink, which, of course, was better than that from the river, but it would soon become insipid and warm, and sometimes, especially during the night, we didn't have enough of that. On one occasion, about midnight, soon after I was taken to the hospital, I was burning with fever, and became intolerably thirsty for a drink of water. No attendants were in sight, and the candles had all gone out but one or two, which emitted only a sort of flickering light that barely served to "render darkness visible." My suffering became well-nigh unendurable, and I could stand it no longer. I got up and staggered to the door of the tent and looking about me saw not far away a light gleaming through a tent that stood apart from the others. I made my way to it as best I could, and went in. A young fellow, maybe an assistant surgeon, was seated at the further end cf a little desk, writing. My entrance was so quiet that he did not hear me, and walking up to him, I said, in a sort of a hollow voice: "I want—a drink—of water." The fellow dropped his pen, and nearly fell off his stool. The only garment I had on was a white, sleazy sort of cotton bed-gown, which they garbed us all in when we were taken to the hospital; and this chap's eyes, as he stared at me, looked as if they would pop out of his head. Perhaps he thought I was a "gliding ghost." But he got me some water, and I drank copiously. I don't clearly remember what followed. It seems to me that this man helped me back to my tent, but I am not sure. However, I was in the same old cot next morning.