And so it was, that after more than three years of brave and faithful service he was fated to lose his life in the last action the regiment was in—a small, obscure affair among the rocks and bushes, and which, when mentioned in the general histories at all, is disposed of in a paragraph of about four lines. But a soldier in time of war has no control over his fate, and no option in the selection of the time when, nor the place where, it may be his lot to "stack arms" forever.
I will now resume the account of what occurred after we reached the blockhouse. It will be brief. We formed in line with the reinforcements that had come from Murfreesboro, and advanced toward the train. We encountered no opposition; the enemy had set fire to the cars, and then had hastily and entirely disappeared.
I have recently discovered in a modern edition of the Reports of the Adjutant-General of Illinois, (the date on the title page being 1901,) that in the revised sketch of our regiment a recital has crept in stating that in our subsequent advance we "recaptured the train in time to prevent its destruction." How that statement got into the sketch I do not know, and I am sorry to be under the necessity of saying that it is not true. When we got back to the scene of the fight the train was a mass of roaring flame, the resulting consequence being that every car was finally consumed. No matter how much it may hurt, it is always best to be fair, and tell the truth.
J. B. Nulton
Major, 61st Illinois Infantry (later Colonel).
In the course of the day our troops all returned to Murfreesboro. Maj. Nulton, who was now our regimental commander, gave us of the 61st permission to march back "at will." That is, we could start when we got ready, singly or in squads, and not in regimental formation. So Bill Banfield and I started out to get something to eat, as we were very hungry. Since leaving Stevenson on the morning of the 14th, we had had no opportunity to cook anything, and had eaten nothing but some hardtack and raw bacon. Then that night we had left our haversacks on top of the cars when we got off the train to skirmish with the enemy, and never saw them again. And this was a special grievance for Bill and me. We each had a little money, and on the morning we left Stevenson had gone to a sutler's, and made some purchases to insure us an extra good meal when we got back to Murfreesboro. I bought a little can of condensed milk, (having always had a weakness for milk in coffee,) while Bill, with a kind of queer taste, invested in a can of lobsters. One time that night, while sitting on the ground, in the cold and dark, tired, hungry, and sleepy, waiting while our engineers patched a break in the railroad, Bill, with a view, I reckon, to cheering us both up, delivered himself in this wise: "This is a little tough, Stillwell, but just think of that bully dinner we'll have when we get to Murfreesboro! You've your can of condensed milk, and I've mine of lobsters; we'll have coffee with milk in it, and then, with some hardtack, we'll have a spread that will make up for this all right." But, alas!
"The best laid schemes o' mice and men
Gang aft a-gley."
My precious condensed milk, and the crustaceans aforesaid of Bill's, doubtless went glimmering down the alimentary canal of some long-haired Texan, to his great satisfaction. My wish at the time was that the darned lobsters might make the fellow sick,—which they probably did. So Bill and I were now at the burning train, looking for something to take the place of our captured Belshazzar banquet. We found a car that was loaded with pickled pork in barrels, and getting a fence rail, we finally succeeded, after some peril and much difficulty, in prying off one of the barrels, and it fell to the ground, bursting open as it did so, and scattering the blazing pieces of pork all around. We each got a portion, and then sat down on a big rock, and proceeded to devour our respective chunks without further ceremony. The outside of the meat was burned to a coal, but we were hungry, all of it tasted mighty sweet, and we gnawed it just like dogs. At the close of the repast, I took a look at Bill. His face was as black as tar from contact with the burnt pork, and in other respects his "tout ensemble" "left much to be desired." I thought if I looked as depraved as Bill certainly did it would be advisable to avoid any pocket looking-glass until after a thorough facial ablution with soft water and plenty of soap. Dinner over, we were soon ready for the march to camp, (there being no dishes to wash,) and started down the railroad track for Murfreesboro. We took our time, and didn't reach camp till about sundown. We were the last arrivals of Co. D, and, as there were all sorts of rumors afloat, we afterwards learned that Capt. Keeley had become quite anxious about us. As we turned down our company street I saw the Captain standing in front of his tent, looking in our direction. After the affairs of the 4th and the 7th, I had taken much satisfaction, in speaking to him of those events, in adopting the phraseology of the old chaplain, and had expressed myself several times in language like this: "And we smote them, hip and thigh, even as Joash smote Boheel!" But it was now necessary to amend my boastful statement, so as I approached Capt. Keeley, and before anything else had been spoken, I made to him this announcement: "And they smote us, hip and thigh, even as Joash smote Boheel!" Keeley laughed, but it was a rather dry laugh, and he answered: "Well, I'm glad they didn't smite you boys, anyhow—but, great God! go wash your faces, and clean up generally. You both look like the very devil himself." We passed on, complied with the Captain's directions, and then I curled up in my dog tent and slept without a break until next morning.
