The camp of the Fifteenth Army Corps, during this interlude of marching, lay along the Big Black River, between Jackson and Vicksburg, about twenty miles from the latter. It was acting as guard to all that region against any return movements or raids of the enemy. A glance at the map will show you the exact position.
But there is a history of this and similar encampments which will never be written. In the sultry air and poisonous vapors of the Big Black, officers and men resorted to every possible resource for whiling away the dull hours and cheering the home-sick invalids.
Not unfrequently, in the light of the evening-lamps, the commander-in-chief has amused and interested by the hour a circle of officers gathered about him, with the narratives of his early adventures, presenting, with the vividness of reality, the exciting life among the Indians of Florida and the gold-seekers of California.
But one day there was an unusual stir around the General’s headquarters; for visitors worth more to him than all earthly honors or gold were escorted to his tent, his wife and his son, bearing his own name, had come from their western home, to meet him once more before his long and perilous marches over hostile soil. But the hours of domestic converse and delight flew swiftly by, the farewells were spoken, and the well-guarded visitors went on their homeward way. There was no safeguard against disease lurking in those Southern swamps. The gifted and beautiful boy, unconsciously to all, had been smitten, and a raging fever soon laid him at the gate of death. He had been adopted by the Thirteenth Corps as their pet—a compliment both to him and his father, who was himself the idol of those brave battalions.
How this bereavement affected him and his old veterans, you will know hereafter.
September 22d, General Grant telegraphed him from Vicksburg to send forward immediately a division to reënforce General Rosecrans, who had been defeated by General Bragg at Chickamauga, and was obliged to retreat to Chattanooga, unpursued by his successful enemy. General Rosecrans commanded the Army of the Cumberland, and was now holding the great central stronghold in the vast battle-field between Vicksburg and Charleston. At 4 o’clock of the same day the telegram was read by General Sherman, who is always a minute man. General Osterhaus’ division was on the road to Vicksburg, and the following day “it was streaming toward Memphis.” A day later, and the commander-in-chief received orders to follow with the entire corps. The tents disappeared like dew before the morning sun, and the proud host were following the columns of Osterhaus toward Memphis. Two divisions were transported by water. But the low tide and scarcity of food made their progress slow. The leader was impatient of delay, for he longed to try the metal of his corps against that of General Bragg. He is no fancy commander; but an incarnation of nervous energy, with no display of tinsel in his attire, helping with his own hands to bring in fence-rails to feed the fires, then turning teamster to wagons hauling wood from the interior to the boats.
During the first days of October, while General Osterhaus is in front of Corinth, his boats lie before Memphis.
And amid the absorbing duties of a grand campaign, look into the General’s tent, and you shall see the warrior for a moment lost in the grieving father, and will feel that the scene is, indeed, “a touching episode of the war.” The letter, addressed to the Thirteenth Infantry, and by its officers ordered to be printed for distribution among the soldiers of the regiment, cannot but touch a tender chord in every heart. Stricken father, noble patriot, the hero of uncounted battles; let the nation pause in its admiration of his gallant deeds, to weep with the mourner over the young life that no “bugle note” will awaken.
“Gayoso House, Memphis, Tenn., Oct. 4, Midnight.
“Capt. C. C. Smith, Commanding Battalion Thirteenth Regulars: