In 1856 occurred my marriage to Miss Eliza H. Van Cleve, and no man could be more happily wedded. For thirty-eight years, until her recent death, on April 13, 1894, our life was as much of a honeymoon as it is possible for a well-mated couple to make it.
I had learned the trade of a tailor, but other employment offered more inducements, and, on August 8, 1862, my occupation was that of postmaster at Blakesburg, Iowa, keeping a small general store in connection with the postoffice. On this date I enlisted with others, and we were sworn in at our place.
Our company was organized at Ottumwa, where we went for the purpose, and my election as first lieutenant gave me much pleasure. Here we spent about two weeks at squad drill, having the usual experience of beginners.
Many of the town girls had lovers, brothers and relatives in our company, and we had many fair critics present at our drills on the south bank of the Des Moines river. The excitement was great at the time, and everybody seemed to be interested very much in our company. For a while we received the criticisms of our fair guests with equanimity, but at last we conceived the idea of turning the tables, and soon had an opposition company so interested in their own drill that the girls gave us some peace. Two of the boys afterwards married members of the competing company.
We rendezvoused at Keokuk, where the 36th Iowa Infantry was finally organized and mustered into the service of the United States on October 4, 1862, Col. Charles W. Kitredge commanding. Our boys were designated Company B.
About November 1 the regiment went to Benton Barracks, near St. Louis, and remained until December 20. After we were ordered to go south all was bustle till we embarked on two steamboats and started on our voyage.
The boats were loaded to the guards with soldiers, hard tack and coffins, the last being piled up in all available space. Said Pat Riley, a member of our company: "Holy Jasus, byes, luk! Luk at that! Hev us ter kerry thim ter hev 'em handy loike?"
The mute suggestion of the many coffins was not pleasant, but our boys were hopeful, and many jokes were bandied about in consequence of their presence.
That sail down the mighty river will never be forgotten. None knew where we were going, and the conflict between hope and fear was in many a breast—hope of success and glory, and distrust of the issue. On board all was confusion; oaths, laughter, witty remarks, hoarse orders, din in general. Looking inboard, one could forget all save the immediate present, and hope was predominant. Looking up at the sky, with its sweeping clouds, like vast billows of dark, stormy sea, rushing on and tumbling over each other in mad haste, one felt the immensity of the universe and the littleness of man, despite his thunders of war. Listening to the asthmatic breathing of the "scape" pipes, and watching the shores gliding by, one half fancied a flight in the grasp of some huge monster that was bearing away its prey. Looking over the side and hearing the sob and swash of the seething water under the guards, one could imagine a restraining hand on the huge mass, the panting breath of exertion, and a moan of regret because of ineffectual effort to keep back the floating giant that was carrying so many human beings away to death and disaster. Fear of the future now became the paramount feeling.
We were halted at Memphis by a signal from shore, and found that the citizens and military authorities were in fear of an attack by Forrest. That night we slept on our arms in Jackson Square.