a sera ennken pe Os iG eens ie RA ry i v, Ge =v me : - =. == Sh IJ i easjeves fs MN DES N \ ‘ : SN XN y ar. i Carl Sandburg’s Library 213 795 Sot teat tf The person charging this material is re-. sponsible for its return on or before the Latest Date stamped below. Theft, mutilation, and underlining of books are reasons for disciplinary action and may result in dismissal from the University. University of Illinois Library mS Fe ORNS re 7 GENERAL PHIL SHERIDAN As I Knew Him, Playmate - Comrade - Friend eee By CAPTAIN H. C. GREINER BEAUTIFULLY ILLUSTRATED CHICAGO J. S. HYLAND AND COMPANY 1908 Copyright 1908, . HYLAND & COMPANY, _ Chicago. a a SeRLAMNS hee ‘7 * 4) a Aug 1.8 1956 ~*~“ Dedicated TO THE YOUTH OF OUR COUNTRY WHO ARE STRUGGLING FOR A PLACE IN THE RANKS OF THE NATION’S GREAT AND CHIVALROUS MEN. —CapTaiIn Henry C, GREINER. In HMemoriam Captain Henry C. Greiner departed this life at his late home in Chicago Lawn, June 12, 1908, aged eighty-one years. Captain Greiner, the day before his death, laid down his pen, having finished this book, which had been a life study. By his years of labor this Nation has become en- riched . . . Whole-souled, brave, noble, his hand was ever servant to his heart . . . His spirit passed silently through the portals of the tomb, seeking its Creator. Now this task of love at an end, His soul joins its Playmate-Comrade-Friend. PUBLISHERS. CONTENTS CHAPTER? Notable Historic Persons and Warlike Scenes in Somerset, Ohio— Somerset Before It Was Honored by the Name of Sheridan— Great Men Like William Henry Harrison and Henry Clay Spoke From the Rostrum of the Somerset Court House—The Immortal “J. N.” and Other Quaint Characters—MacGahan Created a Na- [BA 0)a 0 eR ped SFY ARCS 6b Raye Se ae pi taecaeer SE Wee ane a ett Mag eb er ace sone aR 11 CHAPTER II. Would Not Shake Hands With the Vice-President—Juvenile Shows —In a Bad Box—Refuses the Offer of A. T. Stewart, the BPC ADEM TICE fats rece eo ora ae owe eee Sree Ee 8 ee eh Chay eehe ben ee 24 CHAPTER III. Billy Jones’ Early Diplomacy—Boys’ Fun—Phil’s Kindness to My Dog—The Only Time That Phil Ever Surrendered................ 34 CHAPTER IV. Schools and Teachers of Fifty Years Ago—Phil Sheridan Chased by the Old Master—Blackboard and Anti-Blackboard............... 40 CHAPTER V. Phil Sheridan Not a Quarrelsome Nor a Fighting Boy—The Vil- lage Store—Promotions as Clerk—How Phil Caught the Martial Fever During the Mexican War—His Appointment to West Point. .50 CHAPTER: VI. Phil Home From West Point—Kindness to a Dog—On the Frontier —Fighting Indians—Complimented by General Scott............... 67 CHAPTER VII. The War Clouds Darken—Volunteering—General Sheridan’s Return —Volunteers’ Goodbye—Camp Chase—Cincinnati—Kentucky— Camp Dick Robinson—General Sherman—East Tennesseeans....... 75 CHAPTER VIII. Christmas Recollections—The Soldier’s Dream—A Brave Union Woman—Evil Effects of Merritt’s Peach Brandy................. 100 CHAPTER IX. Yankee Tricks—Polite Sergeant Occupying Churches—Somerset, Ken- tucky—Our Scout and Spy—Hudson’s Ford—Mill Springs......... 114 CHAPTER X. Crossing the Cumberland—General Thomas—On to Nashville—Death by Drowning—Tying Soldiers—Shiloh............. cece eee eeeees 134 CONTENTS CHAPTER XI. Leaving Company G—How the Dutch Were Fooled—My First Loss in the New Company—Louisville Legion—Panic.................- 145 CHAPTER XII. The Hermitage—“Where Is the Regiment, Doctor?”—The Call of the Bugle a Benediction and. an ‘Inspiration...........<..¢25 eee 187 CHAPTER XIII. Buell Leaving Louisville—Battle of Perryville—A Mule Looking at the Battlk—Deadly Effect of Sheridan’s Artillery................. 201 CHAPTER: XIV; Pen Picture of Sheridan—His Great Tact—How He Enraged the Michigan Boys—How the Boy of Sixteen Got to the Front........ 230 CHAPTER XV. Colonel Mulligan’s Death—The Virginia Girl on the Pike—Driven Out of Martinsburg—Lieutenant Martin..............0ccevecccees 269 CHAPTER XVI. Old John Brown’s Home—The Wounded at the Homestead—Driven Again—Phil Sheridan Coming to the Valley..............6..-000% 293 CHAPTER XVII. The Heroic Verse of Mr. Read, ‘“Sheridan’s Ride’—Echoes at Phil’s Home of ‘the Battle “Twenty Miles Away”. io. 020. .o. 3. eee 319 CHAPTER XVIII. BATTLE OF WINCHESTER. Won on the Information of a Girl—Letter of Mrs. Bonsal, Then Miss Rebecca I. Wright, to General Sheridan—A Touching In- cident ‘at Cedar Greekiiiier says oc cco ee te hee eh ee 325 CHAPTER XIX. Return Home—Meeting With Phil’s Father—“‘A Joy Shared Is a Joy Doubled”—A Little Lass Presents the Buckeye to the Hero...340 CHAPTER: XX: Formal Reception to General Sheridan—“I Promised Mother I Would Be Home to Dinner. I Must Not Disappoint Her”’—Memories of: Childhood: Days. ence uci oe ieee ee 368 CHAPTER XXI. Meeting a Veteran—The General Amused at “Nick’s” Description...... 373 CHAPTER XXII. Parents of General Sheridan—A Fighting Tribute for a Noble Little Woman, Who Gave All Her Sons to Their Country......... een 387 CHAPTER XXIII. : Colonel John Schuyler Crosby—Sheridan’s Disposition—Had the Tem- per of a Robust Man—Had the Force of a Giant and the Tender- ness Of a“ Woman. 4) vo. a (elbe vie #1, esWnrts An ants eee 409 PREFACE. If asked why these Memories of General Phil Sheridan had been written, I should answer: “To remove erroneous impres- sions.” Since leaving Ohio I find such impressions quite prevalent. As children, Phil and I were playmates and com- rades, and later I was for many years his agent and repre- sentative; therefore, my opportunity of obtaining an insight into his traits and characteristics was abundant. That others may know him as I knew him is the principal aim of this book. I might add also, it affords me an opportunity to atone for the thrashings I unintentionally brought upon both of us from the pioneer masters, McNanly and Thorn. The rising generation, no doubt, may be interested in the early life and true character of the brainiest fighter and great- est battle tactician on either side of our great war. I find that many believe Sheridan was cruel, hard-hearted and loved war and its savagery, but I know he was kind and gentle of heart. On several occasions I sought to correct these wrong impressions, when the accusing party would point to his un- necessary devastation of the beautiful Shenandoah Valley, where Sheridan seemed to revel in destruction. The accuser was not aware that this was done in obedience to an order from General Grant, whom, I am sure, no one would accuse of cruelty. It was a wise and merciful order to destroy what an enemy. subsisted upon, as it brought peace more speedily than the destruction of human life. Others have said that he loved war rather than peace, and, in evidence, reminded me of his eagerness to fight the French who occupied Mexico under the ill-fated Maximilian. They claimed that General Lee had scarcely sheathed the sword that General Grant so generously returned to him at Appo- mattox, when Sheridan flew so hastily to another field prom- ising blood and battle, that he did not remain North suffi- ciently long to take part in that grand parade down Pennsyl- 7 vania Avenue, where he could have ridden proudly at the head of his ten thousand cavalry, whose sabres were burnished with the lustre of so many brilliant victories; but refusing all these attractions, he hurried South. A moment’s reflection will show the injustice of this charge. It was one of the chief desires of Sheridan’s life to witness and participate in the great review, following victory. At that time Grant was commander of all the armies. Sheridan could not move to the Mexican boundary without Grant’s order. Grant, of his own motion, could not have sent Sheridan. The order was directed by the Administration. Our government, during the war of the rebellion, had to endure threats and insults which it would not bear for a minute after domestic peace was secured. The English pro- fessed hostility to slavery, but sold weapons and munitions of war and supplies of every character to the States fighting to maintain slavery. Louis Napoleon put his poor dupe on a throne supported by bayonets in Mexico. Between England and Napoleon the Third, the Republic was to be overthrown and divided and the Monroe Doctrine forever stamped out. The sending of Sheridan to Texas was a National policy— not one of Sheridan’s—and was the first act in the movement to notify the world that our western continent was dedicated to liberty and freedom and could never become a mere series of colonial possessions for rotten European tyrannies. I do not deny that Sheridan was as eager as his govern- ment that the French, sent by Napoleon, the fraud, and their Austrian allies, should be driven from the continent and hu- miliated for tramping upon the Monroe Doctrine, while we were struggling for National existence. I know they regarded this Napoleon as a cheap, double-dealing coward, and were determined when their hands should be free, to resent the cowardly insult offered us, but it was the government which said: “Go at once.” If, therefore, my testimony were held back longer, it might be too late, and I would be guilty of suppressing the truth, and should we meet on the other shore with this plain state- ment of facts left unwritten, ic might ask me why I had not done my duty. 8 With some it will be difficult to remove the impression that he was cold, cruel and relentless, but I know that his sym- pathies when a boy were always with the weak, underdog, and I know also that in this respect he never changed. I do not claim that during that long, bitter struggle (the Civil War) he was a lamb—he could not be that and do his duty as a soldier. During the ten years prior to his death that I was his agent, many incidents occurred that impressed me with the fact that he was as humane and tender-hearted as when we played together. I shall chronicle occurrences of pioneer and volunteer life that will, I hope, amuse and interest the reader. I disclaim a history of General Sheridan’s military operations—I am not competent to deal with that, even had I time and space. A few instances of battles may appear which are characteristic of his military genius. If there should be errors in my state- ments, I hope to be pardoned. In looking back through the spectacles of forty years, I find them dimmed. I depend largely upon an old diary, almost illegible, and shall also make quotations from an old scrap book. In these quotations proper credit cannot, in all cases, be given to the authors, as I copied their words without the least idea that they should ever be quoted. I point to General Sheridan as a guiding star for the young men of our country; as an example of patriotism, brav- ery, humaneness, filial affection and purity of character, and if I can remove the false impressions regarding him, shall feel well rewarded. As to the labor—it is one of love. Since living here, in what General Sheridan often told me was his favorite city, it has often occurred to me as passing strange that Chicago could boast of no visible tribute to this brave soldier commensurate with his great services, surpass- ing valor and peerless genius. THE AUTHOR. J 3 G 3. CHARTER T. NOTABLE HISTORIC PERSONS AND WARLIKE SCENES IN SOMER- SET, OHIO—SOMERSET BEFORE IT WAS HONORED BY THE NAME OF SHERIDAN—GREAT MEN LIKE WILLIAM HENRY HARRISON AND HENRY CLAY SPOKE FROM THE ROSTRUM OF THE SOMERSET COURT HOUSE—THE IMMORTAL “J. N.” AND OTHER QUAINT CHARACTERS—-MAC GAH'AN CREATED A NATION BY HIS PENCIL. “Tt is true the smallest hamlet or obscurest village is large enough to contain the grandest human emotions.” OMERSET is a quiet, old-fashioned place in south- eastern Ohio, containing a population of from twelve to fourteen hundred people. For over fifty years the exact number has been fluctuating between these two figures. The history of the village before it was honored by a name is associated with notable historic persons and warlike scenes. In the early summer of 1797 the Duke of Orleans (afterwards King Louis Philip of France) and his two brothers followed on horseback the line marked out by Washington, beginning at Mount Vernon, leading north to Harpers Ferry, thence along the mountain range to Tennessee, from here again north to Maysville, Ky., across the Ohio river to Chillicothe, thence to Lancaster, through what was, in time, to be Somerset, to Zanes- ville, and from there east to New York. They were poorly mounted, poorly clad, almost destitute of means. This was when destiny was cruelly drifting the three brothers, Duke of Orleans, Count de Montpensier and Count Beaujolais, about to avoid the guillotine. Somerset is built on a high ridge, the general direction of 11 12 GENERAL PHIL H. SHERIDAN which is south. This ridge divides the waters of the Hocking and Muskingum rivers, equi-distant about twenty miles, and its highest point takes in the Court House square. The main street of the town is built on the line of the Zanesville and Maysville (Ky.) turnpike, and is crossed mid- way by a street not so long nor so compactly built. Two more streets, sparsely built, one north and the other south of and parallel with Main street, constituted the village when [I left _there about twelve years ago. It was on South street, gener- ally known as “Happy alley,” that the home of Sheridan was located. This street derived its name from the first Methodist church built there, the scene of many happy revivals among the pioneers. It is now known as Sheridan avenue. In the early days all that portion of the town west of the Court House, on the Hocking side, was known as Pig Foot; all east, on the Muskingum side, was Turkey Foot. Columbus street was the dividing line, also, between two belligerent fac- tions whose sectional prejudices caused many fights among the boys of those days. There was no other cause apparent, but we all know that dreadful wars have been precipitated between Christian nations on more flimsy pretexts than that which caused the war between the Turkey Foot and Pig Foot boys. However, those boys have not fought on that question now for fifty years or more. These mountaineers were types of rural simplicity, believing that the chief object of mankind was to fight and be loyal to his friends and country at the risk of life. From the Sheridan cottage there is a beautiful view of the Hocking Valley, as it extends many miles south until the blue hills blend with the sky. The scene is so grand and inspiring GENERAL SHERIDAN’S BOYHOOD HOME Somerset, Ohio PLAYMATE—COMRADE—FRIEND 13 had not been developed in Phil instead of the martial spirit that early possessed him. During half a century there has been little change in Som- erset. For more than sixty years the curfew bell at the Court House has rung at nine o’clock, which is regarded as the proper hour for retiring. When the Catholic bell on the hill rings for six o'clock in the morning it is expected that everyone is up and doing. It is true that the nine o’clock signal summon- ing to rest is poorly observed by the average boy, yet it is sternly insisted upon by the village marshal as he makes his nightly round. The old Court House, with its ungrammatical motto over the arched entrance door, is still standing as proudly and firmly as it did when justice was dealt out there seventy years ago. Some great men spoke from its rostrum—that greatest and most eloquent orator, Tom Corwin, also William Henry Har- rison, President in 1840. Henry Clay, too, spoke there, and many times he passed the old building on his way to and from his Kentucky home. Here is an. old legend handed down as to how the grammatical error occurred in the inscription above the entrance, which, in large and well-chiseled letters, reads: “Let Justice be done. If the Heavens should Fall.” There came to Somerset in avery early day, before the Court House was built, a German, well educated, speaking many languages. Soon after his arrival he became engaged in a law suit, which was decided against him, greatly to his sur- prise and contrary to his ideas of law and justice. When the time came for the completion of the Court House, the Town Council held a meeting to decide what inscription should be carved upon the huge stone to be placed above the etitrance. Every member had an idea of his own, but, owing to more or less jealousy, each failed to receive a sufficient 14 GENERAL Pui H. SHERIDAN number of votes to adopt any one of them, so the meeting ended in a wrangle. It was then proposed that the educated German should be invited to submit one. This was agreed upon, and the next day one of the members of the Council, who was the judge that had decided the case against the Ger- man the year before, called and stated his business. The German, still smarting silently under the defeat he had sus- tained, now saw his opportunity to be revenged, but appeared to be highly complimented at this show of confidence in his literary judgment. However, he had it understood that the judge must assume authorship of the inscription, for it would discredit the Council in the public eye were it known that they had gone outside to procure it. This more than satisfied the judge, as he was proud to father the authorship—it would help him in his next candidacy for election as Justice of the Peace. When the motto was submitted at the next meeting it was adopted. The lettering was done, the huge stone hoisted to its place, and the building completed, but the error was not discovered until the following year. The judge was reminded of it so often that he became disgusted and moved West, but the German, as he passed, would often look up at that inscrip- ~ tion, solemnly smile at the sarcasm, and say: “It ish true! It ish true!” There is no excitement in Somerset, generally speaking, except during a political campaign, a war, or a rumor of war, at which times the people are thoroughly disturbed; but when the election returns are all in, or the war over, every one re- sumes the even tenor of his way. One does not see the wor- ried faces and frenzied rush that are encountered on every hand in the streets of the large metropolis. | No place can be more patriotic than this quiet little village. One of my earliest recollections of little Phil Sheridan is of a PLAYMATE—COMRADE—FRIEND 5 Fourth of July celebration we attended when he and I were about six or seven years old. It might have been here that Phil received his first military impulse and patriotic thrill. A Fourth of July celebration was a great event at that time in our village; every one participated in the exercises; not that we were more patriotic then than now, but, there being fewer patriotic holidays, our patriotism was more con- densed. Early in the morning on these days long trains of farmers’ wagons would commence arriving, the head teams carrying the fife, drum and flags. Long tables would be erected in the most convenient groves for a grand dinner; all the uniformed military companies of the county would be present, while a six-pounder brass cannon on the Reading hill would awaken us in the morning and continue its salute until noon, when the grand dinner was prepared. The boys prided themselves greatly on this brass cannon, and eagerly each year did they throw themselves before the car of juggernaut (for the cannon caused many serious accidents) for the happy prominence of being one of the “Firing Squad.” The most attractive feature in a Fourth of July celebration was a decrepit Revolutionary soldier by the name of Dusen- bury, who lived about six miles east of us in a hamlet called Greasetown, from the greasy appearance of an old carding machine and its greasy proprietor. The name of that hamlet is changed now to Sego. This old soldier, growing yearly less able to attend the celebrations, attracted much attention, as he was the last one in our part of the county who had be- longed to that immortal band of heroes of ’76. The first time Phil and I saw him he was brought up in a farmer’s wagon, seated on a split-bottom chair (there were no buggies then and but few carriages). He was clad in a new suit of homespun linen that, we were told, his old wife 16 GENERAL PHoit H. SHERIDAN had spun, wove and made for him. As the wagon drove into the grove it caused something of a sensation, for you could see many who recognized him gathering about the wagon to offer their services in assisting the feeble old man to alight. When safely out, he was carefully led to the platform occupied by our prominent citizens and speakers. The old man, totter- ing with age and infirmity, was given the place of honor— the observed of all observers. While this was going on, Phil Sheridan, who was standing by my side, asked me who that old man was and why every one was so glad to see him. I was prepared to answer the question, for I had just heard the story from my elder brother. I told Phil that his name was Dusenbury, he lived at Greasetown, had been a soldier under Washington, and that “Dan” told me he was in five battles. He had belonged to the Horsemen. I never saw Phil’s brown eyes open so wide or gaze with such interest as they did on this old revolutionary relic. I am sure it made a deep impression on his boyish imagination, for he followed him to and from the dinner table, and, when the exercises were over, we were still near him. The patriotic im- pression he seemed to receive, as he looked with awe and inter- est at the comrade of Washington, no doubt clung to him through life and was probably the first glow of military emo- tion he experienced. When, some years after, the news was brought to our village that the old soldier was dead, and that another firing squad was forming to go down to fire a salute over his grave, Phil was the first among the boys to propose that we walk down, which we did, but fortune favored some of us in gain- ing a ride home on the cannon. I have always thought that Somerset has produced more PLAYMATE—COMRADE—FRIEND Vy than its share of eccentric and humorous characters. There was always more than a supply of people with peculiar char- acteristics. It was thought, also, that people here lived to a greater age than elsewhere. This was attributed to the ele- vated location and the simple lives and regular habits of the people. As to the remarkable age of some of its citizens, there was “Old Loney,” who was one hundred and ten years old and did his own cooking and washing (very little washing); then there was Sam Cassal, the tinner, who thought himself a young man at the age of seventy, for, at that age, he climbed the Court House steeple to repair the brass globe that orna- mented the spire. I must not forget the village drummer—he was that before Phil Sheridan was born—living only a few steps from Phil’s home. During the Civil War, although fifty-six years old, he felt the throb of patriotism with impulse strong enough to volunteer in my second company as its drummer. He and his son Tom, with bugle and drum, awoke us among the stirring scenes of the Shenandoah Valley with their unwelcome “‘reveille,” or lulled us to sleep with the more welcome “lights out.” Once a month he could be seen and heard beating the “long roll” to remind the old soldier of Post night; or when a veteran was carried to his last camping ground “Billy” was at the head of the procession with muffled drunt to cadence the step of those who followed their dead comrade to the “green tent,” for, in that village, it was seldom that a soldier would take his last march without a military escort and the honors of war. In 1895, at the advanced age of eighty-five years, he attended the reunion of the 31st O. V. I. at New Lexington, and rather than wait for a train at the conclusion of the exercises, he shouldered his drum and walked home, nine miles over the hills. 18 GENERAL Puit H. SHERIDAN A star among all unique characters was one J. N. Free, who lived in our county for Several years. So overwhelming was his assurance, that he could journey anywhere—East, West, North or South—without meeting a single landlord who would hint of an unpaid bill, or railroad president who would refuse him a pass. These latter were generally made out: ‘Pass the Immortal J. N. from time to eternity.” And whenever he took his departure from an hostelry, it was with a parting, “Call again, J. N.!”’, from the proprietor. In 1894 Somerset boasted of three Mrs. John Smiths. One was the subject of much gossip, and as she was thin and bony, she was known by everyone as “Sarah Bernhardt.” No one thought of calling her by any other name, and the custom was economical, for it not only saved words but also com- pletely identified her. Then there were three James Browns. Instead of saying “James Brown the lawyer,’ or “James Brown the shoemaker” or blacksmith, they were known as “Big Jim,” “Little Jim,’ and “Fool Jim’’—not very elegant expressions, I admit, but there was never the least objection made to this style of brief identification. But it is not alone famous warriors and unique characters who have been produced in this once obscure County of Perry, for I read in Martzloff’s history of this county, pub- lished within the last three years, that a distinguished edu- cator can be added to the list. That author says that Presi- dent Harper of the University of Chicago received a part of his education at Madison Academy, which 1s situated about five miles from where Phil Sheridan was born. You may think I am dwelling unduly on the village and its scenes. My excuse is that it is more than doubly historic. Not only does the luster of Sheridan’s immortal valor and genius shed a brilliancy over this quiet, simple place—its un- PLAYMATE—COMRADE—FRIEND 19 pretentious streets and humble homes were known to General Sherman also. To Somerset it was, that Sherman, when quite a young man, came from his home in the next town to “see his girl,’ who was attending school on the hill. She was a Miss Ellen Ewing, whom he afterward married. The first time General Sherman attracted my attention he was engaged in the pleasant pastime of courting, and Phil Sheridan and I were playing “hopscotch” a few feet from the residence of Martin Scott, who was a friend of this wooing couple. I remember Phil calling my attention to him as he leaned against the door talking earnestly to his sweetheart. The scene would have been unnoticed were it not that Sher- man was clad in the semi-military uniform then worn by West Point cadets. From another boy we learned that his home was in Lancaster and that he was the ward of Hon. Thomas Ewing, who had secured him the appointment to West Point. He was then home on his vacation. The next time I saw Gen. Sherman was at Camp Dick Robinson, in Kentucky. He was reprimanding the officers of our Regiment—the 31st Ohio V. I.—for unsoldierly con- duct. That story shall appear later. Had old Mrs. Harper, the village fortune-teller and prophetess, passed us and told me that these two boys, the one with whom I was playing and the other standing but a few feet away, both poor and obscure, would some day be full generals of the army; would immortalize themselves in a great war, and that I should follow them on foot thousands of miles in cold and heat, hunger and thirst; that both would be offered the Presidency of the United States of America; that I should look down from one of the mountains of the Blue Ridge and see the younger one entering the Valley of the Shenandoah at the head of ten thousand cavalry and a 20 GENERAL Puoit H. SHERIDAN corps of infantry; that he would change that valley within a year from one of humiliation and defeat to one of triumph and victory—had she told me this, I could not have believed her, and should have thought, “I pity you, Mrs. Harper; you are becoming demented by smoking that old strong pipe for sO many years. Your prophecy will never come to pass.” From still another standpoint is the old village of Somer- set historic! Just a few miles south of us a poor boy was born and lived until he grew to manhood. This boy often visited our village to dispose of butter, eggs, etc. When he reached manhood, he left Ohio and became a journalist, developing a heart as well as an intellect. He was employed by the New York Herald and London News, the two most widely circu- lated papers then published in the English language, traversed the globe in the interest of his papers, and through his letters _ spread knowledge of men and facts that advanced civilization and humanity. This boy was Janarius Aloysius MacGahan. His most historic work was the liberation of Bulgaria. He had heard of the debased condition of the Bulgarians and the horrible cruelties practiced by their inhuman masters, the Turks. He went there at the risk of his life to witness these things, and found that half the truth had not been told. He saw the bodies of the murdered Bulgarians fed to the dogs, and women exposed to brutalities worse than death. His pencil truthfully described these atrocities, and his sympathy and heroism gave force to the brilliancy his intel- lect inspired. His letters aroused the civilized world, espe- cially England. The result was that he dethroned the selfish Disraeli by causing a revolution in that country that placed Gladstone at the head of the British administration. The Czar of Russia was awakened by these letters, which resulted PLAYMATE—COMRADE—FRIEND 21 in the Turko-Russian War, ending in the liberation of Bul- garia and the restoration of millions of people to independ- ence. | This humble boy changed the map of Europe. He was raised under circumstances not dissimilar to those influencing Phil Sheridan, his older compeer. Sheridan carved immor- tality with the sword by the opportunities offered him; _ MacGahan won glory and the gratitude of millions by creat- ing the occasion and consummating a triumph in the creation of States. Sheridan helped preserve the Union by the sword; MacGahan created a nation by his pencil. The soldier de- stroyed the enemies of his country; the journalist lifted up the oppressed. The call of the bugle moved Sheridan’s patriotic zeal, but a heart-beat animated the pencil of the liberator of Bulgaria. These boys, born without the advantage of wealth, amidst the embarrassments of pioneer life, have cut their names high on the monuments of fame; they stand higher than kings and emperors. MacGahan could have been King of Bulgaria. Both died young, but still old enough to witness the consummation of that for which they so bravely fought. The one was mourned by a nation which he had done so much to preserve; the other, in far-away Constantinople, met death through nursing his friend, Lieutenant Greene, U. S. A., late Brigadier General in the Philippine war, since Commis- sioner of Police of New York City, whom he found ill with a malignant fever. Although a trusted friend of the Czar of Russia and the idol of the Russian army, who knew him as “The Brave American,” yet it was MacGahan’s special pride that he was an American, and his dying request to his Russian wife was that she make America her home, that their boy might grow 22 GENERAL PHIL H. SHERIDAN up an American. This wish she faithfully granted, dying four years ago in New York City. MacGahan is revered in Bulgaria as are Washington and Lincoln in America. For ten years his remains reposed where he died, the grave being marked by a beautiful monu- ment erected by his friend and comrade, General Skobeleff, with whom he always rode in battle. The legislature of Ohio, with commendable appreciation for one who died in the interests of humanity, passed a reso- lution that his body be brought from Turkey to his native State. This was generously approved by the Secretary of of the Navy, who immediately sent the war vessel Powhatan on that patriotic mission, an honor never before conferred by this country upon a private citizen. In due time the vessel returned, and the remains were transferred to his native hills, to rest near his old home and kindred. From what I have said, which is already too long, you can gather an idea of the queer old town that was the home of Phil Sheridan, where, when I was a boy, nearly every one had his horse and his cow, his pigs and his dog; where no one was very poor and no one very rich; where integrity and intellect ranked higher than wealth; where simplicity and absence from conventionality still prevail, and a prejudice yet lurks against much jewelry and “plug” hats. I have often thought that there is no place on earth where birth and wealth count for so little, and brains and character for so much. Generally speaking, the people believe that no nation can long survive a decay of reverence for the true and the good. That instinct which reveres the pure and noble in life was culti- -vated; the populace believes that to forget or abandon it is to enfeeble the nation’s health or to deal a death-blow to its existence, PLAYMATE—COMRADE—FRIEND 23 I do not want to be understood as saying that we had no sinners. We had our share of fighting and gambling, with some stealing and not a few drunkards, but for the thief, the swindler and the fraud there was no mercy. Note.—A few years ago I returned to the little town that had been for so many years at a standstill and that had shel- tered so many distinguished characters. I found it greatly changed. There were many beautiful houses, new and mod- ern, old ones had been remodeled, and there was an atmos- phere of new life and energy. Factories and other indus- trial centers had arisen. While admiring the new Somerset I met one of my boys from Company G. He had been one of the company’s wags, and soon I had occasion to find that he had not reformed. “Dave, how do you account for this change in ten years?” I asked. With a most serious air he replied: “We are divided on that question. You may remember that you left here about the time that President McKinley was elected, so we really don’t know whether it was your leaving or his prosperity.” CHAPTER 11. WOULD NOT SHAKE HANDS WITH THE VICE-PRESIDENT— JUVENILE SHOWS—IN A BAD BOX—REFUSES THE OFFER OF A. T. STEWART, THE MERCHANT PRINCE. when Phil Sheridan was eight or nine years old and which foreshadowed the firmness and zealous courage that marked his public life in later years. It happened dur- ing the Presidential campaign of 1840, which is known in political history as the “coonskin and hard cider” campaign. Intense excitement prevailed throughout the country previous to this Presidential election. We were small boys then, but I remember the events of that election as if it were but yesterday. That year the Democrats nominated Martin Van Buren for President and Colonel Richard M. Johnson for Vice- President. Johnson was from Kentucky. Our village was on the main road between the East and Southwest, which was much traveled when the Ohio River was frozen or too low for navigation. The National Conventions were all held in the East in those days, so when Colonel Johnson returned from the con- vention that nominated him, he traveled through Somerset by stage. Our village was a stopping place to change horses and dine, and his coming was heralded on the day before his arrival. It was arranged to hold a reception during the half hour in which he would honor us, and a public meeting was held the night before to make all the arrangements. As the time approached for the stage with its distinguished passen- 24 R ste here let me mention an incident that occurred PLAYMATE—COMRADE—FRIEND 25 ger to arrive, the hotel and pavement in front were densely packed with Democrats. Then the boys who were on the lookout heard the driver’s horn from Harper’s Hill, and soon after the stage came in. Even now I can see those four gray horses dashing through the village at full speed, the driver proudly erect, for he was conveying the Vice-Presidential nominee. Old “Dave” Grif- fith, a zealous Democrat, was the driver. The reception committee escorted the Colonel to the dining-room, and after dinner he was to return to the “bar- room,” as a hotel office was always called in those days, where a reception would be held. Every Democrat in the village who could walk was there, and every Democratic and Whig boy was there also. (It was Whig and Democrat then.) The excitement was so great and the feeling so bitter throughout that campaign that the Whig boy could think of the Democratic nominee only with scorn and contempt; yet we revered and admired him as a soldier and Indian slayer, for we had all heard and read of his being the hero of the battle of the Thames, and that he had there killed the great Indian chief Tecumseh in single combat. To the Whig boy there was a dark and a bright side to his fame. We were there to feast our eyes on the bright side—Colonel Johnson as the soldier and Indian slayer. While doing that we could view him with an awe and veneration that none but a boy could feel. After dinner the reception begun. The bar-room was densely packed. As each Democrat took the crippled hand (for it had been shot in battle) he pressed his way back, to allow another to take his place. When the last man had gone through this ceremony the Colonel looked at his watch and remarked to General Leydey, master of ceremonies, “TJ still 26 GENERAL Puit H. SHERIDAN have ten minutes to remain, and I see a number of boys near me and would like to shake hands with them.” When the Democratic boys heard this they pressed forward, while the Whig boys, seeing trouble ahead, pushed back toward the door. Little Sheridan was near me. Being Whigs, we struggled manfully to get to the rear. I was stronger than he, and succeeded in getting out of sight of the Colonel, but Phil was not so successful. He struggled in vain. He surged to and fro, back and forth, but made no headway. As I forced my way back it looked to me as if Phil must shake hands with a Democrat. The Democratic boys, after shaking hands, would fall back and close up the few little Whigs that had failed to extricate themselves. A final push on the part of the Democratic boys forced Phil in front of Colonel Johnson, who offered his hand, but it was not taken. Instead, both Phil’s hands went behind, and his head drooped in confusion. “Little boy, won’t you shake hands with me?” asked the Colonel. 3 “No, sir; I don’t want to,” replied Phil. “Why not?’ asked Colonel Johnson. “Because I am a Whig!’ was Phil’s answer. “Oh, that makes no difference!” was the encouraging reply. “Yes, sir; it does. It isn’t right!’ was young Sheridan’s quick response. The master of ceremonies then tried it, and the Demo- cratic boys about him urged, but he was immovable. He was surrounded, but would not surrender. “T want to get out of here!’ said he. This caused a laugh. Colonel Johnson enjoyed the inci- dent more than anyone, and said, “Boys, give way and let PLAYMATE—COMRADE—FRIEND 27 this little Whig out; we can’t force or coax him to shake hands with a Democrat.” In Phil’s childish judgment, had he taken the proffered hand it would have been an indication of sympathy with the enemy; indeed, he might have been accused of disloyalty by the Whig boys, and undoubtedly would have lost caste with them. The next day, still suffering from the mortification and embarrassment of the day before, he told me: “I would rather have been whipped than laughed at by a room full of Democrats.” And yet he, with every other Whig boy in town, idolized Colonel Johnson for the deeds he had done, provided we could have forgotten that he was a Democrat. I am sure we all gazed upon him with admiration when we thought of him as a soldier, and remembered that he had seen war, and killed an Indian; then, to mar all our generous emo- tions, would come the thought that he was our political enemy. When about ten years old we heard that Tom Corwin, the famous orator, would speak at Rehobeth, eight miles over a hilly country from our village. We had heard of this won- derful and fascinating talker, so a group of Whig boys, among whom was Phil, concluded we would walk there. We de- sired to hear and see this great man. He spoke in an old tobacco house, and I shall never forget how he charmed us with his eloquence. We thought we were well repaid for our weary walk. In “looking back’”’ again, I can remember having been associated with Phil in the ‘show business.” The proximity of the Sheridan cottage to the fields where the circuses and menageries would pitch their tents made me envious of Phil’s good fortune, for he lived so near the show 28 GENERAL PHint H. SHERIDAN grounds that he could hear and see the excitement, glamour and turmoil from the moment of arrival until they “folded their tents and away again.” It is difficult for those who have never actually experi- enced it to comprehend to its fullest extent the pleasant ex- citement and interest felt by a boy living in a dull village when a show was coming. From the day the big-lettered, highly-colored posters were put up until the grand event was over, was a solid three weeks of pleasure. You may be sure the wandering caravans dragging them- selves through muddy roads, dust and rain, were not the affairs of beauty and elegance you see nowadays, but the tinsel and glitter, the elephant and eagle, the music and mon- keys, camels and clowns were enough to fill our souls with delight and wonder. How our hearts bounded with awe and admiration as the procession came into town! Nothing has ever looked so grand and beautiful to me since, not even the great World’s Fair of 1893. They tried to make the entrance at ten o’clock, though there was often a delay of an hour or two on account of muddy roads or swollen streams. But ten o'clock was too long for a boy to wait for a show, so immediately after break- fast, sometimes before, a party of us would push out in the direction of the coming glory to escort the elephant in. On one of these occasions eight or ten of us, including Phil, had gone quite early about four miles from home and. took up a good position from which to see the parade. Trees and sheds were occupied. With a keen eye for a place of ex- cellent observation, Sheridan selected an overhanging apple tree which was very desirable. Not only was it high enough, but it had the additional advantage of looking down on the PLAYMATE—COMRADE—FRIEND 29 elephant’s back as he passed. Soon we were reinforced by another group of boys of larger size, one of whom, seeing the desirable place Sheridan occupied, took it into his head to dis- lodge him and take possession himself. This, of course, was resisted with all the energy in Phil’s power. As the in- truder’s head came up to Sheridan’s feet, there was a constant and most vigorous kicking. The attacking party was thus held at bay until the dust of the approaching show could be seen not far away and was loudly announced by the other boys. This caused a suspension of hostilities, Phil holding the coveted position. Near the Sheridan home, in the alley, stood a large tobacco house. After that plant had ceased to be a product of our county the house was converted into a barn in which horses were gathered and kept until a sufficient number had been purchased for shipment to Eastern cities. When not in use for horses, we found it a convenient and commodious place in which to hold shows, as after the departure of a circus or menagerie there always followed a season of shows among the boys. The enthusiasm would remain with us in gradu- ally decreasing measure until the advent of the next circus revived the spirit. When about eight years old we held the best show we had ever had, and as such it was widely advertised. It took a week to collect old carpets, sheets and quilts, ropes, boards and other property for the first performance. The company was to be select, none but the best talent. One of the most attractive features was the orchestra. Two mouth organs and a tenor drum which a boy had purloined from his uncle were the principal instruments. A playmate by the name of Hugh Cull was manager and organizer; he had the reputation of being a success in that line. He was two or three years 30 GENERAL Pui H. SHERIDAN older than the other members—a strange mixture of nervous- ness, tyranny, cruelty and kindness; arbitrary and exacting during rehearsals and entertainments, but that over, if all had gone right, he was a model of goodness and generosity. His freckled face and blazing red curly hair could be seen every- where during the show; nothing escaped him, especially a failure or blunder before the audience. When such a mis- fortune occurred we were treated to a severe reprimand, com- posed largely of curses, sometimes a slap, or, what was re- garded as far more severe, a discharge from the company, as he termed it, “turning us off.” But, with all his severe disci- pline, we were attached to him, and never did any of us mur- mur or revolt. In spite of his severity, we knew by experi- ence that he would fight for us and divide his last apple or stick of candy with his company. In Cull’s show Phil generally had the trapeze part, which concluded with the “hanging act.” This was accomplished by tying a rope to an upper cross-beam, the other end of the rope being adjusted under the actor’s arm, and, concealed by his shirt, it passed thence to his neck, with the pressure ali coming under the arms. In this adjustment he was pulled up by the assistants, who let him remain until he was pro- nounced dead by the manager, and carried out. On one occasion Phil’s turn came after mine. I was the contortionist. As soon as my part was over, I was sent by Cull to relieve the doorkeeper, who was needed for some prep- arations, but before he left me,’ Phil’s mother came up and, speaking through the door, which was ajar, inquired if her boy was there, saying she needed him at home. I quickly sent for Cull, who demanded of her what she wanted. Her reply was, ‘“To be admitted, so I can get Phil!” He told her, with spirit and determination, that she could not do this, as THE HOUSE THE GENERAL BUILT FOR HIS MOTHER baad me ae, PLAYMATE—COMRADE—FRIEND 31 Phil couldn’t be spared from his part, which was then on. Mrs. Sheridan insisted, but Cull was immovable. I could see through the cracks, and from what I heard of her remarks, I knew that her patience had become exhausted. “I have been calling him for some time,” she insisted. To this the inde- pendent manager replied that that made no difference; she could not have him. Iam sure the request was, in his opinion, so unreasonable that, if made by the Governor of the State, it would have been flatly and firmly refused. Excited and indignant, he told her to go home; that she need not think she could break up the show in that manner. The mother returned to her home, which the manager could see through the open spaces, then, unbolting the door, he called out loudly and triumphantly to Mrs. Sheridan that he did not want her to come back and trouble him in that manner again. The distant clamor and applause of the audience made it impos- sible for the discussion to be heard in the arena, so Phil was not aware of his mother’s presence, which was_ probably caused by a desire to get him from the profane example of our manager, whose loud talk could be easily heard from the Sheridan home. ; About this time Van Amberg and Dresbach, the lion tamers, were attracting great attention, so the next show, on the following Saturday, was to be a circus and menagerie combined; we would then have a Dresbach. To have a menagerie without one would be a poor affair. As this ad- dition would involve some extra labor and expense, the price was advanced to five pins, which caused some murmuring on the part of our patrons, but Cull was obdurate. The animals were a pet coon, a squirrel and a blacksnake, and ‘‘Herr Dres- bach,” who was Phil Sheridan, was to enter a den of other animals. A dry goods box had been secured and prepared 32 GENERAL PHit H. SHERIDAN before the show. In place of the lid, slats were nailed on, close enough together to prevent a cat’s escape; a board was removed from one side to give space enough for a small boy to enter, then, after he and the animals were inside, the board was replaced. Phil’s little dog was first put in, much against his will; then a member of the company brought in a large cat, which, also, objected to entering, but with some struggling and scratching it was thrust inside and the board quickly re- placed. Then Phil made his appearance in tights, in imita- tion of Dresbach; that is, his trousers were rolled up to his body and there secured, his sleeves the same, making his appearance so much like a showman that it brought applause. The situation within the box was this: The cat at one end, with arched back, glaring eyes, and tail as big as a muff, crowded herself as far from the dog as the space would allow; the little dog, at the other end, with fight in every feature of his face, was ready for combat. Then Phil, in his semi-nude state, was assisted to enter. So encouraged was the dog by the entrance of his master that the battle commenced. The cat, unable to escape, could do nothing but fight, which she proceeded to do in the most ferocious manner. As the dog- and-cat fight was not on the program, Phil, fearing the dis- pleasure of the manager, attempted to separate the enraged animals, but only succeeded in getting his legs and arms badly scratched in the triangular conflict. There was no escape, unless by outside intervention, for which he loudly called, “Move the board! Move the board!’ This was quickly done, and out rushed a boy with bloody arms and legs, closely followed by a cat, with a dog in full pursuit. This lively scene was so much more than had been announced that our patrons were delighted, as was evidenced by the loud and prolonged PLAYMATE—COMRADE—FRIEND 33 applause. But that feature of the show was never attempted again. A mutual friend, with A. T. Stewart, the merchant prince of New York, called on General Sheridan. After the intro- duction, followed by a brief conversation, the friend broached the object of this call, which was if General Sheridan would retire from the army and become a salaried member of the Stewart store; his salary should be $25,000 per year. The General did not at first comprehend the proposition, and re- plied that he knew nothing of the dry goods business now. He was told that nothing would be expected of him, no duties nor obligations would be required, excepting his presence in the office or wherever it would be congenial to him. The public to know that he was attached to the store would be all. Phil now conceived the purpose, stating that when he was a boy he was a clerk in a store, and younger he had been in the show business, and had a very unpleasant memory of that, adding he could not entertain the proposition, and dismissed the subject rather unceremoniously. JI asked Phil’s brother John how the General liked it. It made him half mad, but, in consideration of the mutual friend, treated the gentleman with ordinary politeness. CHAPTER WT BILLY JONES’ EARLY DIPLOMACY—BOYS FUN—PHIL’S KIND- NESS TO MY DOG—THE ONLY TIME THAT PHIL EVER SUR- RENDERED. “The bravest are the tenderest, The loving are the daring.” OYS, did you ever have much fun? I am prepared B to believe that you did if the conditions were favor- able. Human nature is the same in every clime. The best field for fun, in my opinion, is a town not too large, or a village not too small; for if the place be too small it might not possess enough material to make fun—there may be no one there to aggravate. Of course that kind of fun is not the most commendable or conscientious, but it is very tempting, sometimes irresistibly so. The boy should be from eight to twelve years old, and should not be a Little Lord Fauntleroy, whose mother, with a most cruel vanity, forces the long locks on the little fellow during the hottest weather. Long locks and fine clothing greatly interfere with fun. As a recent writer thus wisely expresses it: “The idea of making men and women of little children before they have gained the age of true reason, not only de- prives them of their pleasure, but makes them totally unpre- pared for the pleasures nature has provided for their special benefit, and they should be allowed occasionally to play in the dirt and mud.” 34 PLAYMATE—COMRADE—F‘RIEND 35 I always pity the poor little fellows with long locks curled, and cramped with frills and laces. Fine clothes are a restric- tion to a boy in search of fun, and in warm weather he should by all means be allowed to go barefooted; let him enjoy the rough luxury, he will be happier and healthier. Nearly all of our Presidents were once barefooted boys. I am reminded that in ’61 we started out in the First Company with two young men, who when boys were never allowed by their mothers to run barefooted and were always carefully dressed. We were not out long until they commenced drooping and pining away, and both were claimed by Death before we had been out a year. When Phil Sheridan and I were at the age of which I speak, we had as a frequent visitor to our village a colored wanderer. Until he died he possessed an inexhaustible fund of fun for us. I recall this one incident because it was with this old darkey that I saw Phil show a diplomacy that was a credit to him or any other boy nine or ten years old. The character I refer to was middle aged and slightly de- mented when we first became acquainted with him. His migratory habits brought him to Somerset about every sixty days. He wandered from Circleville, Pickaway County, west of us, to Dresden, Muskingum County, east, a total distance of about seventy-five miles. Our village was about midway between these points. - He always appeared in a suit of cast-off military clothing, of which he had an abundance to last for many years. Owing to the repeal of the State law encouraging uniformed military companies, “Billy”. Jones, for that was his name, experienced no difficulty in keeping himself clad in a military outfit, a con- dition dear to his heart, for his dementia took a soldierly trend. 36 GENERAL PHit H. SHERIDAN His arrival in the village, as he marched with cadenced step in the middle of the street, looking straight to the front, and carrying his cane much as an infantry officer carries his sword, seemed to become known as if by magic to every boy in town. In ten minutes everyone had heard, “Billy Jones is here!” His military march would be interrupted only when he came in front of the hotel, where he would file to the right, or left, as the case might be. Entering the office, he would salute in perfect form, and say: “Massa Carroll, or McMahon, can I halt a few days at dese headqua’ters an’ saw wood fo’ my rations?” Whether or not any wood was needed, Mr. Carroll was too generous to deprive the boys of their fun, so “Billy” always received an affirmative answer. Then he would say: “Massa Carroll, please let me have one good drink of whisky, an’ Pll go straight to de wood-pile.”’ There were two things besides a military outfit for which he had a weakness; indeed they were most dear to his heart. These were whisky and to be titled “Colonel.” (He must have been born in Kentucky.) As already remarked, it was amazing how soon the pres- ence of our dusky visitor became known among the boys, both in and out of school, and it was doubtless an aggravating problem to the “masters” how the school should become so decimated in so short a time during school hours; but it did not take a shrewd observer to see that the number of young- sters in the streets and alleys ’round about the dark man wear- ing soldier clothes and sawing wood would make up for the vacancies in classes. Soon a group of boys would form and hurl obnoxious names at him, most frequently “Billy Blacksnake,” and “Billy Jones, a skin full of bones!’ When he was in a very amiable PLAYMATE—COMRADE—FRIEND 37 mood, and these and other offensive names did not have the desired effect, we would rain cobs, clods and chips around and about him. This always brought on a crisis. Soon the whites of his eyes could be seen, glaring with suppressed wrath beneath his soldier cap; not long after, his saw would be flung wildly to one side, he would seize his cane, and there would be a rush, with the direst imprecations upon his now flying tormentors. The race was usually up Main street and continued until every boy had disappeared to right and left, into doors and down alleys, and none were left. We would scatter, each one for himself, and literally disappear in the air, and “Billy,” with loud threats and flourishing cane, would go back to his wood- pile. Then we would rally again, and every door would open to afford a recruit; every alley passed would swell our num- bers, so that by the time “Billy” resumed his saw the same group would be about him provoking another charge. In this way the battle would rage for hours. Fortunately for the boys, “Billy’s” legs were so stiffened from age, exposure or rheumatism that he was not a fleet runner, so there was not much danger of our being captured, unless one should fall, or be surprised by a flank attack from an alley, In one of these long-continued battles with old “Billy,” Phil Sheridan had the misfortune, while looking back at the approaching foe, to stumble and fall. Just as he was rising to continue the retreat, the heavy black hand of the infuriated man descended on the back of his neck, bringing both to a halt. Then there was a flourishing of the big stick and loud threats of death. Looking back, we saw the condition of our comrade, and halted to take the offensive, hoping it might act as a diversion in favor of Phil by getting “Billy” started after the main body before the captive was quite dead. Having rallied within 38 GENERAL PHIL H. SHERIDAN hearing distance, we noticed that the angry voice had stilled and the uplifted cane was not threatening death. We could also hear the prisoner doing most of the talking. There seemed to be a reconciliation, which was followed by a sepa- ration, Phil coming toward us and “Billy” proudly and with true military step countermarching towards the hotel wood- pile again. We waited anxiously for Phil’s report, and this was the substance of it, as well as I can remember. “Well, when he got me, I was sure I was gone up—that he’d kill me with his cane, but I thought that before I got killed I’d try to please him, and maybe he’d let me off. So I turned around, looked him in the face, and said: ‘Captain Jones! Let me go, Major! If you will, Pll go right back to school and not call you any more names, Colonel!’ Then he let go my neck, and said: “Tf you'll do dat, honey, Pll let you go; I sha’n’t kill yo’ dis time.’ “Then I said again, ‘Yes, Colonel, Pll go right off to school,’ and he laughed and said: “*That’s a good boy.’ © “T tell you, boys, I was glad to get away.” When I remember this scene of our boyhood days, with others similar, I can see that Phil was by instinct a diplomat and strategist. He knew the old military tramp’s weakness, and did not lose his presence of mind in the apparent danger. The emergency had to be faced, and he lavishly heaped mili- tary titles upon Billy, so that he became an easy prey to Phil’s diplomacy. He was compelled to use blarney in this case, although that was foreign to his nature. Old “Billy” Jones was a source of infinite fun for the boys on his line of travel, and the boys were an endless torment to “Billy” as long as he lived and wandered. When we heard PLAYMATE—COMRADE—FRIEND 39 of his death, which occurred at the Dresden end of the route, we were profoundly sorry, but it is to the credit of the Dres- den boys that they raised a fund sufficient to give him a decent burial with enough to purchase a cheap slab to mark his final “halt.” CHAPTER TY; SCHOOLS AND TEACHERS OF FIFTY YEARS AGO-—-PHIL SHER- IDAN CHASED BY THE OLD MASTER—BLACKBOARD AND ANTI-BLACKBOARD. at the ‘“‘masters” and “scholars” of over fifty years ago in our part of Ohio, it would provoke mirth mingled with pity. The schoolmasters of our days have be- come obsolete; the title has passed away. We never knew a teacher otherwise than as “The Master,’ and that name was really the most comprehensive. The term “teacher” designates a distinct and improved class; the first of this class with whom we had any experience was Mr. Richard Spellman, of Connecticut. General Sheridan, in the first volume of his memoirs, speaks of two of the old masters who taught and whipped us. In this connection he names two boys, Greiner and Binckley, who were, I am sorry to say, largely instrumental in getting him into trouble with these old masters. I well remember that I often proposed to Phil and Binckley that we go fishing or hunting on Mondays to avoid a prospective thrashing. In (Cas the teachers and pupils of today take a look after years, when I more fully understood my sins of the past, I expressed regret to Phil for having brought these troubles ~ upon us. He laughed and said, “We probably got about what we deserved.” But I felt the more guilty, as I was about a year older than he, while Binckley was older than either of us. Monday was always the day we selected to be absent from school, for the reason that the masters were never completely 40 PLAYMATE—COMRADE—FRIEND 4I sober on that day, as they always devoted Saturdays and Sun- days to more or less drinking, the effects of which would leave them, on Monday, irritable and often cruel. Both were cranks. McNanly was Irish, Thorn was a Virginian (he would always say “Jeemes’ for James). Thorn’s weakness, on Mondays, ran to excessive dignity and stately manners that appeared ridiculous even to a child. He had a habit, before becoming entirely sober, of whipping every boy on the bench if one was detected doing amiss. We sat on long benches, and the last boy on the bench would often be whipped until there was nothing left of the rod. | Phil Sheridan came in late one morning and took the end of the bench. In the unsobered eyes of the master there was something wrong at the upper end, so the whipping com- -menced and was followed up until he came to Phil, who, being on the end, received the extraordinary dose. Phil was not revengeful nor vicious, but the punishment this time was more severe than usual; so, not crying, but “mad all over,” he conceived the idea of “getting even,” as we called it. He made a confidant of “Bill” Jonas, who was eager to co-operate, because during the last term he attended he had been whipped every day on general principles, whether he deserved it or not. Phil proposed to Bill that they enter the school room through the window and so poise the bucket of water over the door that whoever entered first (they knowing it would be McNanly) would receive the contents on his head. The plan worked well, and the master was drenched from head to foot. By the time he had mopped himself and the floor the “scholars” began to arrive, which, there being no special hour to commence school, generally took until about ten o’clock. When all were in their places an investigation begun 42 GENERAL PHIL H. SHERIDAN which developed nothing substantial until a question was an- swered by a little girl who lived near the school. She said she had seen Bill Jonas and Phil Sheridan going in by the back window early that morning. That was enough. McNanly started for his long switch and Phil started for the door. Fortunately, the master in his hurry fell over a boy. This gave Phil a good start. The race was up what is known in Somerset as the “stony alley” until Main street was reached. “Catch that boy!’ yelled the master to some workmen who were repairing the fence where the fugitives must pass. Their sympathies were with the little fellow, so one of the men yelled back, “Catch him yourself,’ which McNanly was striving to do. Along Main street they ran, and the day being pleasant and the doors all open, everyone ran out to see. With coat- tails flying and hair streaming, the master, shouting angry threats, was gaining on Phil. The chase was long, for the schoolhouse was in “Turkey Foot” and Phil’s home just over the line in “Pig Foot.” Not half the distance had been covered when the boy’s strength began to fail and escape seemed impossible. He glanced back once to size up the situation, then sped around the corner into Columbus street. Here stood Sam Cassall’s tin shop with the door invitingly open. Panting and fright- ened, Phil darted in. Sam and the boy had always been friendly, for he had brought many buckets of cool water from the town pump for Cassall’s shop. He could just say “Hide me, Mr. Cassall, hide me; old McNanly is after me. Let me under that kettle.” There wasn‘t a moment to lose. The tinner was repair- PLAYMATE—COMRADE—FRIEND : 43 ing a large copper kettle, commonly used in those days by the farmers for boiling apple butter. “Squat down, quick,” said the tinner, and, quick as thought, clapped it over him. In a moment McNanly rushed in. The tinner was deliberately hammering a rivet almost against the prisoner’s head. “Where’s that boy that came in here?” asked the puffing pursuer. “T don’t know; he went out the back door,” kindly lied Cassall. McNanly hurried through, for, the fence being high and made of smooth boards, he believed he had Phil cornered. A thorough but fruitless search was made among the weeds in the little back yard. Muttering vengeance, the mas- ter wended his way back to school to bring some kind of order out of the pandemonium that you may be sure was reigning during his absence. Phil knew the master would be sober next day and his anger cooled off, so he walked in the next morning as if noth- ing had occurred. In after years, when he became listinguished for readiness of device in battle, I would think of the big copper kettle, and how quickly he had seen what a good place it was to deceive the enemy. : We had a playmate, George Bradley, a bound boy, living with one of the village physicians whose residence was near the schoolhouse. The doctor was tyrannical and cruel, we thought, to our playmate. The life of his bound boys (he always had one or two) excited our pity, but the crowning cruelty, in our boyish imagination, was the treatment Bradley received when he ate the pies. On this occasion the doctor and his wife had gone to the Ago: GENERAL PHIL H. SHERIDAN country to remain over night, leaving our friend and a bound girl to keep house. On their return they discovered that two or three blackberry pies had mysteriously disappeared. The girl said she had seen George making many visits to the cellar where the pies were kept. : On this testimony he was accused of eating them, which, of course, he stoutly denied. Then the doctor’s Yankee inge- nuity—he was a New Englander—did not forsake him. Tak- ing George by the ear, he led him to his office, a few steps from the residence, and there compelled him to swallow an emetic. It had scarcely found its way down, when up it came, bringing the blackberry pies. The evidence was not only incontrovertible, but overwhelming in quantity and color, so George lost the pies but gained a flogging. When he told us how his master had treated him, our dislike for the doctor was intensified, so we watched for an opportunity to do him an evil act. A day or two after, we, with much apparent friendliness and many blandishments, coaxed his favorite dog into a stable near the schoolhouse, and, after considerable effort, tied an old coffeepot to his tail. When the door was opened, he started home with uncommon speed and terrific howls, and, in his haste, seeing the doors of Mrs. Morrell’s house open, he dashed through, upsetting a cradle containing twins and causing great excitement and con- sternation. When the mother found that her babies were not hurt, her fright changed to wrath and indignation towards the perpetrators of the cruel act. A search was soon started for the boys, by the doctor on behalf of his dog, and by the parents of the twins on behalf of the babies, but the guilt was not definitely fixed upon any one, although there was a faint suspicion that we were respon- sible. On this occasion the master, in closing his lecture, did PLAYMATE—COMRADE—FRIEND 45 so with a threat that he often used, which was, “I will whip you to death and ram you up the stove pipe.” I doubt if either of us would have inflicted the punishment upon the dog, as we were both fond of dogs, but this was the doctor’s dog, and a mean one. We knew that he was mean; we were acquainted with the general characteristics of all the dogs in town. When Phil Sheridan was about ten or twelve years old there was one occasion especially where he showed unusual strategic skill. Of all who participated in this episode, I am the only survivor. McDonald drifted South before the war, wore the gray under General Pat Cleburne, and was killed with him in one of those fearful charges at Franklin, Tenn.; the others are all gone. It was in 1844 that there came to our village from the State of New York a young lawyer by the name of John Manley Palmer, who during the entire Presidential campaign of Polk and Clay abused the Whig party with venom and volubility. Physically, he was an able-bodied man, whose features would have been passable had it not been for his immense mouth, which expanded from ear to ear. This pe- culiarity earned him the name, among the Whigs, of “Catfish” Palmer. By his untiring abuse of our party he made himself very obnoxious to every Whig boy in the village, and they often followed him on the street, keeping at a safe distance, and yelling “Catfish!” This in time waxed so exasperating that he became des- perate, seeking the aid of our village marshal, with threats of the law, whipping and shooting. Nine miles north of our village there was a lake which abounded in fish, principally catfish, loads of which were 46 GENERAL PHIL H. SHERIDAN brought to us by wagon and sold on the street. The average small boy was attracted by these loads of fish, and some would clamber up the sides of the wagon for a closer inspection, as many of the wigglers would be still alive. One day, when sales were particularly dull, a big load stopped in front of the building where Palmer’s office was located on the second floor. The owner sat among his stock, somewhat discouraged for want of patronage. He was a strongly-built, athletic young fellow, well known in his locality as a fighter, and that he was an ardent Democrat was quite apparent, for he came from a solid Democratic township, and had the name of Polk and Dallas painted in huge red letters on his wagon. A bright thought struck Phil Sheridan. Here was our chance for revenge! Pointing up to Palmer’s window, he innocently remarked to the fisherman that a lawyer up in that office always bought catfish. He was very fond of them, and advised that he ask the lawyer to buy some. Unsuspecting, and anxious to secure a customer, the fish merchant jumped off the wagon with alacrity, and, asking us to hold his horse, started up the stairs. Well knowing what would soon follow, we left the ancient horse to take care of himself, and took a position at the foot of the stairs. It was but a moment after the entrance that we heard loud oaths intermingled with noises as of chairs, tables and other furniture being broken. These confused sounds continued for some time, when our friend the fisher- man came down with a torn shirt and bleeding nose, wanting to know of us ‘‘What in the h—1 is the matter with that feller up there? He must be crazy or drunk, for as soon as I asked him to buy catfish, he up and hit me on the nose. So I goes into him, and he’s got a lickin’ that he won’t forget soon. You ‘LITTLE: PHIL CHASED BY SCHOOLMASTER “et edi is < vis = 7 - - ae : : i ee ; ; : . “sd e: ‘ " oR : : x bare | =* - r - ; “ aa ’ 4 “ * 7 < « oe > 2 ; , : be . it : a = «xs = > wm 4- . . E < ee mee “e ~ q ‘ ‘ ; , ; - s 7 { al a é iy : . ’ J ‘ = ~~ a i: wd ¥ f ys . = ~t. c <., . Pe ree ~ r - 7 7 ‘ * \ T : P 2” Shee . i . i " is t F , , y + a ‘4 4 7 é Serr , ’ Doe ee Para, 5 rf « ¥ '‘ i = f = 5 a Pg ac r . i i bal . i a 4 m - “| ‘ ‘ * r ‘ « ¥ ‘ ' re : 7 7 $ : ; in oe ; ¥ - Ay : BS Os : - , A + . : A "+ oie ‘ > > z * ‘ ! - rf a : 7] . ‘ > ! 7 i - 2 : | A / ; “ = wr - ‘ ’ i : : ; . _ . + * i PLAYMATE—COMRADE—FRIEND 47 boys go for a doctor to sew up some bad cuts he’s got on his face. Ill learn him how to hit a feller when he’s tryin’ to sell fish!’ Ordinarily, Phil Sheridan would not have enjoyed a fight bloody and rough as this was, but the fierce conflict raging that year between the Whig boys and Palmer seemed to justify any strategy which would bring about the defeat of their blatant enemy. Colonel Thorn and Mr. McNanly remained with us for many years. Their strongest recommendation was that they could whip the boys into submission, and it was thought by the pioneers that they were just the men needed. Thorn was six feet three inches tall and heavy in proportion; McNanly was not so large, but an able-bodied man. Often a mother would revolt at the treatment her boy re- ceived, and urge the father to take steps to prevent future cruelties or take the boy from school, but it was seldom in those days that a father would pay any attention to these ap- peals or in any way interfere. I left Thorn’s school with bloody welts on my back. It was by accident that my mother became aware of it, through the kindly inquiry of a neighbor. On my return from school that day I underwent an examination which verified the neighbor’s information. Then my mother resolved that I should not go back to school. The question arose as to how to secure my books without being detected, for I feared that if seen, another whipping would be my fate, so I concluded to wait until after school, then hoisted a window and secured my property. This was my last expe- rience with Colonel Thorn as a master. A few days after leaving the school I met him on the street. Stopping me, he asked why I had not been at school for several days. Upon being told what my mother had said, 48 GENERAL Putt H. SHERIDAN he gave a grunt, remarking that he had “whipped Jeemes Smith harder than he did me and he didn’t stop,’ and that my mother didn’t know what was good for me. It might be claimed that the policy of Thorn and McNanly made warriors, for it was Southeastern Ohio that produced Grant, Sherman, Sheridan and Custer; when boys their homes were not far distant from each other. Like Cesar, this might have been the “meat” that they did “feed,” but there was too much of the Spartan in it for me. The advent of the Connecticut teacher was a godsend to the boys of Somerset. He was kind and competent; firm in his methods, and uniformly pleasant, the opposite to every master we had ever had; so different from Shields, Shaw, Thorn and McNanly that its strangeness aroused our suspi- cions, and we doubted sometimes that we deserved such kind treatment. By degrees, however, we gained confidence in the new Yankee “master.’”’ For some time we adhered to the old title, but we began to see the end of the irrepressible con- flict btween master and scholar; we began to experience a feeling to which we had been strangers in all our previous school years. | This Yankee teacher was the first to introduce a black- board. ‘This innovation was opposed by many of our citizens as useless, and having a tendency to encourage the boys to waste their time at school’ making “picters.” Quickly fol- lowing the blackboard came the introduction of the studies of algebra and chemistry. Many were now openly indignant, for such studies were “useless” and “surely a waste of time.” Soon the whole village was divided into two factions, “black- board” and “anti-blackboard,” and that usually quiet place was all agog. Members of both parties poured forth their partisan arguments to the saddler, shoemaker or tailor, or cee ey PLAYMATE—COMRADE—F'RIEND 49 wherever their place of nightly resort might be. Then the tailor or shoemaker in turn would report the words and abuse to the other faction, invariably making the language stronger and the allusions more bitter. Sometimes members of both factions met, then a heated discussion would result, causing the boys to fear that the anti-blackboard side would prevail, for they were invariably the loudest and angriest during the argument, elements which we youngsters thought of great weight in a debate. But the spirit of progress was victorious. Mr. Spellman, with the blackboard, and the privilege of teaching the higher branches, was retained. And it is with the kindest feeling that I still think of the ‘“Yankee Master,’ whose title we in a year or two changed to “teacher.” After several years spent in teaching, he studied medicine, married, and moved to Indiana. We lost sight of the Irish master, McNanly. I think he went West to seek wider fields for mental culture. But Colonel Thorn’s grave is located near the scenes I have attempted to describe, in the southwestern part of Perry County, among the rugged hills of the Hocking. We always titled him “Colonel” after his return from the Mexican war, where he served as a private in the 3rd Ohio Infantry. His commanding appearance, extreme dignity and military expe- rience, our town wags thought, entitled him to this rank, and all knew he enjoyed the distinction. But the old master is immortalized by General Sheridan in his memoirs, and will live in history when the little tombstone I discovered among the Hocking hills shall have crumbled to dust. CHAPTER V. PHIL SHERIDAN NOT A QUARRELSOME NOR A FIGHTING BOY— THE VILLAGE STORE—-PROMOTIONS AS CLERK—HOW PHIL | CAUGHT THE MARTIAL FEVER DURING THE MEXICAN WAR—HIS APPOINTMENT TO WEST POINT. a fighting boy, and it is so written in Colonel Burr’s history. I regret this, for it is not the truth. A denial of such inaccuracies is one of my principal objects in writing these memoirs. In my estimate of him as a quarrelsome boy I take myself for comparison, as I was about the average in these ques- tionable pastimes. As to good habits and proper deportment, he was above the average. I never heard him swear previous to the time he went to West Point; never heard him make an obscene remark, nor saw him have more than three or four fights, and in those he was not the aggressor. There was nothing effusive or gushing in his manner, but he was of dig- nified, pleasant demeanor. Colonel Burr says, in his history of General Sheridan, that “when he left Somerset to go to West Point he could whip any boy there.” This gives one the idea that he was a “bully.” Iam ata loss to understand how the author reached that con- clusion, for when he visited our village gathering material for his history, he came to me for information concerning Phil. I am sure if anything was said of his youthful and boyish fighting, I conveyed the opposite impression. I could not truthfully have done otherwise. 50 oe impression seems general that Phil Sheridan was PLAYMATE—COMRADE—FRIEND 51 When we were boys I often wished that I was as well be- haved as he was. I must confess that I had probably five times more trouble in the fighting line than Phil, although striving to avoid all the fights possible, well knowing the pa- ternal chastisement awaiting me should such adventures be discovered at home. My father, being a German, despised fist fighting, and held that it was less brutal to fight with sword or pistol than to engage in fist fights. Here are a few facts that disprove Coloner Burr’s opinion: The fact that Phil was sought after by the merchants of our village from the age of fourteen until he went to West Point is conclusive that he was not a quarrelsome boy. If he had a fault, it was his fondness for fun, if such can be called a fault in a boy. His deportment after leaving school was genteel and dignified. I have no doubt he would have pre- ferred remaining at school longer, but a contract assumed by his father having proved a financial failure, he was ready and willing to in part relieve the burden of a large family, trifling as the amount might be that he was able to earn. In this he showed a sympathy and solicitude far beyond his years. His sense of duty was always acute. I sometimes thought he would have preferred remaining at school for still another reason. I imagined he and the pretty blonde, Amanda Davis, who was in our class, were par- tial to each other; but this might have been only the jealous surmises of an oversensitive rival, for no one could ever tell just whom the blonde preferred, as she was too modest and shy to show a decided preference. When Phil left school he could not be called the brightest in our class, he was not fluent as a speaker in our debating societies, nor had he any talent for declaiming. His features were pleasing, but not handsome, excepting his eyes, a fine 52 GENERAL Puit H. SHERIDAN expressive brown, or hazel, of medium size, which were pleas- ing to look at except in anger, when they had a bad flash. The head was of a peculiar shape, having prominent posterior de- velopment. This was a cause of some trouble and inconven- ience to him, I remember, as while playing his hat or cap would often blow off, owing, probably, to some of the big. posterior bumps. He was also a little undersized for his age, as it afterward proved when conditions once developed him. The great sculptor, Nature, had used superior clay, but had — taken no pains in the modeling, and was sparing as to quan- tity. We both left school at the age of fourteen to enter village stores, Phil going to John Talbot’s grocery and hardware store, I to my uncle’s dry goods and grocery. During our first year in the stores an incident occurred which corroborates my statement as to his standing in the community as a well- behaved and pleasant boy, my mother, on this occasion, hav- ing held him up as a model. There was a Mrs. Laferty in Somerset who had the habit of coming into the store, ostensibly to make a purchase, and, after getting me to take down half of the stock, criticising the quality and price, would leave without buying anothing. One day my uncle entered in time to hear the closing part of an argument I had with Mrs. Laferty in regard to this habit On this occasion, when as usual I had failed to make a sale, I gave her a bit of my mind, which was answered by sarcasm as cutting as a razor, an accomplishment for which she was famous. My back was toward the door, and unknown to me my uncle came in in time to hear me tell her I hoped she “would never come back again.” After she left, there was a talk between my uncle and myself, which consisted mainly of a lec- PLAYMATE—COMRADE—FRIEND 53 ture on his part on politeness and patience. Not being in a mood to hear it gracefully or meekly, another quarrel fol- lowed, and I left the store with no intention of returning. I went to my mother and related the trouble, expecting her approval and sympathy, but in this I was disappointed, as she told me to return at once and apologize to my uncle and to apologize to Mrs. Laferty the first time I saw her. I agreed to go back to the store and apologize to my uncle, but as to Mrs. Laferty, never, never, never would I apologize to her, for she had aggravated me too often. During this conversation my mother said: “I was down at Mr. Talbot’s store yesterday and made some purchases from Phil Sheridan; I found him, as usual, so polite and pleasant; he is a thorough little man. Why can’t you be as agreeable to your customers as he? He is always so attentive and considerate.” These words, coming under the circumstances, made an impression on my memory that is very distinct, and I knew that what she said was true. Phil’s first year’s salary was twenty-four dollars. Mr. Talbot may have been a kind man, but was of stern counte- nance that was never brightened by a smile; he was cold and punctilious. I believe I should have quarreled with him inside of three months, but Phil staid his year out and probably would have remained longer, but that before his time had quite expired he was offered sixty dollars a year by Mr. Whitehead, who had a larger store. When that contract, which was for a year, expired, another mercantile house, Messrs. Finck & Dittoe, noticing the good qualities of the boy, offered him one hundred and twenty dollars per year. There he remained until he went to West Point in the winter 54 GENERAL PHIL H. SHERIDAN of °48-'49. The sCHONine winter I left Somerset for Cal- ifornia. While he was with Finck & Dittoe the Mexican war was raging. It is easy to believe that every boy was overflowing with martial ardor. Two full companies were raised in that county by Capt. Knowles and J. W. Filler, though the quota of the county, according to population, need not have been more than ten men. Both calls were promptly filled, and as promptly accepted by the government. In speaking of Capt. Knowles, I digress to relate an incident that will give the reader a faint idea of the rapid strides this great country is making and of the wonderful contrast between 1847, the Mex- ican War period, and the present time. Capt. Knowles, hearing that I intended to accompany the volunteers to their first camp on the banks of the Muskingum, eighteen miles distant, secured passage with me in my buggy and I remember feeling quite elated with the honor of taking the first captain to the war. The remainder of the company was taken down in farmer wagons. Nearly all of these boys had never seen a boat or even heard of a steam whistle. The nearest railroad was several hundred miles distant, pos in another state. Toward noon we arrived on Putnam Hill, our camp, on the bank of the Muskingum, where we remained nearly a week waiting for a boat. The tents were pitched on the bluff, one hundred and fifty feet above the water and commanding a fine view of the beautiful river. About this time a citizen of Zanesville, opposite, brought up a wagonload of bread, meat and other subsistence. He informed the boys that a boat was due that afternoon about three o’clock, from above. This aroused great interest, and as the time approached the whole company was out at the edge of the bank eagerly PLAYMATE—COMRADE—FRIEND 55 watching up stream. In due time the boat came around the bend two miles distant, and a shout went up: “There she comes! There she comes! The boat! The boat !’ At this moment the whistle blew a furious blast, warning the lock-keeper to prepare the locks. Immediately all was ex- citement. On every hand one could hear all manner of ex- pressions regarding the boat and “the feller on board who hol- lered so loud.” The first exclamation I heard was from a rough-looking six-footer near me: : “God Almighty! Listen to that feller holler!’ In a few minutes another blast was heard, followed by more expressions of wonder and admiration at the loud voice. I was standing near Buck Gordon, who had heard that I had seen boats before. It must be confessed that at that time I had not the strictest regard for truth, nor a fear of the evil one, but, instead, a dominating spirit of mischief, so I told Buck in reply to his question: “T know that feller with the big voice; he has a good job. He gets fifteen dollars a month with his board, washing and mending, just for hollering when the boat comes near a town and the locks.” My statement was received without a ques- tion by all who heard it. What a magical change since then! Those fields on which we camped, with not a house to be seen in any direction, now form a beautiful suburb of the city of Zanesville, with fine residences and well-paved streets. The valleys from which those rough, unsophisticated soldier boys came are now crossed and re-crossed by railroads, bringing out millions of tons of Hocking coal, and the steam whistle is heard every minute of the day. It was during this Mexican war that young MacGinnis of 56 GENERAL PHIL H. SHERIDAN our village failed in his examination at West Point. ‘On MacGinnis’ return Phil wrote to our Congressman at Wash- ington, General Ritchie, whose home was near our village. Congressman Ritchie was very fond of boys; he would seldom pass one on the streets of our village without stopping to talk to him. The first bushels of apples that ripened on his farm he would always bring in to be divided among us. In this way and many others he became acquainted with our traits — and characteristics. A prompt reply came, inclosing the ap- pointment. I think the haste in filling the vacancy was par- tially to avoid the embarrassment of choosing among many candidates that he knew would be heard from soon, or it may have been that when he received the application from Phil, Gen. Ritchie was reminded of a scene he had witnessed when the applicant was a little boy of seven or eight years. This, too, may have had an influence towards obtaining a favorable — reply from the Congressman, as the boy had shown remark- able nerve and presence of mind for one so young. Phil’s father had a contract for grading the Zanesville and Maysville turnpike, and the right of way lay through the farm of General Ritchie, three miles east of our village. The Sheri- dan family moved to that locality temporarily for the greater convenience of Mr. Sheridan. In those days all this work was done with horses and carts, the gang of laborers digging up and throwing the dirt into the carts to be hauled away. Phil was always about, trying to make himself useful to his father, especially riding the horses to and from the work. A new animal had been pur- chased; he was spirited, which made the boy very anxious to ride him to the barn. When noon came he asked his father’s permission to ride the new horse. The assent was given with a strict admonition not to ride faster than a walk; he must be PLAYMATE—COMRADE—FRIEND 57 very cautious. He was lifted on, but had not gone far before something frightened the horse into a run. The loose harness thrashed him about the legs until he became completely be- yond control, dashing toward the barn at a furious pace, the rider vainly pulling and sawing with all his strength. General Ritchie, in an adjoining field, saw the race and believed, as did the others, that certain death awaited the boy on entering the barn, because the entrance was so low that if he rode erect his head would come in contact with the upper frame. Just in time Phil threw himself forward and side- ways, closely hugging the horse’s neck, and passed safely in, but there was not an inch to spare. The hugging position also saved his life after entering, for the sudden halt would have dashed him forward with sufficient force to have broken his head or neck. Those who witnessed the runaway hastened to the barn, expecting to find a dead boy, but were met by the future cav- alryman hurrying out smilingly to meet his father and assure him of his safety. So the failure of MacGinnis was the “pebble that changed the river,” the turning point in Sheridan’s life, and had much to do with the most eventful period of our nation’s history. After the receipt of the appointment you can imagine there was a commotion in the cottage on the back street, with earnest work on the part of the boy to prepare himself for the examination. The New England teacher, Mr. Spellman, had moved to Indiana. Thorn was still in Somerset, but could not teach algebra, nor did he desire that attainment. So there was no one excepting Mr. Clark, the county surveyor, who lived two miles west of us, who was competent as a tutor. I have no doubt that during this period of preparation Phil experienced more fear and apprehension as to the result 58 - GENERAL PHIL H. SHERIDAN of the examination on his arrival at West Point than he ever felt when going into his greatest battles. He had not the strongest faith that he could surpass MacGinnis. Many contradictory stories have been given publicity from time to time as to the manner of Phil’s apopintment to West Point. This is the true narrative; all others are imaginary. There is a romantic tale of a George Binckley, who, when he saw the grief and disappointment of his boyhood friend, Phil Sheridan, at not receiving the appointment, which was given to Binckley, gave up his cherished prospects and turned the appointment over to Sheridan. Another claim, with as much truth as the above, is the story of Rear Admiral Parker, late counsel for Admiral Schley, who says that he failed to secure the appointment by reason of his youth. That his father looked about Somerset for a suitable boy to take his place, and finally, after two years coaxing, prevailed upon a young Irish lad of humble parentage to go. That lad was Phil Sheridan. No one was in any way instrumental in the appointment of Sheridan to West Point but MacGinnis, who failed, Phil him- self, who applied, and our Congressman, Gen. Tom Ritchie. Capt. Henry E. Filler, now of Columbus, Ohio, was Phil Sheridan’s first commander. He belonged to the Kosci- usko Braves, Filler being captain. The boys were from ten to fourteen years old. Green uniforms, carrying a lance in- stead of a gun, Phil was the youngest and smallest. This was the boy of whom Gen. Grant afterward said, “The world never saw a greater soldier than General Sheridan.” I was not living in Somerset when Phil started for West Point, therefore I quote from ‘‘Filler’s Reminiscences of Somerset.” “He entered the institution measuring about five feet six inches, with a long trunk and short extremities, standing erect on small feet; widening out toward the shoulders, on which PLAYMATE—COMRADE—FRIEND | 59 poised a well-shaped head not unlike the little Corsican cor- poral, and filled with much the same quality of grey matter; brown eyes, straight nose, beneath which was a handsome mouth and well-developed chin and jaw, both indicating will and determination. His voice was not musical, rather metal- lic, yet remarkably pleasing. Address warm and cordial to those he knew well, the very personification of one free from deceit and treachery, the soul of honor.” fue STORY OF OLD‘ BINK:: The Man Who Gave Sheridan to the World—A Mining Camp Romance—Sad Life of the Schoolboy Who Surrendered His Cadetship to “Little Phil”—The Touching Meeting of the General and the Tramp—Life Is a Lottery, Indeed. In an unmarked grave at the base of a great lone rock, within vision’s range of Pike’s Peak, lie buried the remains of the man who gave General Phil Sheridan to America and to history. The facts contained in this narrative may sound like a romance. They have never until now appeared in print, although known to hundreds of persons both in Ohio and in Colorado. The peculiar circumstances by which I became pos- sessed of the strange story and my connection with it, have rendered my task a delicate one, although for several years I have been constantly solicited to make them public. Death having removed the two leading figures of the drama, I have at last consented to relate the various details of a pathetic his- tory as they came within my personal knowledge during a period of fifteen years. The facts contained in the story can be verified by hundreds of citizens of Colorado. They reveal a strange blending of drama and tragedy, and cast no discredit upon the memory of one of the great military figures of the Civil War. I first met George Binckley in 1874, in an embryo mining camp perched high upon the precipitous slopes of the Sierras San Juan, in Southwestern Colorado. How he got into camp 60 GENERAL PHIL H. SHERIDAN no one knew, and no one inquired. The search for gold was then too keen to permit of idle curiosity concerning your neighbor. He must have climbed the long, toilsome and zig- zag burro trail leading from Del Norte to Summitville on foot, for he was wan and weak from hunger and fatigue when he appeared at our campfire one night and begged for something to eat. He presented an uncanny picture set in uncanny sur- roundings. Tall and gaunt, he stood before us as a ghost, while an unkempt mass of whitened hair fell down over his stooping shoulders, mingling with a beard that fell almost to his waist, leaving visible only a little circle of his face. From underneath his shaggy eyebrows his eyes gleamed like two great embers of a once living and consuming fire. His clothes were in tatters, and his limbs trembled with nervousness and fatigue, but his voice had a deep, mellow ring that despite an undercurrent of pain and weariness bespoke the training of its once masterful owner. HE WAS ‘“‘OLD BINK.”’ “T’m old Bink, and I’m hungry,” was his laconic salutation as he drew up before the campfire and calmly surveyed the half dozen rough miners who sat about the blaze smoking their pipes. It was uttered in the voice of one who had been worsted in an encounter with fate and was indifferent as to the result. With the proverbial hospitality of frontiersmen and miners we placed before the stranger an abundance of the rough but substantial food, found in the camp kettles, and he ate raven- ously. When he had satisfied his hunger a pair of blankets was given him, and rolling up in them beneath the drooping branches of a mighty pine our strange and taciturn visitor soon fell asleep. We resumed our pipes and after a brief dis- cussion of our guest agreed that he was a broken-down pros- pector and that he was welcome. Then we crept beneath our blankets and dreamed under the stars of fabulous veins of gold, while our ears heard not the thunder of the mountain torrents leaping down the seams and sides of Del Norte peak to join the foaming current of the Rio Alamosa. And that was how “Old Bink” came to our camp, perched like a speck between a rim of pines and the eternal snow. We PLAYMATE—COMRADE—FRIEND 61 knew not whence he came, neither did we care. We had the broken-down pilgrim in our care and would shelter and feed him. In a day or two he was a fixture, and little by little dropped his impenetrable reserve. During the day he would wander along the mountain sides and up deep gulches looking for indications of minerals. He made himself useful in cook- ing our rude meals. He was conversant not only with geology and metallurgy, but knew every mountain plant and flower by name. It was “Old Bink” who, when one of the boys was stricken down with mountain fever, sought out in the darkest gulches the mountain sage and gave relief to our comrade. He found a bed of tender wild onions and added them to our limited menu of bacon and flapjacks. He staked a claim, and, while it was worthless, we would have defended it for him against jumpers at the risk of our lives. “Old Bink” was our mascot. We wouldn’t have taken the richest lode on South Mountain for him, wretched as he had made himself by a life of wandering and dissipation. And then one night he told to us the story of his life. We didn’t believe it then, but it had served to while away a weary hour between supper and blankets, and we forgave him. A pack train from Del Norte had brought up to camp a fresh lot of supplies, including a keg of whisky. The latter article was the key which unlocked “Old Bink’s” lips. While talking his eyes took on a far-away look, as if they were resting on green pastures, but his voice became vibrant with manhood as he talked about himself and Phil Sheridan. I could not attempt to give you the story in his own language, because between me now and that summer night episode, high up on the slopes of the Sierras San Juan, nearly eighteen years have intervened. “OLD BINK’S”’ STORY. His name, he said, was George Binckley, and he was born in Ohio, his family being an influential and wealthy one. Phil Sheridan was his schoolmate, and although Phil’s mother was very poor, the two boys were inseparable friends and compan- ions. They had grown up together, and their affection for each other was as that of David and Jonathan. Then one day young Binckley’s uncle, who was then in Congress, secured for him an appointment to the West Point Military Academy. Wild with delieht, he rushed across the way to Mrs. Sheri- dan’s humble home to tell Phil the news.. The sturdy young Trish lad burst into tears. preva eg 62 GENERAL Puit H. SHERIDAN “T’m glad of it, George,’ he at last found voice to say. “But, oh, don’t I wish I could go, too! I’ve always set my heart on being a soldier, but now’—and the youthful Phil again gave vent to his emotions. “Old Bink” hurried over this part of his narrative. He talked to Phil for a time and tried to comfort him, with what effect the sequel disclosed. He astonished his parents and almost paralyzed his uncle by declining the appointment. He didn’t want to be a soldier and Phil Sheridan did. On this rock he stood immovable. The world already knows part of the result. The Irish lad, the friend of George Binckley, went to West Point. His his- tory is a part of that of the nation. The hero of Winchester and a hundred other battlefields was made possible by a friend’s magnanimity and self-abnegation. And Binckley, what of him? Oh, there wasn’t much to tell, he declared. He had gone through college with honors; had been admitted to the bar, had tried journalism and had printed several newspapers in Iowa and Nebraska; had drank whisky and indulged in the use of opium until worn out; he had quit fighting and was now drifting with the tide toward sunset and night and silence. He had drifted with other debris of wretched humanity into the mountains, and that was all. He was still loyal to Phil. Did Phil remember his old boyhood friend and benefactor? Oh, yes. General Sher- idan, he said, had repeatedly offered to provide for him, but he was too far gone to go back. That was all. “Phil was all right, and “Old Bink’ was all right, and so what’s the dif- ference?’ Having delivered himself of this oracular bit of optimism, our mascot took another drink of whisky and fell asleep in his blankets. After deciding that “Old Bink” was an entertaining liar, the camp followed his example and re- tired to rest. When bantered next day about his Phil Sher- idan “romance” ‘Old Bink” reiterated his statement, and, finally growing angry, relapsed into sullen silence, and the subject was dropped. The summer waned, and lower and lower crept the daz- zling rim of snow down the mountainside. Already the moaning pines gave notice in their dumb way of approaching winter. The camp, high up on the spur of the mountain, was abandoned. ‘Old Bink’ went with the rest of us to Del Norte, and there we lost sight of him. PLAYMATE—COMRADE—FRIEND 63 THREE YEARS AFTER, Three years later I stood on Sixteenth street in the city of Denver. It was a gala day in the capital city of the young centennial State. The streets were crowded by a restless, shouting, pushing mass of humanity, and flags and banners streamed from every window and every housetop. General Sheridan, then in command of the Missouri Division of the army, was in the city, and Colorado was also there to honor one of Grant’s greatest Lieutenants. Denver was wild with enthusiasm, and it was with difficulty that I could maintain a position on the curb which commanded a view of the ap- proaching parade. Everybody was determined to see Phil Sheridan. The presence of President Grant himself could not have evoked a more spontaneous ovation. Sheridan was the idol of those irrepressible frontiersmen and mountaineers, many of whom had followed his fortunes from ’61 to ’65, and had fought under his banner in all his campaigns until peace came with Appomattox. There was a blare of bugles, a cavalcade of mounted po- licemen, a brass band and then the carriage containing the little military chieftain, turned the corner and came down the street toward the spot where I was standing. Then a fierce, wild outburst from 10,000 throats tore the atmosphere into tatters. Once more and once again the ear-splitting yell drowned the brazen notes of the band and then died away. The crowd was too anxious to see Sheridan to waste any more time in splitting its lungs into fibers. The carriage was within twenty-five feet of me when I was startled by hearing a strangely familiar voice on my right cry out: “Phil! oh, Phil!’ I turned and recognized “Old Bink.” A little more hag- gard and bent, a little longer and grayer locked, with his great gleaming eyes shining like twin stars. The mascot of Del Norte stood leaning forward in the crowd, among which he towered like an aged giant, waving his long, gaunt arms wildly at the passing carriage. There was a hungry appeal in the voice that bordered upon supplication and caused hundreds of eyes to turn from the carriage and its distinguished occu- pant to the strange-looking speaker. 64 GENERAL Putt H. SHERIDAN *Phil! oh, Phil?” General Sheridan heard the cry this time, and looking quickly around began to scan the massed faces, as if searching for some one. “Phil, Phil! it’s me; 1t’s Bink!” and again the arms O11 old tramp went up into the air like the sails of a windmill. He had caught Sheridan’s eye. And then the Denver populace witnessed something it did not understand, and about which it talked for weeks. It saw General Sheridan stop the carriage, leap quickly to the street, force his way through the crowd, place his arms around the neck of our unkempt old tramp and kiss him fair in the face. Then he led that miserable-looking tramp to the carriage, placed him beside himself, and the parade was _ resumed. Everybody who witnessed the scene accepted as an explana- tion the statement that it was one of Sheridan’s old soldiers. But I, who had listened to and laughed to scorn “Old Bink’s” story at the camp fire in the Sierras San Juan, knew better. I knew that Binckley was the man who had given Sheridan to history. George and Phil had met again. What passed between them must be written by other pens than mine. I know only what I know. Several days afterward I again met “Old Bink.” Sher- idan and his staff had returned to Chicago. Bink wore a new suit of clothes, but looked as if he was just recovering from a protracted debauch. In answer to my look of sur- prise and inquiry, he explained: “No, I wouldn’t go back East with him. He gave mea stake, and I’ve blowed most of it in already. I ain’t fit to associate with Phil any more nohow, and [ ain’t going to dis- grace him. He wanted me to go home with him, but I couldn’t live there. I’m off for the mines tomorrow. Phil’s all right and ‘Old Bink’s’ all right, and so what’s the differ- ence?” He turned his eyes in a wistful way toward a purple bank of clouds resting on the far-off peaks of the Rockies, and I noticed that he had aged rapidly since I had known him in the San Juan region. To further questions he gave evasive an- swers, and we parted. I never saw “Old Bink” again. A GRAVE IN THE MOUNTAINS. A year and a half ago I was again in Colorado, after an PLAYMATE—COMRADE—FRIEND 65 absence of fourteen years. I had been engaged in investigat- ing the stability of a large dam being erected on the headwaters of Cherry Creek, about thirty miles south of Denver, near the summit of the divide, and was returning to Castle Rock Station late in the evening, accompanied by a citizen of the latter place. Our route lay over a high “hog back” or divide between Cherry and Willow Creeks, and our ponies made slow prog- ress. We had reached the top of the descent leading down a mile or more to the little mountain village. The sun was just setting behind Gray’s Peak to the south, and forty miles distant Pike’s Peak stood lonely in its grandeur, thrusting an icy finger far upward into the regions of eternal frost. Di- rectly opposite the outer slopes of the Mosquito range lay concealed in mist and shadow, while a thousand feet below ran the waters of Willow Creek. To the right of our trail and directly overhanging the narrow valley Castle rock rose, naked and grim, like a giant anvil five hundred feet in the air. It overlooked the foothills for miles around, and had given its name to the railroad hamlet nestled at its base. The grandeur of the scene had made us both silent for a time, but just as we rounded an escarpment of the huge rock my guide and companion broke the spell: “Do you see that grave over there just under the rock?” “Yes; what of it?’ I was in no mood for talking. “Queer duck planted over there. Buried by the town as a pauper. Tramped into Castle Rock one day last summer and just took down and died. Queer old duck. Whisky and morphine did him up.” “Lots of fellows go that way. Nothing queer about that,” I replied. “Ves; but he was no fool, and sometimes he’d talk like a scholar. And then he'd keep insistin’ that he had rich chum- mies. Guess he was weak in his upper story. Morphine had clean et his brains up. I set up with him one night— jist before he passed in his chips, and he all at onct set up in bed and hollers out: ‘Phil, oh, Phil!’ so pitiful like that I felt sorry for the old tramp. ’Spect it was some brother or pard or something. He died next day, and we found a foty- graph of a military-lookin’ cuss in his pocket. It was so greasy and dirty we couldn’t tell who it was.” “Did the tramp give his name?” I excitedly inquired. r : on a “s id tie lies CHAPTER VI. PHIL HOME FROM WEST POINT—-KINDNESS TO A DOG—ON THE FRONTIER—FIGHTING INDIANS—COMPLIMENTED BY GENERAL SCOTT. rapidly by ere I drifted back to the little village on the hill. Phil had graduated, and I found him there mak- ing a visit while on his way to Texas to join his regiment, the 1st Infantry. Glare years with all their attendant changes had sped An incident that occurred at our first meeting may appear trifling in the history of any man, but in my opinion it serves more truthfully to show the promptings of the heart than acts of a more public character. Sheridan is believed by many, who have never known the other side of his nature, as the “rough rider,” cruel, and lacking in the finer instincts, and |this induces me to narrate the circumstance. A few days after my return he called to see me. I was convalescing from a spell of fever contracted when crossing the Isthmus. After a long talk concerning California, which was then a wonderland and a returned “‘forty-niner”’ an ob- ject of great interest, he proposed that we take a walk to where the projected steam mill was to be built at the foot of the hill. The establishing of this mill was an enterprise of much moment and great interest. My favorite dog started with us, and Sheridan was at- tracted by the exuberance of his joy in being allowed to go, or it might have been the dog’s handsome, intelligent face that attracted him. He made overtures of friendship, calling 67 68 GENERAL PHit H. SHERIDAN the dog by name and extending his hand to caress him; but, as with every stranger, this was resented with a growl and a show of teeth which prevented further advances on Phil’s part. We started for the millsite, and the dog becoming the subject of our conversation, I related what had occurred a few days before on my return to Somerset. I had left Jack with my father more than three years be- fore, and when he discovered that I could not be found about the house or in the street, he became inconsolable, refusing to eat, and pining away until he was but a skeleton. At the end of a month, however, he commenced to eat sparingly, and in two months was himself again in form, though wanting in former life and spirits. The recognition on my return was one of the most remarkable cases of dog memory I had ever seen. My father, having heard of my arrival in New York, could approximate my return home, so he walked out to the Pike a few miles to meet me. I recognized him, preceded by Jack, some distance ahead. When the dog came to the buggy I requested the driver to stop, as I wished to test his mem- ory. I succeeded in attracting his attention, and when with- in reach attempted to put my hand on him, a familiarity he never allowed a stranger. He resented it with a growl. I said, “Jack, don’t you know me?” His ears at once became erect, and he looked me steadily in the face. I repeated the words again, and with a leap he was in my arms, whining and licking my face and hands, beside himself with joy. When my father came up Jack appeared jealous of our affec- tionate meeting and insisted on being between us and being taken up in my arms. This being denied, he placed his paws against my heart, whining and moaning in the most eloquent dog language. By the time my dog story was finished we had arrived at PLAYMATE—COMRADE—FRIEND 69 the excavation made for the engine room. We found it filled with muddy water from a recent rain, and on the surface were floating chips and other debris. While living on the Mus- kingum I had taught Jack to bring objects from the stream, and now he saw an opportunity to remind me that he had not forgotten his early training. Voluntarily plunging in, he would bring something out and lay it at our feet. This, I discovered, was dangerous to the white duck trousers which we were both wearing, the danger arising through his shak- ing the water from his shaggy coat on coming to land. Being obliged to watch constantly was interfering with our conver- sation, so I told the dog to lie down and not enter the pond again. He promptly obeyed. As Phil related his experiences at West Point, giving me full particulars of a very serious altercation he had had with another cadet, for which he had been suspended for a year, I became deeply interested. My father had written me something of the trouble and suspen- sion, but not the full particulars. We were absorbed in this conversation when the dog entered the water again, and com- ing out unobserved, stood near us and gave the accustomed shake, laying down a stick at my feet. That shake changed our white duck trousers from spotless to spotted ones. No magician could have transformed them more quickly or com- pletely. | For Sheridan’s sake I was mortified beyond expression. As soon as I could speak, I apologized for the accident. To my relief, he had the politeness and forbearance to laugh at it and say it was nothing, as he could get home unseen through the fields and change the garment, and that it would involve only a few moments’ time. Upon concluding my regrets, I commenced looking around for a suitable switch with which to punish the disobedient dog. When called, he came up, 70 GENERAL PHIL H. SHERIDAN evidently aware, from his downcast look, that he had done wrong. Poor Jack! When he came to my feet he rolled over with a look of abject humility and sorrow. This melted Phil’s heart, for when he saw what was about to occur, he said: “What are you going to do? I hope you will not whip him!’ At this Jack stood up and watched me pitifully until I had finished stating as my reason for punishing him that he had been indulged by my father and mother during my-ab- sence and that a slight whipping would be of benefit to him. Sheridan’s reply was: “Don’t do that; I could not think of your whipping him for the oversight. You should remember how devoted he is to you; how he loves you; how he remembered you when you returned.” During this appeal the dog looked steadfastly at Phil, then he turned to watch me as I gave additional reasons why he should be punished. Then followed a stronger plea to save the dog, Phil saying that “man or brute is liable to over- sight and forgetfulness which sometimes seem disobedience.” While these arguments were being made, Jack, with a sad face, would look at us in turn as each one spoke. To spare Sheridan’s feelings I said I would not whip the dog, and threw the stick away; then, with every feature, the dog ex- | pressed joy and gratitude. He walked over to Phil and licked his hand. He well knew the import of the switch being cast away, and I am sure understood the substance of what had been said for and against him, and to whom he should be grateful, for, before or after, I never saw him lick a stranger’s hand. As mentioned before, the above incident is related not that it is of special interest, but to throw a side light on the hu- PLAYMATE—COMRADE—FRIEND 71 mane instincts of Phil Sheridan. He may have been relent- less in war, but his nature had another side as gentle as a girl’s. Not many days after this dog episode came the Fourth of July, 1853. This was the last time Phil celebrated that anni- versary at his home village. It was unusually gay and festive that year in the quiet old place, for the survey was being made for a railroad through that part of the country, and this brought a corps of civil engineers and their assistants who made our hotels their headquarters for several months. Rides, parties and excursions were the social order of the day, and girls were in great demand, for the railroad men made inroads on our claims. A carriage drive to Lydy’s rocks, a wild, romantic glen about five miles away, was arranged for the Fourth of July. Phil had his conveyance secured, but when he looked around for a girl he found them all engaged. A day or two before the event we met, and he narrated his gloomy prospect, which was the greater disappointment by reason of its being in all probabality the last time he would ever see the wild gorge. I happened to be so situated just then that I could relieve him, and said: “So far as I am concerned, you can have my girl, that bright, pretty one I introduced you to a few days ago.” He remembered her, but could not quite understand the sacrifice I was making for him, so asked the cause of my un- common generosity. “The situation is this, Phil,’ I said. ‘‘We had a little fuss a few days ago; the quarrel is still on and a coolness exists that is embarrassing to us both. I doubt if she would consent to go with me, and even if she did I would not go. I am sure she would love to go, and I hope she can, but I can- 72 GENERAL PHIL H. SHERIDAN not propose it under the circumstances. I hope you will take her, and should you find it necessary to mention my name, you may say that I do not intend to go.” Thanking me, he hurried away. The next day I saw him with his new girl, happy and lively. While he was on this visit to our village there occurred — an accident that nearly deprived this country of the greatest cavalry general the world has ever known. Sheridan heard considerable about a very fiery racehorse quartered at the livery stable. He was told few could ride him; that he had been the death of one, and had thrown a score of others. When he heard this, a desire seized him to ride that horse. This was the story I heard. I did not see the ride. With some difficulty the consent of the owner was ob- tained—for prudential reasons he hesitated to be accessory to another death. It was noised about that Phil Sheridan was going to ride John Dean’s “quarter” horse (so-called because his racing distance was usually a quarter-mile.) This at- tracted more than the usual number of loafers that always can be found about a village hotel. The groom brought the horse out and assisted Phil to mount. . A half-drunken farmer drove past just as Phil was entering the saddle and, not understand- ing the situation, gave the impatient horse a touch with his whip. This caused him to plunge as if shot from a cannon, freed him from the groom, and started him up the street like a thunderbolt. By this time Sheridan had almost lost his in- secure seat, but tightly clinging, he gradually reseated himself, and the spectators concluded the worst was over, as victory seemed to be with the rider. But he was not yet securely seat- ed when the maddened animal commenced leaping high in the air and coming down on stiff legs, known in the West as PLAYMATE—COMRADE—FRIEND ri: “bucking.” After a few leaps of this kind, horse and rider were seen to separate, Phil flying forward over the horse’s head, striking with his head and breast upon the limestone road and there remaining. There was a wild rush by the hotel loafers to learn the result and assist the young man who was lying so quietly on the bed of stone. He was found limp and lifeless, and in this condition was carried to the nearest house, that of Mrs. Denni- son. A messenger was sent for a surgeon, but the general im- pression was that a physician’s services would be useless, as his neck was supposed to be broken. The surgeon arrived and, making an examination, said the neck was not broken nor were any bones that he could discover. The most that he feared from the looks of the breast and abdomen were internal injuries, but time alone could determine that. After remaining unconscious for some time, Phil opened his eyes and faintly asked the person nearest him, “Where is Het: The person spoken to supposed Phil delirious, and asked him, “Whom do you mean, Phil?” “Why, the quarter-horse!” The man said, “Oh, he was heard of last about five miles from here, and was still running.” This brought a smile to the pale face of the would-be rider, and he closed his eyes again. Toward evening he had improved so much that he was taken home. With a mother’s eareful nursing he was able to be out some days after, but with a very sore breast and abdomen. When the limit of his leave of absence drew near he was still unfit to travel, but insisted on starting. When heard from afterward he had joined his regiment in Texas. His breast and abdomen were covered with boils, and 74, GENERAL Puit H. SHERIDAN to this external eruption he attributed his life and restored health. I did not see the young soldier who failed to ride John Dean’s quarter-horse for several years. When we met again we were both soldiers. From Texas his regiment was ordered to California, and for some time was stationed at Fort Read- ing. I was famiilar with that locality, having lived there for two years. When I heard of him and of what he was doing, or had done, I experienced feelings which I am ashamed to confess. I was filled with fiendish gratification, and read the news with malicious glee. On the opposite side of the Sacra- mento River from where we had lived were the homes and haunts of the worst type of Indians in this country, except- ing the Apaches. It is impossible for me to describe the de- graded, treacherous, daring, blood-thirsty Pitt river Indians of 1852 and 1853. They robbed our camp, often killed our horses and mules, and finally killed my partner. You may imagine it was joyful news to me when I read that Phil Sheri- dan’s command had a fight with them and gave them a com- plete thrashing. The report said it was a severe blow to the tribe, but I did not hear how many he sent to their happy hunting-ground. It is strange that Sheridan’s first fight should be with an enemy who had killed and robbed citizens from his home county. We next heard of his whipping the Spokane and Klamath Indians. For his gallantry and skill in these battles he was complimented in general orders by General Scott. CHAPTER VIL. THE WAR CLOUDS DARKEN—VOLUNTEERING—GENERAL SHERI- DAN’S RETURN—VOLUNTEERS’ GOODBYE—-CAMP CHASE— CINCINNATI—KENTUCKY—CAMP DICK ROBINSON—GEN- ERAL SHERMAN—EAST TENNESSEEANS. HEN the threats and growlings of war came in Vi 1860 Phil Sheridan was a second lieutenant in the 4th Infantry, stationed in Oregon. Far away it was then, it taking a summer’s travel to reach it, so only by slow mail could he trace the war cloud as it gathered and threatened in the East. I have no recollection of hearing him express any opinion as to its duration or result after he heard of the actual conflict. In Ohio, few if any predicted a war so protracted or bloody. I can see now that both the North and South were disap- pointed and mistaken. The North seemed to close its eyes to existing conditions the first year. It took that year to fully areuse it, although volunteering was prompt and spirited from the beginning. The masses of the South and many of its leaders were ignorant as to our resources and patriotism; they had been taught to despise the institutions of the North, es- pecially our regard for manual labor. The general opinion in the South was that with us the striving for money overshadowed every other impulse; that we would not allow the dissolution of the Union to interfere with our money getting. It was asserted of the North that it would sacrifice its health, happiness and soul for wealth. Southerners believed that if patriotism and money were bal- anced in the Northern heart, money would outweigh. 75 76 GENERAL PHIL H. SHERIDAN I am sure both sides were surprised when they beheld the rush from farm and factory, school and store at the first call to arms. The South thought if the conflict did come it would | be short, sharp and successful, and would soon end in the rec- ognition of the Confederacy. Southerners argued this because of the fact that the South at that time had the most distin- guished officers, and a majority of the regular army was sta- tioned in Southern forts; also, they were better prepared for war, as they had been expecting it. : These impressions I gathered from conversations with their citizen-prisoners, and from letters left in abandoned houses on our march to the Gulf States. While talking on this subject I asked a Southern officer if they thought we had lost all patriotism and would tamely submit to let the Union go. He replied, “Oh, no; but we thought you had become a commercial people while we remained military.” When the mails arrived in Oregon we can easily believe that they found Lieutenant Sheridan in a fever of excitement and anxiety. One of these mails brought him news of the unfortunate battles of Bull Run. We can imagine the burn- ings of his heart and the yearnings of his soul to fly to those scenes. Had he had the black horse then he might have been tempted to make the ride, but the soldier must wait until he is ordered. To him weeks must have appeared as months, and months as years, until the welcome order came; it had been traveling on leaden wings, but it came and he was happy. It ordered him to Jefferson Barracks, Missouri. By this time so many whose sympathies were with the South had resigned from the army that he held the rank of Captain. At this point I desire to call the attention of the reader to the fact that when Sheridan was only a capain without aid or influence there were not less than one hundred and fifty generals in the PLAYMATE—COMRADE—FRIEND 77 Union army, but from the time he had his first opportunity to display his genius and value at Booneville, Miss., his career was meteoric, one brilliant victory after another, when he was in command. On his way from New York to Jefferson Barracks he stopped to see his parents. He had not been in Somerset since his attempt to ride the wild racehorse, to which I have pre- viously referred. Henry Zortman, a farmer, who knew Phil when a boy, told me after the war that he called to see Phil during that visit. His principal object was to get the opinion of a soldier as to the result of the war and as to what duty he thought he would be assigned. To the first question Phil answered : “This government is too great and good to be destroyed.” To the second question he said: “T do not know what I shall be assigned to do, nor where they will send me, but if you ever hear from me, I want you to hear that I am doing my duty to the best of my ability.” At the time Phil made his visit many of his friends and playmates, I among the number, had already gone to the front. During that summer of 1861, the maelstrom of war was daily extending the circle of its influence. The North was now ablaze with the realization of actual war. In the Spring: it had drawn mainly from the ranks of restless young men who were seeking adventure—those were the “three months’ ” men—but during the summer and fall men of more mature years and settled habits were volunteering. I felt myself drift- ing into the current, but could not see my way clear to go, hav- ing a mother almost blind and a father very old and feeble living with me. Besides, how could I leave my young and pretty wife? There seemed many obstacles in my way. Then, again, my business was satisfactory; indeed, I was comfort- 78 GENERAL PHIL H. SHERIDAN able and happy until I found myself unceasingly thinking of the war and the condition of the country. Again and again did I banish these thoughts from my mind, for I believed I could not leave the responsibilities and attractions of home. For a week I was torn by efforts to down war-thoughts, but, like Banquo’s ghost, they “would not down.” I found myself becoming dissatisfied and unhappy, and unfit for business. Captain Jackson had just returned with his company from the ‘‘three months’ ”’ service, the first call for volunteers, and immediately began recruiting a company for three years or during the war. J. W. Martin, a bright, energetic young Irishman, had received an order from Governor Tod author- izing him to raise a company, but as recruits came in slowly, each only partially succeeded. Just then a proposition came from someone to consolidate, which made one company almost full. | | | At this stage I joined and felt great mental relief, but now new troubles confronted me as soon as I had signed my name. How was I to go home and tell my wife and parents and dispose of my business without too much sacrifice? These were my greatest troubles. The first should be done within an hour, the latter within two weeks, as the company, being nearly full, would soon be completed and ordered away. With a heavy heart I went home to discharge the first em- barrassing duty. With preliminary remarks on the duties of an American citizen, etc., I finally found courage to tell her what I had done. When she found that I was serious and had enlisted, I shall never forget the expression of her fine gray eyes, for they spoke the emotions of her heart though her sensitive lips seemed stricken dumb. Looking at me with pale, reproachful face, when she had somewhat recovered, she asked me why I desired to leave her, and why the unmarried men UNVEILING OF THE SHERIDAN MONUMENT Somerset, Ohio : ‘ 1 . z : d i -9 pipes -: ; ay © } ~ : ; ; ' t PLAYMATE—COMRADE—FRIEND 79 should not go first. Those questions were difficult to answer to a wife. I could only say that I had no rest, that the war would not last long, and that in a year, we should all be at home with eachswther again. Whether or not to appeal to her love of the Union, I did not know, for, her parents having been Southerners, she might feel indulgent toward the Con- federacy ; besides, she was a model housewife and home-loving woman, and never became enthusiastic over any public ques- tion. I then spoke of the additional care and responsibility my aged parents would be, but she did not shrink, and bravely told me she would do everything possible for their comfort. Until this crisis came I had never had occasion to realize how brave and patriotic she was, nor did I fully realize her self-denial and courage until some years later, when adversity and sick- ness almost overwhelmed us. My mother appeared to dread my going much more than did my wife, for my parents still had vivid recollections of the first Napoleonic wars, when they were children in Ger- many—of a great battle that was fought near their home and the devastation and destruction that followed. However, they finally agreed that it was but my duty to go. The company was full at last, and now came the organ- ization. Captain Jackson had the greater number of names, and had had three months’ actual experience in war. This en- titled him to the captaincy. The company was recruited under an order from the Governor to J. W. Martin, who had done much to recruit it, so Martin was entitled to the first lieuten- ancy. I purposed being a candidate for second lieutenant. When Martin heard this he came to me, waiving all rights to the first lieutenancy in my favor, saying he would take the second lieutenancy, and delicately assigning as a reason that 80 GENERAL Point H. SHERIDAN I had seen some Indian service, which, in truth, was so insig- nificant that in justice it was no claim. The service Lieut. Martin alluded to was a little Indian war with the Pitt river Indians in the early days of California, which only lasted a few months, and I think only thirty-seven were killed on both sides ; one of these, a squaw, by mistake, who had fought with the males. The truth was, I think, that as I had a family to support, he thought I needed the difference in pay more than he, but was too considerate to assign any other reason than that I should have it for the service I had seen in the West. A few days before we started there was an election of officers resulting in my election as first and his as second lieutenant, there being no opposition to either of us. War, like politics, makes strange bed-fellows. Patriotism is an equalizer of persons—all men are equally under its ban- ner. The rich man’s son, fashionably dressed, was in the same file with the day laborer, coarsely and poorly clad. The blue blood of New England was represented in the company by Gerald Stowe, a relative of Harriet Beecher Stowe, educated, refined, and modest, who touched elbows with the ignorant ex- criminal; the innocent country boy, clean and conscientious, marched with him of bloated features, soiled garments and un- kempt hair, possibly on the verge of delirium tremens, for there were a number of black sheep with us. It could not be expected that they all should be models of excellence, all kinds were jumbled together. The last day of August, 1861, was the day for our de- parture. The little square in front of the Court House where Phil Sheridan played when a boy was packed with men, wom- en, children, horses and wagons. ‘Ten wagons were engaged to take those who had no other means of transportation to the nearest railroad station nine miles away. I shall never for- PLAYMATE—COMRADE—FRIEND SI get the many scenes, pathetic and amusing, that impressed themselves on my memory that day; the sorrowful incidents greatly outnumbered those that were entertaining. I saw the fifer of our company kiss his sweetheart for the last time; he was buried in Tennessee. I think the girl did not survive him many years. I saw many others give their last lover’s kiss. As an officer, | had much walking about to do that day in order to get things in readiness. Here and there in a quiet nook I could see a boy walking for the last time with the girl he loved; I could hear the whisperings and the sweet vows of eternal affection as they parted, sometimes forever. I saw others bending over cradles kissing the sleeping babes. Some were receiving the blessings of old men; others parting with mothers. This, in every case, was the most affecting, for the old mother would press her boy to her heart again and again. Some were speaking brave words in bold tones to drive away the awful fears of the young wife. I saw a wife standing in the door with her babe in her arms. As the wagon her hus- band was in passed her, a hand waved, and she answered by holding up in tender embrace their only child. A few minutes and he is gone, and forever. Busy as I was with preparations, it was during these scenes that I for the first time realized that women had the hardest part to bear during the war. She had no voice in the making of it, yet she saw her lover, son or husband leave her, some- times to gain a name, it is true, but more often to find death in all its horror, while she remained to watch and pray, lonely, often unprotected, and in want. The novelty and excitement of soldier life banished loneliness and homesickness in nearly every case, but those left in the monontony of the home often waited, anxiously, throughout long years, uncertain as to whether they would ever see their loved ones again. 82 GENERAL PHIL H. SHERIDAN “The bravest battle that ever was fought! Shall I tell you where or when? In the history of the world you find it not— It was fought by the mothers of men.” The small boy was there in full force, noisy and busy, as- - sisting the teamsters and thereby claiming a right to ride to the station with the vulunteers. The officers had their hands full to see that all were seated in the wagons, especially those who had been invited too often to take a parting drink. When all was ready the train commenced pulling out amidst a long, and, I thought, a sad cheer that died away in a wail. Something comical often occurs, even amid the gravest and saddest scenes. Pathos, humor and tragedy seem about equally divided in war. We had not gone more than fifty yards, were not yet out of the village in fact, when there was a halt. I could not see what was wrong ahead. My first im- pression was that the kind-hearted old farmer who drove the head team was giving us a moment longer for a final look at home and kindred, as we could still see the crowd in the square. Among the volunteers was Sam B , a drinking man of soiled reputation—one of those whose walk through life so nearly approached the criminal line that he often overstepped it, and now and then we heard of his being under arrest. (1 am not afraid of offending Sam by this description of his pe- culiarities for he never came back; I cannot remember where we lost him, but it was either in Mississippi or Alabama. ) Well, when the halt came it brought the wagon in which Sam was directly in front of the residence of a Mrs. MacGinnis, who, with her family, was out on the veranda, waving the boys good-bye. All was still; the cheer had died away; every- one was feeling sad. Sam recognized Mrs. MacGinnis, stood up unsteadily in the wagon, and in a voice loud enough to be heard the full length of the train, called out as he waved his PLAYMATE—CoMRADE—FRIEND 83 hat, ‘“Good-bye, Mrs. MacGinnis! You and your chickens, good-bye! You will never see Sam again.” Everyone in hearing knew the import of the chicken farewell, it having ref- erence to a well-founded report that he had been too free with her chicken roost. The speech had the effect of turning the boys’ thoughts from sadness to merriment, and when we finally left the little town we were all laughing. Two days later we were in Columbus on our way to Camp Chase, which was located five miles from the city. We arrived in town about dark. Our initiation into soldiering was not a joyful experience. The weather was cold and cloudy and the hour too late to go out to camp. On our way up to the State House to report to the Governor we were met by one of his staff, who conducted us to the State House rotunda. Here we were left, with the promise that he would return with a wagon load of blankets, but neither he nor the blankets ever came. After waiting until about ten o’clock the boys began abusing him unmercifully, one of them saying that if he ever saw that “staff” again he would ”break it to flinders.” One by one we stretched ourselves out on the cold marble floor to get what sleep we could. It was not a bed of roses. A few left, to seek hotels and lodging houses, but this the officers discouraged, fearing the delay and trouble of getting the com- pany together in the morning. It was a miserable night for those who remained. In after years I often passed the spot we occupied that night, and always with a shudder; though it was, indeed a “‘bed of down” compared with what we endured many other nights before the war was over. However, our suf- fering was lessened as we became hardened—at the State House we had been soft and unseasoned. Daylight never received a warmer welcome. Getting our breakfast at the nearest eating houses, we got into line and 84 GENERAL Puit H. SHERIDAN started for camp. The two-hour march proved toilsome after the night’s unrest, and, besides, our tight boots and shoes were little suited for tramping.. We were glad to sit down at the gate of the camp and rest until an orderly came out to conduct us to our quarters, which we found to consist of two rows of board shanties, called a ‘street’ —the camp being laid out on the plan of a town. At noon we drew our first rations of bread, meat and coffee, with camp kettles, tin plates, tin cups, knives and forks. This was a novel experience for the boys, and some queer and awkward cooking followed. We found that Camp Chase had a line of guards surround- ing it. This had two objects—one as a school for guard duty, the other to prevent visits to Columbus without a pass. We had been there three or four days before Government cloth- ing was issued to us. Two days before we received ours I saw one of the company, Pat Fagan, a man forty years old and with an immense brogue, strutting up and down the com- pany street wearing a full suit of blue. I asked that he give me an explanation. “There is nothing aisier than to do thot,” replied he. ‘“T was a-walkin’ up and through th’ ind o’ the camp yesterday whin I saw a crowd of min around some boxes, an’ I crowded in, too, an’ found iv’ry divil of ’em a-takin’ a shute o’ close. Thinks I, ‘Pat Fagan is a soldier now an’ has as good a roit to a shute as ony of ’em,’ so I picked me out this shute an’ brought ’em down an’ thried ’em on, an’ a divil of a better fit did I iver have.” Now I understood. A company was drawing and distrib- uting clothing—a matter that was attended the first time with more or less confusion, carelessness and excitement. Doubt- less many in that company were strangers to each other, so, during the confusion and hurry, Pat had no trouble in selecting Ba rg a ee oe 5 ua ey ay Rites PLAYMATE—COMRADE—FRIEND 85 a suit and leaving without interference; he was of the opinion that it was a “free pitch in.”’ The “joke” was on the captain of that company, who was out that amount, being responsible for all company property, while Pat was the gainer; I explained to him that the captains were charged with all clothing distributed, and if the suit was not returned the captain must pay for it. I advised him to take it off and return it, which he promised to do, saying that he did not want to ‘‘chate the mon.” But the next day he was still wearing them, and, when I reminded him of his promise, he was ready with the good excuse: “I wint up there to foind th’ place, an’ divil a bit could I foind it at all, at all.” So, as long as he lived, Pat was ahead of that captain the price of that suit of blue. In a day or two we were all on an equal footing with him. We had on the blue. The frock coat had scales on the shoul- ders. A cheap brass epaulette was much disliked, so when it became dark and the officers could not detect it, the scales were cut off and thrown away. The Western soldiers did not like a cap—we would have preferred a hat. The cap of the in- fantry soldier had a small brass bugle in front; this also was thrown away as a piece of toggery. We never drew the frock or uniform coat a second time; it was unsuitable. The blouse, from its ease and adaptability, was preferred by all. Next came the arms, with the many leather straps of scabbard, cart- ridge and cap box. It took an expert to properly adjust this set of harness the first time, and it was not strange that the farmer volunteer was reminded of harnessing and breaking a colt; nor was it to be wondered at that while this operation was going on we could hear them kicking and hear them neigh- ing and squealing in imitation of colts all over the camp. After being in Camp Chase about two weeks, we could 86 GENERAL PuiLt H. SHERIDAN hear mutterings of discontent and dissatisfaction. The first rosy flush of illusion was passing away and sombre reality taking its place. The men now realized that soldiering was not one continued picnic; the persistent drills, strict discipline and poor fare to which the once well-fed volunteer had become accustomed began to arouse endless complaint. The good times anticipated without restraint did not materialize; the glamour was gone. Many members of that company had been accustomed from childhood to come and go when and where they pleased. This freedom was now over. Instead was rough food, restraint, obedience and bitter disappointment— the poetry of war was gone. It was only human that there should be some scapegoat selected on whom to saddle re- sponsibiilty for all these misfortunes; there must be someone to blame for their mistreatment. They found the victim. It was General Hill who commanded the camp, and, as if by common understanding, they all abused him. Not one poor fellow ever dreamed that he was then spending the honeymoon of soldier life; not one knew anything of the pitiless hardships of real war; they had only tasted a little of its restraints. It was true, Hill was a strict disciplinarian, but not unreasonably so. He was an excellent drill officer, a fine, soldierly-looking man. One of the first charges against General Hill was that he put on too many airs for this democratic age and republican country and that there was no occasion to be so strict by half. But, worst of all, he was the author of our short allowances and inferior bill of fare; in fact, all the supposedly gross wrongs were charged to him. This bad feeling was greatly intensified when a rumor gained credence that he had not acted with bravery at the battle of Garrek’s Ford, in which his regi- PLAYMATE—COMRADE—FRIEND 87 ment had participated, in the Spring. Following this report, the boys felt for him the utmost contempt. We had with us a wayward young man, who from his childhood had been beyond the control of his parents. He was intensely disgusted that he must obey. The picture he had drawn did not fit the facts as he found them. He had ex- hausted the ordinary channels of abuse when speaking of Gen- eral Hill, and had resorted to poetry. He had a “poem,” as he called it, which abused the General from first to last. From the number of times I saw and heard him reading it to admir- ing comrades who approved and applauded every line, I am confident he thought himself a poet of marked ability. Of this the reader can form his own opinion from the specimen that I can yet remember; I am sure this will be sufficient. Billy’s poem began: “ Between Hill and h—1 there is but one letter; If Hill were in h—l, we'd be the better.” | Some may claim that he was not a poet of high order, but this is a matter of opinion. If the question had been submitted to the boys of that camp the verdict would have been almost unanimous in his favor, but if the reader should dissent from the opinion I am sure he will be charitable enough to forgive Billy, even as I think the Lord has, when I tell him that after arriving at the front there was no better or braver soldier up to the time of his death at Chickamauga, where he was left with the other dead of the Army of the Cumberland—the first and only time this splendid army ever left its dead or turned its back to the enemy as it fought its way slowly and sullenly to Chattanooga. | A comrade who was with the wayward poet as he unslung his knapsack and adjusted his cap and cartridge box prepara- tory to the fight told me after the war that Billy had said, 88 GENERAL Puit H. SHERIDAN smilingly, “Joe, I feel it in my bones that we are going to catch it here for the first time, and I feel that it will be my last fight; if that turns out true, and you get home, tell father and mother that I’ve been a better boy since I’ve been out; and as to dying, that’s all right; this is as good a place as any.” In September our regiment was fully organized, equipped, and numbered 31st Ohio Volunteer Infantry, M. B. Walker commanding. Our company letter was G. After three weeks more of company and batallion drill it was thought we were ready for the front. Many, fearing the war might be over before their arrival, were most anxious to get there. About the 1st of October, 1861, we bid Camp Chase fare- well, first being reviewed by Governor Todd and staff; the boys of Company G keeping a sharp lookout for that staff officer who had disappointed them so cruelly in failing to bring the blankets to the rotunda; however, he was either not there or a gaudy uniform disguised him beyond recognition. We left behind us in process of organization the 2oth, 4oth and 42nd, Colonel Garfield’s (afterward President) 1st Ohio Cavalry, with other fractional regiments, the numbers of which I cannot remember. It was rumored that Cincinnati was our destination, but as we were to travel by freight cars, the time of our arrival was tncertain. An order was issued to take two days’ cooked rations in haversacks. The import and importance of this order was not fully appreciated by the new soldier and was not strictly obeyed. The result was, before we arrived in Cincinnati the boys were ravenously hungry. The Colonel, ascertaining our condition, took the precaution to telegraph to the Soldiers’ Relief Committee that we were coming hungry. (Whoever heard of a soldier that wasn’t?) We were kindly met by that PLAYMATE—COMRADE—FRIEND 89 patriotic body who, acting on the Colonel’s hint, was ready to conduct us to its rooms. Gladly getting out of our cramped places, we formed in line, when bright little boys and girls went up and down the lines with well-filled baskets of good things, until the hungriest could cry, “Hold! Enough!” In addition to that, the populace, male and female, gath- ered around us offering apples, peaches and oranges until our haversacks would hold no more. This being early in the war, we attracted attention; the novelty was not yet over. A fine carriage drove up in front of and not far from my Company; the driver beckoned me to come to him. As I approached, the door opened and a handsome lady looked out and, apolo- gizing, introduced herself, then asked if I was the Captain of the Company (pointing to several boy soldiers I had on the left of the Company, whose size and youth seemed to attract her attention). I told her I was not the Captain, but was in command; the Captain was absent, sick. She handed me a pocketbook, making excuses for the small amount it contained. She hoped I would accept it to be distributed among the most needy. “They may want to buy some little necessities before you cross the river.’ In my surprise I hesitated a moment to accept it, but she so earnestly and gracefully insisted that I could not do otherwise, so I blundered by thanks. In my surprise and embarrassment I forgot to obtain her address, in which event I could have made to the pretty patriot more suit- able acknowledgment under calmer conditions. Just then I heard a command issued, and, looking back, saw the battalion wheeling into platoon, preparatory to a march. I was needed with my Company. Another look at her fine features, a hasty good-bye, and “thank you,’ and I ran to catch up with the marching column. After getting settled in our new camp I counted the money, which was over twenty dollars. 90 GENERAL Pui H. SHERIDAN Our destination was the old Orphan Asylum grounds, where stands the new opera house. After remaining here for several days an order came to march at 4 o'clock P. M. the next day, with two days’ cooked rations in haversacks and ten rounds of cartridges. The latter part of the order looked like business for the boys. It was rumored that we would be sent to Camp Dick Robinson, the central camp of instruction for the Kentucky loyal troops, that was then threatened by a force said to be marching toward that point from Cumberland Gap, Tennessee, under the Confederate General Zollicoffer. After much delay, which we learned so well to avoid in after years, we started, our brass band headed towards the river. Arriving at the Burnett House we were halted in the midst of a great crowd to hear a speech by General Mitchell, the distinguished astronomer, who also became a distinguished General. By the time we got started again it was just dark. The first year of the war there were many speeches made; after that there was neither time nor occasion to make them. The sidewalks along our line of march were crowded with men, women and children, white, black, of all ages and condi- tions. Flags and handkerchiefs waved from every building. The most hearty demonstrations met us on every side. Reach- ing the river, we found large bonfires illuminating the streets and buildings of the district, reflecting the light almost across the “dark and bloody ground.” As the two large ferry boats that held our regiment glided out into the stream, the shore we were leaving swarmed with huzzahing patriots waving hats and handkerchiefs. We were so densely packed in those boats that it was a wonder some did not fall overboard, as it could be plainly seen that all were not prohibitionists. However, we reached the dock without accident. 3b ie gee pees bic ae JS et Sell ia scone a ai a PLAYMATE—COMRADE—FRIEND QI From the landing we marched to the K. C. R. R. station and were there put in freight cars. In the morning we found ourselves in Cynthiana, and that afternoon at Nicholasville, the terminus of the road. Here was our first camp in the field. At seven o'clock next morning “assembly” was called and we knew we were in for it—heavy knapsacks and solid busi- ness. We left the town with banners flying and bands play- ing, following the Pike southward. It is a wearisome day’s march, for we were heavily laden, as all soldiers are on their first march, foolishly carrying too much when not accustomed to it. In the evening we found ourselves in the vicinity of the Kentucky River, at that point a lovely sheet of water about fifty feet wide. We were the first northern troops to cross this stream. The scenery was wild and romantic in the extreme. The narrow Pike we marched on wound around the sides of hills which might almost claim the title of mountains, while away down the precipice the brink of which was at one’s feet, little brooks rushed over their rocky beds, leaping and babbling from cliff to cliff until they would strike the canon below. This locality was the haunt of the celebrated Daniel Boone, and many were the thrilling traditions handed down through generations of Kentuckians as to how the intrepid hunter succeeded in eluding the vigilance of the savages of those rocky wilds. Within fifty feet of the bridge we crossed, rising from the river to the height of over two hundred feet, stood, alone in its grandeur, a cone-shaped hill known as “Boone’s Knob.’ Here we afterwards camped for two weeks. A march of six miles from Boone’s Knob brought us to camp Dick Robinson, near which we were met by the Third Kentucky Infantry, who, with due honors, conducted us to our new camp. Here we found Carter’s brigade, Ist and 2d E. 92 GENERAL PHIL H. SHERIDAN Tennessee, Ist and 2nd Kentucky Infantry, also Wolford’s Kentucky Cavalry. The camp was in command of Gen. Geo. H. Thomas—old ‘Pap’ Thomas, as the boys affectionately learned to speak of him. A regular soldier from his boyhood, and comparatively an old man at this time, yet there was no wide gulf between him and the young volunteer private. He was always kind and forbearing, and the boys learned to love him. : A few days after our arrival the 14th, 17th and 38th Ohio Infantry came to us, also the 33rd Indiana. When it was known to the surrounding country—the famous blue-grass region and the nearby towns of Danville and Lancaster—that Yankee regi- ments could be seen at Camp Dick Robinson, scores of people in fine carriages, with high-stepping horses, would be in the vicinity of the parade ground every pleasant afternoon to see the Northern soldiers at dress parade and battalion drill, for the afternoons were devoted to those evolutions. They invari- ably brought well-filled lunch baskets of the best this rich country afforded, which was an inducement for us to extend every courtesy in our power, in return for which we were often invited to share those delicacies. This was often a double feast for us—not only for the appetite, but for the eye, as well. We could see the beauty of the women, for which this section is justly noted. Sometimes one could scarcely enjoy the luxuries they invited us to for looking at the beauties who offered them. I thought the blue-grass women were the love- liest in manner and the sweetest in face of any I had ever seen. I remember two fine specimens who came to our camp, a Miss Shelby and Miss Leatcher. Female beauty seemed to disap- ' pear to a great extent after we left Kentucky. At the end of the first week we were visited by Governor Andrew Johnson, of Tennessee, afterwards President ; Horace PLAYMATE—COMRADE—FRIEND 93 Maynard and Leslie Cooms, each making us a short speech. A few days later came General Sherman, then comparatively unknown; he was sent by the President on a tour of inspec- tion. He stopped at Dick Robinson Hotel, adjacent to the camp, which was named for the proprietor, a zealous Union man, Sherman, being from our own state, it was thought to be the proper thing on the first evening of his arrival for us to take the band down and serenade him; so the commissioned officers, headed by Lieutenant-Colonel Fred Jones and preceded by the music, started. The musicians were instructed to play their best tunes, and then the General would be called out for a speech. We had not quite grasped the idea that we were out of politics and in war, therefore we must have a speech. Arriving, the band did its best, which was not much. To tell you the naked truth, they could not play with such exquis- ite unison and enthusiastic military spirit that it seemed to enter the very blood and rest with strange thrill in the brain for hours afterward. When they ceased playing we felt glad, but they had done the very best they could. When about out of wind and tunes there was a silence, and then we expected the highly complimented Ohio General to appear and make an ap- preciative speech. But he came not. We commenced calling him—yet no Sherman. We called louder. When this did not bring him, some of the boys became noisy. All this time he was getting madder and madder, but we did not know it. Then he appeared on the upper veranda, and all was still. We expected the speech—and he made it. He asked us what we wanted and some one said, “A speech!” We learned then that he was excited and angry. “T have no speech for you excepting to say you had better return to your quarters, and if you are commissioned officers, — 94 GENERAL Puit H. SHERIDAN as I am told you are, keep your men from stealing Dick Rob- inson’s chickens and burning his rails, which I am informed they are guilty of. If you belong to an Ohio regiment, I am ashamed of you. It is unmilitary, to say the least, to come here and call me out to make a speech. The best thing you ~ can do is to take your band and yourselves back to your regi- ment, and do it quickly.” We thought he would feel so highly honored that we would be invited to walk up to Dick Robin- son’s bar and drink his best Kentucky peach and apple brandy. Before the speech was finished there was a stampede to the rear. We had all taken the hint at par value and when the last words of the lecture had died away the crowd had disappeared and there was not one officer left to hear it. And ever after that not one could be found to admit that he was one of the party that had gone to serenade General Sherman. We knew better after that than to call a General out to make a speech. We were about as verdant and knew as little of the proprieties of war or the etiquette of military life as the Missourian did when he was approached by General Hardee, the strict Confederate disciplinarian. One day while com- manding in the Southwest the General rode out on the picket line, and, much to his surprise, found a sentry sitting on a rail fence munching a piece of bacon. General Hardee appeared not to see him until he got abreast of him, and then drew his horse up, expecting to find the sentry at “present.” He was nothing of the kind, however, but sat munching away as un- concernedly as though he were in his native mountains. “Do you know who I am?” demanded General Hardee, in his severest tones. “Stranger, I ‘low I don’t.” “T am General Hardee, and Without stopping to hear the remainder of his sentence 99 PLAYMATE—COMRADE—FRIEND 95 the raw recruit slowly climbed down from the fence, and, shambling into the road, extended his hand as he said, “How air ye, General? I’m mighty glad to see yer lookin’ so peart!” On General Sherman’s return to Washington from this tour of inspection he reported to the government that the prepara- tions for the defense of this department were totally inade- quate; that it would require at least three times the number of men to meet an emergency. Some of the leaders of the Northern press, Murat Halsted among the number, pronounced Sherman insane, a verdict in which the officers who serenaded: him that night fully coin- cided. But time and events proved that the General was cor- rect in his judgment as to the inadequacy of our preparations in Kentucky. During a visit to Oakwoods Cemetery, this city, last sum- mer, sad memories were aroused by the sight of a cenotaph erected not far from the Confederate monument, its quiet simplicity in strange contrast with the imposing column that marks the Confederate resting place. One of the saddest unwritten pages of American history is the story of the unhappy loyal refugee of the South. Next to us, in the same field, lay the first and second East Tennessee Infantry, and not far away the First and Second East Ten- nessee Cavalry. These men were all refugees from the Cum- berland Mountains. In addition to their other sufferings, dis- ease attacked them with remarkable fatality. Being mountain- eers, they had always been accustomed to the purest water and air. When they came down from the heights—‘‘The Switzer- land of America’’—to the lowlands of Kentucky, all manner of ailments beset them, measles being especially prevalent and fatal. What added to the number of deaths was their abhor- rence of a hospital. Every day one or more of these brave Oe GENERAL Puit H. SHERIDAN mountaineers would be carried from his tent to the slope above our camp, where reveille would awake them no more. As sol- diers they were splendid fighters, but lacking in discipline and training, those elements that make effective soldiers. Driven from their homes by the secession element, they became the most bitter and desperate men of the war, restless, but silent, alert, and always eager to fight. Life appeared to have lost its charms to them in their fugitive condition. To the North- erner they were a strange study. : I often went through their camp, for it was quite unlike ours; they would sit around moodily, thinking, no doubt, of their homes; some would be playing cards. There was no lit- erature in evidence except the Bible, for there was a strong re- ligious element with them—some disciples of Parson Brown- low. I learned that nothing would arouse them except a call of “boots and saddles,” for the two regiments of cavalry. This signal meant a reconnaissance, and that insured a fight, as they always insisted on being led against the cavalry out-posts of theenemy. When this call was sounded there was the great- est activity and hilarity in the camp—laughing, joking and hurrying to and fro. They were only happy when there was a prospect of fighting. These men, fugitives from their homes, seemed devoid of fear, and apparently knew no pleasure but re- venge upon those who had torn them from their dear ones and caused their forlorn condition. We witnessed many pathetic scenes among these unsophis- ticated people who knew so little of the world that many mid- die-aged men in that camp had never seen a Northerner. Our regiment was their nearest neighbor, and was an object of curi- osity and deep interest to them. An officer said to me one day, “You’uns are a slick looken’ set of fellers!” We were com- pelled by strict orders to keep our hair closely cut, were care- PLAYMATE—COMRADE—FRIEND 97 ful of our clothing, and had round, plump forms. This was in striking contrast to the mountaineers, who wore their hair long, were generally lean and lank, and were utterly indiffer- ent as to the fit of their uniforms. One morning soon after our arrival, while sitting near a tent which overlooked the field between our camp and Dick Robinson’s hotel, I saw a man, woman and little boy running towards the Tennessee camp, the little fellow struggling along manfully under the double handicap of short legs and high grass. He often fell, but I could hear no cry, and he would jump right up and start after the woman again. I afterwards learned that the man was the messenger. The morning was frosty, but as the woman came up I noticed that she was thinly and poorly clad, and appeared pathetic in her poverty. She entered a Tennessee tent. Ina moment I heard broken words and pitiful lamentations. The scene was so unusual in a war camp that I went over to inquire the cause, hoping to be able to render some service. The tent flaps were turned back; the woman knelt by the side of a soldier who seemed to be dying. It took but a glance to see that the loyal Tennesseean would never in battle again face the stars and bars of the Confed- eracy, for the Destroyer was already glazing his hollow eyes in meek surrender. “George, why didn’t you send for me sooner? Oh, why did I go ’way and let you die! Why didn’t you let me stay with you?” With the greatest effort he said, “Mary, you couldn’t stay here in camp so well with our little boy. It was not a good place for you or Ben.” He attempted to say more, but his voice was drowned by a gurgling sound in his throat. I could see his lips moving 98 GENERAL PHIL H. SHERIDAN in an effort to speak, but no sound came. He was dying—_ yes, dead. She repeatedly kissed his pale lips and did not seem to realize that he was dead, for she would call him to look at her, and then say, “Look at our little Ben!” But his dead eyes gave back only a vacant stare. The chaplain of the regiment hurried in with the mes- senger who had brought the poor wife. The two assisted her to her feet, speaking words of sympathy and consolation. She stood there reproaching herself for not remaining in camp to nurse him. Other friends or relatives came in and per- suaded her to go back to the hotel. Again she kissed his face and bathed his hands in tears, calling him back to life—to look at her once more. The little boy stood near his mother, gaz- ing in wonder first at her and then at his father’s body. I afterward learned something of the history of this family, which was about as follows: -” He was Aways an out-and-out Union man and they tried to press him into the rebel service. This caused a fight, in which he killed one of the party sent to get him. His cabin was near the bushes and he got away, but they fired his home, his wife saving only a few articles before it burned down. That night the woman and little boy found him, and with some cooking traps and blankets they walked all the way to camp. He joined the First E. Tennessee Cavalry and got employment for his wife at the hotel, thinking it would be more comfortable for her and the child. A few days after she left him he was taken with measles, but wouldn’t go to the hospital; none of them liked to go there. He wasn’t so very sick, but grew tired staying in camp and hungry for some- thing he could get at the sutler’s, so he went down, and com- ing back was caught in a rain storm; then he grew worse than Pe PLAYMATE—COMRADE—FRIEND 99 ever. That had been only three days before, and the relapse proved fatal. Befcre leaving, I took another look at the dead soldier. His thin features were set in the smile which lit up his face when he gazed at his little Ben and closed his eyes on this world, with the arms of his loving wife enfolding him. I saw the poor woman again on the following day. She anda few others were slowly accompanying her George up to the knoll where so many of his countrymen had preceded him. Vi CHAPTER Vil CHRISTMAS RECOLLECTIONS—THE SOLDIER’S DREAM—A BRAVE UNION WOMAN—EVIL EFFECTS OF MERRITT’S PEACH BRANDY. HILE in Camp Dick Robinson an incident occurred \ / that has always been pleasant to review. It occurred the day Governor Johnson (after- wards President) and other distinguished gentlemen spoke to us, as mentioned elsewhere. My duty that day was as “officer of the guard,” with authority to pass visitors through the lines, an unusual number being there to hear the speeches. I noticed two ladies in a conveyance near the entrance who appeared desirous of entering. I inquired, and was told by one that they were anxious to hear the speeches and more thoroughly see the camp. I passed them through and saw to it that they had a desirable place within hearing of the speakers, a favor for which they appeared grateful. When about to leave, they asked my name, company and regiment, and introduced themselves, my questioner being a Mrs. Reid, of Lancaster, nine miles west of our camp, who extended an invitation to call and see them should I ever be in Lancaster. The following November we left Camp Dick Robinson on our way South. Our first halt was at or near Lancaster, where we arrived after dark. Before entering the town I heard my name called by the officer of the Company in front of mine, and then saw a citizen standing by the roadside calling my name. Leaving the ranks, I approached him and intro- duced myself, when he replied that he was the husband of the 100 PLAYMATE—COMRADE—FRIEND IOI lady to whom I had been kind at Camp Dick Robinson on the occasion of Governor Johnson’s speech. “We heard your regiment was coming, and I am here to invite you, with seven or eight others whom you may select, to take supper with us,” he said. “Mr. Reid, I cannot refuse, but to bring a houseful seems an imposition; that number on possibly a short notice might be inconvenient, so let me select four with myself.” “No, we insist on seven or eight; we are prepared for that number; it will not be inconvenient.” After he had given me information directing us to the residence, we parted. I followed the regiment and overtook them just as they were filing off into a field at the entrance of the town to go into camp. When we got our tents up I selected the other lucky boys. Obtaining liberty to leave the camp, we started to find the Reid residence, which we reached without any delay. We did not wait long until Mrs. Reid, looking very pretty, came in and was introduced to the boys. Soon after, a colored girl made the welcome announcement, “supper.” Following our friends, we found ourselves about a table loaded with all for which a hungry squad could wish. We had seen nothing to compare with it since leaving home. We remained to the last minute of our leave, and bade them good-bye, as we supposed, forever. Of course I felt happy over the result of the courtesy I had shown Mrs. Reid and her friend. It was a most bountiful return. On Christmas day following we were camped near Som- erset, Kentucky. It was not a very productive country. The ten thousands troops there eagerly snapped up everything eatable that was brought in by the citizens for sale. We were, therefore, confined almost exclusively to army rations, 102 GENERAL Pui H. SHERIDAN If there ever was a time when we would “hanker” after something extra it would be at the holidays. It was natural that the mind should retrospect, and take us back to Ohio, to the good things upon which our friends were feasting. Visions of roast turkey, sausage, ham and eggs, with good fruit, passed in review. How we would have enjoyed picking the bones and eating the scraps that would be thrown to the dogs or emptied into the swill pail! ‘I can see the boys yet, as they squatted or stood about their poor fires (for the rails had been burned long ago) thinking of Christmas at home. The day was an empty mockery to them as they munched their fat meat and dry, hard bread. The only thing I saw that was a substantial reminder was the squad of the Third relief, bringing with them two rabbits they had caught at their outposts; they, at least, would have a good dinner. As I sat indulging in these epicurean dreams, trying to warm myself by the scrap of fire that was left after supper, one of my men came up with a strange soldier, carrying a box that, from its weight, caused the soldier to blow a little after setting it down. “This is the place,’ my soldier said, before the box was deposited by its weary bearer, “and this is the Captain you are looking for.” I noticed the box was addressed to me. When his breath had sufficiently returned, the man said: “T am a teamster in the 12th Kentucky. As our train was coming through Lancaster, Mrs. Reid, whom I have known for many years (I used to live in Lancaster), came out and asked me where our train was going. I told her. Then she asked me if the 31st Ohio was still in our brigade, and I told her it was camped right nigh us. Then she said os fe oe PLAYMATE—COMRADE—FRIEND 103 she would pay me well if I would take a box to the captain of Company G. I told her I wouldn’t charge her anything, for she is a Union woman, as good as she is pretty. So I went over and got it and put it in my wagon that stood in front of her house, and here it is.” I more than compensated the faithful Kentuckian for the service, reluctant as he was to take anything, and lost no time in placing the box in my tent and opening it. I shall refrain from attempting to describe my feelings, or saying how my eyes bulged when I saw its contents. Roast turkey, chicken, beef, cake, canned fruit and other luxuries filled it from top to bottom, with a pretty note from Mrs. Reid, conveying Mr. and Mrs. Reid’s compliments, with wishes for a merry Christmas. When I invoiced the whole stock I could not, with certainty, realize my good fortune, nor my identity, and I said to Hoover, my cook, an old Swiss ex-soldier, “Am I dreaming, or are we back in Ohio again? Tell me quickly.” He shook his head and said: “Naw! You ish not dreamin’ and you ish not in Ohio. We ish down in dish Kentucky, yit.” As I said, when the box arrived we had just partaken of our meager meal, but the tempting sight developed a new hun- ger. No one was in the tent but the Swiss and J. With pardonable excitement I asked him to make haste and rebuild the fire, make plenty of coffee, hunt up the lieutenants and Sergeant Leydey, and say to them to come to this tent in thirty minutes—that there would be a Delmonico supper, a feast, a banquet, and—nHurRRY! He was not long in obeying, for he loved good things as well as any of us; notwithstanding he spoke broken English, that did not seem to affect his appetite in the least. By the time the coffee was done and the feast tastefully spread the invited guests had arrived. Of course, the first 104 GENERAL PHIL H. SHERIDAN thing I did was to explain the origin of the godsend; then, animated with the most exalted motives and a persistent zeal, worthy of the best cause, we reduced the contents of that box wonderfully. You who have never been soldiers and probably have never known hunger in its true sense, know nothing of the enjoyment and intoxication of a supper such as we had after a comparative fast of many months. Lieutenant Martin said the feast would have been the best in America if we had had some of Merritt’s peach brandy, of which'the reader will hear later. We went to our blankets that night with abnormally distended and surprised stomachs, the surprise coming not only from the quantity but also from the quality, especially the quality. With me it was a night of constant dreams, both pleasant and unpleasant. One I remember was that I saw Mrs. Reid, as an angel, looking over a battle-field, ministering to the wants of the wounded and dying. The last and most pleasant was that I was at home again, the war over, the Unon restored, and I was sitting down to a Christmas dinner with my wife and my aged father and mother. It was a rude, cruel awakening when they shat- tered that dream by rattling drum and shrieking fife at reveille; this told me that I was not at home, that war still held sway. Then I began to doubt the reality of having received the box. I rubbed my eyes and, looking about, plainly saw it quite near me. Our tent lived and felt like “bloated bondholders” until the luxuries were gone, and while the pleasant surprise was still upon me I wrote to the fair giver, telling her how we had enjoyed her generosity; that not only was my tent made happy, but that I had four sick boys in the field hospital who would ever remember the treat as an oasis in the desert of hospital life, PLAYMATE—COMRADE—FRIEND 105 I must digress to narrate an example of the Reids’ kind- ness to us while we were still at Camp Dick Robinson. I must repeat how abundantly I was repaid for that simple act of civility extended to the patriotic lady at Camp Dick Robinson. We met again. The shifting of war brought us together after the battle of Perryville. Our men had fol- lowed Bragg closely, thinking he would be compelled to turn and fight again. This was in October, 1862, nearly a year after I had received the valuable box at Somerset. The enemy was rapidly retreating through Harrodsburg, Danville and Lancaster. The day we entered the latter place our regi- ment had the advance. We were pressing the Confederate rear closely. My company and another were deployed. A slight skirmish occurred with the rear guard of the enemy’s cavalry just as we were entering the town. Our course took us through the public square and just as we filed in I recognized our adjutant, James Hayden, now of Oak Park, Chicago, an- other mounted officer who had bravely preceded us. We passed in sight of the residence of my friends, the Reids. You may be sure I was thinking of them, but as it was still un- healthy to appear on the streets owing to the occasional ran- dom firing, I could not hope to see any of them. Upon reach- ing the point where our route lay nearest to their home, I found myself irresistibly drawn to look in that direction, and saw a lady coming towards me carrying a little flag. I could see no other person except the soldiers who were watching for the enemy. As the lady approached, I recognized Mrs. Reid; she was smiling graciously and carrying the Stars and Stripes in a manner that betrayed no fear of stray bullets. She said: “T heard your regiment was in advance, so I thought I would come out and hear if you were living yet.” I expressed some surprise at the risk she was taking and 106 GENERAL PHIL H. SHERIDAN begged her to seek safety in her home. She assured me the enemy had nearly all gone and there was no danger now, but with this I could not quite agree. She was tastefully dressed, and looked charming, and the contrast to my own grimy face and hands and dusty clothing was embarrassing to me; but her frank, cheery manner somewhat dispelled my embarrassment. As it was late in the afternoon, she insisted on-my taking sup- per with them. Being still painfully conscious of my appear- ance—for we had marched two days with little water to drink and none to wash with—I declined the invitation, though not ecause I was not hungry. However, when she insisted, I agreed that if the colonel would allow me to, I would be at her home at six o’clock. As the enemy did not make another stand near the town, the colonel gave me leave for an hour. So I was with my friends once more. The courage of man is lauded; the courage of woman is very often ignored, unap- preciated. The cool bravery of Mrs. Reid in coming out from her safe retreat and carrying the American flag in open de- fiance of danger led to no remark, that I heard, but the idle question of one of my corporals: “Who was that lady you were talking to?” The proximity of the enemy for several days made it pos- sible that a fight might occur at any time, so our wagons could not come up; and the country had been stripped of nearly all that was eatable by the hungry host that had just preceded us, therefore I was in a condition to appreciate the excellent fare I found at the Reid house. I left these kind people when my hour was up, refreshed by the splendid bath I had had, and strong and happy after the feast. As I needed strength, they filled my haversack with all the canned fruit it would hold. After remaining nearly a month at this camp our company was ordered to the river at a point known as Boone’s Knob. PLAYMATE—COMRADE—FRIEND 107 This being the only line of communication to our base of sup- plies, the bridge there had to be guarded. We relieved a com- pany of the 2nd Kentucky Infantry. After pitching the tents and placing the men as guards and pickets, the commissioned officers went to the hotel to make the acquaintance of the land- lord. We found that he was postmaster, and had the post- office and his grocery all in one building with the hotel. He also owned the mill. Mr. Merritt was glad to see us, and we found him a typical Kentuckian, frank, hospitable and cor- dial; so hospitable was he that in less than five minutes after we introduced ourselves he invited us to a back room to drink his best ‘“‘peach brandy ;” so cordial was he that in fifteen min- utes we were warm friends. The grocery store referred to consisted mainly of barrels and kegs of whiskey and brandy, of which there were many. There was also some salt, tobacco, coffee and flour, but the main stock was “licker,” as he called it. The peach brandy, our friend told us after he had finished two or three glasses, was fifteen years old, and could not be beat in the state, which we did not doubt from its fine flavor. We found him a zealous Union man, loyal all over, which of course made it more pleasant for us; a man of excellent common sense, but probably more taste for peach brandy than literature. His learning was not impressive, except on the sub- ject of horses; on that subject he was at home. He knew the history of every racer in the state and could trace their pedi- grees back indefinitely; he also knew the individual character- istics of each of them. After a pleasant hour, we returned to camp, only a few hundred yards away at the foot of the Knob, carrying with us an invitation to dine with him the next day. Before we left he desired to know if we were fond of roast pig, and when we 108 GENERAL PHIL H. SHERIDAN pleaded guilty, he said he would have his boy kill one that afternoon. We begged him to go to no trouble for us, as we would be glad of any change from army rations. That after- noon I heard a great commotion, with loud squealing, coming from a hog pen near the road, between the hotel and our camp, and I walked up, fearing that some of our boys were making themselves too free with our friend’s livestock. To my relief I found a colored man, probably fifty years old, kill- ing a pig. This man was the “boy” of whom Mr. Merritt had spoken. I learned that all male slaves, regardless of age, were . called “boys” in Kentucky. Jackson and I spent the next forenoon in exploring Boone’s Knob. We were amply repaid for the fatigue experienced in making the ascent, for on reaching the summit we enjoyed a delightful view and returned with surprising appetities, in time to partake of the roast pig. Soon we were all seated at a spread of great abundance and variety. The pig the “boy” had butchered was roasted whole, ‘“‘done brown” to perfection. In addition, the ancient peach brandy to which we had been introduced the previous day must be tried to compare it with some apple brandy that our host said was twelve years old. He insisted that we give this apple brandy a critical trial in order to determine which we preferred, as he intended presenting us with as much as we could use while at the Bridge. This, of course, we de- clined, saying we did not drink, a remark to which he made no ~ reply; I am sure he did not comprehend its meaning. During the conversation, which did not lag, he said to me as I sat near him: “You've got the writenest set of men I’ve ever seen!” I did not get his meaning, and asked for an ex- planation. “Why, I mean that the Kentucky Company that was here before you fellers came stayed two weeks, and in all PLAYMATE—COMRADE—FRIEND 109 that time they only writ ten letters; you fellers that haven’t been here two days writ about twenty that’s in the office now to go.” I now understood him. He had coined a word to suit the case (Mr. Merritt had as good a right to do that as did Web- ster or Worcester), so I told him the number was so large owing to a desire on the part of the boys to let their friends know we had changed our camp; that tomorrow there would probably not be half so many. “That may all be; may be not any will write, but still you are certainly the writenest men I ever saw. Twenty in one day! Kin all write?” “Yes,” I replied, “all but that little black-whiskered Vir- ginian that I cautioned you yesterday not to sell any liquor to. We have four men in the company who have taught school.” This information that the company contained so much learning astonished him. Before dinner was over a friend of our host came in and was introduced as Doctor Evans, but, owing to the urgency of a professional call, he could not re- main long enough to dine with us. He remained long enough, however, to take several drinks. He was a gentleman of mod- est, pleasant address, middle aged, rather handsome, and seemed to be an intimate friend of the family of Mine Host. When preparing to remount his horse he declared his regret that, from the nature of his call, he could not eat with us and drain a few more glasses, so, bidding us good-bye, he rode rapidly up the pike. As we watched his thoroughbred disappearing in the dis- tance, Mr. Merritt remarked: “There goes a good man, every inch of him. He is the last of the Evanses.” “Who are the Evanses?” I asked. 110 GENERAL Puit H. SHERIDAN “Don’t you mind that big fight between the Hills and the Evanses down here? It was in the papers.” One of us thought he did, but the recollection was faint. Were there any killed, Mr. Merritt?” “Were there any killed?” he echoed in reply. “I should think so; all the Hills and relations, about twelve, I reckon, and all the Evanses and their relations, about ten. This was the only one left, and he was hit in the shoulder. They thought it would kill him, but he is all right now, and the fight is over cause they’re all dead but him. They kept it up for about seven years. I am glad they did not kill this one, he’s a friend of mine, and as good a man as there is in Garrard county.” We spent two weeks at the Bridge, listening almost daily to Merritt’s stories of Daniel Boone, as they were handed down to him by his wife, who was a lineal descendent of the great hunter. Surrounded by the romantic scenery which has be- come so prominent in history, the spot where the first historic tragedies of Kentucky were enacted, in an atmosphere that echoed with old traditions and incidents of the bravest pio- neers that ever dared hardships or hostile foes, it was a genu- ine picnic for us. We were “lords of all we surveyed.” We drilled when and where we desired; we roamed the fine forests and explored the wonderful caves. All was real happiness, and if we could have banished the sight of our guns and blue coats, we would have forgotten that there was bloody strife in the land. : When the order came for us to march, it was with the keen- est regret that we contemplated leaving our pleasant location, for these two weeks had passed as a beautiful dream. We were seated on the hotel veranda one afternoon when a cav- alryman rode up and inquired for the officer in command. We pointed to Jackson, and the soldier handed him a sealed PLAYMATE—COMRADE—FRIEND III envelope. He opened and read the message, and said: “Boys, we must go.” Merritt had been sitting with us telling a Daniel Boone story—he was by nature a good story teller. When Jackson told him we must move, he expressed the keenest regret. Call- ing the officers into the store, out of hearing of some of the company, he said in sad tones, and with sorrowful face: “How many empty canteens can you bring me, or anything that will hold ‘licker’? I want to make you a little present to take with you to remember me.” We told him we could not accept any presents; we needed nothing additional to have always the kindest remembrance of him, and refused to bring the canteens for peach brandy, al- though Martin, the Irish lieutenant, was eager to go for them, had he received any encouragement. We bade him good-bye and hurried down to the company, and soon the drums sound- ed the “long roll’ to call in possible strollers. Within an hour we were filing out of the field to the pike, our wagon loaded _and following. As we passed the hotel everyone was out on the veranda, whites and blacks, and when opposite we gave them three cheers. We arrived at camp about dusk, and as the teamster un- loaded a keg that seemed very heavy, I inquired about it. He then confessed that it was peach brandy for our tent and that he had agreed with Mr. Merritt to bring it surreptitiously, he receiving a canteen full before he started for his share in the plot. It soon became known among the officers of the regiment that we had brought with us from the Bridge a keg of “med- ical stores,” and this induced so many calls on their part, osten- sibly to welcome us back, that it was soon gone. Of this I was heartily glad, for, owing to its quality and age, it was 112 GENERAL Puit H. SHERIDAN a very seductive drink; it was as thick as oil and as sweet as honey. I often thought it had much to do with developing a taste for strong drink in Lieutenant Martin, a comrade bright and brave, and full of warm and generous impulses. Ever after that, when opportunity offered, the desire for drink seemed to be irresistible, finally causing his ruin morally and physically, though his final end was wrapped in mystery. We saw Merritt once more. After he heard that Thomas’ Division, to which we belonged, was coming North from Mis- sissippi after Bragg in that hurried race to Louisville, he knew our route would take us through Danville, which was nine miles from the Bridge. He stood upon the street corner from morning till night for two days watching the ceaseless tread of soldiers and hearing the heavy rumble of artillery and army wagons until, as he was about to give up the watch, he heard that Thomas’ men were coming. He took heart again and watched closely, but, being covered with dust, we would have passed without being recognized had not one of our men seen him and called to me, pointing to him by the roadside. All of our company officers dropped out to see their friend. He - was delighted to see us once more, and had much to tell us, but it was a sorrowful story. The death of his invalid wife was the saddest feature. He told us she had been frightened into convulsions by the threat of Bragg’s men, who had held that country for several weeks, to hang him. Thus he told his tale: “When I found them trying to break into my store I in- terfered and tried to reason with them; several drawed up to shoot me; then one proposed to hang me, and started after the rope. In the midst of the fuss my wife attempted to leave her room, to intercede for me, something she had done on but few occasions for several years. Either through this effort or PLAYMATE—COMRADE—I‘RIEND 113 the fright, she fainted, and from that went into convulsions. She never rallied. She was dead in four hours after the threat to hang me. While I was doing all I could for her, they broke into my store and gutted it from stem to stern; there wasn’t a drop of ‘licker’ left, nor a pound of anything to eat, and I lost every horse, cow and steer on the place.” We had been paid off before leaving Mississippi, and were in a position to offer our unfortunate friend a little money, so we asked him to accept a few dollars as a credit on what we owed him for his past kindness and generosity, but he refused to take a cent, saying he had plenty of money, that the Con- federates did not get that. “I buried it when I heard they were coming; they searched my pockets and opened every drawer about the place, but found no money.” | So we once more bade our friend good-bye. We could only sympathize with him. It was all he would accept. It was but a year since we had left him, but he looked five years older. His loss and bereavement had almost broken his heart. CHAPTER IX. YANKEE TRICKS—POLITE SERGEANT OCCUPYING CHURCHES— SOMERSET, KENTUCKY—OUR SCOUT AND SPY—-HUDSON’S FORD—-MILL SPRINGS. rated in this chapter are but minor occurrences in the tragedy and comedy we were playing, first one then the other, at this particular period. I mention these only for reason that they are considered unimportant by historians in general and are seldom mentioned by them. We remained at Camp Dick Robinson until late in the Fall of 1861, and many were the tricks that the Northerners per- petrated upon the natives of that section as well as on our un- suspecting Southern comrades in arms, for we found on.our |": incidents of volunteer life which you will find nar- arrival none but Kentucky and Tennessee regiments in camp. At ten o'clock one night, as some of the boys were return- ing to camp, they passed an old blacksmith shop on the out- skirts of the city of tents and noticed a light shining through the cracks of the old board building. Noiselessly approaching, they looked in and discovered that a number of men who be- longed to Hewitt’s Kentucky Battery had stolen and killed one of Robinson’s pigs. The defunct squealer was dressed and hanging from a crossbeam while the men quarreled over the division of the spoils. The boys that made the valuable discovery made a rapid and silent retreat to their quarters to concoct a plan for taking that porker. Six of them quickly put on their accoutrements and shouldered their guns, while the seventh acted as sergeant 114 PLAYMATE—COMRADE—FRIEND II5 in command. When they arrived at the blacksmith shop with measured tread, the command “Halt!” was given in a loud, de- termined voice. Then a demand was made that the door should be opened or they would break it open. It was promptly unbolted. They entered and found the Kentuckians trembling with guilt and fear of arrest. The sergeant, with a very seri- ous countenance and in commanding tone, asked who had com- mitted the outrage. Then commenced criminations and re- criminations, each one accusing his neighbor. The sergeant then informed them that his orders were to take the pig to the General’s headquarters and place them under arrest. Two of the guards were ordered to advance and carry the pig off. The door was then closed, with guard outside. Presently the guard shoved two or three boxes against it and noiselessly left. The pig-stealers, supposing the guard was still outside, remained in the shop over an hour, but hearing nothing for a long time they thought something was wrong. With considerable push- ing they removed the boxes and barrels, when, seeing no sen- tinels, it gradually dawned upon them. that it was a “Yankee trick” to get the pig. Seven men in that company not only had fresh pork for many days but had some to sell. It is wonderful how acute men will become under neces- sity ; amazing are the ways and means devised to gain a point, or to get out of camp to furnish themselves with a good dinner, not having the means of paying for it. How sharp they were to obtain “firewater” when in an exhausted financial condi- tion! Three men in the next company to mine thought they must have a change of diet. They concluded to patronize the hotel kept by a strong Confederate sympathizer at Bryant- ville, two miles east of camp. They had no money. Ordi- narily this would have been an obstacle. They were no vulgar dead-beats, who would get their dinner and then defy their 116 GENERAL Puit H. SHERIDAN host; they were also too sensitive to eat and then plead pov- erty, as this would have been too humiliating. They then de- cided on a plan that would secure them a good dinner with- out paying for it and the landlord should part with them grati- fied and happy. Two of these men got guns and put on their accoutrements; the third had by some means secured a butter- nut-colored coat, such as were worn by the Confederate sol- diers, and a citizen’s hat. They approached the hotel from the opposite side of our camp with bayonets fixed and between them the suspicious- looking citizen in butternut clothing. They entered the hotel and ordered the best dinner for three that they could prepare; while waiting, they closely guarded their prisoner. In due time they were escorted by the landlord to the dining room. - About the time the three hungry men had finished their meal, the prisoner, sitting a little behnd the other two, suddenly pushed his chair back and made a desperate break for the door and liberty. It was, of course, the duty of the guards to seize their guns and dash in pursuit. Under such circumstances, how could they stop long enough to hand the landlord his money? They couldn’t! They ran after the prisoner, calling loudly, “Halt! Halt!’ As he did not stop, one of the guards paused, took aim, pulled the trigger, but the cap only snapped; then the other stopped, took aim, fired, but missed the rebel. The guards lost distance by stoppng to fire, and the fugitive was far ahead, which caused a broad smile on the hotel-keep- er’s face. But the faithful guards continued their chase until all were out of sight. The host was only too glad the rebel prisoner escaped from the Yankee soldiers. An order was issued that no liquor should be sold to sol- diers by citizens, but the avaricious barkeeper soon forgot to fear the order, and the boys had no difficulty in getting it, pro- PLAYMATE—COMRADE—FRIEND I17 vided they had the money, which they did not always have. In such case they must again resort to ways and means. The following is one of their ways: A soldier in a hurried and ex- cited manner would enter one of these institutions (they were numerous in the first years of the war) and would present his canteen to be filled as quickly as possible. When three pints were measured in and carefully stowed away under his over- coat, which had large pockets sewed in for emergencies of this kind, the soldier would feel for his pocket-book and com- mence investigating for money, but just about this time a cor- poral and two men would rush in, curse the man for selling the whiskey, and threaten to arrest the soldier after finding the article under his coat, then march the soldier off under arrest. When a safe distance away, there would be a fair division. A very common trick practiced by three or four of my men who seemed to have been born with an unquenchable thirst for strong drink, was to color water with a little scorched sugar, which would give it a whiskey tint. Filling a canteen with this colored water, they would stow it away under their over- coats, in the capacious pockets where there would be always an empty canteen. Thus equipped, they would enter a bar-room, present the empty canteen to be filled, and then put it away in the large pocket. The soldier would then ask his friend the barkeeper to wait on him a few days for the pay, or would offer him a Confederate bill, well knowing that both proposi- tions would be refused. Upon getting the refusal, he would assume an injured expression and say that it was hard that a man out fighting for his country on small pay should be re- fused trust for a little whiskey. This appeal would, of course, have no effect on the stony heart of the barkeeper, who would demand the canteen back, to pour the whiskey into the barrel 118 GENERAL Putt H. SHERIDAN again. But the soldier would not make any mistake—he al- ways produced the canteen containing the colored water. From the Bluegrass region, the land of plenty and charm- ing women, we were marched South until we arrived at Som- erset, Kentucky, not far from the Cumberland river. It was comparatively a poorer and much rougher country than where we had previously camped. We passed through Lancaster (already alluded to), also through Stanford, where we ar- rived about six or seven o’clock Sunday evening. This being the first year of the war, we were sometimes allowed, during severe weather, the luxury of sleeping in churches or public buildings, but this comfort soon ceased. At Stanford we were assigned to churches; two companies came to the Presbyterian church, which had been assigned to them, and found the congregation holding services. The situation was embarrassing. They wanted to enter without delay, as they were cold, hungry and tired. A consultation was held, each captain urging the other to enter and dismiss the meet- ing, but each refusing. At this point a sergeant proposed that he would discharge the unpleasant duty to the best of his ability. “TI will, in a mild and polite manner, explain the situa- tion to the minister and congregation, so that he can dismiss them without offense,” he said. The proposition was accepted promptly, as it relieved both captains from the awkward duty. The captain to whose company the sergeant belonged knew that the man was not distinguished for elegant language, nor was he a Chesterfield in manners, but hoped that on this occa- sion he would be not only polite and discreet, but would speak appropriately to the occasion. As the sergeant was about to enter, he was again cautioned to be dignified and mildly ex- plain the situation outside, and ask the minister to kindly let them have possession, PLAYMATE—COMRADE—FRIEND 119 He promised to do that, and even more, and it is quite pos- sible that he had a neat little speech formulated in his mind, but if he had it-must have escaped him. All he did was to enter the pulpit, lay his hand familiarly on the minister’s shoulder, look him in the face, and deliver this laconic speech: “We want you to dry up, for the boys are out there cold and hungry, and want in. Git these people out on the double- quick.” The delicate hint was quickly taken by the minister, who acted promptly. In a few minutes the congregation was out and the boys in. Ever after that, his comrades said, the ser- geant gave himself credit for ability in skillfully managing a delicate matter. My company (for Jackson was not with us now) and Com- pany B this night occupied a church together, and here an acci- dent occurred that alarmed us, causing me great anxiety for several hours; it looked for a time as if it might be a tragedy. Unfortunately, as soon as the ranks were broken, several of those who were ever thirsty and who belonged to the “bad tent” went in search of stimulants. Evidently they did not search in vain, for in an hour or two they returned, noisy and quarrelsome. Those who caused the main trouble were Irish —good soldiers and well-behaved men when sober. One in- dulged in loud whooping and yelling in the anteroom, to the disturbance of those sleeping in the main room. It was espe- cially mortifying to me, as all the disturbers belonged to my company. I always prided myself on having a well-disciplined company. I sent a sergeant out twice to preserve order, with only temporary results. After being awakened four or five times, I went out in the midst of much profanity and chal- lenges to fight. I found one of the Irishmen, whom I shall not name on his children’s account, seeking a fight with John 120 GENERAL PHIL H. SHERIDAN Kelly, with whom he had had a little misunderstanding a few days before. Kelly was the smaller of the two, but not averse toa fight. He was not noisy. He was desperate and reckless when in a fight, and I could see that he was now eager for a fray. Not many months before we left home he had served a sentence in the Ohio penitentiary for killing a man in a saloon fight. The term he served was short, for it was clearly shown in the evidence that he was not the aggressor. As soon as I came out I ordered that the disturbance cease. The order was obeyed for a few minutes, only long enough for me to get back to bed, when I could hear it as loud and angry as ever. Returning, with my patience exhausted, I gave the principal disturbers, naming them, three minutes to go to bed or be tied. All obeyed the order the moment it was given, excepting the chief aggressor. Kelly left the anteroom of the church, but quickly returned, bringing with him a rope. Whispering to me, he said: “Cap, let me in to him; I will down him while the boys tie him.” The noisy man was silent, but did not move. The three minutes were up, and I looked at Kelly who, in his eagerness to carry out his intention, reminded me of a terrier preparing to pounce upon a rat. I had only to nod my head, when he sprang forward like a tiger, delivering a blow as he sprang, on the soldier’s temple, knocking him backwards, his head striking the corner of the steps leading to the gallery. I saw and heard the head strike, and almost instantly noticed a stream of blood gushing from the head to the floor. Kelly was on the prostrate form of his comrade, calling upon the boys to tie him quickly, but I knew from the fall that he needed no tying. Taking hold of Kelly to get his attention, I said: PLAYMATE—COMRADE—FRIEND 121 “Let go of him—he needs no tying; do not struggle with him; I think you have killed him.” Instantly standing up, he looked at me with a frightened expression, the horrible thought coming to him, as he after- ward told me, that now he had the blood of another human being on his hands and conscience. “What can I do for him?” were his first words. “Get some water as quickly as you can; wash his hands and bathe his face. Bradshaw, go for the surgeon as soon as you can.” I could see the tears falling from Kelly’s eyes as he worked over his lifeless comrade. No mother could have shown more tender solicitude. We carried the form to the veranda for purer air, as by that. time the anteroom was filled with soldiers. In a few minutes, much to our relief and joy, we vould see signs of consciousness. Especially was Kelly happy. The surgeon arrived, and after cutting much of the hair away, made a careful examination. He found the skull not frac- tured, but concussion of the brain might follow; the soldier would not be fit for duty for several weeks; he must have careful watching for a number of nights, as delirium might appear at any time. To this Kelly promptly said: “T will nurse him, and I thank God it is no worse.” The next day he was able to travel in ambulance with his careful nurse, and-ever after that the two were the most devoted friends, until at Chickamauga the noisy soldier, who had given so much trouble at Stanford, was taken pris- oner. He came back to our home village not long before the war ended, a mere skeleton, and did not survive his return very many years. On the same awful field poor Kelly was killed. After a day’s march we reached Somerset, Kentucky, find- 122 GENERAL PHIL H. SHERIDAN ing our old neighbors, the Tennessee and Kentucky regiments, who had preceded us by a few days. After our arrival we lost our scout and spy, Fred Connor, who, we afterward learned, was taken prisoner about seven miles from camp, near the enemy’s line. He was reconnoi- tering in citizen’s clothes, when he unexpectedly came upon the Confederate cavalry scouts, who had started out to make a reconnoissance near our camp. He was taken to their en- trenchments at Mill Springs, where he was held in close con- finement to await his trial as a spy. The trial was held and he was condemned to death, but the day before the execution the battle of Mill Springs was fought and the enemy defeated. After the battle he was placed under guard of ten men and taken off with the retreating army to a point in Tennessee about fifty miles from the battlefield. The guard, tired of marching through the mud for several days, lost its vigilance; all went to sleep one night and Connor made his escape, get- ting back to our lines before we left Somerset. He had re- markable success in all his expeditions. He was daring, with great caution and coolness, rarely allowing his love for adven- ture to run away with his discretion. He was scout and spy from 1861 to 1865, and was a great favorite with General Thomas, who had implicit confidence in him. He is still liv- ing near the little town of Buchtel, in Southern Ohio, in pov- erty and indigence. Thinking of our scout a few years ago, after one of our yearly reunions in Ohio, I wrote to him, expressing my disap- pointment that he did not meet with us and in that manner heard of his circumstances. Two days after the battle of Mill Springs our regiment was ordered to make a reconnoissance in the direction of Hudson Ford, about seven miles from our camp and about ” PLAYMATE—COMRADE—FRIEND 123 the same distance from the enemy’s entrenchments. We re- mained at the Ford about twenty-four hours, in the mud, rain and snow, with but little fire and no tents, the fires being prohibited, that our presence might not be betrayed to the enemy. Early on the evening of the day after our arrival we were ordered back to camp at Somerset. One of our boys, a deli- cate one by the name of Tracey, we found too sick with a high fever from the exposure he had undergone, to march. The Colonel had neglected sending an ambulance along, so we were compelled to leave Tracey at a farmhouse, the farmer promising to take good care of him for a few days if paid in advance. We had not gone over a mile on our march until it became dark, the gloom and intensity being increased by a fog, for there had been rain and snow for several days. We found the low places in the road filled with mud and water over our shoes, but we were compelled to keep to the road or, in the extreme darkness, lose our direction. Before it became pitch dark I saw near me one of the youngest and weakest of my company stumble and fall in the mud and water, and from the way he staggered after rising, I could see that his heavy gun and saturated clothing were too much for him, so I hur- ried up and offered to carry his gun a few miles. I was sure this would be a great relief, for a Springfield rifle was a big, cumbersome piece. He handed it to me, with many thanks, telling me he would feel stronger soon; that I must call him and he would take it again; making no complaint of his wet, weak and cold condition. He was not of the complaining kind. I never regretted this little act of kindness to Bennie Cain (for that was his name). Not long after, he was wounded and died. In the midst of darkness and confusion 124 GENERAL PHIL H. SHERIDAN we became separated, and I carried the gun into camp for him. Not long after dark the battalion lost its organization and we struggled along, not marching but wading through the mire. The stronger men got in about ten o'clock, the weaker ones about midnight. Early in the morning I was awakened by the roar of artil- lery and volleys of small arms not far away. I jumped up, knowing we would soon be called into line, and hurried off in the direction of the battle. I first ran to the cook’s tent’ and aroused him, telling him to boil coffee and slice the raw side meat, for I thought we would be allowed time to fry it. _ When I returned, my lieutenant and first sergeant were up and dressed. Saturated to the skin with mud and water, and utterly exhausted, many had staggered into camp, throw- ing themselves on their blankets to rest before undressing for a good, dry sleep; but with many, when once down, nature refused to give up even that miserable rest long enough to prepare for one less dangerous and much more comfortable. These poor fellows were compelled to remain in their chilling clothes, for they slept so soundly that we were compelled to shake them and call as if to arouse the dead; some we even had to drag from their blankets and push into line for roll- call and the distribution of extra ammunition. When these wet, muddy boys were sufficiently awake to hear the cannon’s roar, they took the extra rounds of supplies without a question, not one pleading: “I am too tired to march, can’t I be ex- cused? I feel chilly and sick from last night.” Only two were excused because of the bad condition of their shaes, and it was understood that they were to go back to where our sick comrade had been left on the previous day, to bring him in on a horse furnished by the quartermaster. On our return from the battlefield we found that the two soldiers had come PLAYMATE—COMRADE—FRIEND 125 back without Tracey, he having been delirious with fever and too sick to ride. This was the last we ever saw or heard of him; we left the country a few days later. | By the time the boys had answered roll-call and put away their extra ammunition, the cook had several kettles of boiling coffee and the camp table was spread with the sliced bacon. We hurriedly attacked the hot coffee and meat and bread, for we expected every moment to hear the assembly sounded, which would put an end to the coffee drinking. A soldier cannot well carry and drink coffee while marching over frozen ground, but he can eat his meat and bread while doing so. Fortunately, however, we ate our breakfast without interrup- tion, and then formed, awaiting the “assembly!” I still remember how I pitied the men as we stood there, cold, wet and tired, awaiting the bugle call. I should have liked so much to have selected five or six of the weakest and said: “You can’t stand this march after the exposure of last night.” I had orders to excuse no one but the two who were going for Tracey. “Assembly” called, and in a few minutes our battalion was ready for marching with five or six other regiments that were then in camp with us. The firing was still rapid, but rather on the decline; indeed, by the time we were half way to Fish- ing Creek the battle was over. This battle is known to history as “Mill Springs.” Now the scenes of yesterday and last night were repeated —slipping, sliding, and in some cases wading—the only dif- ference being that now there was a crust of frozen ground on the surface, which broke through when stepped on. As we approached Fishing Creek, a stream midway between the hostile camps, I wondered how we would cross it in its icy, swollen condition, for I knew there was no bridge. We were ~ 126 GENERAL PuHiL H. SHERIDAN within a mile of the stream, and several four-mule teams loaded with heavy rope plunged past us, the drivers urging the mules to their utmost speed. After the wagons had - passed we again took to the muddy road, following them up as closely as possible. It did not take long after our brief rest for us to arrive in sight of the rushing stream, and now we knew what was intended with the heavy rope. We saw it already tied, one end to a tree on our side, the remainder in the wagon, which had entered the water. Each mule, to insure safety, had a rider, as the wagon made slow progress. The hawser was carefully uncoiled by the soldiers in the wagon and held up every ten-or twelve feet by cavalrymen to keep it from the water. After many stops and repeated efforts the wagon got across, and the mules were detached and fastened to the end of the rope. They were then driven to a large tree, stretching the rope to its utmost tension, then making it fast to this tree. It required no extraordinary intellect to tell us that we must wade through the stream, holding by our right hands from being swept away, keeping the other hand free to carry our guns, with cartridge box on the end of the gun to keep it dry. Our regiment was the first to enter. I need hardly say that before we had gone ten steps into the melted snow and ice we were chilled to the marrow. Upon looking back I saw the water clear up to the shoulders of “Butt Cut,’ “Sun Fish” and the other little fellows in the company, but we did not lose a man by drowning. My impression now is that but two were lost out of the whole brigade. How thankful we were when we reached the other side! But so cold! None of us could speak, our jaws rattled so. You will agree with me when I say that the 19th day of Jan- uary is not a pleasant time of year to wade through a big PLAYMATE—COMRADE—FRIEND 127 stream. As soon as we were safe on the opposite bank, we formed into line and hurried up the hill, where we found a dense wood with much fallen dry timber and rails. Here we halted, stacked arms and broke ranks, and when the colonel gave the last order it was not necessary for him to tell us to build immense fires to dry ourselves by. The sound of battle had now entirely ceased, and we en- joyed the luxury of being allowed to stop and dry our cloth- ing. We were also told we could make coffee, and might pos- sibly not move for several hours, as tidings had been received that the enemy had been defeated and Thomas was in pursuit. We were only three miles from the battle-field. A cavalry- man came up and gave us some of the details of the battle. He said that the enemy came out of their works to surprise and at- tack Thomas but failed, and were now being driven back to their fortifications; that in the morning these would be as- saulted. He concluded by telling us: “Then’s when the big fight’ll be, for they’re mighty well fixed for fightin’ here. We will find ’em on a hill, with breastworks, and lots of cannons. A spy told me so a week ago.” So we all wrapped ourselves in our blankets by the big, hot fires, and, being warm and dry, it required no rocking to put us to sleep. Night found us still there. | Some time during the night there came the rattle of drums and the scream of fifes. Bugles blew, telling us we must leave our warm fires and go. We must form and follow our conquering comrades. The full moon was now well up in the cloudless sky, spreading a soft radiance over the wild, tangled scene. It did not take us an hour to reach the battle-field, or, rather, within sight of it. For some time before we reached the dead bodies we could see the stretcher-bearers, with lights, 128 GENERAL Puit H. SHERIDAN flitting among the trees and brush, looking for the wounded. The lights were hovering and nodding in every direction as © the bearers collected the wounded and helpless ones. The scene was impressive, but weird. The first body we came to was of a girlish-faced boy who wore the blue; he lay but a few inches from our path, with eyes wide open, as if looking at the moon in its full splendor, and never did that moon appear more serene than it did that night when looking down on those white, drawn faces, up- turned to its radiance. Soon we reached the spot where the battle had waged hottest, for here the blue and grey were thickly intermingled. Here they had fought at close quar- ters. It was on this spot that the 9th Ohio made its heroic charge, also the roth Indiana. We hurried through the rough, brushy woods and fields for a distance before halting. We were still among the dead, though nearly all here wore the grey, we having passed that part of the field where the blue ranks had stood. Soldiers hurrying out and in at a lighted tent by the roadside aroused my curiosity. I entered, and was surprised and shocked to find the nude body of a man with blood upon his breast; he had received a mortal wound. I could not but admire his large, symmetrical form. Nearby a soldier stood on duty with fixed bayonet. Answering my inquiry as to the identity of the dead man, and why he was stripped of his clothing, the soldier said: ‘This is General Zollicoffer, second in command of the fight we had today. He was stripped by the Tennessee refugee soldiers.as soon as found; they hated him for invading Tennessee and desolating their homes in his effort to stamp out the Union sentiment there. The clothing was torn up to be sent back to the mountains as relics. They cast lots who should have it. I was put here on duty by Gen- aed PLAYMATE—COMRADE—FRIEND 129 eral Thomas to prevent any further indignities.’ Before I left, another soldier came in with a blanket to cover the dead General. The bugle now sounded the forward, and I hurried to my place in the moving column. It was light enough to see, scat- tered along the road, guns, blankets and knapsacks, thrown away by the enemy in their efforts to escape from Thomas’ closely pursuing battalions. It was nearly light when we reached Thomas’ lines, drawn up in battle array, facing the works of the enemy, which were plainly visible, with their cannon frowning upon us. The line moved to the right and made space for our regiment and others that came up with us. We were getting ready to assault. The Opposition appeared so strong on the eminence they occupied, and so many cannon poked out their black, threatening mouths from the embrasures, that I wished myself back again by the comfortable fire we had left an hour before. Then came the order to fix bayonets. When I repeated this order to my company I could distinctly feel a good sized lump in my throat. After the rattle of the fixing of bayonets had ceased, all was still as death. I thought I could hear my heart beat- ing, and imagined it made as much noise as the fixing of bay- onets had done, and wondered if my boys could hear it. I was losing my self-respect, and became ashamed. It was a poor time to joke, but I attempted it to divert attention. Stepping in front of the company and facing it, I said: “Tl bet a dollar that Sun Fish and Butt Cut will be the last ones to reach the enemy’s works.” These men were the smallest in the company, but of un- disputed endurance and bravery. Soldiers are fond of pet names arising from personal appearance, characteristics, or some incident. Sun Fish would have looked very much like 130 GENERAL PHIL H. SHERIDAN a sunfish had his head been turned sidewise to conform with his flat, thin body. Butt Cut, a German, was his opposite in shape—short, thick, and rather fat. They always marched together. When I made the offer, Sun Fish promptly took me up, saying he was sure of that dollar if he didn’t get killed while trying. The boys laughed at his prompt, brave reply. While speaking of poor little Sun Fish I shall digress to tell the reader that his narrow, queer, sharp head was shot off by a solid shot in front of Atlanta. One of his comrades said that “it made a better looking boy of him but ruined a mighty good and brave soldier.’’ Such are the grim jocu- larities of soldier life. It was broad daylight now and we wondered why the enemy did not cannonade us, or why we did not move toward their works. Please do not infer that I had any uncontroll- able desire to be led against those threatening guns and the thousands of brave fellows behind them. My valor could always be easily restrained under such circumstances, for one could see from their well-located batteries and the distance intervening between us that many must fall before we could make their personal acquaintance. This was trying to our nerves, for we had never before stood so long in the cold fac- ing the enemy and waiting for the signal of battle, and yet it was not so trying as to sit in a dental chair and wait for the operator while he selects his instruments of torture and commences the horror of extracting teeth. Having tried both, I know whereof I speak. Suddenly we noticed a column of smoke in the direction of the river, to our left, but, hills intervening, we could see nothing else; then a cannon shot was heard in the same direc- tion. I felt sure this was the signal for battle, but all became still again. Soon we saw mounted men riding between our PLAYMATE—COMRADE—FRIEND 131 lines and the fort. One came toward our regiment, our gen- eral riding out to meet him. Then we could hear loud cheer- ing in the direction of the smoke. The mounted man rode farther on, to our right. Meantime, our general and colonel met in front and held a short interview, after which the colonel rode back to us and communicated the surprise that the enemy had evacuated their works by steamboat, going to the opposite side of the river. After taking the last load across, they blew up the boat, this being the report we had heard a few min- utes before. After the receipt of this news, it was surprising how soon the lump in my throat became reduced and the action of my heart returned to normal. For once I felt under deep obli- gation to the enemy. From line of battle we formed into column again and marched into their works, where we spent an hour or two looking about their snug winter quarters, eat- ing their cooked food, and drinking coffee that was yet warm. We found everything admirably fitted for permanent. winter homes. There were hundreds of the neatest log cabins, which were not only comfortable but had evidences of luxury and sometimes of refinement. Books were abundant, with violins, guitars, sheet music, etc. The cabins were so superior to anything I had seen in army life that I was tempted to inquire of a colored man we found in one of them, as to who was the author of so much comfort and taste, adding that I was sur- prised at the industry and skill of the southern soldier. “God bless you, Massa, it wasn’t de soldiers built de cabins; we colored people dat dey fotch along when dey come hyr done all de wo’k. Mighty nigh ebry soldier had his boy along. We’uns done de wo’k; de soldiers didn’t do nuffin’ but eat, sleep, fiddle, an’ play cya’ds. I belonged to Massa 132 GENERAL PHIL H. SHERIDAN Strong, of Winchester, Tennessee. Dis was his cabin; me — an’ anodder colored boy built it.” “How does it come you did not go back with him?” “In de big fuss o’ gittin’ away dis mawnin’, across de rib- ber, he forgot some clo’es, an’ befo’ de boat start, he say, “Sam, you run up an’ git my clo’es an’ dat fiddle dat’s hangin’ on de wall.’ “So I come back an’ got de clo’es an’ de fiddle, but I didn’t go back to dat boat no mo’. I went an’ hid back ob dat bluff, fo’ I heah ’em say you’uns wus soon comin’. So you’uns hyr now, an’ I’m gwine to stay wif you.” Mill Springs was one of our first complete victories. It had all the fruits of a victory—driving the enemy out of that part of Kentucky, taking their cannon and camp, with thou- sands of dollars’ worth of property in the shape of horses, mules, wagons and much camp and garrison equipage, they fleeing from the battle-field in wild disorder. In two hours we were called back into line again to go back to our camp. When we arrived at the battle-field, they were burying the dead, our men in separate graves, the enemy in trenches that were long enough to hold fifty or sixty in each trench. When we came to that cold stream again we found the rope still stretched across and the water as cold as ever, but there was this difference, we could strip now, for we were in no hurry and after crossing we could have good, warm clothing. What a luxury that would be over the previ- ous day! In addition to that, the conditions had changed— we were the victors now. There was a thrill of pleasure in that—it made us happy, even if not warm. | After crossing, it took us a long time to dress, longer than it takes a Beau Brummel to adjust his faultless attire, but for quite another reason. We trembled so we could not hold PLAYMATE—COMRADE—FRIEND 133 our trousers, nor button them when on. At this place I sent one of my men, who had secured a horse and bridle at the enemy’s camp, as a courier to our cook with instructions to have plenty of hot coffee, with everything else the camp afforded. After reaching camp and partaking of this supper, we were not long in undressing, a comfort we had not enjoyed for several days. We soon fell into the sweet sleep of abso- lute safety and confidence, for now there were none to alarm or disturb us. The enemy was defeated and driven back. GHARTER XG CROSSING THE CUMBERLAND — GENERAL THOMAS-——ON TO NASHVILLE—DEATH BY DROWNING—TYING SOLDIERS— SHILOH. and we crossed the Cumberland in small detachments in an old scow-bottomed ferryboat. The spectacle would remind an onlooker of the picture of Washington crossing the Delaware. Owing to the rickety condition of the boat, it took the brigade nearly two days to cross. A ITER a few days’ rest our brigade was ordered South, After a two days’ march southward, we camped for sev- eral days, then returned to the river, recrossing it in the dan- gerous old boat again. The object of this march I never learned, unless it might have been to threaten Nashville on the east as Buell was then doing from the north. What our destination would be after recrossing, no one knew. Our field officers might have known, but we had learned by this time not to ask questions, as it was not sup- posed to be a soldier’s business to know where he was going; his duty was to obey. Nothing annoyed our lieutenant- colonel, a soldier by profession, more than to ask him where we were going. He regarded it as highly impertinent and unsoldierly. We did know this, that we were going north again through the muddiest, stickiest, deepest roads that man ever traveled. Nearly half the time the men were pushing and pulling at the wagons to assist the poor, fagged-out mules and horses from one mudhole to another. After many days of this kind of trying labor we reached 134 PLAYMATE—COMRADE—FRIEND 135 the vicinity of Lebanon, Kentucky. Here the pushing and pulling by soldiers and cursing by the teamsters ceased, for we had reached a good macadamized pike. The change was as complete as if we had suddenly reached the Promised Land. It is a remarkable fact that when the head mule team saw the pike they commenced braying, which was understood and repeated by the next team, and so on, back for miles. ‘Thus was the good news communicated in mule language clear to the end of the train. The head teamster said: “As soon as my mules saw the pike they commenced waggin’ their ears and laughin’.” It was the general opinion of the soldiers that we were on our way to Louisville. Since our victory at Mill Springs, we noticed that the disloyal element in the State was not so bold nor outspoken. This appeared to indicate a change of heart. Indeed, while we were on this march much time was employed by the citizens along the route in the effort to con- vince us of their unfaltering devotion to the Union, and many were the amusing methods they used to make themselves solid with us. When we arrived at Bardstown, we were camped for sev- eral days on the farm of a Mr. Wilson. At his urgent request several of our officers boarded with him. He was wealthy, owning over three thousand acres of land worth one hundred dollars per acre. The officers fared sumptuously every day. Decanters of the best liquors were always standing on the side- board and visitors were sorely pressed from the time they came in until they left, to “take a little.” The first day, the old gentleman, in a hiccoughing state, fortified himself as a loyal citizen in this way: “My son Bill isa d d Secessionist and is in the Confed- eratearmy. Myson Jolinisad d Secessionist, but he is so 136 GENERAL PHIL H. SHERIDAN infernally drunk all the time that he couldn’t do any harm. My son Sam is a d d Secessionist, but sharp enough to keep his mouth shut. My old woman is a d d Secessionist, but it is no use to mind a woman, and I am the only Unionist about the premises.” Mr. Wilson thought he was entitled to great credit for being loyal in the face of so much domestic opposition. In a couple of days we left the Wilson farm, still heading north. The regiments following us began cheering, and the sound came nearer, until the troops directly behind us took it up. I looked back and recognized General Thomas and escort coming. As he passed us we gladly took up the cheer, which was long and hearty. We had been with this splendid soldier long enough to appreciate and love him. As he passed each regiment he modestly gave some recognition of the applause, with more or less embarrassment, for he always disliked to attract attention. JI never saw his old division so tired or depressed that they did not salute him with cheers as they saw him on the march. His unselfish patriotism, re- markable humility of mind and manner, quiet, unobtrusive nature and unblemished character, we were beginning to un- derstand, hence the reverence and affection in which this noble soldier was held by his division was not to be wondered at. History has accorded him the elements of not only a good, but a great man—not a man in the ranks was more humble than he; none was braver, and but few in our army were as able. He ignored rank, and refused to accept promotion. In this particular he was without a parallel. As an instance of the kindness of his heart, at Murfrees- boro the army lay for some time after the battle. The roads became almost impassable with very deep mud, yet hard- hearted cavalrymen would urge their poorly fed and worn PLAYMATE—COMRADE—FRIEND 137 horses to the top of their speed, which not only meant death to the horse but destruction to that arm of the service, the cavalry. Orders were issued to all cavalry regiments that no man should ride out of a walk unless his dispatches necessi- tated it. Notwithstanding this order they could occasionally be seen abusing their horses. At this juncture General Thomas ordered a man placed on every road to watch, arrest fast riders, and bring them to him for punishment. He had no mercy for the soldier who would abuse his horse, and he effectually put a stop to that kind of brutality in his command. We were impressed by his sweet gravity, his simplicity of manner and plainness of speech. May his noble character and many virtues be a guiding star for the young men of this coun- try and may his fame continue to grow brighter. Arriving at Louisville, we expected to take boats there. We found the river very high, its banks overflowed and fields submerged on both sides. Floating fences, hay stacks, trees, and occasionally a small building could be seen rushing down the broad sea of muddy water. The Water-god seemed to reign supreme. Our division was marched to the landing. Above us we could see a fleet of boats with steam up. Already many regi- ments had gone aboard and dropped down the river. The boats would come up in pairs, lashed together, to get their loads. About two o’clock our turn came, the “Magnolia” and “Forest Queen” taking us and the r2th Kentucky with wagons, horses, mules, and a large amount of commissary stores. We occupied the “Magnolia.” It was after three o’clock when we backed out and swung around in that seething, bubbling sea of troubled water. To my imagination, that river appeared as a true picture of the angry, troubled condition of the country. 138 GENERAL Pui, H. SHERIDAN About an hour before dark the boats approached the Indiana shore and tied up long enough to permit the men to go ashore and cook their supper. Some did not finish until after dark. Our boat was on the out, or river, side from the “Forest Queen” with a gang plank laid from one bow to the other to get ashore. After dark there was a rumor among the men on our boat that a man was seen stepping off the gang-plank as he was going from one boat to the other. By this time some of the men had gone to sleep, but the boat was so crowded that no satisfactory search could be made. About eight or nine o'clock Sergeant Nichols came to me and reported that he could not find Henry Rehm, who was detailed for duty that night; he had found his gun and traps but could hear nothing of him. This startling information, added to the rumor of a man having been seen stepping off the gang plank, caused me evil forebodings. I directed every man of my company who had not gone to sleep to search for the missing soldier, even in- specting the boat the Kentuckians were on. At ten o'clock we gave up the search. Jn the morning the gun, blankets and accoutrements were still unclaimed, and he was absent at roll- call. Now there was no reasonable hope left. The theory was that the light from the boat had cast a shadow of the plank on the water, and Ream, in the dim light, had taken this for another plank and thus stepped into the river, the rapid cur- rent instantly carrying him between the boats, so that he had no time to give an alarm. It was always a trying duty to me to report the death of a member of my company to friends at home, and especially was it so at this time. A pathetic picture presented itself to my mind’s eye on this occasion. In that cozy farmhouse on the eastern hillslope a few miles west of our village, I could PLAYMATE—COMRADE—FRIEND 139 see the quiet, patriotic father and affectionate mother, the little brothers and sisters, as they gathered about the bearer of the tidings. I knew Henry to be one of the kindest and most dutiful of sons and brothers; not only good and kind, but, being the eldest son, almost the mainstay of the family. Had he been killed in action and the field remained with us, as it always did in the Army of the Cumberland, with one excep- tion, the body would have been sent home, but the angry waters denied even this meager comfort. This company seemed ill-fated in this respect; three others were lost by drowning. In each of these cases we were in rapid pursuit of the enemy at the time of the accident. In losing Ream, we lost as good a man and soldier as there was in that division. He was intelligent, obedient, cheerful and brave. The next night we landed at Nashville. The Confederate army had evacuated the day before. In the morning we found the stores and business houses all closed. The gray battalions were nowhere to be seen, but instead, blue lines marched with cadenced step through the city to their camping-grounds in the vicinity. All day the streets echoed with the tramp of the hated Northerner. The citizens did not meet us with gar- lands and cordial words of welcome, but looked moody and sullen; scorn and hatred were in their faces, but they were all compelled to treat us civilly, except the women, who sneered at us as we passed, expressing in many ways their bitterness. The Stars and Stripes waved from only one building in the city. We remained there until afternoon, then marched out on the Charlottesville pike, probably four miles, and there camped, not far from the Cumberland river. About the middle of March, five divisions besides ours 140 GENERAL PHit H. SHERIDAN left Nashville, going South, taking the finely graded road to Columbia. We believed our destination to be either Alabama or Mississippi, where it was thought the enemy would con- centrate to fight for the Mississippi valley. The road to Columbia took us through one of the most beautiful and wealthy portions of the State. It almost surpassed the famous bluegrass regions of Kentucky. The residences of the slave owners were palaces, indeed, with extensive, highly ornamented grounds surrounding them. Here and there a - group of deer lent beauty and life to the scene. It being the first year of the war, all property was protected by our gen- erals, therefore the boys could only feast their eyes and not their stomachs, as they did the year after. Artificial water- falls and pretty lakes interspersed the views of these splendid groves. This was the natural home of the mockingbird, which poured forth its rich, plaintive airs from morn till night, each bird seemingly vieing with the others as to which could welcome the strange blue host with sweetest melody. On the third day’s march we passed through the delightful town of Franklin, near which, two years later, the bloody battle bearing that name was fought, with Generals Schofield and Thomas leading the Union forces. A march of twenty-three miles through this beautiful, fertile country brought us to Spring Hill, where we camped for several days. The brigade nearest to us, and belonging to our division, was commanded by Colonel Bob McCook of the 9th Ohio, an exclusively Ger- -man regiment with the exception of the colonel, who, however, spoke the language fluently. They were from Cincinnati, and known in the army as the “Bully Dutch” on account of the splendid charge they made at Mill Springs, to which I refer on another page. The 9th Ohio, 18th Regulars, and two other regiments con- PLAYMATE—COMRADE—FRIEND I4I stituted the brigade. The officers of the regulars had been in the habit of cruelly punishing their men for trifling offenses. It was common to see a regular tied up by the thumbs or bucked and gagged. McCook, going through that regiment one day, found a poor fellow groaning with pain, suspended by the thumbs. Bob McCook’s humane instincts revolted at such cruelty, and the man was quickly cut down and an order given that no more such outrages should be committed in his brigade again. A few days later, during Colonel McCook’s absence, the 18th tied up another man. The punished soldier could be seen from the camp of the 9th Ohio. This aroused the “Bully Dutch” and they ran through the 18th guard lines and cut him down. Several of the field officers of the 18th ran up to interfere, but were roughly handled. One of them was picked up and thrown among some mules. The other officers, fearing the same treatment, retreated and called out two com- panies under arms, and with fixed bayonets drove the Ger- mans out, not, however, until they had secured the suffering soldier and taken him with them. Then the Germans com- menced arming to drive the 18th Regulars from their lines, but the latter retreated before there was a conflict. For twenty minutes I momentarily expected to see a bloody fight between the two regiments. It was a surprise to all who wit- nessed the fracas that none was killed. The goth Ohio was the best drilled and best disciplined regiment I saw during the war. Their movements were rapid and perfect. I never knew them restricted by camp-guard lines ; indeed, they enjoyed more privileges than any other regi- ment in our division and never to my knowledge did they abuse their privileges. The superior drill and other soldierly 142 GENERAL Pui H. SHERIDAN qualities could probably be accounted for from the fact that nearly half of the men had served in the German army. At this place Crittenden’s and Wood’s divisions left us, throwing us in the rear of Buell’s army, the six divisions making nearly one hundred thousand men. Is it any wonder that the superannuated darkey standing by the roadside, when accosted by a facetious soldier with the inquiry as to whether he “had seed any soldiers go by,’’ opened wide his eyes and extended his hands, replying, “Yes, Massa! Yes, indeed! Whole worlds of dem!” At nearly all the plantations on our route darkies of all sizes, sexes and shades came out and watched with wondering eyes our ceaseless line, interspersed here and there with bat- teries of artillery, glittering grimly in the sunshine as it rolled across the dusty road. This was the first of the Yankee sol- diers seen in middle Tennessee. Not far from here the beau- tiful, cultivatd country rapidly changed to a poverty-stricken, densely wooded, swampy district, where every five or six miles a farm could be seen that the boys called a “burlesque,” whose occupants invariably had more dogs than hogs and more tow- headed children than both. This class of people were peculiar to some parts of nearly every slave state; in Georgia they are known as “crackers”; in Tennessee as “the poor trash’; in Mississippi as “pikes.” Another day’s march brought us to the banks of the Ten- nessee, to a place called Clifton. Here, early in the morning, we heard a continuous roar of artillery that proved to be the beginning of the battle of Shiloh, or Pittsburg Landing. It continued until after midnight. The pickets on duty that night told us in the morning that the sound was more or less continuous until morning, and it seemed to steadily increase in energy the whole day following. PLAYMATE—COMRADE—-FRIEND 143 ‘Boats were awaiting us at the landing, and we crowded in until apparently every space was taken excepting the cabin. For some reason there was a long delay; we did not start until late in the afternoon. Before we started, a fleet of hospital boats came down from the battle-field, crowded with wounded and dying soldiers. One of the boats stopped at our landing. From the officers of these transports we heard something of the desperate battle that was raging for nearly two days. When our boats finally started, the rain was coming down in torrents, and continued until we arrived at Shiloh. For some reason inexplicable to us, General Schoepf refused to let the men occupy the cabin, which compelled them to either go below among the horses and mules, or stand on the guards in the rain. Being energetically pressed by some of the offi- cers, he allowed them to sleep in the cabin. When we went ashore at Pittsburg Landing it was still raining, but by noon it had ceased and the sun began making an effort to peer down between the clouds on the bloody scene that presented itself for miles up and down the river. We left the boat as soon as we could, camping on the muddy, slushy ground. It is my intention not to describe battle-fields, but only to write what I remember of General Phil Sheridan and incidents of minor importance that occurred in volunteer life and that are not written up in history as battles and battle-fields, but a description of Shiloh as I first saw it will, I hope, be pardoned. As I remember this awful field, it was in many places swampy and cut up by ravines, generally timbered, but with an occasional cleared field. The timber was scrubby in some places and dense with underbrush which had all been cut off, looking as if it had been mowed with a giant scythe to the height of a man’s breast. This was done by the artillery 144 GENERAL Puit H. SHERIDAN and musketry. It was so evenly and completely cut that it conveyed the idea of having been done by the God of War, with his Scythe of Death. The large trees were nearly all shattered, some cut off by solid shot. The bodies of the slain were often lying so close together that one could step from one to the other. Their pale faces were washed clean of blood and smoke by two days’ heavy rain; their bodies were stripped of all their valuables and in many cases their shoes were taken. Pockets were all turned out. Dead men and horses with dis- mounted artillery lay intermingled, one upon another. A few had been buried, but it had been done so hurriedly that the hands or feet were often exposed. We came to one grave that attracted our attention because of its more careful forma- tion, with pickets several feet high driven around it. This was the grave of the general-in-chief who commanded the Con- federate forces during the battle, Albert Sidney Johnston. The protection around his remains was put up at the instiga- tion of General Buell. The body was taken up a few days later and conveyed by flag of truce to the Confederate line. When Buell’s army had all arrived, a reorganization was effected with the Army of the Tennessee, making a force of over one hundred thousand under command of General Hal- leck. General Thomas had the right, General Buell the center and General Pope the left. Halleck’s plan was to approach the enemy who were in a strong works at Corinth, twelve miles away, threaten and take his lines of communication and thus force him to come out or be cooped in to starve or sur- render. GCHAPTERSXT LEAVING COMPANY G-——-HOW THE DUTCH WERE FOOLED—MY FIRST LOSS IN THE NEW COMPANY—LOUISVILLE LE- GION—PANIC. the second advance we had made toward the enemy, when report became current that by reason of promo- tions and deaths there would be a change, or transfer, of the commissioned officers from one company to another—a new deal, so to speak. | I placed no credence in the rumor, probably from the fact that I thought it would be unpleasant for me to be forced from the company to which I was attached. I thought it would not be “for the good of the service,’ reasoning that it would be a bitter pill for me to change from my lifelong friends and associates to a company of strangers, and felt the sting of jealousy toward the stranger who would succeed me in my old company. To separate us would be to break up a family, and disrupt the tenderest ties of long asso- ciation. In the midst of these thoughts, as I was sitting in my tent the day after first hearing the rumor, I cannot express my indignation and unhappiness on receiving an order to report to and take command of Company A the next day at eight o’clock a. m. After somewhat recovering from the shock, and viewing the situation from all its standpoints with more calmness, I found one consolation, but that was nothing substantial—it was only the fact that Company A was from 145 [ WAS probably ten days after our arrival at Shiloh, and 146 GENERAL PuHit H. SHERIDAN the same county. However, I did not know a man in it, except the lieutenant commanding; I knew him slightly. They were from the extreme southern part, while we were from the north end of the county, and the two sections had not been very friendly, by reason of a county-seat conflict. In my gloom and sadness I went to the “funny tent,” charitably called, but sometimes known as the “bad tent.” I had never failed in being cured of the blues by spending a few minutes with these boys. They were a tonic. They were bright, hilarious and witty, not very conscientious, some — ‘of them far from it. I would be willing to make an affidavit that the “funny tent” was not the abode of innocents. It had its ex-criminals, whose individual records had not only been sensational but would have been sufficiently tragic to have suited the imagination of Rider Haggard, without much col- oring. Keen wit, the quaintest humor and incessant sarcasm were the order of the day from morning until night. Of course, there was a fight now and then. This would mar the hilarity for a short time, but peace was always quickly restored and all was joyful again. Every week or so, in order to pre- serve lovely dispositions, promote amiability and encourage Christian docility, I was compelled to punish someone in the “bad tent” for fighting, especially during the first six months we were out. It was remarkable how this element drifted into each other’s company. It was affinity, I suppose, on the principle of “birds of a feather flock together.” There were about ten or twelve of them, enough to fill a Sibley tent. (We had this kind of tent the first year of the war, and they were palaces compared to the wedge or dog tent we were com- pelled to take later.) On this big Sibley tent these boys had painted: ‘The Aristocrats,’ “Upper Crust,” etc, The personnel of this ex- PLAYMATE—COMRADE—FRIEND 147 clusive set consisted of four Irish, three Germans, a Swiss, and four Americans. I remember one of them, Hen. Jeffers, was fond of figurative speech—he abounded in that style; in other words, was a compound metaphorist. I will give you an instance: He would call a cow, a “milk depot’; a coffin, a “wooden overcoat’; a barkeeper, a “gin juggler,’ and his gun his “hardware.” The report of my transfer to Company A had preceded my visit to the “‘bad tent,’ and I found those habitually happy and witty boys as gloomy as myself. Our relations had always been pleasant except when they had to be punished. They were all good soldiers; I never heard one of them complain. But it was possible my successor might be a disagreeable tyrant, therefore they were sad; besides, they knew how unpleasant it was for me to be sent away, so they sympathized with me. After a twenty minutes’ visit I left them, in no better spirits than when I went in. They could not be gay and lively, in view of the separation. When I left the boys next morning, I think they were all round me except those on duty, everyone expressing in looks and words their sorrow at my removal. The only happy feature to me as I bade them good-bye was the manifestation of esteem that was unanimous. At eight o’clock I was in Company A’s quarters. I was welcomed by only one man, Lieutenant Sam Lyons, a very brave soldier, but one who disliked to command the company, — he having no taste for tactics, the literary part of soldier life. My presence relieved him of this embarrassment, my late pro- motion making me outrank him. We soon became warm friends, and so continued until he met his sad end. As I passed up the company street on my way to the cap- tain’s tent, I could plainly see that the members looked on me as an intruder. I could see them scowl as they peered out 148 GENERAL PHit H. SHERIDAN at me. After a short talk with the lieutenant, I asked the first sergeant to parade the company; I wanted to talk to them. In a few minutes they were in line. Now it was plain to be: seen that they were in no good humor; they looked sullen. This was of different material from my old company. These were all Americans, farmers’ sons. I afterward found many of them rude and rough, but honest, kind, brave and true. Their homes were in the roughest part of our county, the Hocking Hills. Many of them in manners were true repre- sentatives of the locality from which they came. I had them count off, so I could wheel the second platoon to make a V-shaped angle. Into this angle I stepped, thus getting near them all. 3 Speaking quietly, I told them I could plainly see that they were not pleased, and that it was no surprise to me to meet’ with that kind of reception; that my presence as their captain made it as awkward and embarrassing for me as it was un- pleasant for them. I was forced to be an intruder; I had not sought the change or promotion. I could fully understand their dislike to be put under command of a stranger while they had lieutenants whom they liked and would naturally prefer to have command them. Had I been consulted, I should rather have remained a lieutenant in my own company than to be a captain in another; my attachments were stronger than my ambitions. While I appreciated the fact that Company A was the post of honor in a regiment, yet I did not want to intrude myself. “That I desire you to know this fact is the reason I have called you into line. As soldiers, you should not question the wisdom of an order; as soldiers it is not ours to reason why. - We must do as we are ordered. Obedience first of all, come what may to him who obeys, even knowing it leads to death.” I seemed to detect a more friendly look PLAYMATE—COMRADE—FRIEND 149 when I had concluded. When the second platoon had taken its place and the company was dismissed, the unpleasant duty of introduction was over, and in an hour friendlier faces greeted me. An hour later came an order for regimental inspection to assemble at ten o’clock. I noticed that the arms were not very bright, by reason of marching in rain within the last few days. Those that I examined were bright and clean on the inside, with locks well oiled, but, owing to all the companies except A and B having received new guns within a week, and the recent rains, ours would not look well in comparison. I did not insist on a general clean-up of the guns and accoutrements as it was the first hour I was with them, but expressed fears, while in line, as to the result of the inspection. At precisely ten o’clock the general commenced examining the arms; almost every one was handled by him. When this was over our colonel took command again and dismissed the battalion. Before we had been in our quarters an hour came an order for Company A to report at the same place at one o'clock p. m. for additional inspection. We all knew what that meant—the morning inspection had not been satisfactory. Then every man went to work on his gun. When one o’clock came they were all as bright as silver, and of course readily passed inspection. : ; The next morning we drove the enemy back toward their works probably half a mile, but it required some fighting. Bob McCook’s brigade joined us on our left, and with that an interesting incident occurred in this advance. We could plainly see it as it transpired. The “bone of contention” was several frame houses in which the enemy had taken shelter, and from which they had been firing in perfect safety at the gth Ohio (Dutch regiment). The officers held a consultation 150 GENERAL PHIL H. SHERIDAN and determined the enemy should not hold this advantage if they could prevent it—that they would drive them from the premises. The Germans formed and advanced in splendid style, as they always did, across an open field intervening, hav- ing perfect confidence in their ability to take the position. There was not a shot fired, nor an enemy seen, until they came to close musket range of the buildings; then an entire brigade rose and greeted them with a volley. This was more than the gallant 9th had bargained for, and they went back much faster and in less order than they had advanced, followed by the enemy. Then there was running, panting and swearing in Dutch, but some were left on the field, dead and wounded. McCook had already formed the balance of his brigade, and advanced at a double quick charge to meet the pursuers, who about faced hurriedly, and followed them through the woods and well on to their retrenchments. Returning, McCook formed his new line on the ground just taken. We were then advanced to conform to it. The next day, my third in command, I had my first loss in Company A. Early in the morning, as he stood in the deployed line, Thomas Venning told me that he was very thirsty, remarking that he thought there was a stream not many steps in front, but that we could not see it by reason of the thick underbrush. He asked permission to seek it. I told him it was dangerous to advance ten steps, for the enemy was very near. This we could tell from the whiz of the balls, though we could see no one. They had kept up more or less firing since early dawn. Nothing more was said, but the man next to him, not long after, saw him leave his place and go to the front. As he was returning, and had almost reached his place, he was killed. It might have been a chance shot, but it is probable that, when getting the drink, he was observed PLAYMATE—COMRADE—FRIEND I51 by a sharpshooter and followed until he came to a clear place, thus making a better mark. The boy’s father was also a member of the company. As soon as he fell he called “Company A; Company A; come quickly! Come here!’ A near comrade ran to him. “Tell father to come as soon as he can; I am badly hurt in the breast.” The father came in time to receive the dying boy’s kiss. In an instant more he was dead. That shot killed both. The father’s grief was so intense, or the shock so great, that he appeared to lose all spirit; he sat or walked about in a dazed, abstracted manner, discharg- ing his duty, despondent and spiritless, eating but little, and seldom speaking. Ina few weeks he was too weak for duty, but always willing to make the effort. He was discharged thirty days after his son’s death on the ground of general dis- ability, and sent home. A few weeks later he died, a clear case of broken heart. Previous to the death of the boy, the father had more than ordinary strength and endurance, and was of bright, cheery disposition. During the short time I had been with the company, I had noticed, and heard from others, of the remarkable attachment that existed between father and son. The disparity in size did not permit them to march together in the ranks, but when the ranks were broken they sought each other and were inseparable; the affection between them was something beautiful, and in strong contrast with the many rough, unfeeling features of life during war time. Next morning, while still on duty at this place, my com- pany was deployed, making a long line from left to right. We were still in the dense woods, and the men on our left end found that we were not far from the enemy’s pickets. One crawled up to see. The result was that conversation followed, 152 GENERAL PHIL H. SHERIDAN and there were kindly greetings, with interchanges of tobacco and coffee, and an agreement not to shoot that day. But, alas! Not more than two hours had passed until orders came to attack the enemy! I had gone down this long line in the dense woods to where the end man had held converse with the enemy, and was returning to my place on the right when one of my men, looking to the rear, called my attention to a soldier who was approaching us very cautiously. He was slowly coming up a small ravine, stopping occasionally to observe us through his field glass, when, becoming convinced that we were friends, he walked faster and showed more confidence. When near enough I saw that it was an officer who, coming up, told me he was on General Rousseau’s staff, that their brigade was resting half a mile back; that the general had sent him to find our lines and ascertain all he could of the location of the enemy. To account for his caution in coming up, he said he was guarding against unconsciously going through pickets in the dark woods and blundering into the enemy. He asked me what I knew of our front. When I told him how near my left was, and also of the conversation my men had had with the enemy, he said: “I am sorry I must break the con- tract your boys made’ without due notice to the other side, for I am ordered to feel the enemy here. I will bring up a com- pany which I left a short distance back and make the attack. When you hear lively firing, collect your men and take them to the right, for if the ‘rebs’ should be in force here they might flank me from this side, as it looks the most accessible for them.” In a short time a company came up and deployed, passing through us into the thick woods. They could not have gone a hundred yards until the firing commenced and very soon PLAYMATE—COMRADE—I*RIEND 153 became brisk, with the reports heavier. The sounds appeared to recede, which indicated that the enemy was falling back. Soon wounded men were brought to us. The firing rapidly decreased, and in a short time there was none to be heard. On a preceding page I spoke of the cruelty and inconsist- ency of war. I had in mind the promise of my boys to the enemy that they would not fire on them that day. How the Confederates must have accused us of treachery and bad faith when they were attacked a few hours later! Doubtless they thought we had agreed to the proposition on purpose to throw them off their guard and then attack them. In the afternoon the company that had skirmished was re- lieved by another, which remained until night, when they, too, went back to their brigade. My men then resumed their places, as in the morning, and all was quiet until about ten o'clock, when a man on duty at the reserve where I slept awak- ened me, saying ‘he thought they were fighting in our rear. I could hear strange, mixed-up sounds, such as commands, screaming, bugle calls, swearing, shooting and the clatter of horses’ hoofs all so confused as to be alarming. I got the reserve in line and faced to the rear, awaiting developments. While standing there wondering and listening there came the sound of steps, words, and the breaking of brush; when these sounds were sufficiently near we commanded a halt, and called on one to advance and explain. The man who stepped for- ward was panting and breathless, and between gasps ex- plained that he and his companions belonged to Company A, Louisville Legion; that their brigade was bivouaced some dis- tance back. Their company had been detached from the brigade a short distance as outposts; a few minutes before, they had been attacked by at least a brigade of cavalry and 154 GENERAL Poin H. SHERIDAN were nearly all killed or taken prisoners. In all probability they were the only survivors of Company A. I went back with the spokesman to where he had left the ten or twelve comrades, and found them as panic-stricken as the speaker. When asked if they knew in which direction they had been running when halted, a number answered, “To- ward our works.” When told that they were about to enter the enemy’s lines they could not believe it. All the clamor and confusion ‘had now ceased and not a sound was to be heard. Even before the frightened men had reached us all was silence. I called their attention to this, and told them to go back, that there had been no attack. The tumult was a mystery to me, but, plainly, there had been no fight. But our visitors were loath to move. The panic was still upon them. Then one made the excuse that in the dark- ness and dense brush it would be impossible to find their regi- ment; if I had no objection they would remain with us until morning. This, of course, I would not have objected to, but my curiosity had been so aroused as to the cause of the dis- _ turbance that I proposed to go back with them. I was confi- dent the enemy had nothing to do with their fright, and was eager to solve the mystery. By this time they became calmer, and agreed to go with me. After a fifteen minutes’ walk through brush, briers, bogs and gutters, I receiving not less than five falls during the trip, we arrived at the bivouac of the Louisville Legion and Ist Ohio Infantry, which were detached from two other regiments not far away. The usual calm had followed the storm, so I had no difficulty in finding the cause of the alarm. The brigade had stacked its arms, loaded and capped. A battery had come out with them. Suddenly a number of the battery horses had become frightened in some way, and, breaking their PLAYMATE—COMRADE—FRIEND 155 fastenings, ‘had run through Company