Interrogation

Cavalry Trooper

“Whar’s that damn Yankee Lieutenant?” barked the Rebel Sergeant.

            Reuben struggled to his feet. His stomach still churned from the half-cooked Confederate cornmeal of the night before. He’d been up half the night tending to the wounded Cronin. They had finally fallen asleep about the same time. His back ached from sleeping on the wet ground.

            “Here.” He said lifting his hand.

            “Ya’ll come with me, heah, ya abolitionist scum.”

            Abolitionist? thought Reuben, Hope these fellers don’t know about Kansas.

            “Da Cunel wants to see ya. Come along.”

            As they walked by where the horses were picketed, the Rebel Sergeant pointed to Brownie and asked, “That un you’alls?”

            “Maybe,” Reuben answered as Brownie perked up his ears hearing his familiar voice.

            “Thought so. Damn of’cers always get the best. Looks like a good ‘un.”

            Reuben stared back blankly.

 “Can he swim?” queried the Rebel.

“Never had to,” answered Reuben.

“How is he in fording?”

“Fair to middlin;”

“Does he jump well?”

 “He don’t like stone walls.”

“How does he stand fire?”[1]

“Skitterish.” Reuben lied.

Then Reuben noticed the long Spanish rowels on the Rebel’s spurs. If there was one thing Brownie didn’t tolerate, it was hard spurring.

“Sometimes he needs a bit of the whip and the spur,”  Reuben offered, trying not to smirk.

With the conversation finished, the Sergeant escorted Reuben to the Colonel’s white tent. Noting the U.S. markings, Reuben assumed it was part of the booty captured two days before at Brice’s Cross Roads. They must have got the whole damn train, he thought.

An orderly was lounging outside the tent.

“I shoulda shot this damn Yankee shavetail,but I couldn’t git him to rum,” said the Sergeant.

The orderly looked Reuben up and down spitting out some tobacco juice.  “Ya’ll be down heah tryin’ to take our slaves and burn us out.” He remarked. “We gonna learn ya not to mess with the South. Cunnel Forrest ‘ill make shore ‘nuf of that.”

“Colonel Forrest?” Reuben asked.    

            “Jesse Forrest, Cunnel C.S.A. Ya’ll mighta hear-ed of his brother, Gen’l Forrest.”

            So, the 16th Tennessee was commanded by Nathan Bedford Forrest’s little brother, Reuben thought. Mighta figured.

            “He’s a-waitn’ fer ya.” said the orderly as he escorted Reuben inside the tent. They stopped and stood at attention while the Colonel shuffled through something in a box with the letters US stenciled on it.

            The Colonel looked up.

            “Have a seat Yank,” he said pointing to a camp stool. Then he made a sweeping gesture that included the tent and its contents. “Yer Army sure travels in luxury. Maybe that’s why we keep whuppin’ you all.”

            Reuben was quickly sizing up the Commander of the 16th. He spoke with a more cultured tone than the lowly Confederate soldiers he had previously encountered. He was an aristocrat.  Unlike the average Confederate, he owned and traded slaves. For him, the war was about maintaining the lucrative family business. His features looked familiar. Back in Memphis, a photograph of his brother had been circulated among the troopers. It was said that General Sherman would richly reward the man who killed or captured the Devil Forrest. Perhaps his head was worth a furlough or a promotion. One could dream.

            “Get us a couple of cups of that good Yankee coffee!” barked the Colonel at the orderly. Turning his gaze back to Reuben, he commented, “Due to your cursed embargo, we don’t see much coffee in the South.”

            Reuben again suppressed a grin. At least some of the Union’s war strategy was working.

            “You boys are from Iowa?” queried Colonel Forrest as Reuben nodded.

            “Whereabouts?”

            “Appanoose County.”

            “I had friends who did business with a feller from up there before the War. Did you know Ward Coltrane? Is he fighting for the Federals now?”

            Reuben shook his head no. He wasn’t giving this Confederate any information on his old friend Ward Coltrane. Coltrane once ran the cooper works in Centerville. His barrels were highly prized. Before the war, he had moved his cooperage to East Tennessee where he made barrels for the whisky distillers.  When the War broke out, he returned to Iowa leaving his operation in the charge of his trusted foreman. If Forrest found out Coltrane was a Captain in the 1st Iowa Infantry, his assets could be seized and forfeited.

            The orderly returned with the coffee. It was weak. The Confederates had to make it last as long as they could. The blockade wasn’t letting up any time soon.

            “How long will it take Sturgis to get back to Memphis?”

            “Not long,” Reuben answered noncommittally.

            “Reckon he’s finished?”

            “I hope so,” Reuben answered revealing his disgust of his former Commander.

            “Where is Sherman headed for next?”

            “Probably somewhere you don’t want him to be.”

            “You aren’t very talkative, are you?”

            “I never been much fer words.”

            “O.K., Captain Rice will be interviewing the rest of your men. He may even recruit a few of them for our army.”

            “My men ain’t bounty jumpers!” Reuben hissed. “You won’t be galvanizin’ any of ‘em.”

            “We’ll see,” snickered Colonel Forrest. “A few months in Winder’s pens might change their minds.”

            Reuben knew that the commander of the Confederate prison system was General Winder. He was said to be killing more Yankees than most Rebel field commanders.

            “I don’t think so. Where are we going from here Sir?”

            “Good question. We’re waiting for more rolling stock on the Mobile and Ohio.  You’ll be taken to a holding camp at Cahaba, Alabama.”

            Reuben chuckled at the mention of the railroad. He’d spent the last Summer tearing up Southern railroads. Too bad they missed the tracks to Tupelo.

            “And from there?”

            “I figure your men will go to Andersonville and you’ll be headed to the Officer’s Prison at Macon,” said Colonel Forrest.

            Reuben shuddered. Andersonville had only been open for a few months, but its reputation was well-known in the North. Men were starving and dying by the hundreds in the makeshift camp. It wasn’t right for him to go to a better place while his men suffered in a hellhole like Andersonville.

            “Sir, I’d like to stay with my men.”

            The Colonel looked at Reuben in surprise.

            “Sorry, but we’ve learned to keep the officers separate from the men. We had some difficulties with that. Your men don’t need help organizing riots and such.”

            Reuben shook his head wistfully.

            “Your men will be O.K. as soon as the exchange gets up and running again. Your General Butler is the problem. He keeps insisting we include Negroes in the exchange. He can’t seem to understand that they are our property, not soldiers.”

            Rueben grimaced. The exchange system was hopelessly broken. It was going to be a long war.

            “The Provost will take you boys to Tupelo tomorrow to wait for transportation. I wish you well. Orderly! Take the Lieutenant back to the holding area.”

            Reuben stood.

            “You are dismissed.”

            Reuben looked down at his sleeve as the guard returned him to his men. He could still see the faded outline where his Sergeant’s chevrons had once been. They had come off when he was commissioned a Lieutenant two months before.  He had spent over 3 years as an enlisted man. The men going to Andersonville were not only his friends and neighbors, they were his responsibility.

            As soon as the guard turned to leave, Reuben reached up. He grabbed one of his epaulets and thought for a moment. The Rebels weren’t very good at keeping track of things. Hell, they hadn’t even taken roll yet. Then he grasped the epaulet firmly and ripped it off. A second later the other one was gone. He tossed them into some bushes.

            Reuben DeLay would enter the Confederate prison system as a Private.

            He was going to Andersonville!

LDT June 6, ‘24

NOTES ON HISTORICAL ACCURACY:

            -Reuben DeLay enlisted in the 3rd Iowa Volunteer Cavalry during the Civil War.

-The 3rd Iowa was part of a Union force under General Samuel Sturgis at the Battle of Brice’s Crossroads on June 10, 1864.  

-Confederate General Nathan Bedford Forrest decisively defeated the much larger Union force.

-On the day after the battle 2nd Lt. Reuben DeLay’s I Company was defending the rear of the retreating Yankee column near Ripley, Mississippi.

-The 16th Tennessee Cavalry, whose Deputy Commander was Lt Col Jesse Forrest, captured Reuben and 26 others. Private Cronin was wounded in the leg during the encounter.

-This hypothetical interrogation is based on the accounts of other captured Union soldiers.

-Ward Coltrane is a fictional character. The Confederacy did seize the assets of those who were disloyal to their cause.

-The Confederates took advantage of the breakdown in the prisoner exchange system to recruit POWs for their army. One of the men captured with Reuben DeLay may have taken them up on their offer. He was returned to Union control early and given a dishonorable discharge. I suspect that he joined the Confederate Army and deserted at the first opportunity. His comrades did not view him as a traitor or deserter.

-Records show Reuben DeLay was a prisoner at Andersonville even though he was an officer. Prisoner John McElroy reported that in August of 1864 two to three hundred Lieutenants and Captains were identified among the Andersonville prisoners and sent to Camp Oglethorpe near Macon, Georgia. Reuben must have been one of them. He spent the rest of the War in Officer prisons.

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[1] Andersonville: A Story of Rebel Military Prisons. John McElroy. (1879).

Re-ride

This photo came from a bar in Malta. It is a Who’s Who of Montana rodeo cowboys. Back row: Vic Lasorna. Dave Pecora, Jr., Sonny Oxhart, Dave Mathews, Ernie Trottier, Ike Blatter, Blair Gayens. Front: Royal Ness, Rex Thill. Kid Curry Rodeo 1948 or 49. Courtesy Jeanne Thill Shippen.

“You entered the bull riding?” Mom exploded. “What the hell are you thinking of? You’re a bronc rider and a damned good one, Why the hell do you want to get yourself killed?”

            The questions were good ones. Dad was still a pretty good bronc rider. I had never even seen him ride a bull before. He was a bit too small according to my brothers who knew everything about rodeos and cowboys.

            “Hold on now,” Dad said. “This string ain’t all that good and Hagen won’t be riding.” Johnny Hagen was Dad’s long-time rodeo buddy. They had rodeoed all over Montana, the Dakotas, and Wyoming. Though their winnings were long gone, they had the championship buckles to show for many a good ride.

            Now Hagen had moved up in rodeo. He was promoting the Kid Curry Rodeo in Malta. We had come up a few weeks earlier to help fix the chutes and arena. There was great anticipation for what might become the biggest rodeo in the Milk River Country. Hagen seemed confident he could pull it off.

 For years Dad’s rodeo earnings had supplemented the family income. In the early days, that was important. He didn’t make much as a ranch hand. Staying employed through the winter wasn’t guaranteed. Sometimes he resorted to catching and selling wild horses to get by. The good ones he broke. The rest went to the glue factory.

Things were different now. Dad was on the railroad. He’d worked his way up from the roundhouse to Locomotive Fireman. His promotion to Engineer was imminent. The checks were good, steady too.

We kids were as happy as Mom was upset. Dad was gonna ride a snorting, bucking, mean old Brahma bull. Why he hadn’t entered the Bareback and Saddle Bronc events never crossed our minds.

We got to the rodeo early. Dad had a habit of coaching the younger cowboys and helping to get the stock sorted and penned. As we pulled up to the gate, the County Sheriff stopped us.

“Hey Rex, we found a horse with your brand down by the Breaks. What do you want to do with it?”

The horse was Mexican Joe. He was once a damn good cow pony. When Dad got the job on the railroad, he left Mexican Joe at a friend’s ranch. The horse got away and had been running wild for a decade.

“I guess you better send him to the slaughterhouse Sheriff. I s’pose he’ll wind up dog food unless some furriner eats him.”

The Sheriff shook his head. There wasn’t much use for an old cow pony these days.

Dad parked the Hudson right next to the arena. “Betcha can’t do that at Madison Square Garden,” one of my brothers commented. Small rodeos do have their advantages. Later, my brothers would sit on the top rail and watch the events. All but one event that is. With time to kill, we made our way to the play area. No, this wasn’t the kind of playground with swings and teeter-totters. This was a place where little cowboys learned their craft. A barrel was suspended on ropes between four poles. One cowboy wannabe would climb onto the barrel while his saddle pals worked the ropes. If they didn’t like you, you could get bucked off damn fast. Luckily, my brothers didn’t want to send me back to the car bawlin’.

We returned to the arena when we heard the announcer’s voice crackling on the loudspeakers, Dad was gone, probably helping with the chutes. Mom was sitting on the hood of the Hudson. My brothers climbed to the top of the board fence. They’d have the best view in the house.

“Can I sit on the fence too?” I pleaded.

Mom looked at me for a stern second. “Only for the Calf roping and Barrel Racing.” She said.

Wow! I was going to be close to at least some of the action.

The bronc riding was good. Most of the competitors were old friends of Dad’s. About half of them made the whistle. The pickup men were there to grab the riders and land them smoothly on their feet. They hauled one young cowboy off with a broken leg. One cowboy scored an 86 on Great Falls Brown, one of the better saddle broncs. Jim Billingsley tied his calf in near record time. The barrel racers wore big white Stetsons and bright satin blouses. Their horses could turn on a dime. I had to get off the fence each time there was a rough stock event. It was hot.  Mom got us some Cokes.

The announcer told jokes and bantered back and forth with the clown. There was furious activity as the cowboys loaded the chutes for each new event.

At last, the event we had all been waiting for was announced. Bull riding! The announcer assured us the bulls were the meanest, toughest, buckingest bulls this side of the Missouri. The clown rolled his padded barrel into the arena. He would spend the next 20 minutes ducking behind it. A clown needs to be quick on his feet. He has to be brave enough to put himself between a downed cowboy and a dangerous bull.

I chuckled as the pick-up man rode by ordering my brothers off the fence. We’d watch this event from the ground. At least they were there to school me on the finer points of bull riding. One by one, the bulls came out bucking furiously. Most of the riders were getting dumped unceremoniously on the freshly raked dirt of the arena. Eight seconds is a long, long time.

Finally, we heard the announcement we had all been waiting for.

“Here’s Rex Thill from Glasgow on Old Snowball in Chute Number Four.” We could see Dad straddling the chute, buck rein in hand. The bull was a nasty one. We caught glimpses of him through the wooden chute. He was a dirty white with big bloodshot eyes and a snotty nose. The chute hands were having a tough time keeping him positioned. It was taking Dad forever to mount. He’d start to lower himself and the bull would try to climb out of the chute. The hands pushed and shoved while Dad worked the buck rein. Old Snowball was an uncooperative cuss.

Finally, the bull did something no one expected. Old Snowball just laid down in the chute. Men poked at him through the gate. Others helped Dad tug on the buckrein. Try as they might, they couldn’t get him back on his feet. The other competitors were getting antsy. So were the spectators.

Someone yelled, “Turn him out!” The chute hands grimly tried once more. Old Snowball wouldn’t budge. Finally, the judge signaled to Dad. The show must go on. The ride wouldn’t happen. Dad climbed over the back of the chute. The announcer said he’d get a re-ride at the end of the go-round. We were disappointed but hoped he’d draw a better bull next time.

The bull riding wasn’t even finished when Dad returned to the car.

“Shouldn’t you be getting ready for your re-ride?” my brothers asked.

Dad shook his head. “It’s over. I’ve ridden my last rodeo.”

A look of relief passed over Mom’s face as we boys protested. Dad was our hero. He did things, big things, brave things. Things others couldn’t do. We bragged about him and showed off his buckles. Could it all be over?

Dad wouldn’t be visiting the pay window to collect his winnings. We loaded into the car and headed home. A Hudson full of glum little kids rolled down Highway Two. Mom sang along happily with the radio. Dad thought about the old days. Wolf Point, Cheyenne, Calgary.

A week later, we found out that the gate receipts hadn’t been enough to cover the expenses of the rodeo. The winning cowboys learned that Hagen’s checks were no good. They had traveled far, paid their entry fees, and risked their necks for nothing. Dad chuckled. He was about the only friend Hagen had left in the country.

Sometimes it pays to know when to walk away.

LDT June 26, 2021

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Andersonville

Andersonville National Cemetery

Marble markers in a row,

With Old Glory hanging low.

In final rest, these heroes lie,

Underneath the Georgia sky.

Where they suffer never more,

Victims of the Gods of War.

Living in the Georgia dirt,

Blackened face, ragged shirt.

Life no better than the hogs,

Hunted down by Wirz’s dogs.

To drink the water of the stream,

Was certain death, it would seem.

To suffer in the blazing sun,

So many lives, just begun.

One hundred died each August day,

Six were hung, they had to pay.

Thirteen thousand, laid to rest,

They were this land’s very best.

We must recall what all they gave,

To bind our wounds from the grave.

They died to make all men free,

One nation joined, sweet liberty.

LDT Memorial Day, May 27, ‘24

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Company I History

Third Iowa Cavalry

              

During the summer of 1861, a com­pany of

cavalry was organized at Centerville by Capt. T. J.

Taylor. Our company was first called “Mounted

Riflemen” and was in the state service for the

protection of the border coun­ties. A duty which was

afterwards assumed by Capt. D. A. Spooner and his

company of “Home Guards.”

               Our first experience as soldiers was

received at Centerville during the month of August,

1861. We spent that month drilling and making

awkward attempts to learn the “art of war.”

Meantime boarding around among the patriotic

citizens of Centerville, who were all heartily

tired of us before we were ordered away. Part of

the company was quartered at Col. Joe Delay’s in

the west part of town, where Jacob Knapp now lives.

Another squad was at John Pott’s hotel, and though

“Uncle John” grum­bled a little at the way his pies

disap­peared from the kitchen cupboard, yet he was

none the less careful to make his troublesome

guests comfortable. Another squad was quartered at

Geo. Pratts’ and though George treated us royally,-

and fed us like princes, yet we saw a twinkle of

satisfaction in his eye when at last we were ordered

away.

               We left Centerville on the 29th of August,

going first to Bloomfield and then by way of

Keosauqua to Keokuk, where we were formally

mustered into the United States service as

‘Company I” of the 3rd Iowa Cavalry—and went into

camp with our regiment at Camp Rankin on the

Bluffs above the city of Keokuk.

               The original roster of the company was as

follows:

Capt. Thomas J. Taylor; 1st Lieut., Thos. H. McDannal;

2d Lieut. Edward F. Horton.

Sergeants— Samuel R. Snyder, Col­umbus N. Udell,

Jas. S. Hamilton, Isaac W. Duvall, Stephen J. Paris,

Reuben DeLay.

Corporals—Richard- Freeborn, Will­iam H. McNulty,

Robert Gouldsberry, John J. Veach, John

Buckmaster, John Novels, William DeLay, T. J.

Frost.

Buglers—William Helms, Abraham Button.

Saddler—Samuel Rouge.

Wagoner—William J. Taylor.

Privates—William Adams, Morris P. Beall, Samuel

G. Baker, Geo. W. Beard, Wm. F. Barker, Oliver

Breese, Wm. Brannon, Win. R. Caylor, Elias B. Covert,

Martin Clark, Marshall Clark, Joseph M. Conger,

George R. Chaney, Jerimiah Cronin, John Curran,

John G. Dudley, George Deemer, Caleb Durbin, John

W. DeLay, James T. Donnelson, Samuel. Eddy, William

Etherege, Hanmon Ellis, Salemnel E. Ewing, Loyd

Flannigan, William Fraser, David Fredric, Henry

Grages, Chas. Holbrook, Amos Hall, James C.

Hopkins, James A. Johnson, Eli A. Kerschner, H. C.

McKeehan, John A. Lanham, W. I. McFall, S. H.

McLaughlin, Peter Miller, Jesse M. Morrissy, Wm.

H. McCune, Jonathan L. Moore, Martin Mahr, Danl.

S. Mcintosh, Peter Murphy, Ezara S. Oden, Isaac

O’Donnor, Thomas Points, Jehu J. Pinkerton, Charles

W. Paris, William Patrick, Silas Ramsey, E. M.

Reynolds, George L. Richardson, John Rice, Thomas

Reynolds, Pleasant, A. S. O. Scott, Isaac Stevens,

Robert P. Smith, Nehemiah Solan, James B, Story.

C. A. Stanton, William H. Staubor, John Smith, John

Spangler. Jas, S. Swift, Byron L. Thompson, George

W. Taylor, John Westerbarger.

               Making altogether 90 men of the original

company.

               There was afterwards enlisted in the

company: Eb. Buckmaster, Francis H. Adamson,

William B. Adamson, Henry Button, Benjamin

F. Bradley, George Brock, Samuel M. Beckman, John

 Craig, Isaac Calvert, Alonzo Clinkenbeard, Isaac K.

Darling, Wm. Delong, Jos. C. Fletcher, John H. Frush,

Jac. Graft, John R. Holbrook, ‘Benj. F. Haney, Daniel

Hines, Benj. D. Ketchum, Wallace B. Logan, Jacob M.

Myers, Samuel L. McDonald, Harvey M. Man­ning, Geo.

W. McHenry,

John A, Nicholson, Samuel Nelson, Morgan W. Paris,

 James J. Porter, Mathias Reed, Wm. B. Ramsey,

Samuel B. Swift, Eugene Sprague, Stephen W. Shuck,

 Wesley R. Scott, Benjamin Tulk, Asa B. Thornburg,

Andrew W. Tibbets, William M. Walker, Spencer

Waddlington, Jos. A. Walden, Elias Woolfinger.

               In July, 1862, H. D’B. Cutler was transferred

to Co. ” I ” as First Lieut, and was afterwards

promoted captain, and in Dec, ’63 Lieut. Frank Armin

 who was afterwards promoted to be captain, joined

the company with a number of recruits as follows:

Clark Brandt, John C. Boldt., J. Fahrenkrug, Chris­tian

Barger, John Courtney, Wm. E, Cook, A. Edwards,

Paul Frederick, Ambrose Fralick, Frank Hibler,

Casper Hellmuth, G. Hansom, Geo. Hill, Wm. Kelso,

John C. Mersh, Lewis Heim, John J. Welt, Earnest F.

Pruss, Jacob Pracher, J. Rolfs, Wm. Sehmitt, Amos A.

 Whitney, Geo. Whiteland.

               A total of 153 men in all who belonged to the company.

Out of this number 33 men were killed, or died during

 the war. Six died at Andersonville and nineteen have

 died since their muster out of the service, making 51

 in all who have received their final discharge.

               The following is a list of those who are dead:

William B Adamson, Morris P. Beall, William F.

Barker, William Brannon, Elins Covert, John Curran,

Isaac Duvall, John G. Dudley, John W. DeLay, Caleb

Durbin, Loyd Flanihgan, Joseph Graft, Robert

Goldsberry, Chas. Hol­brook, John Holbrook, Dan

Hiimes, Godfrey Hansen, C. Helmuth, John Hines, E.

F. Horten, William Helm, William J. McFall, James M.

Monroe, Harvey Manning, Jacob Myers,

Peter Murphy, Samuel*, Nelson, Ezra Oden, 0. W.

Paris. ‘James G. Points, Morgan Paris, Moses J. Root,

John W. Rice, P. A. Scott, T. D. Squires, Stephen

Shuck, N. Solon, J. S. Swift, Wesley Scott, James B.

Story, J, A. Scott, Thomas J. Taylor, Byron L.

Thomson, Joseph Thorin, Thos. McDonnal, Wm. J.

Taylor, Elias, Wolfinger, Isaac Stevens, Robert P.

Smith, Alonzo Clinkinbeard.

               The following is a list of those whose

present address is known to the writer:

C. N. Udell, Blakesburg, Iowa; James S. Hamilton,

Centerville, Iowa; Rich­ard Freeborn, Omaha, Mo.; W.

H. Mc­Nulty, Seymour, Iowa; Lieut. John J. Veatch,

Washington, Kansas; Moses O’Connor, Albia, Iowa;

Capt. Frank Armin, Cincinnati, Ohio; John Nowles,

Iconium, Iowa; William DeLay, Hays City, Kan.;

Samuel Benge, Kirkwood, Iowa; Wm. Adams, Zurich,

 Kansas; Capt. H. D’B. Cutler, Glenwood, Mo.; Benj.

Tulk, Unionville, Iowa; Oliver Breese, Cyrus, Kan.;

Wm. R. Caylor, Dayton, Iowa; Marshal Clark, Riley

Center, Kansas; Joseph M. Conger, Unionville, Mo.;

Willis DeLay, Downs, Kansas; James T.

Donnelson, Magnolia, Iowa; Samuel Eddy, Exline,

Iowa; William Fraser, Gardner, Kansas; Henry

Grages, Keosauqua, Iowa; Amos Hall, Iconium, Iowa;

Eli A. Kerscher, Alma, Neb.; Hankins’ C. McKeehan,

Living­stone, Town; Samuel Bookman, Little Falls,

Minn.; Peter Miller, Centerville, Iowa; Wm. H. McCune,

Beloit, Kan.; Jonathan L. Moore, Unionville, Mo.; Isaac

 O’Connor, Winfield, Kansas; Reuben DeLay, Plainville,

 Kansas; Jehu J. Pinkerton, Cleveland, Kansas; Wm.

Patrick Unionville, Iowa; E. M. Rey­nolds, Centerville,

Iowa; Joseph• H. Ramsey, Filey, Neb.; C. A. Stanton;

Centerville, Iowa; Jonn Smith, Ottumwa, Iowa; John

Spangler, Pawnee Valley, Kansas; George. W.

Taylor, Oma­ha, Mo; John Westerbarger, Dean, l a ;

Mich’l Gallagher, New Pine Creek, Ore; Francis H.

Adamson, Peoria, Kansas; Benjamin F. Bradley,

Numa, Iowa; Isaac Calvert, College Spring, Iowa;

Isaac Darling, Concordia, Kansas; Frank Hibler,

Rockville, Nebraska; Joseph C: Fletcher, Beatrice,

Neb.,’ John H. Frush, Kansas City, Mo.;

Benjamin D. Ketchum, Centerville la.; Samuel L.

McDonald, Idana, Kansas; S. G. Baker, Six Mile,

Indiana; John A, Nicholson, Bloomfield, Iowa; Asa B.

Thornburg, Unionville, Mo.; An­drew W. Tibbets,

Allerton, Iowa; W. B. Rarnsey, Chariton, Iowa; Eugene

 Sprague, Orient, Iowa.

               From Centerville there went in this company, Jacob Myers, who died in Memphis, Tenn., in ’64. Wm.

B. Adamson who was killed at Guntown, Miss., Juno

10th, ’64. John Dudley, who died in Nov. ’63. Wm.

Brannon, who died in July, ’64; and those who

survived and returned home were C. N. Udell, H. C.

McKeehan, Peter Miller, Samuel Benge, James

Hamilton, Benj. Ketchum and Wm. Walker, all good

soldiers and now all good citizens. McKeehan, Miller,

Bengel and Ketch­um are all successful farmers

living near Centerville.

J. S. Hamilton is in business in Centerville and C. N.

Udell is a prosperous physician at Blakesburg.

               The DeLay family was well represented,

there being five (Records list only 4.) young men

from that family in this company, Reuben, William,

John and Willis. Reuben DeLay became Lieutenant

in the company and was captured at Ripley, Miss.

John DeLay was killed at Columbus, Ga. Wm. Delay

was wounded at Lagrange, Ark. Willis went through

un­hurt and he, Reuben, and William are all now

living in Kansas and doing well.

               There were fifteen young men from Pleasant

tp. in this company: Charles Holbrook, John Holbrook,

Isaac Calvert, John Frush, Eugene Sprague, Wm.

Fraser, Samuel Nelson, Moses Root, J. M. Monroe,

Elias Wolfinger, Loyd Flannigan, S. L. McDonald, E. A.

Kerschner, Frank Adamson and C, A. Stanton. Seven

 of these never re­turned. Chas. and John Holbrook

were captured on the ill-fated Gun-town expedition

and died at Anderson­ville, Ga. Samuel Nelson was

killed at Columbus, Ga.; Moses Root died at St. Louis

in April,’64; J.M. Monroe died in April, ’64; Elias

Wolfinger died at Cape Girardeau in Oct. ’64; Loyd

Flannigan died in May ’63. Calvert; Frush and Sprague

were captured at Ripley but lived through the horrors

 of Andersonville, were exchanged, and returned to

the company. Will Fraser was wounded and captured

 at Lagrange Ark., and imprisoned for. a time at

Little Rock. C. A. Stanton was wounded at Lagrange,

 promoted to captain of the company and afterwards

 Major of the regiment. E. A. Kerschner, Wm, Eraser,

Isaac Cal­vert, John- Frush, S. L. McDonald, E .

Sprague and Frank Adamson, splendid soldiers, all of

them, served through with credit to themselves and

their country.

               From Numa there was Ben Bradley, a model

 soldier, who served a term in a rebel prison but got

through and is now a coal operator at Numa. Asa

Thornburgh, now a merchant and stockman at

Unionville, Mo., Harvey Manning who was wounded

at Guntown and died soon after; and Andrew Tibbets

 who captured the flag of Aus­tin’s battery at

Columbus, Ga. (Tibbits was awarded the Medal of

Honor.)

               From Iconium there was John Nowells who

 got a bullet through his leg at Spring River, Ark., and

 had to accept a discharge and the service lost a

good soldier. Oliver Breese who now lives in

Nebraska. Amos Hall a brave soldier and now a

merchant at Iconium. Nehemiah Solon and J. S. Swift

 both of whom died in Andersonville; Morris Beall,

who died at Helena in July- ’62, and E. M. Reynolds

now one of the prominent citizens and physicians of

Centerville. John Westerbarger lost the sight of both

 eyes from exposure in the service and is now living

near Dean, totally blind, with his widowed mother

whose only son and support he is. Eb. Buckmaster,

a faithful soldier, now ‘lives near Unionville, and his

old comrades will regret to hear that he recently met

with a misfortune by the burning of his mill. Abe

Button was one of the good soldiers of the company

and as soon as the son he had left at home in ’61 was

old enough to enlist he sent for him, (Henry Button)

and father and son served through together.

               No better soldiers were in any company than

 Richard Freeborn, Samuel Eddy, Henry McNulty,

John Veatch and Joe Fletcher. There was no

dan­ger which they would not meet and no service

which they would not cheerfully perforin whenever

their duty as soldiers required it. “Sam” was the

champion forager of the company and his mess

always had plenty of “grub;” but rough and wild as

he seemed, when his captain was wounded and a

nurse was needed, Sam volunteered for the job

and no wounded soldier ever had more careful

attention or faithful care. “Dick” always had the best

horse in the regiment and took the best care of it and

 this peculiarity of his sticks to him yet, as on his

fine farm in Putnam County some of the best horses

 and cat­tle in the state will be found. McNulty was

captured at Lagrange and again at Ripley, but got

through all right and now lives on a fine farm near

Seymour. John Veatch was promoted to be lieu­tenant

 of the company and now lives in Kansas. Joe

Fletcher was “taken in” at Ripley and served a term

at Ander­sonville, but is now a prominent real estate

dealer at Beatrice, Neb.  P. Murphy, Jehu Pinkerton,

George Deemer, Ambrose Fralech and “Coppersmith”

were the eccentric characters, and “Pete” in

par­ticular will be remembered by every member of

the company for his oddities.

               Among others who served in this company

with fidelity and courage were Joseph Ramsey,

Joseph Congor, Lon Clinkinbeard, Ezra Oden, John

Nichol­son, S. G. Baker, Isaac Lynn, Wm, Patrick, Wm.

 Adams, ‘Jesse Morrisey, Ben. Tulk, James

Donaldson, J. A. Johnson, Mose O’Connor, I. O’Connor,

 W. B, Ramsey, Sam. Book­man, Spencer Wadlington,

Joe Waldon, Frank Hibler, John Spangler, Will Caylor,

Henry Grages, W. H. McCune, John Smith, Geo.

Taylor, Mike Galla­gher and Ike Darling.

               But it is im­possible in the space allotted us

for this article to mention by name, all the good

soldiers who belonged to Company “I, all of them

were an honor to the service and every surviving

member of the company has the satisfaction of

knowing that he performed his whole duty in the

hour of his country’s peril.

               Capt. Frank Armin, one of the most noted

officers in the regiment for his bravery and daring

remained in, the South after the war was over, and

went into politics. He was a state senator in South

Carolina, afterwards a special examiner in the

pension department and is now a prominent attorney

 and claim agent in Cincinnati, Ohio.

               Capt. H, D’B. Cutler, one of the most gallant

officers of the regiment, was, after his return from

the army, editor of the Glenwood Criterion and

afterwards went west and made a great deal of

money out of some railroad contracts.

               No words can do justice to the hero­ism and

devotion of the brave and noble men of this company

 who died in their country’s service and the memory

of their sufferings and sacrifice will be cherished by

their surviving comrades as long as life endures.

               The further history of this company as a

separate organization is unnecessary. I participated

in all the campaigns and battles in which the

regiment was engaged, doing its full share of all the

hard work and the history of the regiment is a

history of the company.

C. A. STANTON. (Original member and former

Commander of I Company, 3rd Iowa Cavalry.)

Centerville Citizen. Centerville, Iowa. July 27, 1887.

Link: Centerville Citizen, Page2, 1887-07-27.pdf

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Thornhill

Kid Curry and Jim Thornhill were pardners in a ranch.

That one would take the wrong path happened quite by chance.

Curry bore a grudge for a man named Pike,

He’d even up the score and he’d make it right.

Jimmer and the Currys strode into Jake’s Saloon,

Not knowin’ what would happen before the clock struck noon.

Jim hollered out, “Fair fight!” The rest is history,

It would spell the end of old man Landusky.

Kid Curry sent old Pike a-sprawlin’ on the floor,

While Thornhill kept the peace with his Forty-Four.

That should have been the end of it,

If the two of them had just up and quit.

But what was Pike a-reachin’ for just inside his vest?

Was he a-goin’ for the Borchart kept hidden by his breast?

Did that German automatic end up in a jam,

And put an end to Pike’s evil little plan?

We will have to wonder how it all was done,

Why did Jimmer Thornhill throw the Kid a gun?

Three shots in quick succession,

It was Curry’s first transgression.

From there he was a man always on the run,

And as for friends, he only had but one.

They tried Jimmer Thornhill as accessory,

There wasn’t any case, the judge just set him free.

Curry, Butch, and Sundance formed the Wild Bunch,

Sure to count on Thornhill if they’re in a crunch.

The robbin’ of express cars was the trade they plied,

They blew up one at Wilcox with Woodcock still inside.

They took the loot and headed out on their separate ways,

A hideout in Montana was where Curry spent his days.

The Pinkertons sent an agent to find the outlaw man,

To gain Thornhill’s confidence was Siringo’s plan.

But Curry got away and returned another day,

He wasn’t there to stay, he’d rob the GN Way.

Got forty thousand bucks in the Wagner job,

That’s a big old haul if you like to rob.

The Sheriff did a scout but found no one about,

That Thornhill hid him out there ain’t a lot of doubt.

When the posse left, a score got settled on,

Shot on his porch, Jim Winter, he was gone.

Curry made his way to Knoxville, Tennessee,

If he hadn’t picked a fight, he mighta’ stayed scot-free.

Thornhill hired him a first-class legal team,

An exoneration would be the outlaw’s dream.

Then Curry heard the verdict, twenty years in jail,

Time for him to bust out, time to hit the trail.

Of his whereabouts, Thornhill never said,

But up in Colorado, they found Kid Curry dead.

Did Jimmer cross the line between the law and crime?

Or was it just a friendship, faithful for all time?

LDT May 18, ‘24

More on Jim Thornhill– Jim Thornhill-Kid Curry’s Accomplice? – Outlaws, Outrages and Outright Lies (azrockdodger.com)

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The Winner

Smedley rolled a smoke and looked inside his poke,

He nearly had a stroke, discoverin’ he was broke.

What was he to do, to drive away the blue?

He didn’t have a clue, nor a dollar for a brew.

Then he looked around, saw somethin’ on the ground,

Look what he had found, was this his turnaround?

A ticket he could scratch, and if the numbers match,

That’d be quite a catch, his fortune to unlatch.

His hopes began to rise, for a really nice surprise,

Revealed before his eyes, a Prickly Cactus prize,

A hundred-dollar win, where would he begin?

Debauchery and sin, that would make him grin.

He was really set, he’d make a football bet,

Pay off a little debt, and get his whistle wet.

Soon it would be gone, nuthin’ left to pawn,

Broke before the dawn, he was woebegone.

LDT May 4, ‘24

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Ride the High Lonesome

High Lonesome Road (Most of it doesn’t look this good.)

If I could ride the High Lonesome Trail,

I’d choose the right path and I’d never fail.

Wending my way through washes and rocks,

And not give a care for cell phones or clocks.

I’d gaze at the mountains in wonderous awe,

The prettiest picture that I ever saw.

Fed by the rain and warmed by the sun,

Topping by far anything I have done.

I wouldn’t care that the bridge is washed out,

Finding my path is what life’s about.

If I could fix the wrongs I have done,

I’d make amends to everyone.

Give me the tools to fix broken hearts,

Like slivers of gold from ledges of quartz.

If I could ride the High Lonesome once more,

I would rejoice in what life has in store.

LDT April 29, ‘24

The High Lonesome Trail runs along the eastern foothills of Arizona’s Mule Mountains. It has been abandoned for decades.

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Retina

Cloudy lens, myopic eye,

Give the Doc just one try,

Doctor A will fix me good,

I will see like I should.

Easy op with little pain,

My world becomes clear and plain.

I threw my glasses in the trash,

Had better uses for my cash.

The curtain came from the side,

My vision was not so wide.

Each line I saw had a flaw,

I had to draw with a yaw.

Lasers with two surgeries,

A left one that barely sees.

Follow-up with Doctor A,

To see what he has to say.

My good work has gone to waste,

He said it to my swollen face.

Pay your bill, see me soon,

I have golf this afternoon.

YOU SON OF A BITCH!

That I made rich.

I will never darken your door

Was the oath that I swore.

If my story had ended there,

I wouldn’t have this vacant stare.

The other eye became so blurry,

That I was wrought with some worry.

The silicone had come undone,

What happened next wasn’t fun.

Neon bolts of red and green,

With flashing lights in between.

I stumbled in my new world,

Lights around me swirled and whirled.

My Retina Spec showed concern,

As her laser flashed and burned.

Her tiny straws and stainless sticks,

Were the tools of the fix.

That I can see a little bit,

Is thanks to her amazing grit.

LDT April 14, ‘24

Thanks to my Retina Specialist at the Tucson VA Hospital, I got some vision back.

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