Amongst the ambulance drivers at Arkansas Post

     John Adams of the 57th Ohio saw plenty of hard service in his three years with the Army of the Tennessee, but the hardest day of all may have been January 11, 1863 at Arkansas Post. On that day, the young lieutenant drew the unenviable assignment of commanding the regiment's ambulance corps, and as he relates below in an excerpt from his memoirs, it was one of the "worst jobs" of the war. Between dealing with recalcitrant and cowardly ambulance drivers, shooing shirking officers back to the front, and having to walk the decks of a steamer loaded with wounded men, Adams truly lived the "war is hell" experience on January 11, 1863. 

The ambulance corps at work. "Generally speaking, the driver of an ambulance is a confirmed coward," noted Lieutenant Adams. "At least most of my drivers were." 


We left the Yazoo, went up to White River, fought the battle of Arkansas Post, which was one of the hardest fought battles for the time it lasted, in the whole war.  We were successful in the fight. 

I was detailed to take charge of the ambulance train of the 15th Army Corps; and now comrades, if you never took charge of an ambulance train, you never want to, for it is one of the worst jobs.  I must tell you about it.  I had command of all the stretcher carriers, as well as the ambulance train.  Generally speaking, a driver of an ambulance, is a confirmed coward, at least most of my drivers were.  On that day, I was going to the front, and working up as close as I could.  I was riding a horse in front, and as we raised a slight elevation, the Rebels opened on us, and along came a cannon ball, killing both horses in the head ambulance, and completely demoralizing all my drivers, except three.  I took in the situation at a glance, rode back along that line, whipped out my revolver and threatened in no very mild tones to shoot the first driver who refused to get into his ambulance or left it during that day, and I finally succeeded in getting them all back.  Of course, there are a few brave ambulance drivers, but generally speaking, they are not.  When a man is so mean that the captain cannot do anything with him, and he is too big a coward to keep his place in the ranks, he is made an ambulance driver.  Did you ever, in all your life, since the war, hear a comrade brag or even own up that he drove an ambulance?  If you have it is more than I have.  Why, I will give a chromo, now, to see a driver.

Arkansas Post located upriver from Napoleon, Arkansas. General John McClernand commanded this morale-boosting campaign in the immediate aftermath of the debacle at Chickasaw Bayou. It netted roughly 5,000 Confederate prisoners and secured the vulnerable flank of the Union's supply lines up and down the Mississippi River from interdiction emanating from the Arkansas River. 


          Well comrades, that day’s work was a hard one on me.  I never worked so hard in all my life as I did that day and the heart-rending scenes-no tongue can describe. I saw one poor fellow on that field-in fact I was not more than ten feet from him when it happened-who was a gunner, and when in the act of ramming home a shell, a ball swept over his gun, cutting both his arms off within four inches of his body.  He fell, called for me and I went to him and had him carried to the rear.  When we got there, he said with tears in his eyes; “Lieutenant, for the sake of my wife and my six little ones, take your revolver out and blow my brains out.  I am of no use to them anymore, (shaking the bloody stumps) the hands that earned those I love better than life or living are gone and I want to die.”

Second Lieutenant John Adams, 57th Ohio


          I knelt down by his side and tried to comfort him, but I could not speak to him.  His look of anguish and his appeal to me was more than I could bear.  When I next saw him was on the boat, a corpse.  God had heard his petition and called him home.  Many scenes of that kind we had this day.  Men dying, asking someone to pray over them-oh, how I wished I could pray that day.  I tried and failed; others calling for another, others for water, and others for death.

          My orders were that if I saw any stragglers to send them to the front.  I had little experience in that line.  I heard a terrible groaning and went to the spot.  There lay a captain of some company groaning for all that was out.  I asked him where he was wounded and he gave no reply.  I asked again and he said he was not wounded but had a terrible pain.  I knew then that he was a coward; pulled out my revolver and said as coolly as I could: “get up you coward, and return to our boys!”

He arose to his feet and demanded on what authority I ordered him to the front.  He got mad, then so did I. He said; “You are nothing but a lieutenant.” I replied; “You are nothing but a coward.  You have deserted your company, and there is not a man in your command who is not more worthy to wear those stripes than you.  Now go you cowardly whelp, or I will shoot you on the spot!”  He went.  I followed him close up to the front and delivered him over to his colonel, telling him that if I ever caught him in the rear again, I would shoot him like a dog, and the colonel said “amen.”

          We captured 5,000 prisoners and upwards that day.  When I saw the white flag floating on the works, I spurred up my horse and was among the first inside.  Horrors! What a sight met my eyes.  A man had been hit with a shell, and all that was left of him was his feet sticking in his shoes, and his head sticking in his old slouch hat.  His feet were standing together, just as they were when last alive, and all the balance of him gone; not a vestige to be seen of him, save his hat and feet.

          After the surrender and I had gotten all the wounded on the boat, I went aboard to make my report. Entering into the washroom, which the surgeons had used for an operating room, was a pile of human flesh and bones, enough to fill a three bushel baskets: arms, legs, feet, fingers, ears, every conceivable part of a man’s body that could be amputated.  I made my report and found that my ambulances had that day hauled in nearly 600 wounded.



          The doctor said to me, “Lieutenant, go through the boat and see your cargo, for you will have to take them to St. Louis.”  I was pleased at first.  The thought of getting to St. Louis was pleasant.  The wounded were ranged on both sides of the cabin, and the staterooms were all full.  Those who laid in the cabin were placed feet to feet, with a space between just wide enough to permit a person to walk along.  I looked over the long rows of wounded and dying, and thought of the suffering.  While I was standing meditating over the scene, the doctor slapped me on the shoulder and bade me go on and look through.  I went, and the further I went the sicker I got.  I had proceeded about half way when I came to a horrible sight that I shall never forget.  A man was in the agonies of death.  His leg was off above the knee, and it was flopping up and down on the deck floor, and every time it came down the blood would fly all over me.  Beside him was a man shot through the thigh, and lying with his back to the dying man, swearing and using the following language,

          “Why in the devil don’t you lay still now, when I tell you; what a damned hammering you keep up.  A man could never sleep with all the fuss you keep up.  If you don’t keep still now, I will hit you a crack that you will remember.”  But the hammering grew weaker and weaker until it ceased all together, and the man was dead; and all the time I stood there as if rooted to the spot.  When all was over with the man, I walked on and how terrible that sickening smell of human blood.  I reached the rear end of the boat, and it was a long one, turned around, looked over the vast sea of wounded, dying and dead, listened to their groans and cries until I could stand it no longer; went out into the cool air and sat down.

          I returned to duty with my regiment, and heard the roll call again.  How sad it is to hear the roll call after a hard day’s fight.  You know it commences with the captain, then his lieutenants, then sergeants, then corporals, and privates.  The orderly calls the roll, and some fail to respond; they have gone and joined the army up yonder, but it won’t do well to dwell here, I must move on.

Specialized hospital vessels such as the Red Rover were just starting to make their appearance in the west by the time of Arkansas Post. The ubiquitous river steamers, hauling everything from cargo to soldiers to artillery and even cattle, were pressed into duty carrying wounded soldiers away from the battles. 

To read more about the service of the 57th Ohio, check out our new book about the regiment available here. 


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