Captain Hale, of Company D, was rather rough-hewn, but a brave, patriotic old man, having not the least patience with a thief, a coward, or a braggart. While he had some of the bravest men in his company that any army could boast of, he had one or two, at least, that were not among these, as the two stalwart bullies who were exceedingly boastful of their prowess, of the ease with which Southern men could whip Northerners, five to one being about as little odds as they cared to meet. This type of braggart was no novelty, for every soldier had heard that kind of talk at the beginning of the war. While we were moving out in the morning when Sigel’s battery was firing and Captain Hale was coolly riding along at the head of his company, these two men came riding rapidly up, one hand holding their reins while the other was pressed across the stomach, as if they were in great misery, saying, when they sighted their commander: “Captain Hale, where must we go? we are sick.” Captain Hale looked around without uttering a word for a moment, his countenance speaking more indignation than language could express. At last he said, in his characteristic, emphatic manner: “Go to h——l, you d——d cowards! You were the only two fighting men I had until now we are in a battle, and you’re both sick. I don’t care when you go.” Other incidents could be given where men in the regiment were tried and found wanting, but the great majority were brave and gallant men who never shirked duty or flinched from danger.
An instance of the opposite character may be told of Joe Welch. Joe was a blacksmith, almost a giant in stature. Roughly guessing, I would say he was six feet two inches in height, weighing about 240 pounds, broad-shouldered, raw-boned, with muscles that would laugh at a sledge. Joe had incurred the contempt of the company by acting in a very cowardly manner, as they thought, in one or two little personal affairs before we reached Missouri. But when we went into battle Joe was there, as unconcerned and cool, apparently, as if he was only going into his shop to do a day’s work; and when we made our charge down that rough hillside when the enemy’s bullets were coming as thick as hailstones, one of Joe’s pistols jolted out of its holster and fell to the ground. Joe reined in his horse, deliberately dismounted, recovered the pistol, remounted, and rapidly moved up to his place in the ranks. Those who witnessed the coolness and apparent disregard of danger with which he performed this little feat felt their contempt suddenly converted into admiration.
