“He was the bravest man I ever knew: General Kilpatrick also used to say that of him. But he will not talk about himself—so you may not get what you want; but come up and try.” That was in the letter that sent me all the miles to see John Landegon.
He did not believe in getting into the papers—he said—and all that sort of thing; people would say, “Here's another old vet lying about the war”—more of that sort; he hadn't got into print, and he wouldn't now.
We led him on—or tried to—Captain Northrop and I.
“John, do you remember anything about the six Confederates you and one of the boys captured in a barn? What about that?” And old John Landegon, with never a smile, answered, dryly:
“I was there. That was in the spring of '62, and soon after that we broke camp and marched to—“
Campaigns and dates, and the movements of armies and of corps— but never an “I” in it all, and he would have it so. Evening came—the hours I had looked forward to all the long, proﬁtless afternoon; but it seemed it was to bring only more dates, and the proper spelling of the names of ofﬁcers long forgotten and long dead. Through it all, like a tortuous river-bed, empty, bone-dry, there ran his modest estimate of his service:
“I enlisted for three months in the First Regiment, Connecticut Volunteer Infantry, Company D, and there I got a little notoriety cheap. How? Oh, I got a prisoner; and so I was detailed as a headquarters scout under General Tyler; and because of that, when I reenlisted in