April 29th we broke camp and proceeded to near Culpepper Court-house. Before leaving camp we sent our extra baggage, clothing, etc., to Washington, and, of course, never saw them again. During the night of May 3d we marched for the Rapidan, crossing at Germania Ford. The next evening we camped in order of battle near the Wilderness Tavern. The following morning the division moved out on a country road toward Robertson's Tavern. Passing through woods, we came to an open field, where line of battle was formed. The Bucktails were in front, skirmishing. We could see them on the ridge, and their occasional shouts and rapid firing showed that the battle had begun. For the first time I heard the whistle of the rifle ball, as a stray one now and then whistled over the line of battle. After waiting thus for some time, we moved back some distance, in the direction from which we had come. Here I spoke a few words with John Elliot, the last we ever exchanged. In the confusion which followed he was made prisoner, and died at Andersonville. Soon the noise of battle began to deepen in our front and at the right. Hurried orders were received; the line moved by the right flank, double-quick. The Seventh Regiment deployed and vanished into the woods, forward, and the Eleventh followed in line of battle. Moving on through the thick underbrush, the enemy was quickly encountered. Their first volley was deadly. A ball struck Boss. M'Cullough in the forehead. He fell dead, a portion of his shattered brain lodging on the arm of John Stanley, a boy of seventeen, who had come to us during the Spring. John shuddered, shook it from the sleeve of his blouse, raised his gun and began firing. Captain Jones, of Company A, White, of Company C, and many others, fell dead before this first volley. Soon it was discovered that the division was flanked. Our line was at right angles with the position in which the subsequent fighting took place. To crown all, the woods took fire, and soon the only problem that remained was to withdraw as quickly and safely as possible.
While this turmoil was progressing, to me so strange and bewildering, the surgeon, Dr. Lyon, came across me, and directed me to go to a certain point at the edge of the woods, east of the Wilderness Tavern, to help care for the wounded. Thither I made my way. As I passed on through the woods, I was soon out of reach of the bullets, which had been flying thick and fast. When I came to the open ground, I saw more clearly than ever the results of the battle, still going on in the woods beyond. The multitude of wounded and dying men crowded the road. Some were limping painfully along; others were being carried on stretchers, or helped along by comrades.
Reaching the designated place, I found the field tents erected, and all full of suffering men. I took charge of one in which were twenty-seven wounded, several amputations, and other bad cases. They lay with their heads toward the canvas, a narrow path being left between their feet. All that could be done for them was to give them food and water, bathe their wounds, and render any little service by which their sufferings might be mitigated. Their heroic patience astonished me. Men, torn and mangled, would utter no groan, nor give any vocal expression to the agonies which racked them, except sometimes when sleep or delirium found the overmastering will off guard.
Toward evening I learned that the regiment was just beyond the Wilderness tavern; and, getting relieved for a short time, I started to go to them, as I had the extra coffee of the mess. As I came in sight, they moved hurriedly away toward the right, where the battle was raging fiercely. It was useless to follow, and I began to retrace my steps. Pausing a moment on an elevated knoll, I gazed on the strange scene that spread out before me. From the right on the turnpike, a line, somewhat curved, extended a distance of three or four miles to the left. On the right the line was enveloped in woods, in which a terrific conflict was going on. Sedgwick's corps was standing between the army and disaster. In the center, on elevated ground, beyond some low woods, I could see a rebel line of battle, while the sharp fire of skirmishers in front showed that here the lines of blue and gray would soon smite together. Further toward the left, a line of blue extended along the edge of a narrow field, facing the woods just beyond, into which it poured incessant volleys, while the smoke that rose up from the woods showed that an active foe was there. Behind our line, flat on the ground, lay a second one. A tragedy, grandly, awfully sublime, was enacting before me. A hundred thousand men were grappling in deadly conflict. While I gazed the line of battle slackened its fire; the second one rose from the ground; then both swept forward across the field and into the woods beyond, bearing the enemy before them. For a few moments there was silence, and then the struggle was renewed as fiercely as ever. I returned to the field-tents to go on with my work of mercy among the suffering.
As night drew on the battle ceased, and the men lay down to sleep where they had fought, ready to renew the strife at the return of light. In the tents there, while the army beyond was resting, part of our nation's heroes continued the contest through the solemn hours of night. They fought with the giant Pain, and some of them went down into the dark valley, and close by the chill waters they faced the King of Terrors.
I slept none that night. As morning approached, I went to the edge of the little opening which had been cleared in the woods for the tents. While I stood here looking off toward the scene of yesterday's battle, the sound of a single rifle shot rang out on the air, then another and another, and then a deafening roar of musketry burst forth and raged along the whole line, continuing almost without interruption all day.
In the afternoon Lieutenant Boggs and David Steen were brought in wounded, the former by a rifle ball in the thigh, the latter severely bruised by a fragment of shell. He had been wounded at Gaines' Mill and Fredericksburg. After his return this time, I heard him say that he had come to have more dread of going into battle since he had been wounded so often. Still he never shrank from duty. He was killed the following August at Welden Railroad.
Here I saw the only instance of impatience on the part of a wounded man of which I have any recollection. A young fellow lay about the middle of the tent, wounded in the knee, a ball having cut the skin on one side without injuring the bone. His long legs were extended almost across the narrow path along which I was compelled to walk in passing from one to another. He was grumbling and complaining, demanding and receiving attentions in a gruff and uncivil manner. He would also mutter threatenings of what he would do should I hurt him in stepping over his crooked legs outstretched in my way. To all of this I paid no attention and signs of ill-nature continued. Finally, a bright young man opposite, whose leg was amputated at the thigh, raised himself on his elbow and proceeded to express his opinion of such conduct in language much more forcible than pious.
From this place we moved some distance to the left, where the tents were erected in an open field. Here an incident occurred which illustrates the false estimate placed upon the civilization of the North by the masses of the South. A wounded rebel, an intelligent-looking young man, was brought in from the field in an ambulance. We came with a stretcher to carry him into the tent. He looked at us with a frightened, helpless look, and asked:
"You won't hurt me, will you?"
I assured him we would be just as careful as possible. He seemed surprised to be treated with kindness, having been taught, evidently, that the Yankee invader was a barbarian. Removed to the tent, I examined his wound. A bullet had passed through the ankle joint, and the only remedy was amputation. He inquired how it was. It seemed hard to tell him that he must go through life maimed.
"That is a bad foot; but the surgeons will do the best they can for it. You may lose it." Some time after he was removed, I suppose to have his foot amputated, and I saw him no more.
The next move was to Spotsylvania. Grant had grappled with his enemy, intending to hold on "all Summer." The same spirit seemed to animate his army, from General Meade down to the latest recruit in the ranks. The lines of blue came out from the smoking underbrush of the Wilderness, their ranks torn and decimated, and closed in around the bristling batteries and rifle-pits of Spotsylvania with a relentless courage that was sublime.
Here the tents were pitched in a little, open lot, a house to the right as you faced the position where the fighting was in progress. The tents were not sufficient to contain the wounded, and they lay on the ground on the outside by thousands. Those long rows of suffering forms, gashed and mangled in every conceivable manner, told a dreadful tale of human wrath. That gallant division, the Reserves, had preserved their well-earned reputation for stubborn valor at a terrible cost. Their greatest loss was sustained in a single onset against the rebel position. The enemy was posted in strong rifle-pits, beyond a narrow strip of swamp. Orders were given to charge these works. The division moved forward. They had never failed in such an undertaking. Their charge had always pierced the enemy's line. This had been their record during three years of warfare. But men can not accomplish impossibilities. Baffled by the swamp, cut by the merciless fire that blazed out from the pits, they are driven back, rally, re-form and charge the second and third time, and then retire to the position from which they had come out.
The field-tents here were nearer the front than before. Bullets and an occasional shell whistled over us. My work was still the same, caring for the wounded, assisting the surgeon, or occasionally binding up a wound myself.
During the second day, while engaged at the farther end of the tent, I heard at the front a familiar voice. As soon as I was disengaged I went to the front end of the tent, eager to learn from whom the well-known voice proceeded. There lay a large, noble-looking young man, severely wounded in the thigh. He was conversing quietly with a wounded comrade by his side. Voice and face were as familiar as if heard and seen but yesterday. Puzzled and deeply interested, I did not speak, but proceeded to bathe his wound. While thus engaged, his eyes fell upon my face. Looking at me intently a moment, his face brightened, and he exclaimed:
"You are Rob M'Bride, aren't you?"
"Yes; and you are Billy Craig," was the immediate reply.
As soon as he pronounced my name, it all came to me in a moment. We had been school-mates at Courtney's School-house. He was then one of the "big boys," and I a lad of nine or ten. I had not seen him since. He was one of those large-hearted, royal souls, that could find pleasure in little acts of kindness, that bound me to him very closely. He bore his sufferings with heroic fortitude. When the time came to remove the wounded, and they were being hurried away in ambulances and rough army wagons, I went to Dr. Lyon and told him of the case. He went with me to an ambulance and ordered room reserved in it for him. I then had him carried to it, made him as comfortable as possible, bade him good-bye and God speed, and saw him no more on earth. He died from his wound some time in June.
May 11th, Lewis Grossman, of Company C, was brought in, terribly wounded by a shell. One arm and leg were crushed, and he was otherwise bruised. I did not see him until after the arm and leg were amputated. He was a young man of great physical endurance, or he would never have rallied from the shock. He was as pale as a corpse when first brought into the tent, but rallied in a little while, and was able to take some refreshment. When left to himself his mind wandered, and he would talk as if he were engaged in the quiet pursuits of peace. Unless prevented, he would remove the bandages from the stumps of his amputated limbs. When spoken to, however, he would refrain from this, and talk rationally of the present circumstances. Dr. Lyon finally told me to give my attention entirely to him. This I did until he was sent away. He told me how his wound was received. He was in front, skirmishing. He was in the road in front of a rebel battery, and in the act of loading his gun. Perceiving they were about to fire, he still delayed a moment, thinking to get in another shot before leaping to the shelter of a large tree that stood near. It was a costly delay.
The shell came screaming toward him, burst, and dashed him stunned and mangled to the ground. As he concluded this narrative, he added, with the utmost seriousness: "But they haven't made much off me, after all. I've peppered them in almost every battle the Potomac army has fought since the war began."
He got along finely, and there seemed every prospect of recovery. When some of the boys called on him at Washington, on their way home in June, he requested them to say nothing to his friends about the extent of his wounds. But from some cause—perhaps gangrene—he died August 3d, and is buried in the National Cemetery at Arlington.
Nearly opposite Lewis lay a young man of very fine face and attractive appearance. He was mortally wounded. Most of the time his sufferings were very great, but no earthly skill could bring any relief. As death drew on, his mind wandered. He was fighting his battles over again. He was not the poor, crushed mortality that lay here. His spirit was over yonder, where the cannon's sullen roar and the awful din of musketry, the cheers of the struggling combatants, told of a deadly strife. Sometimes he was distressed and troubled, sometimes exultant. Anon his face would light up with the strange fire of battle, and he would raise his arm and cheer. Once he said quite distinctly: "Here is a chance for a brave man." Later he became calm, and quietly fell asleep, to wake no more on earth till the great day of God.
One of the Bucktail Regiment lay on the ground in front of the tent, shot through the chest. He was, perhaps, twenty-five years of age, large and well-formed, his face stamped with the marks of intelligence. While engaged near him, I saw another of that band of heroes coming toward him with great strides, an expression of anguish on his face which I can not forget. He threw himself on his knees by the wounded man, kissed him, then covered his face with his hands, and his great manly form shook with convulsive sobbings. Tears trickled down the cheeks of the other. Not a word was spoken until, after a while, the storm of emotion had passed. Then they conversed calmly for a while, and parted with the quiet dignity of brave men who say farewell while the shadow of death lies dark around them.
A man was brought in shot through both thighs. I did not know his name, but had heard his voice among the worshipers in the church-tent at Bristoe Station, and knew that he was a man of God. After a brief examination, the surgeon announced that amputation would be necessary.
"Very well, doctor; get around to it as quick as you can. I suffer terribly."
Another was shot in the thigh, the bone shattered to the hip. When told that the limb must be amputated he objected.
"But you will die if it is not done."
"I can't help that; it shall not be amputated with my consent."
Within twenty-four hours he was dead. Whether wise in his decision or not, he met the result without flinching or complaint.
A boy with his arm torn off by a shell expressed his only complaint in the words, "I never can fight any more."
One evening, worn out by constant labor and watching, I lay down in a vacant place in the tent, from which a dead soldier had been removed, to find rest for mind and body in sleep. As I lay there thinking of the dreadful scenes around me, of the wounded and dying here, the dead just over yonder, I began to wonder what would be the sensations of a man shot in the brain. Suddenly there came a shock, as if the whole machinery of life had stopped at once. How long a time elapsed before consciousness was resumed I do not know; the interval may have been momentary; but as a dim sense of being stole over me again, I was quite convinced that a stray shot had struck me in the head. Rousing myself, I deliberately felt my head, to learn the exact state of things. To my surprise and gratification, I found every thing in due order. I leave it to those who are skilled in the mysteries of the nervous system to explain the phenomenon; but you must allow me to believe that I know something of what it is to be shot in the head.
The time arrived, at length, when the field hospitals must be moved because of the changed position of the army. A heavy rain began on the 11th, and continued for some days, making the roads almost impassable. The wounded that remained were removed as speedily and as mercifully as possible. Some had to be left behind. Nurses were detailed to remain with them. As night came on every thing was in readiness, and the rest of us were directed to take our departure without delay. Two of us started together after dark. We made our way through the mud and intense darkness about twenty rods, to the edge of a wood. We resolved to go no further, come what might. Doubling myself up at the root of an old stump, I was soon oblivious to both rain and danger. Just as day was breaking, I awoke, and arousing my companion, we hastened away.
This closed my experience in the hospital. I was so worn out by the constant strain which such labor made on body and mind, that rest was imperative. During all these days I could get no definite information of the fate of John Elliot. The wounded reported that he was missing, but whether among the dead or living they could not tell. It was difficult to drive away the thought of the painful possibilities that imagination would bring up. Had he been disabled that first day in the wilderness and perished in the flames of the burning woods? Had he been mortally wounded, and died alone in the thick underbrush which veiled so many tragic scenes? Had death come more swiftly and mercifully, or was he a prisoner and unharmed? Such were the questions that might be solved by inquiry among the members of the company.
After some delay I found the regiment by a little stream called the Ny. The spot on which they were camped, or rather resting under arms, was within beautiful shelling range of the rebel batteries, as I found out afterward to my great discomfort and dismay. Toward evening, Sergeant W. Coleman was taken quite sick, and at his request I started with him to find the hospital. After proceeding some distance, he became so ill that we could go no further, and some means of conveyance must be found. A stretcher was procured, and two men to carry him. To these I confided my charge, and began to retrace my steps. It was now after dark, a clear, moonless night. Crossing the little stream at the point where I had left the regiment a few hours before, to my great disappointment not a man could be found.
What to do was a puzzling question. The resolution was finally taken to spend a few hours, at least, in trying to find them. At first I started in a direction bearing toward the right, but soon met a column marching toward the left. Reasoning that if troops were being moved to the left, none would be moving at the same time toward the right, I fell in with this column, determined to see what the outcome would be. Soon the open ground was crossed, and the column began to bear to the right of its line of march, through the woods. Presently I noticed that an unusual silence was observed. Not a word was spoken above a whisper, every noise and clatter incident to the march were carefully avoided.
Growing weary at length, and reflecting that after all I might be going away from the regiment instead of toward it, I dropped out of the line and lay down against the root of a tree close to the road, to sleep till morning. Half sleeping and half waking I lay there, dreamily watching that army of shadows gliding stealthily by. Shadows they seemed as they moved hurriedly along under the gloom of the overhanging trees, as noiseless almost as an army of spirits from Homer's nether world. The mystery of this secret night march served to quicken imagination, and I could see this same column grimly marshaling in "battle's magnificently stern array" in the dim light of the coming morning, ready to burst upon some exposed point of the enemy's line.
Opening my eyes a little later, the same ghostly procession was filing past, but in an opposite direction. This meant that, sooner or later, my rest must be disturbed, or I might be left in an exposed and dangerous position. Present comfort, however, being the stronger motive just then, prevailed, and I sank into unconsciousness again. From this I was aroused by some one shaking me by the shoulder and warning me in a whisper that I must wake up and come on. The muffled "tramp, tramp" had ceased, the rear of that shadowy army was vanishing in the darkness; one solitary figure waited, delaying a moment, to see if I was fully awake. Rising, I followed. Reaching the open ground from which we had entered the woods, I found myself alone and bewildered. Proceeding some distance with rather a vague notion of direction, I determined to make a final halt till morning. All that was necessary to make myself comfortable was to sink down on the ground without removing any thing, my knapsack fitting conveniently under the back of my head, supporting head and shoulder as if intended for the purpose. Thus bestowing myself by the side of a rail fence, I was soon sleeping soundly.
But my rest was destined not to be undisturbed. Something awoke me. What! Was this night given over to ghosts and spirits intangible? Again the forms of men were gliding noiselessly about me. Above were the twinkling stars, around were busy men, and silence everywhere. With instinctive cautiousness I lay motionless, furtively noting the curious scene. A moment's careful attention explained it in part. One by one the rails of the fence were taken up with the utmost caution and borne away. They were building breastworks somewhere. There was work to be done, I thought, and preferred to finish my much delayed sleep, if allowed to do so. I lay motionless, only sufficiently awake to dimly take in the situation. Twice men came and stooped over me with their faces close to mine, looked intently, and turned away in silence. Congratulating myself on my good fortune, that I was going to sleep the night out while others worked, I gave myself again to repose.
When I awoke the sun had got fairly started on his course, and was pouring his rays full into my face. The events of the preceding night seemed like a dream; but there was evidence about me that my visitants had not been as ghostly as they seemed. The fence by which I had lain down had disappeared, and I was alone in an open field. Utterly bewildered, I addressed myself to the somewhat difficult task of deciding what must be done. On either side of me could be seen what I knew to be earth-works, but not a living thing was visible. The field gave evidence of having been fought over, for the well-known débris of a battle were strewn around. At length my mind was made up to go to the rear, find the division hospital, and get information.
But where was rear? Where was front? Where was any thing? After meditating profoundly on these questions, I decided that my course lay in the direction of the earth-works on one side of the open ground. This was the "rear," and these works had been abandoned in the progress of advance. Proceeding leisurely in this direction, I had not advanced far until I was surprised by the boom of a cannon behind me. A shell screamed over my head, and exploded with a sharp ring against the earth-works a few hundred yards ahead of me. Looking back, I saw a Yankee officer standing on the earth-work, glass in hand, watching the effects of the shot. This was a revelation. I was between the lines, and heading for the rebel works. That shot saved me a trip to a Confederate prison-pen. Hastily retracing my steps, I lost no time in reaching our lines, expecting each moment that an artillery battle would break out while I was between the combatants. The position was perhaps a half-mile to the right of the spot where I had last seen the regiment. No infantry was visible, but no doubt there were troops concealed in the woods near by. The sharp ridges by which the open ground was broken were occupied by artillery, the men standing by their guns.
The day was before me, and I was resolved to have a little more experience; the more so as I could make my observations in comparative safety. Those guns frowning grimly over the earthen redoubts meant mischief. I would see an artillery fight; my curiosity was soon amply gratified. Standing near a vacant redoubt, looking toward the rebel batteries, suddenly a white smoke burst forth, followed by the roar of cannon and the hissing shriek of shells, as the noisy missiles came tearing through the air toward us. After the first discharge, the rebel fire was directed chiefly to the right of the earth-work behind which I had taken refuge, though shells kept striking and bursting around. My position, however, was favorable for a view of our own batteries, and for observing the effect of the enemy's fire. Sometimes the shells would strike the ground, sending the dirt many feet into the air, and go tearing across the field, touching the ground and bounding again at intervals. Others would strike the earth-works, or explode in the air, and hurl their fragments far and near, whizzing and buzzing to the earth.
This noisy combat lasted for some time, and ceased,—not because either of the combatants was seriously damaged, as far as I could see, but because they were tired of it.
This will be as appropriate a place as any to remark, that "shelling" is usually quite harmless, except when the guns are served by skilled artillerists, and under favorable circumstances. Unless the shell is exploded at the proper distance and altitude in front of a line, it is not likely to do any injury. A cannonade which, to the uninitiated, would seem sufficient to destroy every thing before it, will be faced with the utmost equanimity by veteran troops, if the artillerist have the range too "long." It is always very annoying, however, as there is no telling when a shell may prove a little "short," and distribute its fragments for rods along the line. The men are usually ordered to lie down, unless directly engaged. The shell cleaves the air with a frightful sound, that is but faintly described by the word "shriek." Few men can refrain from "dodging," as the dangerous missile comes over with its unearthly sound. The writer has frequently tried it, but can remember no instance of marked success, except while engaged, or otherwise employed. Perhaps the most disagreeable sound of all, is when the guns are charged with grape and cannister, and send their destructive contents through the air with a grinding, groaning, gnashing sound, that chills the blood of the listener. This may partly result from association, as such a charge is seldom used except at close range, on a charging line. Then, if directed by cool, determined men, the effect is terrible. Those who have once heard this sound can never forget it. It requires but little imagination to fancy that the fiend which was sending forth such loud defiance just now, has grappled with his adversary and is hissing out his horrid rage in the midst of Titanic strugglings. A little experience will enable you to determine from the sound what a gun is firing; shot, shell, or grape. The artillery-men usually have little fear of shell, but dread a volley from infantry. With the infantry the case is reversed. Generally the men preferred the branch of service to which they were accustomed. Each did not envy the other.
The cavalryman rode all day; but at night he had to care for both himself and horse. The infantryman had nothing to care for but himself. He would make his coffee, and sleep all night, while the cavalryman must scout, or picket front or flank. Sometimes the infantry must spend a part of the night in throwing up breastworks, or making a night march; but usually he considers himself more certain of rest and comfort than his fellow-soldiers of the mounted force.
I now continued my search for information as to the whereabouts of the regiment. I had almost reached the little flat by the Ny, at the point where I had last seen my comrades the evening before, when, to my astonishment, the roar of cannon broke forth again, and the shells came hissing over my head and bursting all around me. There was not even a stump or stone for shelter from the pelting storm of iron, and in the woods just over the stream, the trees were being torn and rent asunder as if by thunderbolts. This was more of a joke than I had bargained for. Reflecting a moment, I concluded to take my chances among the trees. A slender foot-log over the stream afforded means of crossing. When about the middle of the log a shell howled close to my head and dashed through a tree with a fearful crash. Nothing deterred, I sat down at the root of a sturdy oak which would shelter me from fragments, at least, and waited for something to "turn up." The rebels evidently thought that troops were concealed in the woods, and were determined to make it hot for them. They made it lively for me; but unless that afforded them some satisfaction, they might have saved their ammunition.
Later I learned that the Reserves had moved to the left. Passing along in that direction, I came to a hill on which a battery was planted. The men were standing by their guns, ready for action. Close behind these, on the face of the hill were the caissons, and back of these, men holding the horses, the men themselves sheltered in holes which they had dug in the hillside. Things looked decidedly breezy about that hill. My curiosity to witness an artillery fight had been fully gratified some time before; so I passed on without delay, and soon found the object of my search some distance further to the left.
Late in the afternoon of the 17th an orderly galloped to headquarters, the bugle sounded "fall in," and we were moving toward the right at a rapid pace. Heavy firing could be heard in the direction of our right flank, and we were hurrying toward the scene of action, to strengthen the threatened point. We arrived about dark. The fighting had almost ceased, and the enemy were handsomely repulsed. The attack had been made on a body of inexperienced troops, mostly heavy artillery, who were marching from Fredericksburg to join the Army of the Potomac. They were well-drilled and disciplined, and made a gallant and successful fight, though with heavy loss. In their first fight they had faced Lee's best veterans, and defeated them. The old soldiers were inclined to regard it as rather a joke—the lively manner in which the rebs welcomed them to the front. This disposition to see a bright, a laughable side to every thing, may be set down as one of the peculiarities of the Yankee soldier. In victory or defeat, success or disaster, ease or hardship, some one of a group of soldiers could find something from which to extract a jest or on which to found a pun.
The next morning I went out over the field. Details of men were engaged in burying their fallen comrades. The dead were collected in groups, a trench sufficiently wide and deep was dug, and they were laid side by side as decently as possible, and covered with two or three feet of earth. When it could be done, the graves were marked. I have seen this done by our men for the rebel dead, when there was time and leisure for such care.
Under an apple tree lay a rebel who had been shot in the forehead, a little above the center. He must have been shot before sunset of the previous day. It was about noon when I saw him, and strange to say, he was still alive. He was unconscious, and probably had been from the moment he was struck.
In a negro cabin lay a young rebel soldier, a fair-faced, handsome boy, shot through the right lung. I inquired after his wants, and made him as comfortable as might be. He said he had not suffered for want of care. Soldiers had been in frequently during the day, and all had been very kind. He spoke of this with great satisfaction. I notified Dr. Lyon of the case, and he was taken care of.
The next day we advanced some distance toward the enemy. Skirmishers were thrown forward, but no serious fighting took place. As the skirmishers were going out, Chaplain Delo dryly inquired if he might not accompany them, giving as his reason that he would like to get Captain Coder's horse killed if it could be done conveniently. He had charge of a horse belonging to the captain, who had displeased him about something in connection with the horse. There was no opportunity of gratifying the worthy chaplain's wishes.
Again the army was in motion, leaving behind now as useless what before had been fought for so tenaciously. As we moved away, the Eleventh was in the rear, nothing between us and the enemy, but some cavalry, to cover the rear of the column, as the army moved off to strike Lee from a new position. We were passing over a wide, open piece of country. The rebel cavalry and our own had become hotly engaged, and a spirited fight was in progress clear across the open ground behind us.
About this time Daniel Graham became quite ill, and was compelled to fall out of the ranks. I remained with him to help him along. The undertaking proved to be rather a serious one. He would struggle bravely on for a while, and then sit down panting and exhausted. I carried his gun and knapsack, and finally took him by the arm to keep him up.
Meantime the battle going on behind us drew nearer and nearer, and the bullets were whistling around us with uncomfortable frequency. At last Daniel became utterly discouraged; and, as he dropped upon the ground to rest at one of his frequent halts, he declared it was no use, he could go no further. He urged me to leave him, and make my escape.
"There's no use of talking that way. After you rest a few minutes, we'll try it again."
"But I'm clear used up, and there's no use of both of us being prisoners."
"We're not prisoners yet by a good deal. We are going to come out all right. You are worth two dead men yet."
But notwithstanding my brave words, I was almost of his opinion, though not convinced that the time had come to give up all hope. It was my duty to stay with him as long as there was any prospect of getting him off.
Our cavalry was now nearly up to where we were, and I announced that he must come along. Helping him to his feet, we started. Courage and strength now seemed to revive. We made good progress, and were soon out of danger. In the course of an hour or two he was able to take his gun again, and in the evening we came up with the regiment.
In trying to recall the scenes of this period, there are some that seem like the fragments of a half-forgotten dream, distinct in themselves, but without any definite connection as to time or place. They are but pictures, some of them becoming faded and indistinct; others bright and fresh, as if they had come from the painter's hand but yesterday. I see a long column of weary soldiers, winding along over hill and valley, in the night, gliding past a stately mansion, with beautiful grounds and shaded walks, and everywhere the freshness and fragrance of Spring. Again I see a line of battle stretching out across an open field, the men resting lazily in their ranks. A little to the left, near some shade trees, stands a battery, ready for action, the guns pointing toward some unseen enemy beyond. It is noon, and the sunlight is pouring down upon the scene, bright and clear.
May 23d we came to the North Ann. We halted in open ground, before we reached the river. Fighting was in progress at the front, where the rebels were disputing the passage of the river. While we waited here, a battery came thundering past at full speed, and soon the roar of their guns told that they had found something to do.
While this was in progress, we were ordered to move. The column was headed, first to the rear, then toward our right. By a rapid march we reached a ford, higher up the river. Without delay we waded right through. The water was swift, and three or four feet deep in places. The bottom of the river was stony, and the stones were slippery. This, with the swiftness of the stream, made the footing of the most active rather precarious. A German, named Moreland, a teacher by profession, and a man of fine qualities, had joined the company but a little while before. He was not very active at best, and at this time had very sore feet. As we were hurrying across, suddenly a wonderful splashing and floundering were heard toward the rear of the company, and Moreland's feet were discovered twinkling above the surface of the water, while with his head he seemed to be making a critical examination of the bottom of the stream. At last he regained his footing, puffing and blowing like a porpoise, amid the cheers and horse-laughs of his comrades.
Once across, no time was to be lost. We had stolen a march on the rebels, and if we would use our advantage we must be about it. The movement was not long unknown to the enemy. As fast as the troops reached the high ground on the other side, they formed line of battle, keeping the left flank covered by the river, and facing down stream. As the remaining troops crossed, they formed on the right, the line as it formed advancing downward and outward from the river, in a curve.
The Eleventh was not far from the left. They moved down the stream some distance, and halted in the midst of a beautiful farm. Before them was a valley, across which the Bucktails were advancing as skirmishers, and beyond this the ground rose again, and curved off toward woods in the distance. Scarcely had our line reached this point, when the enemy "came down like the wolf on the fold." Judging from the promptness and vigor with which they assailed us, they evidently counted on making our enterprise another Ball's Bluff affair.
As the Bucktails advanced, their rapid firing warned us that they had discovered the advance of the enemy. Dust was seen rising on the high ground beyond, and horses were dimly seen. We judged that batteries were coming into position. We were not long in doubt. Suddenly a perfect volley of artillery burst forth. The air seemed filled with the shrieking shells and whizzing fragments. The men could do no more than lie down and let the storm rage. For some time we had not a single gun in position to reply, and the rebels poured in their fire without hindrance. Soldiers who had been through all the battles of the Potomac army, affirmed that they never experienced such a noisy onset, except at Gettysburg. As quickly as possible our batteries came into position, on both sides of the river. Now the tumult was doubled. The earth seemed to shake. When our artillery opened in reply, the rebels turned their attention in that direction; but on account of the awkwardness of their gunners, we were annoyed almost as much as when under their direct fire. On the right there was severe infantry fighting. Of this we could hear little, on account of the terrible cannonading going on around us. The losses of the regiment were slight, owing to the fact that the rebels overshot us. A few were wounded, but I think none were killed. The loss of the corps was about 350. The rebel loss was reported at 1,000, including General Brown, who was in command.
May was now drawing to a close, and with it would close the history of the Pennsylvania Reserves. The 30th found us in the vicinity of Bethsaida Church. We were moving on with those stops and starts which indicate that the head of the column has met with some obstruction. Skirmishing was going on in front, and from time to time the boom of cannon came rolling up from the left. We were moving along a road which led through open farm country, and through a strip of woods, beyond which skirmishing was heard. During one of the frequent halts, while the men were resting, some standing, others sitting or reclining at ease, a rifle ball came whistling through the air, and struck with a sharp snap in the rail-pile on which myself and others were sitting. It struck between Jim Shaffer and myself. We both naturally squirmed a little at the unpleasant nearness of the malicious little messenger. The affair called forth laughter and jocular exclamations from those around: "How are you Johnnie!" "Hit 'em again!" "Go in!"
The incident would not have caused any special notice, had it not been so unexpected, on account of our distance from the scene of action.
Forward now through the woods, out upon the open ground beyond, where the division is forming for its last battle. Their left now rests not far from where their right was when they fought at Gaines' Mill, nearly two years before. They advance some distance. "Some one has blundered." They have no support on either wing. They are flanked, and, after a brief struggle, are driven back. Some noble men were lost here. Parks, of Company D, is mortally wounded; Daniel Graham is made prisoner. In the retreat, two men carry back John Stanley, wounded in the arm and side. At the wood they rally. A fence is torn down, and with this and whatever is nearest at hand a breastwork is hastily improvised. A few of the Bucktails have rallied on their right, and thrown up a similar defense of logs, rails, any thing that can stop a bullet. Here the line seems to terminate; but just beyond and a little back, is a brass battery, concealed by bushes, every gun charged with grape and canister. A house stands close behind the line, in a recess of the woods.
Now the enemy is seen advancing. Line after line comes swinging out. Shells come screaming over. One explodes in front of Company D. Its fragments sever the flagstaff close to Jim Shaffer's head, rip open Mike Coleman's cap, tear off Culp's arm near the shoulder. Another bursts in the house, and sets it on fire. A woman, bearing a baby in one arm and leading by the hand a little child, comes out of the house, still unharmed. Frightened and bewildered, she is passing along the rear of the line instead of hastening away from it. A kind-hearted soldier directs her toward a place of safety. But now the rebel lines are within rifle range. Volley after volley is poured into them, and their ranks melt before the terrible fire. In our front they falter; but toward the right they see a chance for victory. They will swing around our flank, and crush us as they did but an hour before. With exultant yells, their left comes sweeping on, wheeling to envelop our right. But now there bursts from the underbrush a blast as if from the pit, crashing, tearing, grinding, enfilading their lines, leaving in its track a swath of dead and dying. This is decisive, and the battle is won.
Over a hundred dead were counted in front of the Eleventh and the few Bucktails on their right. One man was struck with a charge of grape, or by a bursting shell, and his body from the knees to the neck was crushed and torn into an indistinguishable mass.
John Stanley, who was wounded in this action, was a brave, noble boy. Looking along the company line, with its veterans of so many battles, the remnant of a hundred as brave men as ever followed a battle flag, you would not have guessed that this boyish face could be the calmest in the hour of trial. During that month of battles, he was always in his place, without bravado, but with unflinching courage, doing his duty. I saw him at the woods, as they were taking him from the field. His pale face was as calm as ever. He never returned to us, nor did I learn the result of his wounds.
The next morning the Reserves were withdrawn from the front. Their term of service had expired. The veterans and recruits were reorganized, forming the One Hundred and Ninetieth and One Hundred and Ninety-first Pennsylvania Volunteer Infantry. The others started on their homeward march.
Of Company D, fourteen men returned—five non-commissioned officers and nine privates. Eleven had re-enlisted. Thirty-five were dead, of whom twenty-three had been killed in battle or mortally wounded; and six were prisoners in the hands of the enemy, of whom two died.
Of the eleven veterans, only seven were present, the others being wounded or prisoners. By the close of the war, forty of the original one hundred and one had died in the service. During the first three years, twenty-four were discharged for wounds or sickness. Such is the record of these heroic men. Mingled feelings of joy and sadness were in the hearts of all, as good-byes were spoken, and they marched away. The war-worn veterans, who now turned their footsteps homeward, and those who stood there, watching their going that day, knew too well how certainly these "good-byes" might be "farewells." I think I saw tears in a certain brave colonel's eyes; and perhaps strong hands were clasped with a little more than usual fervor, as friend looked into the face of friend; but there was no "scene." These men were too much in earnest for that.