On the 24th day of June, General Sherman ordered that an assault should
be made at two points south of Kenesaw Mountain, on the 27th, giving
three days notice for preparation and reconnaissance. Our division
constituted the assaulting party on the centre. On the night of the
26th, a council of war was held at corps headquarters, and the final
orders for the assault on the following day were given. The orders to
regimental commanders were: for the regiments to "load and cap," but not
to discharge a gun until they had reached the rebel breast works, then,
as they went over them with a yell, to fire their pieces, and finish the
work with the bayonet. These orders were given by the colonels of the
regiments to the line officers, and through them transmitted to the
non-commissioned officers and privates. The morning of the 27th broke
clear and cloudless, and at daybreak the regiments moved to the assault,
leaving all their camp equipments behind them, with a sufficient guard
for their protection. We moved out to the summit of a hill, here the
brigade and regimental commanders dismounted, leaving their horses in
care of their orderlies. Down the slope we went until we reached a jack
oak grove at the foot, where we formed our line of battle. At the far
edge of this bunch of oaks was a wheat field, and on the other side of
this field stretched the line of rebel breast works. Our line of battle
was soon formed, and there we stood waiting for the signal to advance.
At last off to our left a cannon belched forth its thunder, and as its
echoes came rolling down the line, each man grasped his rifle with a
tighter grip. Colonel McCook at the head of the brigade waved his sword
and gave the command: "Attention battalions, charge bayonets," and with
a rush and a cheer away we go. And now the battle commences. We have
reached the wheat field, and at yon side are the rebel breast works. At
the double quick we cross the field with a storm of lead and iron in our
faces; men are falling on all sides; there goes McCook down—quickly
following him, Harmon, who was bravely urging his men on, falls pierced
through the heart. Captain Fellows, our brigade inspector, also falls to
rise no more. See! the colors have disappeared, but only for a moment
when again they wave; the color sergeant had been shot down. Lieutenant
McClean, of Co "B," is hit and falls, so, also, sergeant Cunningham, and
Captain Clark, of Co. "E." They are dropping as the leaves in the
autumn, and oh! how that fire of hell beats in our faces. It is too
much, the works cannot be carried by assault, and our line, mangled,
torn and bleeding, falls back. But only for a short distance, however,
when we again halt amid that never ceasing fire. Some of the boys engage
the foe, while others, with tin cups and bayonets, burrow and dig in the
ground to throw up protection for themselves. We are not whipped, if we
_have_ failed in our attempt, and thirty-five paces only is what we will
yield to the rebels. Still the bullets, and the shells, and the solid
shot fly, and still more brave boys are sealing with their life's blood
their devotion to their country's flag. But why prolong the tale, the
ground is soaked with blood; but with that love for the old flag which
has floated so gallantly at our head over so many bloody fields, and
under whose stars and stripes the weary and oppressed of every land have
found a shelter, under whose protecting folds we have lived in peace and
security, until driven by its enemies to war; with that love kindling in
our breasts we stand ready to die, if need be, but never to dishonor its
beauty and its grandeur.
The long day at last draws to a close, and night, welcome night, settles
down upon us. To the weary and worn soldiers, night brought no repose,
but like beavers we worked erecting breastworks to protect us on the
morrow. The battle for the day is over. The cries of the wounded, and
the desultory shot of a rifle, is all that is heard beyond the noise
made by the soldiers in erecting their breast works. But there were
deeds of heroism enacted on Kenesaw's rugged brow that day that have
never been excelled on any battle field. Private James Knox, of Co. "B,"
had his thumb shot off early in the engagement, but refusing to go to
the rear, pressed forward until a rebel ball felled him to the ground;
rising on his hands and knees, for he could not walk, he turned his face
to the enemy, and in that position crawled off the field, declaring he
would never turn his back to the foe. 2nd Lieut. James McLean, also of
Co. "B," was hit early in the fight, but pressed on in command of his
company, until a ball, passing through his body, felled him to the
ground. All night long we worked, and when the morning broke we felt
secure, and were ready to renew the combat. But between our line and the
rebels, lay our dead and some of our wounded. The lines were so close
together, that stones were thrown by the rebels, severely wounding some
of our men. Morning broke and revealed to the foe what we had done
during the night. Firing at once commenced and was kept up all day. The
stubble and leaves between the lines had taken fire, and that with the
smoke from the guns, was making our situation very unpleasant. The dead,
too were fast decaying, under the burning rays of that Georgia sun, and
the most horrid stench filled the air. It was becoming unbearable, so
Colonel Langley, who had, until the death of Harmon, been serving on the
corps staff, but was now in command of his regiment, concluded to see if
an armistice could be arranged in order to give us an opportunity to
bury the dead, but not a white handkerchief, or white rag of any
description, could be found; so raising a copy of the "Chicago Tribune,"
which he had in his pocket, he succeeded in his purpose, and an
armistice of two hours was agreed upon, and the men poured over both of
the lines of works. You would not think as you see them now, as they
shake hands, and swap coffee for tobacco, and laugh and joke together
like old friends, that a few moments before they had been seeking each
others lives. But they are gathering up the dead; here comes a stretcher
borne by two men, on it lays the body of Captain W. W. Fellows, once the
commanding officer of Co. "C," but acting for some time previously as
brigade inspector. Silently we follow after them. How we loved that man!
an entire stranger to the writer a few short months previous, he had by
the subtle magic of his nature charmed us. He was not only a brave
officer, but a polished gentleman, always willing to help the needy, and
always ready at the call of duty. Capt. Fellow's death, that bloody day
at Kenesaw, was deeply mourned by us. We felt as if we had lost a near
and dear friend; always with a kindly smile of greeting when we met,
never, like so many others, defiling his mouth and disgracing his
manhood by uttering vile oaths and blasphemies. We saw him on the
morning of the assault before we moved from camp, and stopped for a
moment to exchange greetings, little did we think for the last time. We
buried him on the hill side where the first rays of Georgia's sun should
shine upon his grave; and the wild flowers bloom above him, and the
southern songster warble a requiem for the soldier from the Northland.
Here, also, was buried Captain Marion Lee, and some others who had
fallen in the strife. _Requiescat in pace._ Leaving the burial party to
end their labors, we proceed up the road to find if possible our field
hospital, where so many of our boys lie wounded. The road is flanked on
either side by thick brush; going along we happened to look to our
right, and see a sight that makes our blood stand still, so unexpected,
and so awful is it. There, in that clump of hazel, lays the body of our
colonel, where he had been carried directly after he fell. A sickening
feeling creeps over us as we stand in the presence of the dead, whom we
had seen such a short time before in full health and vigor. Yes, there
he lay, his life ended, his heart's blood given for his country's good.
Colonel Harmon was a christian man; what more can we say? A strict
disciplinarian, he had the solicitude of a father for his regiment, and
he wanted his men to feel that in him they had a friend who would look
after their welfare. With one sad, lingering look, we tore ourself from
the spot, with our heart stirred with deep emotion. But yonder is the
hospital tent. The weather, as we have before stated, was intensely
warm, and the hospital tents, or rather "flys," were stretched in such a
manner that their sides were raised some two feet from the ground, thus
giving a thorough circulation of air. We enter; there lay our poor
fellows, and as they see us they shout out a welcome. These fellows near
the entrance, are not so badly wounded as those farther on, so,
returning their greeting with an assumed show of glee, we pass into the
tent. And now we are in the midst of desperately wounded boys who are
lying here, some of them, without a vestige of clothing on them on
account of the heat, slowly dying. We feel sorry that we have come to
the hospital, but the wish to do something in some way to help the poor
lads, is uppermost in our thoughts. Here is 2nd Lieut. James McClain,
with his negro servant (faithful fellow) sitting by him, fanning him. We
kneel down by the lieutenant. We had been old acquaintances before we
left home, consequently no undue stiffness of official ceremony could
come between us. Poor Jim, he was drawing his breath in gasps; we saw
that death had set his seal upon his brow, and with a sorrow at our
heart that we believe was the deepest we ever felt, we said:
"Jimmy, is there anything we can do for you?" Opening his eyes, at the
sound of our voice, and reaching out his hand, he exclaimed:
"Oh, Bob! I am so glad to see you."
But our emotions overcame us, and in spite of all we could do, the tears
would come. But we checked them as soon as possible and again repeated
our question. Opening his eyes with his breath coming in convulsive
gasps, he said:
"Bob—write—to—my—mother,—tell her,—that I died—doing my duty."
Oh! if we could have had at that moment a heart of stone, so that we
could have talked to him, but it was too much: however we managed to
whisper to him a hope that he might get well, but no, he knew better, he
knew that his life was fast drawing to a close, and moving his head
slowly, he replied:
"No, Bob, I am dying."
We could not stand it and gently stooping over him, we kissed him on the
forehead, and turned to the next man lying beside him, who proved to be
orderly sergeant Benjamin F. Bonebrake. Ben presented a terrible
appearance, he had been wounded in the head, and the blood had streamed
down over his face and whiskers and over his once white shirt bosom, and
dried there, giving him a ghastly appearance.
"Do you want anything, Ben?"
"Yes, I would like to have my face washed."
Oh! how quiet and gentle these poor boys were, no complaining, no harsh
words, but there they lay, bearing their pain with true heroism. "All
right," we reply, glad to be able to get outside for a moment, and away
we went to the brigade hospital steward, with whom we were acquainted,
for what we needed. We found him and on the strength of
acquaintanceship, procured from him a hospital bucket with some warm
water and a sponge, and before we left him we had coaxed him to give us
a clean shirt for Ben out of the sanitary supplies he had on hand.
Rejoicing at our success, we hastened back, and proceeded to make Ben
more comfortable; we washed his face, combed his hair and whiskers, and
helped him on with the clean shirt. With a grateful acknowledgement he
lay back in his place. Next to him was sergeant Wash. Cunningham, good
natured, free hearted Wash.; a man of large and powerful frame, he had
received a rifle ball through the left arm; poor fellow he had gotten
down in such a shape, that his wound was paining him, and in reply to
our question as to what we could do for him, he said: "Nothing, only if
you could help me to raise up a little." We looked at his massive form
and felt afraid to touch him, for fear of giving him pain; we told him
so, and he replied: "All right, Rob, I can stand it." We wanted to get
away, we were feeling sick and were afraid to stay longer, but there was
one more boy whom we must find before we went, and this was Patrick
Sullivan of Co. "G." We searched and searched and at length we found
him, lying on his back, on his rubber blanket without a stitch of
clothing on him; he was lying in a pool of his own blood, with his eyes
closed, and his face pale and bloodless; we thought at first he was
dead, but kneeling down by him, we spoke his name. The heavy eyelids
opened, and with a smile on his countenance, he reached us his hand, we
grasped it and put the question:
"Can we do any thing for you, Patsey?" For a second there was no reply,
and then his lips opened and he said:
"Oh! Rob, if I could only sleep; I want to sleep but can't, the doctor
won't pay any attention to me, and there is such a noise."
He was a little delirious, and the roar of the cannon and the musketry
was still in his ears. But unloosing his hand we started out to find the
surgeon. We ran across him and told him what we wanted, that one of the
boys had been overlooked, and needed help, would he not come to him;
this with an impassioned force. He would come, he replied, as soon as he
could, but his hands were full. "No, doctor," we pleaded, "come now,
come now," and catching hold of his coat we would not let him go. Dr.
Hooten, our brigade surgeon, was a man of tender heart, and he saw we
were terribly in earnest. "Where is the boy," he said. We quickly turned
and conducted him to Patsey's side. Bending over him he examined him; he
had been shot through the lungs. Getting up he motioned for us to
follow. "Go to the steward," he said, "and tell him to mix you some
morphine and whisky," telling me the right amount of each. I hurriedly
left him and was soon returning with the medicine. Reaching his side I
knelt down and told him to open his mouth. Inserting the tube of the
hospital tin between his teeth, I gently poured the medicine down his
throat, but it had no sooner touched his stomach than he vomited it up.
I repeated the dose and had the satisfaction at last of seeing him
retain it. Drying up the blood and wet in which he was laying with some
old rags, we left him with the assurance that he would soon be sleeping.
Having been away now from our command for a long time, we felt we must
hurry back, however much we felt disposed to stay and do what we could
for our boys, so going outside of the fly, we started back to the
command. But our mind was torn and rent with sad feelings. Yonder under
that hospital fly, lay boys whom we tenderly loved, wounded and
helpless, breathing, slowly breathing their lives away, while others
suffering pain almost unbearable, lay with teeth clenched, and knitted
brows, suffering on in silence. As we slowly walked along how we strove
for the mastery of our feelings, but we could not help it, and in spite
of all we could do, we cried like a child. Sitting down by a tree until
we had partially overcome our sorrow, we arose and again started for the
company, while ringing in our ears were the words: "Vengeance is mine I
will repay, saith the Lord." How the memory of those days come surging
back upon us as we sit at home penning these lines. The scene is as
fresh in our memory as if it had happened only yesterday, and the events
of those times comes sweeping over us like a flood. But the boys we
loved so well, our neighbor lads at home, have long ere this mouldered
into dust in their southern graves, can we doubt for a moment that their
souls are happy? that they are now singing the happy songs of angels
around the great white throne on high? No! No! doubt cannot enter, and
so we feel that they are better off than we. All glory to their
memories. And such is the tale of the assault on the rebel lines in
front of Kenesaw. How many homes it darkened by the shadow it cast upon
their firesides. The 27th day of June, 1864, will long be remembered by
many families in Champaign and Vermilion counties.