THE FIRST DAY AT GETTYSBURG.
"Harry, I'm getting tired of this thing. It's becoming monotonous,
this thing of being roused every morning at four, with orders
to pack up and be ready to march at a moment's notice, and then
lying around here all day in the sun. I don't believe we are going
anywhere, anyhow."
We had been encamped for six weeks, of which I need give no special
account, only saying that in those "summer quarters," as they might
be called, we went on with our endless drilling, and were baked and
browned, and thoroughly hardened to the life of a soldier in the
field.
The monotony of which Andy complained did not end that day, nor
the next. For six successive days we were regularly roused at four
o'clock in the morning, with orders to "pack up and be ready to
move immediately!" only to unpack as regularly about the middle of
the afternoon. We could hear our batteries pounding away in the
direction of Fredericksburg, but we did not then know that we were
being held well in hand till the enemy's plan had developed itself
into the great march into Pennsylvania, and we were let off in hot
pursuit.
So, at last, on the 12th of June, 1863, we started, at five o'clock
in the morning, in a north-westerly direction. My journal says:
"Very warm, dust plenty, water scarce, marching very hard. Halted
at dusk at an excellent spring, and lay down for the night with
aching limbs and blistered feet."
I pass over the six days' continuous marching that followed,
steadily on toward the north, pausing only to relate several
incidents that happened by the way.
On the 14th we were racing with the enemy--we being pushed on to
the utmost of human endurance--for the possession of the defences
of Washington. From five o'clock of that morning till three the
following morning,--that is to say, from daylight to daylight,--we
were hurried along under a burning June sun, with no halt longer
than sufficient to recruit our strength with a hasty cup of coffee
at noon and nightfall. Nine, ten, eleven, twelve o'clock at night,
and still on! It was almost more than flesh could endure. Men fell
out of line in the darkness by the score, and tumbled over by the
roadside, asleep almost before they touched the ground.
I remember how a great tall fellow in our company made us laugh
along somewhere about one o'clock that morning,--"Pointer," we
called him,--an excellent soldier, who afterward fell at his
post at Spottsylvania. He had been trudging on in sullen silence
for hours, when all of a sudden, coming to a halt, he brought
his piece to "order arms" on the hard road with a ring, took off
his cap, and, in language far more forcible than elegant, began
forthwith to denounce both parties to the war, "from A to Izzard,"
in all branches of the service, civil and military, army and navy,
artillery, infantry, and cavalry, and demanded that the enemy
should come on in full force here and now, "and I'll fight them
all, single-handed and alone, the whole pack of 'em! I'm tired of
this everlasting marching, and I want to fight!"
"Three cheers for Pointer!" cried some one, and we laughed heartily
as we toiled doggedly on to Manassas, which we reached at three
o'clock A. M., June 15th. I can assure you we lost no time in
stretching ourselves at full length in the tall summer grass.
"James McFadden, report to the adjutant for camp guard! James
McFadden! Anybody know where Jim McFadden is?"
Now that was rather hard, wasn't it? To march from daylight to
daylight, and lie down for a rest of probably two hours before
starting again, and then to be called up to stand throughout those
precious two hours on guard duty!
I knew very well where McFadden was, for wasn't he lying right
beside me in the grass? But just then I was in no humor to tell.
The camp might well go without a guard that night, or the orderly
might find McFadden in the dark if he could.
But the rules were strict, and the punishment was severe, and poor
McFadden, bursting into tears of vexation, answered like a man:
"Here I am, Orderly; I'll go." It was hard.
Two weeks later, both McFadden and the orderly went where there is
neither marching nor standing guard any more.
Now comes a long rest of a week in the woods near the Potomac; for
we have been marching parallel with the enemy, and dare not go
too fast, lest by some sudden and dexterous move in the game he
should sweep past our rear in upon the defences of Washington. And
after this sweet refreshment, we cross the Potomac on pontoons,
and march, perhaps with a lighter step, since we are nearing home,
through the smiling fields and pleasant villages of "Maryland, my
Maryland." At Poolesville, a little town on the north bank of the
Potomac, we smile as we see a lot of children come trooping out of
the village school,--a merry sight to men who have seen neither
woman nor child these six months and more, and a touching sight to
many a man in the ranks as he thinks of his little flaxen-heads in
the far-away home. Ay, think of them now, and think of them full
tenderly too, for many a man of you shall never have child climb
on his knee any more!
As we enter one of these pleasant little Maryland
villages,--Jefferson by name,--we find on the outskirts of the
place two young ladies and two young gentlemen waving the good old
flag as we pass, and singing "Rally round the Flag, Boys!" The
excitement along the line is intense. Cheer on cheer is given by
regiment after regiment as we pass along, we drummer-boys beating,
at the colonel's express orders, the old tune, "The Girl I left
behind me," as a sort of response. Soon we are in among the hills
again, and still the cheering goes on in the far distance to the
rear.
Only ten days later we passed through the same village again, and
were met by the same young ladies and gentlemen, waving the same
flag and singing the same song. But though we tried twice, and
tried hard, we could not cheer at all; for there's a difference
between five hundred men and one hundred,--is there not? So, that
second time, we drooped our tattered flags, and raised our caps
in silent and sorrowful salute. Through Middletown next, where a
rumor reaches us that the enemy's forces have occupied Harrisburg,
and where certain ladies, standing on a balcony and waving their
handkerchiefs as we pass by, in reply to our colonel's greeting,
that "we are glad to see so many Union people here," answer, "Yes;
and we are glad to see the Yankee soldiers too."
From Middletown, at six o'clock in the evening, across the mountain
to Frederick, on the outskirts of which city we camp for the night.
At half-past five next morning (June 29th) we are up and away,
in a drizzling rain, through Lewistown and Mechanicstown, near
which latter place we pass a company of Confederate prisoners,
twenty-four in number, dressed in well-worn gray and butternut,
which makes us think that the enemy cannot be far ahead. After
a hard march of twenty-five miles, the greater part of the way
over a turnpike, we reach Emmittsburg at nightfall, some of us
quite barefoot, and all of us footsore and weary. Next morning
(June 30th) at nine o'clock we are up and away again, "on the
road leading towards Gettysburg," they say. After crossing the
line between Maryland and Pennsylvania, where the colonel halts
the column for a moment, in order that we may give three rousing
cheers for the Old Keystone State, we march perceptibly slower, as
if there were some impediment in the way. There is a feeling among
the men that the enemy is somewhere near. Towards noon we leave the
public road, and taking across the fields, form in line of battle
along the rear of a wood, and pickets are thrown out. There is an
air of uncertainty and suspicion in the ranks as we look to the
woods, and consider what our pickets may possibly unmask there.
But no developments have yet been made when darkness comes, and we
bivouac for the night behind a strong stone wall.
Passing down along the line of glowing fires in the gathering
gloom, I come on one of my company messes squatting about a fire,
cooking supper. Joe Gutelius, corporal and color-guard from our
company, is superintending the boiling of a piece of meat in a tin
can, while Sam Ruhl and his brother Joe are smoking their pipes
near by.
"Boys, it begins to look a little dubious, don't it? Where is Jimmy
Lucas?"
"He's out on picket in the woods yonder. Yes, Harry, it begins to
look a little as if we were about to stir the Johnnies out of the
brush," says Joe Gutelius, throwing another rail on the fire.
"If we do," says Joe Ruhl, "remember that you have the post of
honor, Joe, and 'if any man pulls down that flag, shoot him on the
spot!'"
"Never you fear for that," answers Joe Gutelius. "We of the
color-guard will look out for the flag. For my part, I'll stay a
dead man on the field before the colors of the 150th are disgraced."
"You'll have some tough tussling for your colors, then," says Sam.
"If the Louisiana Tigers get after you once, look out!"
"Who's afraid of the Louisiana Tigers? I'll back the Buck-tails
against the Tigers any day. Stay and take supper with us, Harry!
We are going to have a feast to-night. I have the heart of a beef
boiling in the can yonder; and it is done now. Sit up, boys, get
out your knives and fall to."
"We were going to have boiled lion heart for supper, Harry," says
Joe Ruhl with mock apology for the fare, "but we couldn't catch
any lions. They seem to be scarce in these parts. Maybe we can
catch a tiger to-morrow, though."
Little do we think, as we sit thus cheerily talking about the
blazing fire behind the stone-wall, that it is our last supper
together, and that ere another nightfall two of us will be sleeping
in the silent bivouac of the dead.
* * * * *
"Colonel, close up your men, and move on as rapidly as possible."
It is the morning of July 1st, and we are crossing a bridge over
a stream, as the staff-officer, having delivered this order for
us, dashes down the line to hurry up the regiments in the rear. We
get up on a high range of hills, from which we have a magnificent
view. The day is bright, the air is fresh and sweet with the
scent of the new-mown hay, and the sun shines out of an almost
cloudless sky, and as we gaze away off yonder down the valley to
the left--look! Do you see that? A puff of smoke in mid-air! Very
small, and miles away, as the faint and long-coming "boom" of the
exploding shell indicates; but it means that something is going on
yonder, away down in the valley, in which, perhaps, we may have a
hand before the day is done. See! another--and another! Faint and
far away comes the long-delayed "boom!" "boom!" echoing over the
hills, as the staff-officer dashes along the lines with orders to
"double-quick! double-quick!"
Four miles of almost constant double-quicking is no light work at
any time, least of all on such a day as this memorable first day
of July, for it is hot and dusty. But we are in our own State now,
boys, and the battle is opening ahead, and it is no time to save
breath. On we go, now up a hill, now over a stream, now checking
our headlong rush for a moment, for we _must_ breathe a little. But
the word comes along the line again, "double-quick," and we settle
down to it with right good-will, while the cannon ahead seem to be
getting nearer and louder. There's little said in the ranks, for
there is little breath for talking, though every man is busy enough
thinking. We all feel, somehow, that our day has come at last--as
indeed it has!
We get in through the outskirts of Gettysburg, tearing down the
fences of the town-lots and outlying gardens as we go; we pass a
battery of brass guns drawn up beside the Seminary, some hundred
yards in front of which building, in a strip of meadow-land, we
halt, and rapidly form the line of battle.
"General, shall we unsling knapsacks?" shouts some one down the
line to our division-general, as he is dashing by.
"Never mind the knapsacks, boys; it's the State now!"
And he plunges his spurs into the flanks of his horse, as he takes
the stake-and-rider fence at a leap, and is away.
"Unfurl the flags, Color-guard!"
"Now, forward, double----"
"Colonel, we're not loaded yet!"
A laugh runs along the line as, at the command "Load at
will--load!" the ramrods make their merry music, and at once the
word is given, "Forward, double-quick!" and the line sweeps up that
rising ground with banners gayly flying, and cheers that rend the
air,--a sight, once seen, never to be forgotten.
I suppose my readers wonder what a drummer-boy does in time of
battle. Perhaps they have the same idea I used to have, namely,
that it is the duty of a drummer-boy to beat his drum all the time
the battle rages, to encourage the men or drown the groans of the
wounded! But if they will reflect a moment, they will see that
amid the confusion and noise of battle, there is little chance of
martial music being either heard or heeded. Our colonel had long
ago given us our orders:
"You drummer-boys, in time of an engagement, are to lay aside your
drums and take stretchers and help off the wounded. I expect you to
do this, and you are to remember that, in doing it, you are just
as much helping the battle on as if you were fighting with guns in
your hands."
And so we sit down there on our drums and watch the line going
in with cheers. Forthwith we get a smart shelling, for there is
evidently somebody else watching that advancing line besides
ourselves; but they have elevated their guns a little too much, so
that every shell passes quite over the line and ploughs up the
meadow-sod about _us_ in all directions.
[Illustration: A SKIRMISH AFTER A HARD DAY'S MARCH]
Laying aside our knapsacks, we go to the Seminary, now rapidly
filling with the wounded. This the enemy surely cannot know, or
they wouldn't shell the building so hard! We get stretchers at the
ambulances, and start out for the line of battle. We can just see
our regimental colors waving in the orchard, near a log-house about
three hundred yards ahead, and we start out for it--I on the lead,
and Daney behind.
There is one of our batteries drawn up to our left a short distance
as we run. It is engaged in a sharp artillery duel with one of
the enemy's, which we cannot see, although we can hear it plainly
enough, and straight between the two our road lies. So, up we
go, Daney and I, at a lively trot, dodging the shells as best we
can, till, panting for breath, we set down our stretcher under an
apple-tree in the orchard, in which, under the brow of the hill,
we find the regiment lying, one or two companies being out on the
skirmish line ahead.
I count six men of Company C lying yonder in the grass--killed,
they say, by a single shell. Close beside them lies a tall,
magnificently built man, whom I recognize by his uniform as
belonging to the "Iron Brigade," and therefore probably an Iowa
boy. He lies on his back at full length, with his musket beside
him--calm-looking as if asleep, but having a fatal blue mark on
his forehead and the ashen pallor of death on his countenance.
Andy calls me away for a moment to look after some poor fellow
whose arm is off at the shoulder; and it was just time I got away,
too, for immediately a shell plunges into the sod where I had been
sitting, tearing my stretcher to tatters, and ploughing up a great
furrow under one of the boys who had been sitting immediately
behind me, and who thinks, "That was rather close shaving, wasn't
it, now?" The bullets whistling overhead make pretty music with
their ever-varying "z-i-p! z-i-p!" and we could imagine them so
many bees, only they have such a terribly sharp sting. They tell
me, too, of a certain cavalry-man (Dennis Buckley, Sixth Michigan
cavalry it was, as I afterwards learned--let history preserve
the brave boy's name) who, having had his horse shot under him,
and seeing that first-named shell explode in Company C with such
disaster, exclaimed, "That is the company for me!" He remained with
the regiment all day, doing good service with his carbine, and he
escaped unhurt!
"Here they come, boys; we'll have to go in at them on a charge,
I guess!" Creeping close around the corner of the log-house, I
can see the long lines of gray sweeping up in fine style over the
fields; but I feel the colonel's hand on my shoulder.
"Keep back, my boy; no use exposing yourself in that way."
As I get back behind the house and look around, an old man is seen
approaching our line through the orchard in the rear. He is dressed
in a long blue swallow-tailed coat and high silk hat, and coming up
to the colonel, he asks:
"Would you let an old chap like me have a chance to fight in your
ranks, colonel?"
"Can you shoot?" inquires the colonel.
"Oh yes, I can shoot, I reckon," says he.
"But where are your cartridges?"
"I've got 'em here, sir," says the old man, slapping his hand on
his trousers pocket.
And so "old John Burns," of whom every school-boy has heard, takes
his place in the line and loads and fires with the best of them,
and is left wounded and insensible on the field when the day is
done.
Reclining there under a tree while the skirmishing is going on in
front and the shells are tearing up the sod around us, I observe
how evidently hard pressed is that battery yonder in the edge of
the wood, about fifty yards to our right. The enemy's batteries
have excellent range on the poor fellows serving it. And when the
smoke lifts or rolls away in great clouds for a moment, we can
see the men running, and ramming, and sighting, and firing, and
swabbing, and changing position every few minutes to throw the
enemy's guns out of range a little. The men are becoming terribly
few, but nevertheless their guns, with a rapidity that seems
unabated, belch forth great clouds of smoke, and send the shells
shrieking over the plain.
[Illustration: AT CLOSE QUARTERS THE FIRST DAY AT GETTYSBURG.]
Meanwhile, events occur which give us something more to think of
than mere skirmishing beloved brigadier-general, Roy Stone,
stepping out a moment to reconnoitre the enemy's position and
movements, is seen by some sharpshooter off in a tree, and is
carried, severely wounded, into the barn. Our colonel, Langhorne
Wister, assumes command of the brigade. Our regiment, facing
westward, while the line on our right faces to the north, is
observed to be exposed to an enfilading fire from the enemy's
guns, as well as from the long line of gray now appearing in
full sight on our right. So our regiment must form in line and
"change front forward," in order to come in line with the other
regiments. Accomplished swiftly, this new movement brings our line
at once face to face with the enemy's, which advances to within
fifty yards, and exchanges a few volleys, but is soon checked and
staggered by our fire.
Yet now, see! Away to our left, and consequently on our flank, a
new line appears, rapidly advancing out of the woods a half-mile
away, and there must be some quick and sharp work done now, boys,
or, between the old foes in front and the new ones on our flank,
we shall be annihilated. To clear us of these old assailants in
front before the new line can sweep down on our flank, our brave
colonel, in a ringing command, orders a charge along the whole
line. Then, before the gleaming and bristling bayonets of our
"Buck-tail" brigade, as it yells and cheers, sweeping resistlessly
over the field, the enemy gives way and flies in confusion. But
there is little time to watch them fly, for that new line on our
left is approaching at a rapid pace; and, with shells falling thick
and fast into our ranks, and men dropping everywhere, our regiment
must reverse the former movement by "changing front to rear," and
so resume its original position facing westward, for the enemy's
new line is approaching from that direction, and if it takes us in
flank, we are done for.
To "change front to rear" is a difficult movement to execute even
on drill, much more so under severe fire; but it is executed now
steadily and without confusion, yet not a minute too soon! For the
new line of gray is upon us in a mad tempest of lead, supported by
a cruel artillery fire, almost before our line can steady itself to
receive the shock. However, partially protected by a post-and-rail
fence, we answer fiercely, and with effect so terrific that the
enemy's line wavers, and at length moves off by the right flank,
giving us a breathing space for a time.
During this struggle, there had been many an exciting scene
all along the line as it swayed backward and forward over the
field,--scenes which we have had no time to mention yet.
See yonder, where the colors of the regiment on our right--our
sister regiment, the 149th--have been advanced a little, to draw
the enemy's fire, while our line sweeps on to the charge. There
ensues about the flags a wild _mêlée_ and close hand-to-hand
encounter. Some of the enemy have seized the colors and are making
off with them in triumph, shouting victory. But a squad of our own
regiment dashes out swiftly, led to the rescue of the stolen colors
by Sergeant John C. Kensill, of Company F, who falls to the ground
before reaching them, and amid yells and cheers and smoke, you see
the battle-flags rise and fall, and sway hither and thither upon
the surging mass, as if tossed on the billows of a tempest, until,
wrenched away by strong arms, they are borne back in triumph to the
line of the 149th.
See yonder, again! Our colonel is clapping his hand to his cheek,
from which a red stream is pouring; our lieutenant-colonel, H.
S. Huidekoper, is kneeling on the ground, and is having his
handkerchief tied tight around his arm at the shoulder; Major
Thomas Chamberlain and Adjutant Richard L. Ashurst both lie low,
pierced with balls through the chest; one lieutenant is waving his
sword to his men, although his leg is crushed at the knee; three
other officers of the line are lying over there, motionless now
forever. All over the field are strewn men wounded or dead, and
comrades pause a moment in the mad rush to catch the last words
of the dying. Incidents such as these the reader must imagine
for himself, to fill in these swift sketches of how the day was
won--and lost!
Ay, lost! For the balls which have so far come mainly from our
front, begin now to sing in from our left and right, which means
that we are being flanked. Somehow, away off to our right, a
half-mile or so, our line has given way, and is already on retreat
through the town, while our left is being driven in, and we
ourselves may shortly be surrounded and crushed--and so the retreat
is sounded.
Back now along the railroad cut we go, or through the orchard and
the narrow strip of woods behind it, with our dead scattered around
on all sides, and the wounded crying piteously for help.
"Harry! Harry!" It is a faint cry of a dying man yonder in the
grass, and I _must_ see who it is.
"Why, Willie! Tell me where you are hurt," I ask, kneeling down
beside him; and I see the words come hard, for he is fast dying.
"Here in my side, Harry. Tell--mother--mother----"
Poor fellow, he can say no more. His head falls back, and Willie is
at rest forever!
On, now, through that strip of woods, at the other edge of which,
with my back against a stout oak, I stop and look at a beautiful
and thrilling sight. Some reserves are being brought up; infantry
in the centre, the colors flying and officers shouting; cavalry on
the right, with sabres flashing and horses on a trot; artillery on
the left, with guns at full gallop sweeping into position to check
the headlong pursuit,--it is a grand sight, and a fine rally; but
a vain one, for in an hour we are swept off the field, and are in
full retreat through the town.
Up through the streets hurries the remnant of our shattered corps,
while the enemy is pouring into the town only a few squares away
from us. There is a tempest of shrieking shells and whistling balls
about our ears. The guns of that battery by the woods we have
dragged along, all the horses being disabled. The artillery-men
load as we go, double-charging with grape and canister.
"Make way there, men!" is the cry, and the surging mass crowds
close up on the sidewalks to right and left, leaving a long lane
down the centre of the street, through which the grape and canister
go rattling into the ranks of the enemy's advance-guard.
And so, amid scenes which I have neither space nor power to
describe, we gain Cemetery Ridge towards sunset, and throw
ourselves down by the road in a tumult of excitement and grief,
having lost the day through the overwhelming force of numbers, and
yet somehow having gained it too (although as yet we know it not),
for the sacrifice of our corps has saved the position for the
rest of the army, which has been marching all day, and which comes
pouring in over Cemetery Ridge all night long.
Ay, the position is saved; but where is our corps? Well may our
division-general, Doubleday, who early in the day succeeded to the
command when our brave Reynolds had fallen, shed tears of grief as
he sits there on his horse and looks over the shattered remains of
that First Army Corps, for there is but a handful of it left. Of
the five hundred and fifty men that marched under our regimental
colors in the morning, but one hundred remain. All our field and
staff officers are gone. Of some twenty captains and lieutenants,
but one is left without a scratch, while of my own company only
thirteen out of fifty-four sleep that night on Cemetery Ridge,
under the open canopy of heaven. There is no roll-call, for
Sergeant Weidensaul will call the roll no more; nor will Joe
Gutelius, nor Joe Ruhl, nor McFadden, nor Henning, nor many others
of our comrades whom we miss, ever answer to their names again
until the world's last great reveille.