It is a thousand pities that the many notable incidents of this fight are
not on record; but, so far as I am aware, no one has sought to gather them
in any complete and authentic form.
Corse caught his wound about 1 o'clock while scanning the movements and
position of the enemy from the Redoubt. It was a close call for his life,
the ball ploughing his cheek and splitting his ear, and, as might be
imagined, dazing him. A surgeon took him in charge and ministered as well
as the circumstances permitted. At intervals Corse was unconscious, but
rallied from time to time, as though the spirit within him crowded itself
up through the physical deadening of his senses. At one of these occasions
he caught the words "Cease firing," and as mentioned in his report, feared
some attempt to surrender. On this point, in a private letter, he speaks
as follows: "Do you remember our losing a large number of Springfield
rifled muskets that exploded near the muzzle after becoming foul from
over-shooting? I saw some that had exploded, say about the shank of the
bayonet. It was so phenomenal as to make a decided impression on my mind
at the time. I think a large number of these must have been lost, and when
the order was given to cease firing, it was under the impression that if
the men were not given a chance to clean their guns, we would lose them
all and be overwhelmed. My impression, you remember, at the time was that
the order to cease firing meant surrender, but Rowett removed that
impression in subsequent interviews, during and after the war."
Rowett's order to "Cease firing" had, of course, nothing to do with the
cry of "Surrender." It is true that there were men in that Redoubt ready
to surrender or to do anything else in order to get out of it alive.
Happily these were few, and most of them lay prone, close under the
parapet, "playing dead," with the combatants and wounded standing and
sitting upon them. If I mistake not, Corse himself, at least for a time,
was holding down of these "living corpses" who preferred to endure all the
pain and discomfort of his position rather than get up and face the
deadly music that filled the air with leaden notes. It came about this
way: The Redoubt was crowded, and as bloody as a slaughter pen. In its
actual construction the parapet encircled a higher elevation in the
center, which had not been sufficiently excavated, so that a man standing,
or in fact, lying, in the middle of the work was exposed to bullets coming
in close over the parapet. It was absolutely necessary to keep room for
the fighting force along the parapet, so the wounded were drawn back, and
in some cases were shot over and over again. The dead were disposed of in
the same way, except that as the ground became covered with them they were
let lie as they fell, and were stood or sat upon by the fighters. Several
of the "skulkers" lay among these, but a few were in the ranks. The
slaughter had been frightful. One of our guns was disabled from the
jamming of a shot, and we were out of ammunition for the other two,
thereby losing both the deterrent effect upon the enemy, and the moral
encouragement that the friendly roar of cannon always gives to infantry in
action. I recall distinctly the fact that a regimental flagstaff on the
parapet, which had been several times shot away, fell again at a critical
moment towards the end of the action. There was a mad yell from our
friends outside and a few cries of "Surrender" among our own people, but a
brave fellow leaped to the summit of the parapet, where it did not seem
possible to live for a single second, grasped the flagstaff, waved it,
drove the stump into the parapet, and dropped back again unhurt. Of course
nobody knows the name of that man, but his action restored confidence, and
a great Yankee cheer drowned the tumult, and no cry of "Surrender" was
afterwards heard.
What saved us that day--among forty other things--was the fact that we had
a number of Henry rifles (16-shooters), since improved and known as
"Winchesters." These were new guns in those days, and Rowett, as I
remember, had held in reserve a company of an Illinois Regiment that was
armed with them until a final assault should be made. When the artillery
reopened, after the incident related by Corse of the man crossing the cut
and coming back with an armful of case shot, this company of 16-shooters
sprang to the parapet and poured out such a multiplied, rapid, and deadly
fire that no men could stay in front of it, and no serious effort was
thereafter made to take the fort by assault.
* * * * *
It is not possible, within any reasonable limits, for a paper already too
long for your patience, to undertake the recital of the numerous thrilling
incidents. One may be mentioned:
An artillery sergeant, whose gun was at first stationed outside the fort
behind an exterior parapet, was driven in by the rush of the enemy, and
his men being all killed, he had to abandon it. Wounded himself in several
places, he came into the Redoubt, frothing with rage at the loss of his
piece, and demanded a crew of volunteers to go out with him and get it.
Notwithstanding the deadly fire, he got them, and in three minutes was
back with his recovered prize with more wounds to his account. A bloodier
man was never seen, but he kept at his work, loading and firing, until a
musket ball passed through his neck, and he dropped dead. The same ball
traversed the body of an Iowa officer, with whom I was standing further
back, and then struck me with force enough to take my breath. That ball
had killed two men, and I preserved it with the name and date of the
battle scratched on its but slightly distorted surface.
On Tourtellotte's side a grim war comedy was enacted. The remains of two
Mississippi Regiments--the 35th and 39th of Sears' brigade, that had
charged with desperation, found themselves as the surge of battle that
broke upon the hill went back, lodged in a sheltered depression of the
north front, whence they could move neither up nor down without
concentrating upon themselves the fire of Tourtellotte's whole front.
Unable to determine what course to take, they remained where they were to
think it over, and Tourtellotte, observing their embarrassment,
thoughtfully sent a portion of the 4th Minnesota to their rescue and
invited them to come in. One field and several line officers and 80 men
with the colors of the two regiments were the reward of the Yankee
courtesy.
After the fight was over we thankfully emerged from the shambles and went
out to survey the field. The dead, the dying and the wounded lay
everywhere. The ditches immediately outside the Redoubt were crammed with
corpses. There were dead rebels within 100 feet of the work, and they were
piled in stacks near the house where they had massed for the final assault
which was never made, against the reopened artillery, and the rattle of
the Henry rifles. But the appalling center of the tragedy was the pit in
which lay the heroes of the 39th Iowa and the 7th Illinois. Such a sight
probably was never before presented to the eye of heaven. There is no
language to describe it. With all the glad reaction of feeling after the
prolonged strain of that mortal day, and the exultant surge of victory
that swelled our hearts, it was difficult to stand on the verge of that
open grave without a rush of tears to the eye and a spasm of pity
clutching at the throat. The trench was crowded with the dead, blue and
homespun, Yank and Johnny, inextricably mingled in their last ditch. Our
heroes, ordered to hold the place to the last, with supreme fidelity, had
died at their posts. As the rebel line run over them, they struck up with
their bayonets as the foe struck down, and rolling together in the
embrace of death, we found them in some cases mutually transfixed. The
theme cannot be dwelt upon.
For relief, take another one, so unique in the circumstances that I doubt
at times my own recollection of it. It was in the morning when French
first gained the west end of the ridge. The 93rd Illinois was in the
vicinity of the outworks, a quarter of a mile or so from the Redoubt. I
had been reconnoitering the ground, and the rebel column charged us
sharply and without warning. We ran, of course, but in passing through or
rather over an old work of low relief, one of our men stooped, grabbed a
brick and turned. Curiosity overcame discretion, and I had to look. He
threw the brick straight as a bullet at a rebel running toward us, and if
I may be believed, the brick caught the man full in the face, and he went
down like a log.
One more incident, and I am done. After the battle the wounded of both
sides were collected, housed and cared for. One of the surgeons invited me
to come to the hospital with him, and on the way said he had a wounded
woman there. I expressed surprise, and he said: "See if you can pick her
out." We went through the hospital, and I saw no woman, but passing
through again on the way back, the doctor stopped at a bed where a tanned
and freckled young rebel, hands and face grimy with dirt and powder, lay
resting on an elbow, smoking a corn-cob pipe. The doctor inquired, "How do
you feel?" and the answer was, "Pretty well, but my leg hurts like the
devil." As we turned, the doctor said, "That is the woman," and told me
that she belonged to the Missouri Brigade, had had a husband and one or
two brothers in one of the regiments, and followed them to the war. When
they were all killed, having no home but the regiment, she took a musket
and served in the ranks. Like an actor of the old Greek dramas, war has
its two masks of tragedy and comedy, although it is difficult at times to
determine to which the antiphonal scene belongs--so of this case. It is
perhaps not proper in such a paper as this to expose or call attention to
the shifts to which the Confederates were forced to fill their ranks, but
the incident may be told nevertheless.