BATTLES OF SPOTTSYLVANIA COURT HOUSE
It was just ten o'clock and each man was looking around for the dryest
spot to spread his blanket on, when a courier rode up, with pressing
orders for us to get instantly on the march. In a few moments, we were
tramping rapidly through the darkness, on a road that led, we knew not
whither. We were, as we found out afterwards, leading the great race,
that General Lee was making for Spottsylvania Court House to head off
Grant in his efforts to get out of the Wilderness in his "push for
Richmond." We were with the vanguard of the skillful movement, by which
Longstreet's Corps was marched entirely around Grant's left flank, to
seize the strong line of the hills around Spottsylvania Court House and
hold it till the other two Corps could come to our aid.
We marched all night, a hard, forced march over muddy roads, through the
damp, close night. Soon after the start from our bivouac, a brigade of
infantry had filed into the road ahead of us, and we could hear, behind
us on the road, though we could not see for the darkness, the sound of
other troops marching. The Brigade ahead of us, we soon found, to our
gratification, to be Barksdale's Mississippi Brigade, now under command
of General Humphreys, since the gallant Barksdale fell at the head of
his storming columns at Gettysburg. This was the Brigade to which we had
belonged in the earlier organization of the artillery. It was a
magnificent body of men, one of the most thorough fighting corps in the
army, as they had showed a hundred times, on the bloodiest fields, and
were soon, and often to show again. There was a very strong mutual
attachment between the First Richmond Howitzers and Barksdale's Brigade,
and we were much pleased to be with them on this march. We mingled with
them, as we sped rapidly along, and exchanged greetings, and our several
experiences since we had been separated.
The morning of the 8th of May broke, foggy and lowering, and found us
still moving swiftly along. The infantry halting for a rest, we passed
on ahead, and for some time were marching by ourselves. I well recall
the impressions of the scene around us on that early morning march. Our
battery seemed all alone on a quiet country road. The birds were singing
around us, and it seemed, to us, so sweet! Everybody was impressed by
the music of those birds. As the old soldiers will remember, the note of
a bird was a sound we rarely heard. The feathered songsters, no doubt,
were frightened away, and it was often remarked, that we never saw
birds in the neighborhood of camp. So we specially enjoyed the treat of
hearing them, now and here, in their own quiet woods, where they had
never been disturbed. All was quiet and still and peaceful as any rural
scene could be. It seemed to us wondrous sweet and beautiful! All the
men were strangely impressed by it. They talked of it to one another. It
made our hearts soft, it brought to the mind of many of those weary,
war-worn soldiers, other quiet rural scenes, where lay their homes and
dear ones, and to which this scene made their hearts go back, in tender
memory, and loving imagination. All the eyes did not stay dry as we
passed along that road. We talked of this scene many a time long
afterwards. And I expect some of the old "Howitzers" still remember that
quiet Spottsylvania country road, winding through the woods, on that
early Sunday morning, when the birds sang to us, as we hurried on to
battle.
Well! the morning wore on, and so did we. By and by, the sun came out
through the fog and clouds, and began to make it hot for us. The
dampness of the earth made this an easy job. The sun got higher and
hotter every minute. The way that close, sultry heat did _roast_ us was
pitiful. We would have "larded the lean earth as we walked along,"
except that hard bones and muscles of gaunt men didn't _yield_ any
"lard" to speak of. The _breakfast_ hour was not observed, _i. e._, not
with any ceremony. "Cracker nibbling on the fly" was all the visible
reminder of that time-honored custom. We were not there to eat, but, to
get to Spottsylvania Court House; and _steps_ were more to that purpose
than _steaks_, so we omitted the steaks, and put in the steps; and we
put them in very fast, and were putting in a great many of them, it
appeared to us. At last, just about twelve o'clock our road wound down
to a stream, which I think was the _Po_, one of the head waters of the
Mattaponi River, and then, we went up a very long hill, a bank,
surmounted by a rail fence on the left side of the road, and the woods
on the other.
=Stuart's Four Thousand Cavalry=
Just as we got to the top (our Battery happened just then to be ahead of
all the troops, and was the first of the columns to reach the spot), the
road came up to the level of the land on the left, which enabled us to
see, what, though close by us, had been concealed by the high roadside
bank. A farm gate opened into a field, around a farmhouse and
outbuildings, and there, covering that field was the whole of Fitz Lee's
Division of Stuart's cavalry. These heroic fellows had for two days been
fighting Warren's corps of Federal infantry, which General Grant had
sent to seize this very line on which _we_ had now arrived. They had
fought, mostly dismounted, from hill to hill, from fence to fence, from
tree to tree; and so obstinate was their resistance, and so skillful the
dispositions of the matchless Stuart, that some thirty thousand men had
been forced to take about twenty-six hours to get seven or eight miles,
by about forty-five hundred cavalry. But, it was incomparable cavalry,
and J. E. B. Stuart was handling it. It was some credit to that Corps to
have marched any at all! Thanks to the superb conduct of the cavalry,
General Lee's movement had succeeded! We had beaten the Federal column,
and were here, before them, on this much-coveted line, and meant to hold
it, too.
I note here in passing, that this Spottsylvania business was a "white
day" for the cavalry. When the army came to know of what the cavalry had
done, and _how they had done it_, there was a general outburst of
admiration,--the recognition that brave men give to the brave. Stuart
and his men were written higher than ever on the honor roll, and the
whole army was ready to take off its hat to salute the cavalry.
And, from that day, there was a marked change in the way the army
thought and spoke of the cavalry; it took a distinctly different and
higher position in the respect of the Army, for it had revealed itself
in a new light; it had shown itself signally possessed of the quality,
that the infantry and artillery naturally admired most of all
others--_obstinacy_ in fight.
As was natural, and highly desirable, each arm of the service had a very
exalted idea of its own importance and merit, as compared with the
others. In fact the soldier of the "Army of Northern Virginia" filled
exactly the Duke of Marlborough's description of the spirit of a good
soldier. "He is a poor soldier," said the Duke, "who does not think
himself as good and better than any other soldier _of his own army_, and
_three times as good_ as any man in the army _of the enemy_." That
fitted our fellows "to a hair;" each Confederate soldier thought that
way.
It was not an unnatural or unreasonable conceit, _considering the
facts_. It must be confessed that _modesty_ as to their quality as
soldiers was not the distinguishing virtue of the men of the Army of
Northern Virginia, but, it must be considered, in extenuation that their
experience in war was by no means a good school for humility. An old
Scotch woman once prayed, "Lord, gie us a gude conceit o' ourselves."
There was a certain wisdom in the old woman's prayer! The Army of
Northern Virginia soldiers had this "gude conceit o' themselves,"
without praying for it; certainly, if they did pray for it, their prayer
was answered, "good measure, pressed down, shaken together, and running
over." They had it abundantly! And it was a tremendous element of power
in their "make up" as soldiers. It made them the terrible fighters, that
all the world knew they were. It largely explains their recorded deeds,
and their matchless achievements.
For instance, here at the Wilderness! What was it that made thirty-five
thousand men knowingly and cheerfully march to attack one hundred and
fifty thousand men, and stick up to them, and fight them for twenty-four
hours, without support or reinforcement? It was their good opinion of
themselves; their superb confidence. They felt _able_ with thirty-five
thousand men, _and General Lee_, to meet one hundred and fifty thousand
men, and hold them, till help came; _and didn't they do it_?
Well! they did _that kind of thing so often_ that they couldn't get
humble, and _they never have been able to get humble since_. They _try
to_--but--_they can't_!
But I return from this digression to say, that the different Arms of the
service had something of this same feeling, this good opinion of
themselves, as compared with one another. Each one had many jokes on the
others, and whenever they met, all sorts of "chaffing" went on. In all
this, the infantry and artillery felt closer together, and were rather
apt, when the occasion offered, to turn their combined guns on the
cavalry.
The general point of the jokes and gibes at the cavalry was their
_supposed_ tendency to be "_scarce_" when _big fighting_ was going on.
It wasn't that anybody doubted the _usefulness_ of cavalry, but their
usefulness was imagined to lie in other respects than fighting back the
masses of the enemy. And, it wasn't that anybody supposed that the
cavalry did not have plenty of fight in them, _if they could get a
chance_. We knew that when they were at home they were the same stock as
we were, and we believed, that if they were along with us, they would do
as well; but in the cavalry, well! we didn't know!
The leaders of the cavalry, Stuart, Hampton, Ashby, Fitz Lee and others,
were heroes and household names to the whole army. Their brilliant
courage and dare-deviltry, their hairbreadth escapes, and thrilling
adventures, their feats of skill, and grace were themes of pride and
delight to us all. These cavaliers were the "darlings of the army."
_Still_, the army would guy the cavalry every chance they got.
It was said that Gen. D. H. Hill proposed to offer a "reward of Five
Dollars, to anybody who could find a dead man with spurs on." And Gen.
Jubal Early once, when impatient at the conduct of certain troops in his
command threatened "if the cavalry did not do better, he would put them
_in the army_."
One day, an infantry brigade on the march to Chancellorsville had halted
to rest on the pike, near where a narrow road turned off. A cavalryman
was seen approaching, in a fast gallop, plainly, in a great hurry. The
infantry viewed his approach with great interest, prepared to salute him
with neat and appropriate remarks as he passed, by way of making him
lively.
Just before he got to the head of the brigade he reached the narrow road
and started up it. Instantly a dozen "infants" began to wave their arms
excitedly, and shout in loud earnest voices--"Mister, stop there! don't
go a step farther; for heaven's sake _don't_ go up that road." The
trooper, startled by this appeal, and the warning gestures of the men,
approaching him, pulled in his fast-going horse, and stopped, very
impatiently. He said in a sharp tone, "What is the matter, why mustn't I
go up this road? Say quick, I'm in a big hurry." "Don't go, we beg you;
you'll never come back alive." "Humph! is that so?" said this trooper
(who had been near breaking a blood vessel in his impatience at being
stopped, but cooled off a little, at this ominous remark)--"But what's
ahead? what's the danger? The road seems quiet?" "Well, Sonny, _that's_
the danger. Haven't you heard about it?" "Now, Sonny," was a term of
endearment, which from an "infant" always exasperated the feelings of a
cavalryman to the last degree; turned the milk of kindness in a
horseman's breast into the sourest clabber; and it instantly stirred up
this trooper. "Look here men, don't fool with me. Tell me what is the
danger up this road," "Well! we thought we ought to let you know, before
you expose yourself. General Hill has offered a reward of Five Dollars
for a dead man with spurs on, and if you go up that lonesome road some
of these here _soldiers_ will shoot you to get the reward." "Oh pshaw!"
cried the disgusted victim, clapping spurs to his horse, and away he
rode, leaving the grinning and delighted "infants" behind, and leaving,
too, his _opinion_ of them, and their joke, in language that needed no
interpreter.
This sort of thing was going on, all the time. The infantry and
artillery _would_ do it. With many, particularly the artillery, who knew
better, it was _only joking_, the soldier-instinct to stir up _any_
passer-by. But with many, especially the infantry, who were not as much
"up to snuff" as the artillery, these gibes at the cavalry expressed a
serious, tho' mistaken idea, they had of them. Upon the advance of the
enemy, of course, we were accustomed to see cavalrymen hurrying in from
the outposts to the rear, to report. So the thoughtless infantry, not
considering that this was "part of the large and general plan," got
fixed in their minds an association between the two things,--the advance
of the enemy, and, the rapid hurrying off to the rear of the cavalry,
until they came to have the fixed idea, that the sight of the enemy
_always_ made a cavalryman "hungry for solitude." They reasoned that, as
a mounted man was much better _fixed_ for running away than a footman,
it was, by so much, natural that he _should_ run away, and was, by so
much, the more likely to do it.
Also, our orders to move and to go into battle were always brought by
horsemen; so the horsemen were thought about as _causing others to
fight_ instead of _doing it themselves_. So, in short, it came to pass,
that this innocent infantry had a dim sort of notion that the chief end
of the cavalry was, in battle time, to run away and bring up other
people to do the fighting, and in quiet time, to "range" for buttermilk
and other delicacies, which the poor footmen never got. Hence the
soubriquet of "buttermilk ranger" universally applied to the cavalry by
the army.
But, I assure you, that all this was dispelled at once, and for good and
all, at Spottsylvania. Here had these gallants gotten down off their
horses. They hadn't run _anywhere at all_; didn't want anybody else to
come, and fight for them. They had jumped into about five or six times
their number of the flower of the Federal infantry. They met them front
to front, and muzzle to muzzle. Of course they had to give back; but it
was slowly, _very slowly_, and they made the enemy pay, in blood, for
every step they gained. They had worried these Federals into a fever,
and kept them fooling away nearly twenty-six hours of priceless time;
and made Grant's plan _fail_, and made General Lee's plan succeed, and
had secured the strong line for our defence.
It was a piece of regular, obstinate, bloody, "bulldog" work. We knew,
well as we thought of ourselves, that not the staunchest brigade of our
veteran "incomparable" infantry, or battery of our canister-shooting
artillery, could have _fought_ better, _stood_ better, or _achieved
more_, for the success of the campaign. We felt that General Lee,--that
the whole army,--"owed the cavalry one," "_several_," in fact. The army,
even the infantry, had come to know the cavalry, at last. Obstinacy,
toughness, dogged refusal to be driven, was their test of manhood, and
this test the cavalry had signally, and _brilliantly_ met. Everybody was
satisfied, the _cavalry would do, they_ were "all right." We couldn't
praise them enough, we were proud of them. The remark was even suffered
to pass, as nothing to his discredit particularly, that our "Magnus
Apollo," General Lee, himself, had once been in the cavalry, and no one
resented it _now_. We knew that it was when he was _younger_ than now.
We, of the "Howitzers," knew very well what arm of the service, and what
corps of that arm, the experienced old General would join, if he was
enlisting in the Army of Northern Virginia, now, when he knew more than
he did. Still! he had been a cavalryman; admit it!
And we all _admired_ the cavalry; _honored_ the cavalry; _shouted_ for
the cavalry, from that time! Occasionally, from force of habit, the
infantry (the artillery never) would fall from grace at sight of a
passing cavalry column, and let fall little attentions, that sounded
very like the old-time compliments, but they were not _meant that way_.
It was the soldier-instinct to salute pilgrims. Just as, on a village
street, if a dog, of any degree, starts to run, every other dog in
sight, or hearing, tears off after him in pursuit, and if he can catch
up, instantly attacks him,--not that he has anything against the
fugitive, but, simply, because he is running by. The act of running past
makes him the enemy of his kind. So, I think, the Confederate infantry
assailed, with jokes and gibes, _anybody in motion_ by their camp, or
column. They had nothing against him; they attacked him because he was
passing by. "It was their nature to." Of all living men, General Lee,
_alone_, was sacred to them in this. The cavalry _always_ had their full
share, and never suffered for want of notice.
This account of the false idea that prevailed, the fun that came of it,
and the way it was dispelled, is part of the history of the time. It
went to make up the life in the Army of Northern Virginia; it lives in
the recollection of that good old time. No record of that old time would
be complete without it. So I make no apology for falling into it, in
this informal reminiscence.
At one o'clock on Sunday, the 8th of May, we reached the top of the hill
near Spottsylvania Court House and suddenly came upon Stuart's cavalry
massed in the yard and field around a farmhouse. They had finished their
splendid fight, the van of the army was on the spot to relieve them.
They had been withdrawn from confronting the enemy, and were now drawn
up here, preparatory to starting off, to overtake Sheridan's raid toward
Richmond; which they did, and, at "Yellow Tavern," two days after, many
of them, the immortal Stuart at their head, died and saved Richmond.
=Greetings on the Field of Battle=
I have lingered at that farmhouse gate, at the top of the hill, in this
story, very much longer than we did in reality. In fact we didn't linger
there at all. Didn't have a chance! For, the moment we came in sight, at
that gate leading into the farmhouse, an officer came dashing out from
amongst the troops of cavalry, and galloped across the field toward us.
The instant this horseman got out of the crowd, we recognized him. That
long waving feather, the long auburn beard, that easy, graceful seat on
the swift horse,--that was "J. E. B." Stuart, and nobody else! He rode
up to the foremost group of us, and pulled up his horse. With bright,
pleasant, smiling face, he returned our hearty salute with a touch of
his hat, and a cheerful, "Good morning, boys! glad to see you. What
troops are these?" "Richmond Howitzers, Longstreet's Corps." "_Good!_
anybody else along?" "Infantry close behind." "Good! Well, boys, I'm
_very_ glad to see you. I've got a little job for you, right now, all
waiting for you." Just then the Captain rode up and saluted. "Captain,"
said the General, saluting pleasantly, "Draw our guns through the gate
and stop. I'll want you in ten minutes." And, away he galloped, back
toward the cavalry. The guns pulled in through the gate and halted as
they were, on the road leading to the house, close by the cavalry.
We seized this sudden chance to see our old friends among the troopers.
In every direction our fellows might be seen darting in among the
horses, in search of our friends. Loud and hearty were the shouts of
greeting as we recognized, or were seen by, those we sought or
unexpectedly lighted on. Brothers, met and embraced. Friends greeted
friends. Old schoolmates, who had, three years ago, parted at the
schoolroom, locked eager, and loving hands, and asked after others, and
told what they could. It was a delightful and touching scene, that
meeting there on the edge of a bloody field! they coming out, we going
in. There were jokes, and laughs, and cheerful words, but, the
hand-clasps were very tight, the sudden uprising of tender feelings, at
the sight of faces, and the sound of voices, we had not seen nor heard
for years, and that we might see and hear no more. The memories of home,
or school, and boyhood, suddenly brought back, by the faces linked with
them, made the tears come, and the words very kind, and the tones very
gentle.
I had several pleasant encounters. Among others, this: I heard a
familiar voice sing out, "William Dame, my dear boy, what on earth are
you doing here?" I eagerly turned, and in the figure hasting toward me
with outstretched hand,--as soon as I could read between the lines of
mud on him,--I recognized my dear old teacher, Jesse Jones. I loved him
like an older brother, and was delighted to meet him. I had parted from
him, that sad day, three years ago, when our school scattered to the
war. I had seen him last, the quiet gentleman, the thoughtful teacher,
the pale student, the pink of neatness. Here I find him a dashing
officer of the Third Virginia Cavalry, girt with saber and pistols,
covered with mud from the crown of his head to the soles of his feet,
and just resting from the bloody work of the last two days.
Just here, I had the great pleasure of falling in with my kinsman, and
almost brother, Lieut. Robert Page, of the Third Virginia Cavalry, the
older brother of my two comrades, and messmates, Carter and John Page.
"Bob" was one of the "true blues" who had followed Stuart's feather from
the start, and was going to follow it to the bitter end. I remember how,
at the very first, he rode off to the war, from his home, "Locust
Grove," in Cumberland County, Virginia, on his horse, "Goliath," with
his company, the Cumberland Troop. He had stuck to the front, been
always up, and ever at his post, all the way through those three long,
terrible years. He had deserved, and won his Lieutenancy, and commanded
his regiment the last days of the war. He made an enviable record as a
soldier for courage, faithfulness, and honor. None better! At
Appomattox he was surrendered. And having been forced to cease making
war on mankind with the saber, he mended his grip, and continued to make
war, with a far deadlier weapon of destruction, the spatula.
All this was very pleasant, but it was very short. Time was up; ten
minutes were out! We caught sight of General Stuart cantering across the
field toward our guns, the bugle rang, and we tumbled out from amidst
the cavalry, in short order, and took our posts around our respective
guns.
="Jeb" Stuart Assigns "A Little Job"=
Stuart was in front of the column of guns talking to Captain McCarthy;
next moment we moved. That is, the "Left Section" moved, the two
twelve-pounder brass "Napoleons," the "Right Section" had two
ten-pounder "Parrott" guns and stayed still. We did not rejoin them for
several days. It was our "Napoleons" that moved off, we took note of
that! Also, we took very scant gun detachments,--all our men, but just
enough to work the guns, stayed behind,--we took note of _that_ too!
These two circumstances meant _business_ to old artillerymen. We
_remarked_ as much, as we trotted beside the guns. "The little job" that
General Stuart had alluded to, with his bland and seductive smile, and
the merry twinkle of his eye, was, plainly, a very _warm_ little job;
however, away we went, "J. E. B." Stuart riding in front of the guns,
with the Captain,--apparently enjoying himself; _we reserved our
opinion_ as to the enjoyableness of the occasion, till we should _see
more_ and be better able to judge. Two guns of "Callaway's" and two of
"Carlton's" Batteries of our Battalion,--which had come up while we were
disporting with our cavalry friends, back there,--had pulled in behind
our two.
The six guns followed the road which turned around the farmhouse, and
ran on down toward the back of the farm. There were pine woods about, in
different directions, the fields lying between. We saw nothing as yet,
and wondered where we were going. We soon found out! About half a mile
from the house, the farm road, which here ran along with pine woods on
the left and a stretch of open field on the right, turned out toward the
open ground. As we passed out from behind that point of woods, we saw
"the elephant!" There, about six hundred yards from us were the
Federals, seeming to cover the fields. There were lines of infantry,
batteries, wagons, ambulances, ordnance trains massed all across the
open ground. This was part of Warren's Corps, which had been pushing for
the Spottsylvania line. They thought they had left the "Army of Northern
Virginia" back yonder at the "Wilderness," and had nothing before them
but cavalry, and they were halted, now, resting or eating, intending
afterwards to advance, and occupy the line, which was back up behind us,
where we had left the cavalry and our other guns. That line, so coveted,
so important to them, that they had been marching, and fighting to
gain, was not a mile off, in sight, in reach, _secure now_, as they
thought. That thought was not only a _delusion_, it was a _snare_. They
were never to reach it! and the "snare," I will explain very soon.
As we thus suddenly came upon that sight, we stopped to look at the
spectacle. It looked very blue, and I dare say, we looked a shade "blue"
ourselves; for we could not see a Confederate anywhere, and we supposed
we had no support whatever, though we were better off in this particular
than we knew. And the idea of pitching into that host, with six
unsupported guns, was not calming to the mind. Coming out from cover of
the pines, back of a slight ridge that ran through the field, with a few
sassafras bushes on it, we were not seen, and the Federals were in
blissful ignorance of what was about to follow. We pulled diagonally
across the field to a point, just back of the low ridge, and quietly
went into position and unlimbered the guns. We pushed them, by hand, up
so that the muzzles just looked clear over the ridge, which thus acted
as a low work in our front, and proved a great protection. The field had
been freshly plowed for corn, the wheels sunk into it, and the minute we
tried to move the guns, by hand, with our small force, we saw what it
was going to be, in action, with the sun blazing down.
When all was ready,--guns pointed, limber, and caisson chests
opened,--General Stuart said, waving his hand toward that swarming field
of Federals, "Boys, I want you to knock that all to pieces for me. So go
to work." And this was the last time we ever saw the superb hero. He
rode, right from our guns, to his death at "Yellow Tavern" a day or two
after. We have always remembered with the deepest interest, that the
very last thing that glorious soldier, "J. E. B." Stuart, did in the
Army of Northern Virginia was to put our guns into position, and give us
orders; which _we obeyed_, to his entire satisfaction, I know, if he had
seen it.
The minute General Stuart had given his order, and turned to ride away,
Captain McCarthy, sitting on his horse, where he sat during the whole
fight, looking as cool as the sun would let him, and far more
unconcerned than if he had been going to dinner, sung out, "Section ----
commence firing." It was ours, the Fourth gun's turn to open the ball.
We were all waiting around the guns for the word.
The group, as it stood, is before my mind as vividly as then. Dan
McCarthy, Sergt. Ned Stine, acting gunner (vice Tony Dibrell absent,
sick, for some time past, who came tearing back, _still sick_, the
moment he heard we were on the warpath) Ben Lambert, No. 1; Joe Bowen,
No. 2; Beau Barnes, No. 3; W. M. Dame, No. 4; Bill Hardy, No. 5;
Charlie Pleasants, No. 6; Sam Vaden, No. 7; Watt Dibbrell, No. 8! The
three drivers of the limber, six yards back of the gun, dismounted, and
holding their horses. Ellis, the lead driver, had scooped out the loose
dirt, with his hands, and lay down, on his back, in the shallow hole,
holding the reins with his upstretched hands.
The third gun was just to our right, the cannoneers grouped around the
guns, each man at his post. Travis Moncure, Sergeant, known and loved
and honored among us as "Monkey," always brave and true and smiling,
even under fire, Harry Townsend, gunner; Cary Eggleston, No. 1; Pres
Ellyson, No. 2; ---- Denman, No. 3; Charlie Kinsolving, No. 4;
Charlie Harrington, No. 5; ----, No. 6; ----, No. 7; ----,
No. 8; Captain McCarthy sitting his horse, just behind, and between the
two guns. The other guns were a little to our left.
All was ready; guns loaded and pointed, carefully, every man at his
post,--feeling right solemn too,--and a dead stillness reigned. The
Captain's steady voice rang out! As an echo to it, Dan McCarthy sung out
"Fourth detachment commence firing, fire!" I gave the lanyard a jerk. A
lurid spout of flame about ten feet long shot from the mouth of the old
"Napoleon," then, in the dead silence, a ringing, crashing roar, that
sounded like the heavens were falling, and rolled a wrathful thunder far
over the fields and echoing woods. Then became distinct, a savage,
venomous scream, along the track of the shell. This grew fainter,--died
on our ear! We eagerly watched! Suddenly, right over the heads of the
enemy, a flash of fire, a puff of snow-white smoke, which hung like a
little cloud! We gave a yell of delight; our shell had gone right into
the midst of the Federals, and burst beautifully. The ball was open!
The instant our gun fired we could hear old Moncure sing out, "Third
detachment, commence firing, fire!" and the Third piece rang out. The
guns on the left joined in, lustily, and in a moment, those six guns
were steadily roaring, and hurling a storm of shell upon the enemy.
And now the fun began, and soon "grew fast and furious." Over in the
Federal lines, taken by surprise, all was confusion, worse confounded.
We could see men running wildly about, teamsters, jumping into the
saddle, and frantically lashing their horses,--wagons, ambulances,
ordnance carts, battery forges, tearing furiously, in every direction.
Several vehicles upset, and many teams, maddened by the lash, and the
confusion, and bursting shells, dashing away uncontrollable. We saw
_one_ wagon, flying like the wind, strike a stump, and thrown, team and
all, a perfect wreck, on top of a low rail fence, crushing it down, and
rolling over it.
This was the only time I ever saw a big army wagon, and team, thrown
over a fence.
All that lively time they were having over among the enemy was very
amusing to us; we were highly delighted, and enjoyed it very much.
Laughter, and jocular remarks on the scene were heard all about, as we
worked the gun, and we did our best to keep up the show.
Meanwhile, we were not deceived for a moment. Wild and furious as was
the confusion, and running, over the way, we knew, well, it was the
wagoners and "bomb-proof" people, who were doing the running, and
stirring up the confusion. We knew they were not _all_ running away. We
had seen a good deal of artillery in that field, and we knew that we
should soon hear from them. And we were not mistaken!
In a few minutes the sound of our guns was suddenly varied by a sharp,
venomous screech, clap of thunder, right over our heads, followed by a
ripping, tearing, splitting crash, that filled the air; a regular blood
freezer. We knew _that sound_! It was a bursting Parrott shell from a
Federal gun! And they had the range.
The enemy had run out about eighteen, or twenty guns, and they let in,
mad as hornets. Another shell, and another, and another, came screaming
over us. Then they began to _swarm_; the air seemed full of
them,--bursting shells, jagged fragments, balls out of case-shot,--it
sounded like a thousand devils, shrieking in the air all about us. Then,
the roaring of our guns, the heavy smoke, the sulphurous smell, the
shaking of the ground under the thunder of the guns,--it was a fit
place for _devils_ to shriek in.
And how _hot_ it was! Twenty guns, in full fire, can make it hot at the
foot of the North Pole, and this was _not_ the North Pole! quite the
reverse. In addition to the battle heat, the sun was pouring down, hot
as blazes; and the labor of working a rapidly firing "Napoleon" gun,
with four men, in deeply plowed ground, and the strong excitement of
battle--altogether, it was the hottest place I ever saw, or hope I shall
_ever_ see, in this world, or in the world to come. It nearly melted the
marrow in our bones!
A persimmon sapling stood near our gun. It was trimmed, and chipped
down, twig by twig, and limb by limb, by pieces of shell, until it was a
lot of _scraps scattered over the ground_. Sam Vaden, as he passed me,
with a shell, said "Dame, just look back over this field behind us. A
mosquito couldn't fly across that field without getting hit." It looked
so! The dirt was being knocked up, wherever you looked, literally, by
_shower_ of balls, and shell fragments. It had the appearance of hail
striking on the surface of water, only it wasn't cold.
Well! for three mortal hours this battle raged. They hammered us, and we
hammered them. Occasionally, we saw a Federal caisson blown up, which
refreshed us, and several of their guns ceased firing--disabled or
cannoneers cleared out, we thought--and _this_ refreshed us. We wished
they would _all_ blow up, and stop shooting.
After we had been under fire sometime, with nobody hurt as yet, a
case-shot burst in front of us, and Hardy, who had just brought up a
shell, and was standing right by me, said, in his usual deliberate way,
"Dame, I'm hit, and hit very hard, I am afraid." "Where are you hit?" I
asked. He said, "I'm shot through the thigh, and the leg is numbed." I
fired the gun, and jumped down to see what I could do for him. I found
the place, and it looked ugly. There was a clean-cut hole right through
his pants, to the thickest part of the thigh. I put my finger into the
hole, and tore away the cloth to get at the wound, and found to my
great, and his _greater_ delight, that the ball had struck, and glanced.
It had made a long black bruise and the pain was much greater than if it
had gone through the leg. It had struck the great mass of muscle on the
outer thigh, and the leg was, for the time, paralyzed and stiff as a
poker. He was completely disabled. I said, "Bill, you must get right
away from here." "But I _can't_ walk a step." "Well crawl off on your
hands and your good foot, not a man could leave the gun, to help you,
and go out to the side so as to get soonest from under fire." So the
poor fellow hobbled off, as best he could, all alone, amidst the
laughter of the fellows at his novel locomotion. We could see the
bullets knocking up the dirt all around him, as he went slowly "hopping
the clods" across the plowed fields. But he got off all right. Shortly
after Hardy was struck, Charley Pleasants, of Richmond No. ------, at
the Third gun, was shot through the thigh. A long and tedious wound
which kept him disabled some months. Bill Hardy was back to duty in a
day or so. One of the horses, the off horse of the wheel team of our
limber, was hit, also. A piece of shell went into his head, between the
right eye and ear, cutting the brow band of the bridle. The old horse, a
character in the Battery, didn't seem to mind it; and he wore that piece
of shell, in his head, until the end of the war.
And, strange as it seemed, these were all our casualties, under that hot
fire; one man, seriously, and one slightly wounded and a horse slightly
hurt.
=Wounding of Robert Fulton Moore=
No! I forgot! There was one other casualty,--Robert Fulton Moore was
mortally wounded, _in the hat brim_. And this gave rise to a most
amusing scene. Robert Fulton was a driver to the limber of the third
gun. He was a large, soft, man, and was, by no means, characterized by
soldierly bearing, or warlike sentiments. On the contrary, he was
something of a "butt," and was always desperately unhappy under fire. He
could dodge lower off the back of a horse at sound of a shell, than any
man living. His miraculous feats, in this performance, afforded much
diversion, whenever the guns went under fire, to us all, except his
Sergeant, Moncure, who was very much ashamed of it. Still, in a
general, feeble sort of way Robert Fulton had managed to keep up without
any flagrant act of flinching from his post. On this occasion he had
stood up better than usual. He stood holding his horses, and we noticed,
with pleasure, that he was behaving very well under fire. But, it seems,
his courage was only "hanging by the eyelids" so to speak.
Presently a piece of shell came whizzing very close to his head. It cut
away part of his hat brim, and alas! this was too much! Poor Robert
Fulton went all to pieces, instantly. Completely demoralized,
panic-stricken and frantic with terror, he dropped his reins, and struck
out wildly. It seems, he had seen Ellis, our lead driver, scooping out
the hole that has been referred to, and as this was the only hole of any
kind in reach, he instinctively struck for it. Ellis was lying down in
it, flat on his back, with his arms stretched upward, holding his
horses. Robert Fulton rounded the limber, and threw himself down with
all his weight, right upon, and completely covering up, Ellis, and stuck
his face in the dirt over Ellis' shoulder, effectually pinning him down.
Ellis was a fiery, ugly-tempered fellow, but as brave as Julius Caesar,
and of all men in the battery he had the greatest contempt for Moore,
and especially for his present conduct. Ellis, upon finding Moore on top
of him, was in a perfect blaze of fury. The breath was nearly knocked
out of him by Moore's weight, and he was mashed into the narrow hole,
and embarrassed by the reins of his horses. He tried to throw Moore off,
and couldn't. Then he broke loose! He yelled, and swore, and bit, and
pulled Moore's hair, and socked his spurs into him, with both feet. He
would have broken a blood vessel if McCarthy, assisted by Moncure, who
had come to look after his driver, had not pulled Moore off, and taken
him back to his post.
Our attention was drawn to this scene by the noise. The terrific combat
going on in that hole, the sight of Ellis' legs and arms, tossing wildly
in the air, Moore not moving a muscle, but lying still, on top, the dust
kicked up by the fray,--it was more than flesh and blood could stand,
even under such a fire, and we could hardly work the guns for laughing.
After the fight, when Moore had time to look into his injuries, he found
that Ellis had nearly skinned him with his spurs. Some days after, we
heard Robert Fulton exhibiting his torn hat brim to some passing
acquaintance from his own neighborhood, as a trophy of his prowess in
this fight. No doubt he preserves it as a sacred relic yet.
=A Useful Discovery=
In this fight, necessity, the mother of invention, put us up to a device
that served us well here, and that we made fullest use of, in every
fight we had afterwards. When we had kept up that rapid fire, with a
scant gun detachment, in plowed ground, and under a hot sun, for an
hour, we were nearly exhausted. After Hardy was wounded, and left us, it
was still worse. The hardest labor, and what took most time, was running
up the guns from the recoil. We had stopped a moment to rest, and let
the gun cool a little, and were discussing the difficulties, when the
idea occurred to us. There was an old rail fence near by. Somebody said
"let's get some rails and chock the wheels to keep them from running
back." This struck us all as good, and in an instant we had piled up
rails behind the wheels as high as the trail would allow. The effect
was, that when the gun fired it simply jerked back against this rail
pile, and rested in its place, and so we were saved all the time and
labor of running up. We found that we could fire three or four times as
rapidly, in this way. So that a chocked gun was equal to four in a
fight. We found this simple device of immense service! We were told by
the knowing ones that we ran the greatest possible danger. The ordnance
people said that if a gun was not allowed to recoil it would certainly
burst. But we didn't mind! A device that saved so much labor, and
enabled us to deliver such an extraordinarily effective fire on the
battlefield, we were bound to try. We found it acted beautifully. We
then _knew_ the guns _wouldn't_ burst for we had tried it.
We used it afterward in every fight. The instant we were ordered into
position, two or three cannoneers would rush off and get rails, or a
log or two, to chock the guns. And on two or three very desperate
emergencies, during this campaign, this device enabled us to render very
important service. It made a battery equal to a battalion, and a good
many other batteries took it up, and used it. I believe it added greatly
to the effectiveness of our artillery in the close-range fighting of
this campaign.
Well! even with this relief, the labor of working our guns in this
furious and prolonged fight was fearful! At last the welcome order,
"Section cease firing" was given. We limbered up, and drew the guns a
short distance to the side, out of the line of fire, and utterly
exhausted, we cannoneers, threw ourselves right down on the plowed
ground beside the guns, and slept like the dead.
In the meantime, while we had been fighting out in that field, events
were taking place near us, of which we, absorbed in the work before us
and deafened by the roar of our guns, had taken little notice at the
time. As had been described, there was a body of woods some distance off
to our right, and another, to our left. When we went into position we
had not seen any of our troops, and did not know of the presence of any,
near us. We thought we were without support, but as I intimated some
time back, we were better off than we knew.
=Barksdale's Mississippi Creeper=
It seems, that before we came on the ground, Barksdale's Mississippi
Brigade, which had been marching behind us, had filed off the road, and
while we were up on the hill with the cavalry, had quietly, and silently
passed into that body of woods to our right, unseen by the enemy. Along
the front edge of that wood ran an old rail fence, covered all over with
the luxuriant vine known as "Virginia Creeper." Wide open fields
extending in front. Soon, the ground behind that fence was covered with
another sort of "creeper," not as good a "runner" as that on the fence,
nor as "green," but just as tough of fibre, and as hard to "hold on"
when it had once fixed itself,--the "_Mississippi_ Creeper." Silently,
as ghosts, the Brigade glided in behind that fence, and lay low, and
waited. Right here, was where the Federals' idea of _quietly_ occupying
the Spottsylvania line was going to prove a snare. They had not the
dimmest suspicion that we were ahead of them, and between them and that
line. They came on, with guileless confidence, and walked right into
trouble. Presently, a line of battle with columns of troops behind came
marching across the fields upon the concealed Mississippians. Nearer and
nearer they came, unsuspecting any danger, till they got nearly up to
the fence. One man had actually thrown his leg over the rail to mount.
Suddenly! as lightning out of a clear sky, a blinding sheet of flame
flashed into their very faces. Then, after one volley, swiftly came the
dreadful, venomous roll of musketry, the Mississippians loading and
firing "at will," every man as fast as he could. It was just as if "the
angel of death spread his wings to the blast and breathed in the face of
the foe as he passed."
That withering fire tore the ranks of that Division to pieces. It didn't
take those fellows half a second to decide what to do. With yells of
dismay, they charged back, out of that hornet's nest, as if the devil
was after them. In headlong rout, they rushed wildly back across the
fields, and disappeared in the woods beyond.
They left four hundred and two of their number in front of that fence,
and before the fugitives got out of range, their General of Division,
General Robinson, was seriously wounded.
Some of our men went out among the Federal wounded to do what they could
for their relief. An officer of a Mississippi Regiment came upon a
Federal Colonel who lay to all appearance mortally wounded, and gave him
a drink of water, and did what else he could for his comfort. The
Federal took out a fine gold watch, and said, "Here is a watch that I
value very highly. You have been very kind to me, and I would like you
to have it, as I am going to die. If I should get over this, and send to
you for it you will let me have it, if not, I want you to keep it. But,"
he said sadly, "my wound is mortal, I am obliged to die." The
Mississippian left him, and went back to his post, supposing him dead.
Many years after the war, the Mississippi officer was in Baltimore at
Barnum's Hotel. One day, he got into casual talk with a gentleman, at
dinner, and, as he seemed to be a good fellow, they smoked their cigars
together after dinner, and continued their conversation. By and by they
got on the war. It came out, that both of them had served, and on
opposite sides. Finally, in telling some particular incidents of his
experience, the Federal soldier described this very fight, his being, as
he thought mortally wounded, the kindness shown him by a Confederate
officer, and his gift to him, of his watch. The Southern man said, "What
is your name?" "Col. ----, of Robinson's Division," he replied. "Can
you be the man? Have I struck you at last?" cried the ex-Confederate.
"_I've_ got your watch, and here it is, with your name engraved in it."
=Kershaw's South Carolina "Rice Birds"=
It was a singular incident, that these two should meet again so! The
meeting was most cordial; the Federal was delighted to get his watch
again, made doubly valuable by so strange a history.
While this bloody episode was enacting by the Mississippi Brigade, in
the woods to our right, an almost exactly similar scene was going on, in
the woods to our left. A portion of Kershaw's South Carolina Brigade was
unwittingly stumbled upon by "Griffin's" Division in the pines. Another
complete ambuscade! The South Carolinians suddenly sprang up before the
Federals, let them have it, broke and routed them, and killed, and
wounded eighty-seven of them. Our loss was one man. Things were so
sudden, so close here, that one of Kershaw's men killed a Federal
soldier, and wounded another with an axe he happened to have in his
hand.
These first efforts of "Warren's" Corps that had gotten up near the
Spottsylvania line, "just in time to be too late," are thus described by
Swinton, the admirable historian of the "Army of the Potomac."
(Swinton's "Army of the Potomac," p. 443):
"Finally," he says, "the column (Warren's) emerged from the woods into a
clearing, two miles north of Spottsylvania Court House. Forming in line,
Robinson's Division advanced over the plain. Thus far, only Stuart's
dismounted troops had been encountered, and no other opposition was
anticipated; but when half way across the field, and on the point of
rising the crest, the troops were met by a savage musketry fire from
infantry. Owing to their severe experience in the Wilderness, and the
night march, without rest, the men were in an excited, and almost
frightened, condition, and the tendency to _stampede_ was so great that
General Warren had been compelled to go in front of the leading Brigade.
When, therefore, they received a fire in front, from the redoubtable foe
they had left in the Wilderness, the line wavered, and fell back in some
confusion. General Robinson was at the same time severely wounded,
which left the troops without their commander at a critical moment, and
they were with some difficulty rallied and reformed in the woods back of
the open plain. Griffin's Division, which advanced on the right of
Robinson, soon afterward received the same fire with a like result."
It seems then, that it was Robinson's Division that the little
Mississippi Brigade sent to the right about, and it was Griffin's
Division, who scared themselves nearly into fits, by flushing Kershaw's
"rice-birds," in the pines. It was a little hard on these "excited and
almost frightened" men of Warren's. The memory of the fearful shaking up
they had got, day before yesterday, was so fresh in their minds that
"General Warren himself, the _Corps Commander_, had to go in front of
the leading Brigade" to quiet their nerves, even when they thought they
were advancing upon a few dismounted troops. They thought,--a little
comfort in this,--that, at least, all those terrible fellows of the Army
of Northern Virginia were far behind them. And--to meet them _here_,
still, in front! It must be confessed it was hard! It was a very sad
surprise.
It is said that General Grant's strained relations with General Warren
came of Warren's conduct of this move, to seize the Spottsylvania line.
He found great fault with his failure. But, perhaps he was a little hard
on Warren. What could Warren do? His men were demoralized, "excited,
almost frightened, tending to stampede, needing the Corps General to go
in front," and stopping to dine, instead of pushing on to seize the
line. They had to meet men who were not _particularly excited_, were not
_at all frightened_ and had not _the least tendency to stampede_; in
fact, were in the best of spirits, perfectly confident of victory, and
did not need _a corporal to go in front of them_, gaunt, hungry, cool
fellows, who never counted noses--in a fight!
It was too much to expect Warren, with men like his, to go anywhere, or
take anything, when men like these others were in the way. Grant was too
hard on Warren! If it took a _Corps Commander_, going in front, to
encourage them along to advance upon _a few troopers_. I hardly think
that Generals Grant and Meade, and President Lincoln, and Secretary
Stanton, _all together_,--going in front, could have got them up, _if
they had known who was actually ahead_.
However that may be, the object of our rapid all-night march, and of our
venturesome stand, out here, in front of the Spottsylvania line, was
accomplished! The stir up we gave them with that long artillery fire,
and the savage and bloody repulses of two of their divisions made them
more nervous than they were before. They spent some time considering who
it could be in their front, and considering what to do. Later on, two
more Divisions advanced, and our two Brigades and our guns retired.
Our work was done! While we had been out in front amusing the enemy, and
keeping them easy, the Brigades of Longstreet's Corps had been rapidly
coming up, and taking position on the all-important line. We now had a
_sure enough line of battle_ holding it. And night was falling; the
enemy out in front had stopped, and gone to intrenching, instead of
pushing on. We knew that during that night our people, Ewell and Hill,
would be up. All were safe! We slept the sleep of the weary. So ended
the 8th of May. It was a pretty full day for us!
I don't remember anything at all about the early morning of the next
day, the 9th. We were dreadfully tired, and I suppose we slept late, and
then lounged about, with nothing to do, yet, in a listless, stupid
state. Everything was quiet around us, and nothing to attract attention,
or fix it in mind. About mid-day, I recollect noticing bodies of troops,
a regiment, a brigade, or two, moving about, here and there, in various
directions. We heard that Ewell's and Hill's Corps had come up, and
these troops we saw, were taking their way leisurely, along, to the
various position on the line of battle.
In the afternoon, about four or five o'clock, our guns, the "Napoleon"
Section, moved off to take our destined position on the line. We
followed a farm road, off toward the left, and presently came down into
quite a decided hollow, through which ran a little stream of water.
Here we halted! The ground before us rose into a low short hill. Along
the ridge of that hill ran the proposed line of battle, and there was
the position for which we were making. There was quite a lively picket
fire going on, in different directions, and right over the hill, behind
which we were, an occasional shell could be heard screeching about, here
and there. Several passed over us, high above our heads, and away to the
rear. Federal Artillery lazily feeling about to provoke a reply, and
find out where somebody was. They felt lonesome, perhaps! It was a calm,
sweet sunlit May evening.
=Feeling Pulses=
In order not to expose us longer than necessary to this fire of the
pickets, Lieutenant Anderson, commanding this "Section," went up on the
hill, to select _exact_ position for the guns, so that they might be
promptly placed, when we went up. While he was up there reconnoitering,
we lay down on the ground, and waited, and talked. The bullets dropped
over, near, and among us, now and then, and we knew, that the moment we
went up a few steps, on the hill, we would be a mark for sharp-shooters,
a particularly unpleasant situation for artillery. But we tried to
forget all this, and be as happy and _seem_ as careless as we could. And
we would have gotten along very well if let alone. But, there was a
dreadful, dirty, snuffy, spectacled old Irishman, named Robert Close, a
driver, who took this interval to amuse himself. He would ask us "how we
felt," and he came around to most of us, young fellows, and asked us to
let him feel our pulse, and see if we were at all excited, or scared;
and he would put his hand on our hearts, to see if they were beating
regularly enough. And he would call out the result of his investigation
in each case,--the other fellows all sitting around, and eagerly waiting
his report. Nobody can tell what a dreadful trial this simple thing was!
When just going under fire--and indeed _already_ under some fire--to
have your heart and your pulse felt, and reported on to a waiting crowd
of comrades! But, all of us youngsters had to undergo it! That cruel,
old scoundrel went round to every one of the youngsters. It was an
unspeakable humiliation for a _cannoneer_ to be thus fingered by _a
driver_, but what could we do? Not a thing!
We would _have liked_ to knock the old rascal's head off, but, not one
of us would have dared to object to that pulse feeling, and we in turn
meekly held out our wrists, and _tried_ to look happy and amused--and
made a dismal failure of it. Old Close was as brave, himself, as a lion.
_He_ had as soon go in a fight as not; a little sooner! When balls
swarmed around, he didn't care a bit. He was in a position to do this
thing. But it was suffering to us. Each man waited, with anxious heart,
for his turn to come, for old Close to "pass upon his condition." Those
whom he approved, were pleased to death, and those whom he didn't, hated
him from that time.
I honestly believe that old Irishman gave me the worst scare I had in
that campaign, and I am sure that a compliment, on the field, from
General Longstreet himself, would not have pleased me more, than that
snuffy old fellow's verdict, after feeling my pulse that I "would do all
right." It was quite a curious scene altogether!
=Where the Fight Was Hottest=
In a few minutes Lieutenant Anderson came down and ordered us forward.
He told us "the sharp-shooters were making it a little warm" up there.
When the guns got to the top of the rise, they must go at a trot to
their positions, the sooner to get the horses from under fire. Twenty or
thirty steps brought us to the top of the sharp little ascent. Here we
found a few of our sharp-shooters exchanging compliments with the enemy,
and the balls were knocking up the dirt, and whistling around. I was
interested in watching one of our fellows. He was squatting down,
holding his rifle ready. A Federal sharp-shooter, whom we could not see,
was cracking at him. Three times a ball struck right by him, and came
whizzing by us. He kept still, and patiently bided his time. Suddenly,
he threw up his rifle and fired, and then exclaimed "Well! I got _you_
anyhow." The balls stopped coming. This man said that the concealed
Federal sharp-shooter had been shooting at him for some time and he had
been waiting for him. At last, catching sight of a head rising from
behind a bush, he got his chance, as we saw, and dropped his man. Our
guns were placed in their position, selected for them on the line, and
the horses sent back to the rear.
Our position here was right on the infantry line of battle. That is, on
that line the infantry afterwards took. For when we got on the spot,
there was no infantry there,--nothing except the sharp-shooters, already
referred to. The line was traced by a continuous pile of dirt thrown up,
I don't know by whom, before we got on the ground. I suppose the
engineers had it done as a guide to the troops, in taking position.
The position our guns now took, grew to be very familiar ground to us,
and remains very memorable. On this spot we stayed, and fought our part
in the Spottsylvania battles. On this spot we saw many bloody sights,
and witnessed many heroic scenes, and had many thrilling experiences.
The incidents of those days spent there, in nearly all their details,
are indelibly impressed on my memory, and are as fresh as if they
happened yesterday.
We stood on a low ridge which rose gradually to the right. To the left,
after running level for fifty yards, the ground fell rapidly away, until
it sank down into the valley of a little brook, one hundred and fifty
yards from us. Off to the left, in front, stretched a large body of
woods. To the right, in front, stood a body of thick pines coming up to
within two or three hundred yards of us, its edge running along to the
right about that distance parallel with our line. Directly in front of
us, the ground,--cleared fields about three or four hundred yards
wide,--sloped gently away down to a stream, and beyond, sloped gently
upward to the top of the hill, on which stood a farmhouse, and
buildings. That hill was considerably higher than our position, and
commanded it. That hill-top was about one-half to three-quarters of a
mile from us.
All along our front, in the bottom, ran a little stream; the ground, on
either side, in our immediate front, was swampy, and thickly covered
with low swamp growth. That soft ground saved us a good many hard knocks
we had plenty as it was! Behind us, our cleared ground ran back, very
gently sloping, almost level, some thirty or forty yards, and then, the
hill fell sharply down, some twenty yards to the little brook, which ran
along the hollow! This sharp bank, facing away from the enemy, and this
stream, protected by it, and so near us, proved a great comfort to us.
It also was of great service as a covered way, by which troops and
supplies (_ammunition_, while there, it did not seem to be considered
necessary for us to have any other supplies) were able to approach the
line. Once it proved of vital use as a cover behind which a broken
Brigade was able to rally, and save the line.
Exactly back of us, forty yards off, and covering that steep bank at
this one point, stood a body of large, tall trees,--pines and
others,--occupying half an acre. And in that wood, under the bank, some
of the fellows dug holes, and in them they built fires which, by one or
another, were kept up all the time. At these fires,--quite effectually
protected from shot and shell and bullets, though within forty yards of
the line of battle, a fellow could cook anything he happened, by
accident, to have, or slip back from the works, now and then, when not
engaged at the guns, warm himself and stand up straight, and stretch his
legs and back, without the imminent risk of being bored by a
sharp-shooter; which makes a stretch unsatisfactory.
Just at the point where we were posted, the line left the ridge, and
dipping a little, on the front face of the slope, ran along about
parallel with the ridge. My gun, "Number Four," stood exactly at the
point where the line declined in front of the ridge, and so, was exactly
in the infantry line. The "3d gun" was some ten yards to our left, on
the ridge seven or eight yards back of the line, and could fire over it
to the front. It had its own separate work.
It was about sunset when we got to our position. We unlimbered our guns,
and ran them up close to the bank of dirt, about two feet high, which we
found there, thinking that in case of a row, that would be some little
protection. However, things seemed quiet. We couldn't see any enemy from
where we stood, didn't know whether any force was near us. And after we
placed our guns, we strolled around, and looked about us, and were
disposing ourselves for a quiet night, and a good sleep, which we needed
badly.
Just then somebody, I think it was Lieutenant Anderson, who had walked
to the left, some distance, where he could see around the point of pine
woods to our right, up on the hill, came back with some news very
interesting to us, if not to our advantage. He said that, just beyond
these woods up on the hill, not over five or six hundred yards from us,
there was a lot of Federal artillery. He saw them plainly. They were in
position. He counted twelve guns, and was sure there were others,
farther around, which he could not see for the woods. At least six of
those, in sight, he was certain were twenty-pounder Parrotts. These
guns, he said, commanded our position, and while the enemy had not yet
seen us, for the treetops between, they soon would; and _anyhow_, the
moment we fired a shot, and disclosed our position, we would catch it.
There were enough heavy guns bearing down on us to sweep us off the face
of the earth, unless we were protected. If daylight found us unfortified
we couldn't stay there, so we had better go to throwing dirt.
=Against Heavy Odds at "Fort Dodge"=
Here was nice news! Our two Napoleons, right under the muzzles of twelve
or more rifled cannon, and six twenty-pounder Parrotts, and with no
works! This was pleasant advice to tired and sleepy men, who wanted to
go to bed. But such were the facts, and as we never had left a position
under fire, and had come to stay, and were _certainly going_ to stay,
we _went_ to throwing dirt.
We went to work, to raise and thicken the little bank already there, in
front of our gun, and to build a short "traverse" to the right, for
protection from enfilade fire. We worked all night, six of us, and by
morning we had a slight and rough artillery work, with an embrasure for
the gun; the whole thing about four feet high, and two and one-half feet
thick, at the top. It was the best that could be done by six, tired, and
hungry fellows, all young boys, working with two picks and three shovels
through a short night. Such as it was, we fought behind it, all through
the Spottsylvania battles, and it stood some heavy battering. This gem
of engineering skill,--by reason of the pretty constant courtesies we
felt it polite to pay to the unceasing attentions of our friends, the
enemy, for the next six days, in the shape of shells and bullets, we
called "Fort _Dodge_."
Just here, I take occasion to correct a very wrong impression about the
field works, the "Army of Northern Virginia" fought behind, in this
campaign. All the Federal writers who have written about these battles,
speak of our works as "formidable earthworks," "powerful
fortifications," "impregnable lines;" such works as _no troops_ could be
expected _to take_, and any troops could be expected _to hold_.
Now about the parts of the line distant from us, I couldn't speak so
certainly, though I am sure they were all very much the same, but about
the works all along _our part_ of the line I can speak with exactness
and certainty. I saw them, I helped, with my own hands, to make them. I
fought behind them. I was often on top of them, and both sides of them.
I know all about them. I got a good deal of the mud off them on
me,--(not for purposes of personal fortification, however).
Our "works" were, a single line of earth, about four feet high, and
three to five feet thick. It had no ditch or obstructions in front. It
was nothing more than a little heavier line of "rifle pits." There was
no physical difficulty in men walking right over that bank! I did it
often myself, saw many others do it, and twice, saw a line of Federal
troops walk over it, and then saw them walk _back_ over it, with the
greatest ease, at the rate of forty miles an hour; _i. e._, except those
whom we had persuaded to stay with us, and those whom the angels were
carrying to Abraham's bosom, at a still swifter rate. Works they could
go over like that couldn't have been much obstacle! They couldn't have
made better time on a dead level.
="Sticky" Mud and Yet More "Sticky" Men=
Such were our works _actually_! And still, they seemed to "loom largely"
to the people in front. I wonder what could have given them such an
exaggerated idea of the strength of those modest little works? I wonder
if it could have been the _men_ behind them? There were not a great many
of these men. It was a very thin gray line along there, back of a thin,
red line of clay. But these lines stuck together very hard, and were
very hard indeed to separate. The red clay was "sticky" and the men were
just as "sticky." And, as the two lines stuck together so closely, it
made the whole very strong indeed. Certainly, it seems they gave to
those who tried to force them apart, an impression of great strength!
Yes, it must have been the _men_. A story in point, comes to my aid
here. A handsome, well-dressed lady sweeps with a great air, past two
street boys. They are much struck. "My eye, Jim, but ain't that a
stunning dress?" Says Jim, with a superior air, "Oh get out, Bill, the
dress ain't no great shakes; it's the _woman_ in it that makes it so
'killing.'" That was the way with our Spottsylvania earthworks. The
works "wa'n't no great shakes." It was the _men_ in 'em, that made them
so "killing."
The men behind those works, such as they were, had perfect confidence in
their own ability to hold them. And this happy combination of "faith"
and "works" proved as strong against the world and the flesh, here, as
it does against the devil. It was perfectly effectual! It withstood all
assaults!