If there is anything in war that is embarrassing, it is to be on a

cavalry line with orders to draw the enemy's fire.

On Stoneman's raid, and after, the force generally was fought

dismounted; that is, No. 4 holds the horses of Nos. 1, 2 and 3, who

advance as an infantry skirmish-line. They are armed with Spencer

rifles, and go along gingerly over a big field, at the other end of

which is a wood, to ascertain if the Rebels are in that wood. The poor

skirmishers know damn well the Rebs are there, but their orders are to

go down in this way, and find out by getting shot at.

Having had a taste of this sort of advance-guard service, wherein I had

attracted too much Rebel fire, I was anxious to be excused. My plan was

to go alone on my horse as a Scout or Spy. I should not carry any arms

to be seen, and would dress as a Rebel or country farmer-boy. I thought

that, in this guise, I could ride freely over the roads and get into our

lines. The scheme seemed to please our officer immensely, and he

reported the matter to General Stoneman's Chief of Staff. I was ordered

to report to the Chief, and again unfolded my plan. He suggested, among

other things, that I should, if I met any questioners, endeavor to

mislead them as to the number and, especially, the route of our cavalry.

A disguise was obtained; it was a dirty old jacket, borrowed from a

contraband cook. Several persons interested themselves in my make up;

one got me a straw hat, another a pair of trousers, etc.

I left all my arms except a pistol, and, when ready to go, I paralyzed

them by demanding a bunch of signal rockets. I explained that I should

only use them in case of extreme danger; that the appearance of a

certain rocket at night would indicate that that neighborhood was to be

avoided. In carrying these rockets, and exploding them, I knew that I

ran great personal risk, but somehow I felt that, alone, I would be able

to get through. I was only nervous and doubtful of myself when working

in company.

The General, or at least his Staff, was most solicitous that I should

deceive or mislead the people as to their real force and purpose. We

only anticipated serious trouble at the fords on the Rapidan, and

possibly the Rappahannock.

The General had heard, through the Captain, of some sick and wounded

Rebel soldiers who were returning from Chancellorsville to the interior,

that Hooker had been defeated. He had also ascertained that the report I

had brought about their marching on Washington City was exaggerated. We

expected, naturally, that some steps would be taken by our army to help

us out. We also expected that Stuart would endeavor to head us off and

capture the entire force.

This was about the condition of things when I started out on the road

alone towards the Rappahannock. For mile after mile I met nothing. At

the few scattered houses I would dash up and breathlessly ask for

information about the Yankees. At the colored quarters I scattered the

news that the Yankees had gone back into the Valley.

On this return march, Stoneman did not once show a horse on a road

during the daytime. This fact probably accounts for his success. During

every day the men were all concealed in suitable places. Skirmishers, of

course, kept guard, and, at a moment's warning, the whole cavalry force

would have been up in arms as infantry behind breastworks to repel an

attack. The marching was all done at night. Men sleep pretty well on

horseback when they are as tired out as were Stoneman's raiders. A

column of horses will follow each other without the use of any bridle

over the most devious roads.

One of the funny things about the raid was, that nearly half of the

cavalrymen were bare-headed when they got back. This resulted from

sleeping in the saddle on these night marches. The narrow roads we were

compelled to take were overhung with the branches of trees; these

stripped the hats off the sleeping beauties. Very often, too, the rider

in front would grasp a switch, or limb, and hold on till he was safely

passed; then, without a thought of the sleepy rider in his rear, he

would let go, and the switch, flying back, would strike the man in the

face. This sort of thing wakened up a good many sleepers and made some

disturbances in the ranks. It had the effect, also, of making the faces

of those who caught the switch look decidedly as if they had come out of

a free fight, especially if they were hatless.

My ride along during that day was without special incident. I was more

than surprised to find the path clear of Rebel soldiers. I did all that

was expected of me as a Scout, in circulating freely the false

information that our force had gone the other way.

With a great deal of trepidation I approached the crossing of the

Rapidan. I knew that, if there was a force of Rebels any place in our

path, they would be there. I inquired particularly of everyone I would

meet if there were any Yankees on the road. I knew very well that, in

asking this question, I'd find out whether there were Rebels around.

There were no Yankees there, but a few of the Rebels had been seen over

the river in the morning. Here was my dilemma. The crossing was clear

now, but how long it would remain so was uncertain.

I was too far from our men to make any signal to them that the road was

clear. I didn't like to venture over the river alone, where those Rebels

had been seen. The important thing was to report that ford clear. I

staked my horse in an adjoining grove, determined to conceal myself

until night.

As the early evening wore on and no enemy showed themselves, I became

impatient at lying idle, and boldly determined to ride back to our force

before dark. I knew very well that, once we were safely over that river

at this crossing, with its steep precipitous banks, with our men in

force, we had a clear field for a run, or a fight with J. E. B. Stuart

to the Rappahannock.

Therefore I rode back at a gallop over all the long road. Just after

dark I met the advance of our force,--the same I had been asked to

volunteer with.

Hastily informing the officer in command of my observations at the

ferry, that the crossing was not occupied, etc., he reported to the

General.

In a little while there came dashing up the road the head of our column.

Nobody stopped to thank me for the good news that we could get over the

river, but all were intent on getting there at once. In a word, the

entire force got over all right, and, in due time, we crossed the

Rappahannock, and were once more safely within our own lines.

I do not know the figures for this raid. I have drawn my recollections

of it to an abrupt termination. My impression is, that we lost nothing

of material importance. We captured a good many prisoners, probably more

than we lost. My notion is that the cavalry can boast that we brought

back the force intact.

One great good was accomplished by the raid--the Rebels were again

taught to show more respect to a Yankee on horseback. It was Hooker who

failed, not his cavalry.

The truth should not be overlooked, that the partial success of the

expedition was not due to General Hooker, nor even to his Lieutenant,

General Stoneman. The one man to whom more credit is probably due than

any other was General Alexander, the Chief of Staff of the Cavalry

Corps, who served both with Stoneman and Pleasonton. It was he who

planned and organized this great raid; it was his object and aim to go

to Richmond, and that we did not go in while at the back gates of the

city is to be charged solely to Stoneman or Hooker.

This is not an opinion merely. I rode close by General Alexander one

day, and heard him with my own big ears urge, yes plead with Stoneman to

go on into Richmond anyhow. I heard Stoneman's voice utter the words: "I

know d---- well we can do it, but my orders are not to go to Richmond."

General Alexander was a large man, with a full beard, who talked in a

slow, deliberate voice, but always in a kindly manner. He became

somewhat ruffled at Stoneman's declining to act upon his suggestion, and

I recall very distinctly how this ordinarily quiet man became as much

interested in his subject as a Methodist preacher or politician in an

argument, on horseback.

Both were so intent upon the question that neither took any notice of

the little orderly in a dirty uniform who was riding near them.

My impression then was that Stoneman was too much of a regular of the

old school to disobey an order, even if he knew it would result in great

good to his cause.

Whether there was such an order from headquarters can perhaps be

established from the records--

That one could have gone into Richmond was freely admitted by the

general officer in command.

We returned to our old camps at Fredericksburg again. In this way I

hovered about that ill-fated Fredericksburg during all that winter, and

until the movement to Gettysburg, without once having an opportunity to

get into the town, though our troops had been there. It was my luck to

have been absent at the time. For some unfathomable reason, the fates

were against me every time.

I shall never do this subject justice until I write a novel, giving the

entire story.

Fredericksburg during all these days presented, from our side, a gloomy,

deserted appearance. There were always a few Confederate sentries on

duty, which we could see on the streets. At the river crossing, or

ferry, an occasional flag-of-truce boat would be rowed over, but on

these occasions the General Staff-officers conducted the courtesies. Men

and orderlies were invariably placed to prevent any but the two officers

interested from getting a word with the Confederates.

Right here I will remark that I've witnessed innumerable flag-of-truce

exchanges, but I do not recall a single instance in which a bottle was

not passed around as a preliminary to the business in hand. I presume

the custom originated from the Indians smoking the pipe of peace.

One funny remark on an occasion of this sort remains in my memory. An

enlisted man near me, seeing a Rebel taking a long pull at the flask of

Union commissary, which our officer presented with a supercilious bow,

said: "Well, I'm ---- if this is not getting to be too much of a civil

war." He probably felt disgusted because he did not have an opportunity

at the flask.

One day I was startled by the sounds of artillery, and an accompaniment,

which, to me, resembled more than anything I can compare it with, a

whole lot of carpenters tearing down a frame house. One would have

thought there was a man with a hatchet, pounding sharply on every board,

as if they were having a contest among themselves to see who could hit

the fastest.

I rode hurriedly down to the river, below town, to see what it was all

about. In those days, I never stopped to ask anybody's advice or

consent, but followed my own impulses and inclinations. I passed some

General officers and Staff on a hill-side near the batteries that were

firing, who had their glasses pointed in the direction of the hammering.

When I got to the river, as close as my horse could go without jumping

down the steep bank, I saw, to my surprise, that from all along the

rifle-pits that lined the top of the bank on the Rebel side was a line

of white smoke--indeed, the smoke almost concealed the rifle-pits.

It was from behind this bank of foggy smoke that all the hammering

noises came. It was caused by the sounds of hundreds and hundreds of

rifle-shots "at will," but in such rapid succession that it resembled,

as I have said, innumerable hammers on a frame house.

My horse could not get me close enough to see down to the edge of the

water on our side, and I was about to dismount and get closer, when I

saw coming up the steep road, that had been cut in the bank, a

procession that took the blood out of my heart. There were two men

dragging (not carrying) a dead soldier, while a closer glance showed all

along the side of that steep bank dozens of others, either dead or

dying.

It was the Engineer Corps of the Army of the Potomac that were down

there behind that bank trying to lay a pontoon bridge over the

Rappahannock.

The artillery "support" had no more effect in quieting that incessant

hammering than if their shots had been fired into the air.

I stood there for a while, absolutely paralyzed, at a distance not much

greater than the width of a street, watching those Rebels bob up all

along that rifle-pit, puff out the white smoke, and their heads go down

behind the long line of yellow clay out of sight, all along the line.

I have often since wondered that one of those fellows did not pick me

off my horse, as I sat there an absurdly-conspicuous mark.

If they had not been so busy watching those who were trying to lay that

pontoon, they would undoubtedly have dropped me. My position on the

horse would naturally be taken for that of an officer. I assert here

that more desperate or more heroic service has never been performed than

by those of our Engineer Corps in their laying of pontoons in the face

of the enemy's fire from rifle-pits.

It seemed to me, on a closer inspection of the work that day, that they

carried out a dead man for every plank they laid on the pontoons. When

it is remembered that these men necessarily work _en masse_, and that

almost every shot from an enemy must hit something, it will be seen how

much exposed to deadly fire the quiet Engineer Corps become. In the

charges on rifle-pits or forts, or on an enemy's line, there is always

something of the excitement of a rush or hurrah that impels men forward

with loaded guns and pointed bayonets in their hands; but, in laying

pontoons over a river in the face of the enemy, a courage and nerve are

required that, to my notion, is far beyond the ordinary.

I often wonder that some of the accomplished Engineer officers do not

give this matter their attention in the histories of the war that every

other branch of the service is showering upon the land.

These men, supported by the artillery and a few infantry, succeeded at

last in getting so many boats launched that the Rebels concluded it was

time to quit bothering them any longer, when, all at once, every Rebel

popped from behind his rifle-pits, took to his heels and ran for dear

life across the plain toward the hills. Of course, our artillery opened

upon them at a lively rate. In spite of the fact that the dead and

wounded were thick around me, I yelled with as much fun and delight as I

have since at baseball games to see a man make a home-run.

Not a single Johnny dropped, though they threw their guns away to

lighten them in the race for the home-run.

This occurred some distance below Fredericksburg, and as there did not

seem to me to be any intended movement of troops over the pontoons,

which had been laid at such a terrible sacrifice of life, I rode off to

the upper fords near the Lacey House, expecting to get over there. I was

told, on reaching headquarters, that this was simply a "diversion," to

detain, or ascertain if the enemy were still in our front.

Great Scott! what a disappointment to me. What a terrible thing is war,

that will permit, as a simple diversion, the murdering in cold blood of

hundreds of men without intending to profit by their work at all.

The services of a single reliable Spy, or Scout, would have accomplished

more than all of this diversion. That evening the Staff moved off and I

went along. I did not know then where we were going. I supposed, as did

everyone else, that it was to be another battle somewhere near

Fredericksburg. It never occurred to my mind then, that, in riding away

from the Lacey House that June evening, I should never see it again.

I do not suppose a dozen persons outside of General Lee's staff,

imagined we were going to ride home to Pennsylvania--to Gettysburg.

That's where we went. And, before leaving Fredericksburg, I wanted to

say a few words of farewell to Geno.

There are one or two old, old songs, which have always remained such

particular favorites with me that my friends have learned to expect me

to call for them, in season or out of season.

I mention them now for the benefit of the sons and daughters of

veterans, and the other friends, young and old, who have followed the

"boy" in his love-making under the great difficulties that a war

develops.

They are beautiful songs besides and the words and melody more clearly

define the romance than my pen could describe.

I have already detailed the experiences with Geno, who so gracefully

handled a guitar in her beautifully-formed bare arms, as she skillfully

played an accompaniment to "Juanita." It was that old, old song and

"them" eyes that put me in Old Capitol Prison.

I would advise any of the young lady readers, with black hair and pretty

eyes, to get a guitar and practice "Juanita" on the boys. It will bring

them down every time.

Another old favorite is "Evangeline," which so fully expresses my

sentiments on the past.

Surely, there never was a sweeter and more appropriate love song than my

"Lost Evangeline." While the song of separation is the sweetly familiar

"In the Gloaming."

Another beautiful air and words is entitled "Someday"--strikingly

expressive of future hopes. This I heard sung first in the parlor of a

hotel in the far, far West, when I was traveling in California, where it

had the effect of making me homesick.

Since the close of the war, I have wandered all over the land, like

Gabriel in search of his Evangeline. I was shipwrecked on the Pacific

Ocean at the mouth of the Columbia River, in the extreme Northwest. I

sailed up the Columbia River with some such feelings as an explorer must

experience on discovering a new continent. I visited the eternally

snow-capped Mount Hood, rode around Puget Sound to British Columbia,

went over the Cascades and The Dalles, in Oregon, to the western slope

of the Rocky Mountains in Montana, thence over miles of wild mountain

roads in Oregon and California on stage coaches, where Indians and

stage-robbers thrive. I have lived in San Francisco, spent part of a

winter in Los Angeles, lived among the Mormons in Utah for six months;

in truth, I have been everywhere, but I have not yet found a trace of

the long-lost Geno. While I have not exactly been searching for Geno on

these travels, I have never given up the hope of some day seeing her,

and as long as I live I never shall.

I don't know how it may be with Geno; it is likely she has a good

husband--better than I would have been--and that she is devoted to him

and her family; but, in my secret heart, I hope the old saying will

prove true, that a woman never forgets her first love, and that some

day, in some unseen manner, Geno may read this and see that I have not

forgotten her. This has been to my life only a sweet memory, which I

shall cherish fondly as such to the end. "Her bright smile haunts me

still."

"Dear as remembered kisses after death,

And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feigned

On lips that are for others; deep as love,

Deep as first love, and wild with all regret;

Oh, death in life! the days that are no more."

After leaving Falmouth, the headquarters of Cavalry corps were quartered

in an old house somewhere convenient to the railroad and telegraph wires

that run into Alexandria. It was probably close by the Sixth Corps'

position, as General Sedgwick occupied the same house with his Staff,

and as their horses were tied about the fences.

One little incident will serve to locate me. General Pleasonton was then

the Chief of Cavalry, to whose General Staff I was afterward attached.

He also occupied rooms in this same building. Late one night a message

was brought in to me to deliver to the General. The building we were in

had been apparently deserted by the family. I was told by some of the

officers that I'd find General Pleasonton in his room up stairs. I went

tramping up the uncarpeted steps, with my big cavalry boots and spurs

rattling and resounding through the great empty hall in the "wee sma'

hours," so that I awakened Colonel Blake, who was wrapped up in his

blanket trying to sleep on the hall floor. The old Colonel gave me a

terrific blast from his bugle mouth, which awakened every officer in the

house. Some one crawling from under another blanket pointed to General

Pleasonton's room, which I entered unceremoniously, glad enough to get

any place out of sound of the old Colonel's voice.

I found General Pleasonton, by the aid of the commissary candle I

carried for a lantern, lying asleep on an ambulance stretcher. At the

head of his couch stood an empty cracker-box, on which was the remnant

of his student lamp--about an inch of candle--along side of which were

two derringer pistols.

Probably because I was nervous or rattled, by the fuss I had raised in

the hall outside, I abruptly awakened the General, at the same moment

stooping down to light his candle with mine. The General must have been

having a nightmare. The moment I spoke he started up, grabbed for his

pistols, and scared me so badly that I dropped the candle on the floor,

leaving us in the dark, retreating to the door, as I said: "Don't shoot;

it's me." After another "blessing" for my midnight endeavor to deliver a

message, I got the matter straightened out.

I was telling General Pleasonton of this incident recently, which he

recalled in his usual pleasant manner, though he insists that he never

carried a pistol during the entire war.

General Pleasonton was certainly one of the most courteous, gentlemanly

General officers in the Army of the Potomac.

It was my privilege and pleasure to be near his person a great deal up

to Gettysburg, and I cannot recall a single instance of his using harsh

or ungentlemanly language toward his associates. Indeed, the General had

more the appearance and manner of a Presbyterian minister than of a

dashing cavalryman. During the war, he wore his full beard closely

trimmed, going about the camps in his quiet, easy way, like a chaplain.

It was Custer, and Kilpatrick, and Gregg, who possessed the dashing,

dare-devil style. Buford, like Pleasonton, was an old Regular, and went

about among his troops as if the war was a business that could not be

hurried.

I saw General Pleasonton angry one day at a matter that seemed so

trifling that all the Staff enjoyed the affair. His servant, or hostler,

who took care of his blooded riding horse, had been regularly supplied

by the General with a little cash, to be used in keeping a supply of

loaf or lump sugar on hand. It was the General's habit before mounting

to receive from his hostler a lump of the sugar, which he fed himself to

his horse. It is said, you know, that the feeding of a lump of sugar to

a horse regularly has an effect similar to love powders, and creates a

peculiar attachment of the horse to the feeder of the sugar.

On this occasion, either the contraband had spent the sugar allowance

for "commissary," or some one desired to play a trick on the General by

substituting some lumps of drugs from the hospital steward's chest for

the sugar. The horse found out the deceit and kicked on it, and

investigation showed the General that he had been trifled with, and he

was very mad about it.

It is probably true that General Pleasonton, as the Chief of Cavalry,

will be held responsible for not having obtained information of General

Lee's escape from Fredericksburg. I have talked with General Pleasonton

as recently as the summer of 1887 on this subject, but his explanation

would make an interesting chapter in itself and does not pertain to this

narrative of facts.

I hope it may not be considered egotistical in me to observe here that

I, as a scout and spy at headquarters, was in no way responsible for the

lack of information of Lee's departure. I was not Chief of the Secret

Service. I cannot resist the temptation to say right here, in connection

with my proposed services with Burnside, that, if he had remained in

command, I would have been doing signal duty from Geno's house in

Fredericksburg, or from some point in the enemy's lines.

If I had gone over the river, as proposed, and had mixed with the

Confederates as a spy, I certainly would have secured information of the

movement of two of Lee's corps. I should most assuredly have been able

to have signaled this information over the river, and then and there

General Hooker would have received the credit for having "so wonderfully

divined the enemy's movements and thwarted his purposes." The poor,

despised Spy would probably have been hung, and his services never been

heard of.

CHAPTER XXXI.

FAREWELL TO FREDERICKSBURG--GENERAL PLEASONTON--CAVALRY FIGHTING AT

BRANDY AND ALDIE--LOOKING AFTER STUART'S REBEL CAVALRY--A COUPLE OF

CLOSE CALLS--CHASED BY MOSBY'S GUERRILLAS--WITH CUSTER IN FREDERICK,

MD--THE DAY BEFORE THE BATTLE, FLIRTING WITH THE GIRLS.

Just how long we of headquarters were on the march from Fredericksburg

to Gettysburg is beyond my recollection. We went the longest way around

to get there, I think, but we will hurry the reader along the war-path

to Gettysburg. As it was Pleasonton's business to find out where Lee was

going, we had to cover considerable ground in chasing the devil (Stuart)

around the bush.

The first incident or date of importance was the great cavalry battle of

Brandy Station, which has been so fully written up that I only need to

mention that I was "thar or tharabouts"--in the rear of a haymow.

It was Buford, of my brigade, who should have the credit of manoeuvering

the cavalry there. In result, it rather astonished the Confederates.

After this encounter, a "Yankee on a horse" was more respected by them.

It was the only cavalry battle of the war. We had other little

skirmishes on the outposts, of no particular interest to this narrative.

One little circumstance remains vividly fixed in my mind in connection

with our cavalry skirmish along the rugged, rough Blue Ridge Mountains

or Gaps.

At one point--Middleburg, I think--we had a rumpus with some of

Imboden's, or Stuart's, men, who were opposed to our looking through the

Gap to see what Lee was doing in the Valley.

I had been sent out to scout, and for this mounted secret service a

second man was sent along.

The instructions were to get on some untraveled road and reach the top

of the mountain, or, at least, some position from which we could use our

signal glasses to view the Valley on the other side. It was understood

that Lee was moving down or up the Valley, but Pleasonton desired to

know just what infantry force was yet in front. To obtain this

information, two of us started out alone about three or four o'clock one

morning, hoping to get a secure place in the woods on a mountain-top by

the light of an early dawn, where we would remain quietly all day, using

our glasses from tree-tops, etc., and signal back from the mountain.

Now, bear this in mind, we were to signal back, indicating our position

by the old Indian plan of a column of smoke. The signal men about

headquarters, seeing the smoke ascend, would level their glasses at the

point from which it was supposed to originate. We rode along quietly

enough, without meeting anyone, and dressed so that we would have passed

ordinarily for the guerrillas that infested the country thereabouts.

I was particular, however, to keep on my uniform jacket and pantaloons,

saber, etc., though I disguised them by rents and rags as much as

possible.

I knew very well that to have been captured in the disguise of

countryman meant being hung as a Spy. The uniform and arms protected me

from detection and immediate execution.

We got to a point in the road from which we turned into the woods,

leading our horses over the rough growth of underbrush a half mile or

so, where we securely tethered them in a little ravine, safe from

observation. The poor, tired horses were only too glad of a chance for a

little rest and quiet, and on this account we did not fear their making

any noise.

Laboriously climbing up the rough mountain on foot with our

paraphernalia, we at last reached a point from which we had a clear view

of a certain portion of the country on the other side.

We saw nothing at all like an army below us; in fact, the Confederate

army had previously passed out of sight at that point, _en route_ to

Gettysburg. I turned in leisurely to make our coffee and "smoke," while

my chum stood guard with his glass.

After climbing half a dozen trees, to try to get a back view, we at last

were compelled to give up, because of the presence of a dense wood

below, behind which our headquarters were sunken completely from our

sight. As the next best thing to do, we made the signal of "two smokes,"

which had been previously agreed upon to signify "no enemy in sight."

We remained long enough in the mountain to satisfy ourselves that there

was no enemy there and not likely to be, and, as we could not flag back,

we decided to smudge the two fires, so that the two smokes would be seen

for some time after we should leave on our return.

Finding the horses all right, and feeling so well satisfied that there

was no enemy near enough to trouble us, we probably became too careless.

On reaching the road, I proposed riding ahead on the road to the summit

before returning. My companion, who, by the way, was chief clerk of our

Adjutant-General, and, being as big a fool as myself, consented, so we

trotted on up the road, feeling perfectly safe. At a point right at the

summit, probably, we were paralyzed to see a blockade or rifle-pit

across the road.

We abruptly stopped at the sight of this, but receiving no salute of

welcome, we sidled to one side of the road to make room for any

cannon-balls that might want to pass down. Not stirring anyone, my

friend suggested that it had been abandoned. Feeling assured by the

deserted-looking appearance of the road, we were ready to advance again

when, on looking to one side of the road in a direction we had not

thought of scrutinizing, my comrade observed, as he jerked in his horse:

"There's a man over by that old barn," pointing to the right, and then

in hurried tones: "There come two more around the corner."

I looked in the direction indicated and saw a half-dozen mounted men at

the edge of a wood; but the first one wore blue clothes, so I

reassuringly said: "Why, it's some of our men who are out here

foraging."

"No; I'm ---- if it is. I'm going to get out of range, anyhow;" with

that he turned his horse's head. I kept my eye on the men, and saw, to

my horror, two of them raise their guns and point at us.

As quickly as if I had been shot, I jerked my horse around and dodged my

head on the other side of his neck; the horse turning suddenly as I made

this motion, threw me entirely out of the saddle on to my feet on the

ground. Just as I turned there were two shots in quick succession.

As we were within very close range, the Rebel cavalrymen seeing me

dropped out of the saddle, stopped firing, supposing, of course, I was

hit. The funny part of it was, my companion's horse had been so

accustomed to going "double" that he could not be made to budge a step

until my horse was ready to go along with him.

I had not lost the reins and was soon in the saddle, hanging by the neck

of the horse. I spurred him for dear life and led the other horse out of

the scrape. It was a close call, and I have not the least doubt but that

my fall out of the saddle saved us both, as they supposed we were sure

game and didn't follow up until we were galloping down the road, there

being a fence between us.

These men were part of the Confederate cavalry that had been on the very

mountain below us all the time we had been in the woods above.

We returned to camp at Aldie, reported the matter, and were complimented

highly as "two ---- fools."

During these every-day cavalry skirmishes, while _en route_ to

Gettysburg, I saw a great many horrible sights in the way of wounded

cavalrymen and horses. One of the most disagreeable, to me, was to see

them carry a dead soldier across a led horse's back, while a companion

walked along side, holding him steady by the heels, precisely as if the

man was a bag of potatoes, or corn, going to mill. There was a great

deal of this, which seemed to be the only method to get the dead out of

those mountains, where ambulances could not travel. It is not pleasant

to think or write about; but, dear me, I sometimes feel as if all the

horrible truths should be told. In the war-papers we find but little

mention of the rough manner of taking care of the wounded, and the

disgusting disposition of the dead heroes. As General Sherman says: "I

don't want to make any more speeches about the war--it's not a pleasant

subject. You know, boys, as well as I do, that war is hell."

I will just observe, in passing, that a chapter on the "ruling passions"

and dispositions of men, as they lie in field hospitals, would be a

curious study. My observation has always been that the big, blustering

fellow, who was often a bully in camp, on getting a little wound, was

the fellow to make Rome howl when he got under the Surgeon in a

hospital. Quiet, inoffensive boys, probably lying near him with serious

and painful wounds, were compelled to hear the booby howl like a

school-boy who had stumped his sore toe.

We were at Aldie several days. General Hooker's headquarters were

somewhere about Fairfax Court House, some ten or twelve miles distant,

or to our rear. Between this cavalry outpost and the Army of the Potomac

communication was kept up over one of the best of Virginia pikes. I

think it must be a section of the National pike, leading to Winchester

and the West; anyway, it is a good and a very straight road, running up

and down the hills, so that it seems to be always in sight. I remember

the road very distinctly, from an adventure with guerrillas over it.

I had been ordered to take a lot of Quartermaster and Paymaster papers

into Washington from the Adjutant-General's headquarters. A headquarters

ambulance, driver and two good horses were furnished me to reach the

railroad at Fairfax Station. Mr. Emerick, the civil-service Telegrapher

who had been at our headquarters, accompanied me on this return to

Washington. This was the same operator whom I had described at Aquia

Creek, while _en route_ to Old Capitol. He did not recognize me at all,

and, of course, I was not anxious to identify myself. Being on the move,

there was no telegraphing to do, and he, as an independent civilian,

left the army for Washington when he desired to do so, without

consulting the Generals in the field.

Right here I will say, as serving to further emphasize the policy of the

telegraphs as well as the signals being under military control, that the

Army of the Potomac was practically without a word of telegraph

communication with Washington from the time they left Fairfax and the

railroad until two days after the battle of Gettysburg. There was, of

course, some telegraphing from Frederick, Maryland, but it was not

reliable, as Stuart was somewhere between the lines.

This is an important fact that should not be forgotten. The civil

telegraphers abandoned the army when they saw proper, and this at a time

when it was most important of all the War that they should have been in

communication with Washington. The Signal Corps, on the other hand,

established and operated a line of signals all along the march from

Sugar Loaf Mountain to South Mountain, Monterey, Green Castle,

Pennsylvania, up to Parnell's Knob, in the Cumberland Valley,

Pennsylvania.

The ambulance that brought us to the railroad was ordered to await my

return from Washington. I reached Alexandria in the evening, when I was

met by my elder brother, Spencer, then in charge of the railroad

telegraphs. My brother took me to his boarding-house to spend the night.

He, having recently married a wealthy Maryland lady, Miss Katie Hyatt,

of Hyattsville, was living in considerable style for Alexandria war

times. I therefore felt quite uncomfortable in their society, dressed

only in my hard-used uniform. When shown to my room, in which was a

comfortable, clean bed, I couldn't think of occupying it, so slept on

the floor alongside, more comfortably than if I had been between the

clean sheets.

The next day I delivered my package of papers, muster-rolls, pay-rolls

and a whole haversack full of Adjutant-General's papers to the proper

officers at the War Department, and started on my return via Alexandria

and the railroad to Fairfax.

I found the ambulance waiting for me all right, and we at once started

off via Fairfax Court House. Here I found a headquarters horse, and as

the ambulance was to be detained at Fairfax for a couple of hours,

waiting an escort to convey it out to Aldie, I concluded to ride on out

in advance.

It was not a very sensible conclusion, to be sure; but, as I have so

often said, I did not have very much sense, and acted usually as the

spirit moved me, without thinking about the probable consequences.

I rode along nicely for several miles, passing our infantry and

outposts, who were stationed along a little run some distance in advance

of Fairfax Court House. Along in the evening, just about sunset, I

reached a hill-top, from which I could see the road straight ahead over

a valley and thence up another hill. The road on the other hill ahead of

me was cut through a dense wood, such as is usually found on these

hills.

I discovered something ahead, apparently standing in the road on the top

of the further hill, but paid little attention to it, supposing it was

merely a wagon-train stopping for a feed or going into camp for the

night. I rode on down the hill carelessly, getting almost out of sight

of the hill-top beyond while in the valley below.

Seeing considerable smoke ahead, I was confirmed in my first impression

that it was a wagon-train camp just lighting their camp-fires.

On coming closer, I observed a great deal of bustle around the wagons,

but, as that was nothing unusual among a lot of teamsters and mules, I

paid but little attention to it, and jogged along on my horse, singing

to myself the popular song of those days, "Gay and Happy."

But when I came in full view, and so close that I could see a wagon on

fire, I began to get suddenly interested. Men were flying around at a

lively rate, as I supposed putting out the fire. I didn't exactly like

the looks of the thing, and determined, in my own mind, to reconnoiter

and advance slowly. Discovering a little, old house in the edge of a

clearing to the side of the road, a short distance from the scene I have

described, I rode into the little yard, and called to a woman who was

holding a baby in her arms: "Who are those men up the road?"

"Soldiers, I reckon, sir."

"Yes, I know; but what soldiers?"

"Colonel Mosby's soldiers, I reckon, sir."

That was enough. I had a package of reports and papers and some private

letters in my pocket, to deliver to Pleasonton and other officers about

headquarters. Feeling sure of my belt, pulling my cap down tight over my

face, I took a short grip on the reins.

"What are they doing up there?"

"They done captured that wagon-train, sir; and I reckon they will burn

the wagons when they get the horses away."

I turned my horse back to the main road, feeling a little nervous, but

determined to run for my life.

The moment I got into the road, and without looking up at the burning

wagons, I turned my horse's head back and put spurs deeply into his

flanks. I had not made five jumps before I heard the cracks of at least

a dozen rifles. This only nerved me to more desperate lashings with

spurs, leaning forward to the horse's mane as I thrust the spurs into

him at every jump. They came after me, yelling like a band of Comanche

Indians; but I had a good start, and their guns were empty.

It was a good race for about three miles. I won, and saved my neck

again. As I reached the picket-lines that I had passed, I reported to

the officer in command that guerrillas were burning our train, but

this fellow--a Colonel--refused to cross his men over the run to help to

save them.

[Illustration: "COLONEL MOSBY'S SOLDIERS, I RECKON, SIR."]

I rode on back toward Fairfax and met some officers of Hooker's Staff,

giving them my adventure. While I was talking to them, we heard sounds

as if a distant blast was going off. Looking ahead over the straight

road, in the direction whence I had retreated, we saw a dense cloud of

white smoke, like a fog-bank, rise over the tops of the trees. Hooker's

aide said:

"Well, those fellows will get badly fooled if they are burning that

ammunition train."

That was it. They hurried back to Fairfax, and, there being no other

cavalry available, Hooker sent out his bodyguard--Rush Lancers--whom I

piloted back to the hill-top. When we got near, one or two wagons were

yet unburned, but as they were surrounded by the debris of the

explosion, we were afraid to go near, lest another wagon-load of

ammunition would go off.

I have read Mark Twain's old joke regarding his bravery, in being in the

army where cannon-balls and bullets were thickest--right where whole

wagon-loads of ammunition were going right past him--but after this

experience with a wagon-train, I'm willing to admit this as about as

dangerous as anything in an army.

I saved my papers, my life, and got back to Aldie and headquarters that

night under the escort of Hooker's bodyguard--or "turkey drivers," as we

called them.

It was Pleasonton's cavalry scouts that definitely ascertained that Lee

had crossed the Potomac into Maryland. We of the headquarters moved

rapidly from Aldie, crossing the Potomac at some point near Leesburg. I

think it was the Sunday preceding the contact with Lee that headquarters

spent in Frederick, Maryland. We were comfortably quartered at the City

Hotel, on a main street of that old town. It was one of the

old-fashioned country taverns, with a big yard or court in the rear, for

the accommodation of the country teams that visited the city on market

days. On this particular Sunday the stables were filled with the horses

of the Headquarters Staff, while the yard was crowded with ambulances,

baggage-wagons, commissary supplies, etc.

Custer was with us in Frederick all of that Sunday, and spent most of

his time at the big parlor window up-stairs flirting with a couple of

quite young girls who lived opposite the hotel. The people usually lived

above their stores in the town, and I remember very distinctly the name

on the sign was spelled "Schley"; so, if there were one or two Misses

Schley in Frederick in 1863, their children will have the testimony of a

very-much-interested eye-witness that their mothers were beautiful

ladies, who so attracted the handsome General Custer that he almost

forgot all about his cavalry pickets who were on the South Mountain

hunting Stuart's lost cavalry. In those days Custer wore his hair long;

it was quite curly, and touched the blue velvet boyish-looking jacket

which he always wore; this, with the long, loose ends of the invariable

red necktie, gave the cavalry hero a very picturesque appearance,

especially when he dashed along on his horse with all the Staff and

orderlies spurring after him in the dust. As I remember, we of the

cavalry were after J. E. B. Stuart. No one seemed to know where he was;

even General Lee was at that time in entire ignorance of Stuart's

whereabouts.

CHAPTER XXXII.

SENT TO FIND GENERAL BUFORD--A HASTY RIDE--THE BATTLE OF

GETTYSBURG--CEMETERY RIDGE--GENERAL DOUBLEDAY--GENERAL HANCOCK--THE

SECOND DAY OF THE BATTLE.

It was the Rebel Scout, Harrison, who gave to General Lee the first

information about the close pursuit of Hooker. This one faithful tramp

Rebel soldier carried on foot to Lee and Longstreet at Chambersburg the

important intelligence that Hooker had crossed the Potomac, and General

Lee, on the report of this single scout, in whom he had implicit

confidence, issued orders at once recalling his forces from the front at

Harrisburg, and concentrating his entire strength at Gettysburg. I

mention this fact, because it is the only instance on official record of

a great General giving credit to his Scout or Spy for important secret

service.

This solitary Scout succeeded in doing for General Lee alone what was

expected of Stuart's large cavalry force, and which they failed to

accomplish.

I was sent out from Frederick with orders to find General Buford, who

commanded the Cavalry Division in the advance. It was expected that I

would be of service in military signaling, and especially in opening up

communication with Washington and Baltimore by wire. This was my special

duty, and when we ran into a country where there were telegraph wires, I

became quite an important fellow; all the Generals being so anxious to

get or send news, they cheerfully afforded me all the detail of soldiers

I could use to help me.

I found Buford, but when I got to him he was so busy out on the hill, on

the morning of July 1st, that he didn't have any time to talk to me. The

night before the battle I spent with some of Buford's headquarters men

near a town called, I think, Middletown or Middleburg, Maryland. It

being very late when I got up to them, I turned my horse into a little

stable, or barn, belonging to the house at which the boys had quartered

themselves. Headquarters usually selected a good, hospitable-looking

house for their temporary quarters, you know.

Thoroughly tired out with my hard day's ride in the sun, while hunting

Buford all over that part of the country, I lay down in the haymow of

the stable, and was soon sound asleep, and wholly oblivious to all

surroundings. I think that I must have had two sleeps that night,

instead of one long one. Probably it was on account of my secluded

position that I was not awakened until late the following morning, and

then it was by Buford's first guns at Gettysburg. Rubbing my eyes open,

I saw, with astonishment, that the bright sun was peeping through the

cracks of the old barn.

The sound of each distant gun served to hasten my hay-loft toilet, and

sliding down out of the haymow as quickly as a fireman gets down his

pole, I had the saddle on the horse and was ready to travel, in either

direction, in as short a time as the fire-engines get their rigs ready

when an alarm is sounded. In my hurry I did not take time to count out

an exact dozen of eggs from a nest in the manger, from which my sudden

appearance had scared the old hen. She expressed her surprise and

indignation in a great deal of noise, but I took no notice of her

protests, and slipped, with a dexterity that only a cavalryman of the

Army of the Potomac had acquired, the whole lot into my haversack,

nest-egg and all, and hastily threw it over my shoulder.

Getting outside, I was further surprised to discover that the place had

seemingly been abandoned in the night, not only by headquarters, but by

the occupants of the house. There was not a soul to be seen, and without

being exactly sure whether I was within the enemy's lines or our own, I

mounted and hastily spurred on toward the sound of the guns, that was

becoming more frequent.

I only knew that I was on Pennsylvania soil, my native State, and within

a day's ride from my birthplace, and hoped that I should find myself

among friends. There was certainly enemies where the firing was going

on. I had not gone far until I met a farmer's wagon loaded, apparently,

with every member of his family, and, no doubt, all their worldly goods

that they could pile into it.

When I stopped them to ask about the racket down the road, all of them

began to talk at once, in broken Pennsylvania Dutch, about "the war down

below town." I learned further from some scared natives and some

stragglers in blue, that were scurrying along the road, and were

becoming thicker the nearer I got, as they put it, "The Rebels are

fighting with our men on the other side of town."

That was enough for me. I was young and active, and, as a Pennsylvania

boy, I was most anxious to participate in some way in fights that were

to take place in my own State. I made that old horse dash along the road

to the battlefield of Gettysburg, for about four miles that morning, in

a way that would have put to shame General Sheridan's ride down the

Valley. If my celebrated ride could have been done up in poetry and set

to music, it would, as a parody on Sheridan's ride, go down into the

literature of the century after the style of John Gilpin's famous ride

at the sound of artillery. I'd give the old nag the spurs and make him

jump ahead as if the cannon-balls were after instead of ahead of us.

That beautiful morning of July 1st, as I rode along that old pike, the

one fear uppermost in my mind was that the battle of Gettysburg would be

all over before I could get there. I felt that I should never be able to

meet my Pennsylvania friends again if it should unfortunately happen

that Buford would drive the Rebels out of the State without my

assistance. That's what made me in such a hurry.

I was delayed a little on the road by an accident. I had noticed, while

tearing along, that there was an awful bad air in that part of the

country, but I had, as a soldier, become accustomed to bad smells

hovering about an army in Virginia, that I didn't take much account of

it--rather satisfying myself with the reflection that the smell simply

indicated the presence of the Rebel Army in the neighborhood. But it

became so oppressive that I checked up my Mad-Anthony-Wayne gait long

enough to look around me. It was the eggs in my haversack. In my

excitement, I had forgotten all about them, and, of course, every time

my horse galloped the haversack, being strung loose to my saddle, tried

to keep time, but couldn't always do it, with the result of beating the

eggs up into a soft mess, and mixing shell-dry coffee, hard tack and

cold meat into a fancy omelette.

When I discovered the horrible condition of things, the eggs were

dripping down my horse's flanks, and when the horse stood still the odor

wafted itself around me. I got one good whiff and then cut the thing

loose, boldly sacrificing my expected breakfast of eggs and also all the

good coffee and other nice things my kit was packed with. I have always

believed that there must have been more than one bad egg in the dozen.

In writing up this ride in poetry, after Buchanan's Sheridan, this

incident should not be made too prominent. I record it simply as one of

the necessary ingredients of a true story.

I had a double incentive after this to hurry me along; the awful stench

clung to the flanks of my horse and I tried to ride him out of the range

of it. When I reached the top of the hill, now so widely known as

Cemetery Ridge, on the morning of July 1st, it was as quiet and restful

as the old graveyard probably is this July 1st, 1889. Beyond the town,

to the west, which was visible from this point, were to be seen in the

air over the tops of the trees the too-familiar little curls or puffs of

white, steamy-looking smoke, that I knew were from exploding shells. For

the moment there seemed to be a lull in the proceedings--only an

occasional gun and the more frequent sharp, hammer-like sound of

infantry firing on a skirmish line.

But I'm not going to attempt a description of the battle of Gettysburg;

that has already been done too thoroughly and well. I'll tell only what

I saw that day, in as few words as I can put it.

When I rode through the town the people were gathered in groups in the

street; ladies were at the windows talking in a whining, half-crying way

to other nervous neighbors, who were, perhaps, at an up-stairs window,

praying at intervals, or asking in a beseeching way, "What is to become

of us all?" During all this time the soldiers inside of the town, in a

sullen, quiet, business way, peculiar to old coffee-coolers, were moving

about, indifferently, amidst the excitement that must have struck the

inhabitants as being very unconcerned for soldiers.

I remembered one fellow in blue loitering where I had halted for a

drink, while the lady of the house was kindly dishing out glasses of

water. She appealed to him for something encouraging or hopeful. He

looked up at her, and then, turning around in the direction of the

occasional musketry, as if he had just discovered that there was

something going on, assured her in an easy-going way: "Oh, that's all

right; that's only a little squabble. Our army isn't out there."

I forged ahead straight out of the Chambersburg Road, galloped my horse

up the hill and on past the Seminary, and might have gone a little too

far on that line if I hadn't been summarily stopped by an officer, who

was standing close behind the fence beside the road.

"Where in ---- are you going?" was the polite salutation.

When I explained that I was a Staff orderly from headquarters hunting

General Buford, he observed: "Well, you go out that road any further and

you will find some Rebel General."

Another officer, more polite and obliging, kindly volunteered the

information, "Buford's cavalry were in those woods this morning,"

pointing to a grove to the left.

It was further explained that the fence was down a little distance up

the road. I made a break for the gap, and got safely out of the

now-deserted highway, and ran in behind the big stone barn and

dismounted, when I discovered that I was right at the front of our

lines. Before me, stretched along the ground at full length, was a

brigade of infantry, extending to the grove on the left. This was the

advance of our line of battle, under Doubleday. I wanted very much to

get into that grove, to communicate with headquarters, but I had run

myself, precipitately, into a trap, and couldn't get out without the

risk of being shot.

It was safe enough, for the time being, while behind the old stone barn,

but there was that awful gap of a quarter of a mile between it and the

grove. I dismounted, went inside of the barn, and there witnessed such a

scene as can best be described by a reference to a first visit to an

insane asylum. It seemed to me that from every corner, crevice and stall

of the dark old basement of the barn I saw glaring at me the wild eyes

of maniacs. In a word, the barn was full of skulkers--of cowards, who no

doubt looked upon me as the leader of a detail to drive them out into

their ranks in the front.

I was worse frightened by those fellows than by the line of battle of

the Rebels in the front, and, hurrying out of the place, got on my horse

and hauled down my cap, felt for the security of my belt, and was making

ready for a dash over the Gap, when my attention was attracted by some

officer's loud voice, who, in a whining, half-crying tone, was

haranguing his men, who were lying down in his front. I shall never

forget the expression on the faces of those poor fellows as they would

look up at their officer and glance longingly to the rear, and

alternately gaze with a frightened, serious look toward the Rebel lines,

their pale, blanched faces looking the whiter through the dirt and smoke

of battle, that was on them like a war-paint.

In this connection I have a conundrum for the Chaplain: How is the

indisputable fact to be accounted for, or reconciled, that the same men

in line of battle, facing death, will, in one and the same moment, be

praying and cursing, as I heard them in this line--"God have mercy on

us," and after the first volley, or when a charge was ordered, the

prayer, almost in the same breath, turned to the most terrible

oaths--"God damn your souls."

I went up to the Colonel and reported the discovery of the men in the

barn. To my surprise, he only said: "Oh, that's nothing; let them

alone."

I have looked carefully into all the accounts of the different battles

for some mention of the cowards and skulkers, but, somehow, this part of

the battle is not brought to the attention of the reading public

nowadays, though it is not denied that these form quite a large

percentage in each army.

It was imperative that I should obey orders and report to General

Buford.

I had found him all right, but there remained between us the little

space that I must cross. I screwed up my courage to the sticking point,

and, with my head bent low, I made the run safely into the grove, where

I found General Buford sitting quietly on his horse, accompanied by one

or two of his Staff. He did not seem to have a happy or satisfied look,

and I judged at once, from his uneasy manner, that something was going

wrong. I soon found out. General Reynolds was lying by the two little

elms along side of the fence, dying or dead. This was what put so

serious and sorrowful an expression on the faces of all the officers

just then. A Rebel sharpshooter from that stone barn had killed the best

General the Army of the Potomac contained--he whom we all knew at

headquarters should have been its Commander-in-Chief.

Every moment we staid in the grove was a holy terror to me; it seemed as

if the whole Rebel artillery had discovered that it was headquarters,

and were concentrating their shells into it. They would go crashing

through the tree-tops, shrieking and tearing through the branches of the

trees as we used to throw clubs into apple trees to knock down the

fruit. General Buford, noticing my uneasiness as I'd glance up through

the trees, as if expecting to see the apples fall, quietly observed to

me: "They have not got the range yet." He said this in a tone indicating

that he was only waiting till they _did_ get it, before he should leave.

My horse became awfully nervous, to say nothing of myself, and I didn't

feel that I wanted the Rebel artillery to hunt their range with me for a

target.

I became suddenly solicitous about the expediency of looking after some

signal and telegraph business in the town, a mile or so to the rear, and

safely "beyond range."

So, riding up to the General, saluting in the Regular Army style, bowing

my head low as a shell went over, I meekly suggested going back to town

to see if there were any telegraph operators to be found.

"All right," said the General, significantly, "We will all be back there

soon."

Turning my horse's head to the rear, I didn't hesitate so long about

starting as I had for the barn, but boldly made a dash to the rear over

a lot of old fields that lay between the grove and the Seminary.

I thought it about a mile distant at that time, and I have since visited

the ground and was surprised to find it so short a distance; but I

covered it so quickly then that some allowance may be made for the

miscalculation.

I don't believe any horse-race jockey ever got over the same amount of

the earth any quicker than I did that last quarter on the home

stretch--I had got "in range," and was in a hurry to get out.

This was a piece of open ground, where it seemed all the shells that

passed through the trees in the grove stopped and ploughed into the

earth, and scattered the dirt or exploded in the air and scattered the

pieces of iron.

I felt for the minute and a half that I was out from under the imaginary

protection of the trees, that the whole Rebel Army were after me. Really

I was so badly rattled that I did not know whether I was on a horse or

afoot. Once behind the big brick Seminary Building, I felt it safe

enough to dismount, cool off myself and the horse, and repair damages.

Discovering that both the horse and myself were unharmed, and being

anxious to see how the rest of them out that way were getting along, I

availed myself of my privilege as a signal man on the Staff, and climbed

the stairs to the top of the building, getting out on the cupola.

There were several Generals up there. They were somewhat excited, and

talking together in an earnest manner about something that was going on

in another part of the field.

They left the cupola as if they were in a hurry. So did I, without

stopping to examine the outlook very closely. There was plenty to be

seen--it was quite a moving panorama of blue and gray, and far more

realistic from _that_ platform than the cyclorama I have viewed from

similar elevations in the center of the battle scenes they depict.

I noticed from the cupola that there was some excitement or stir to the

right of the town. I had not thought of there being any Rebels, except

those I had seen immediately in our front. As I had seen enough of this

part of the field, I concluded to go over to the right and see what I

could do to save the day there.

I went down the steps, three or four at a jump, and was on my horse

before any of the Generals, who had preceded me.

I rode out toward the right as far as it was expedient for a horse to

go.

In 1863 there was a railroad embankment, or fill, along that edge of the

town. Behind this I dismounted and fastened my horse to a fence,

discreetly advanced as dismounted cavalry to reconnoiter, and, if

possible, learn what all the fuss over here was about. I soon found

out--one good look was enough. There was another barn out that road, and

from behind it, or from all corners, puffs of white smoke were to be

seen at frequent intervals. Beyond this there were other lines of this

same white smoke; and, before I knew exactly what was going on, there

came suddenly from another direction that _awful_ sharp din of volleys

of musketry. Dear me, how sharp and how sudden the noise of musketry--it

rings to-day in my ear, after a lapse of twenty-five years, as

distinctly as it were but yesterday. I frequently visit Gettysburg--the

place has a strange fascination for me. As I walk alone over the very

ground I am trying to tell about here, I recall every incident, and

wonder, and wonder, in the strange quiet of the old town, where all the

200,000 are to-day!

"No marshalling troops, no bivouac song,

No banner to gleam and wave;

But, Oh _these battles! they last so long--_

_From boyhood_ to the grave."

After this outbreak, which we all knew preceded a charge, there came the

usual confusion, accompanied by the yells and indescribable ugly sounds,

the echo of which seems to chill one's blood, even now.

In this confusion and rush, I nearly lost my horse; he had torn loose

from his fastenings, in the jam and tear of artillery, breaking to the

rear along the road; he was retreating in disorder among the boys of the

Eleventh Corps. When I caught up with him and mounted again, there was a

crowd of infantrymen jamming along the road. It is a fact that a

"doboy," as we cavalrymen called the infantry, instinctively hates a

cavalryman of his own army as much as he does that of the enemy, so

that, in my isolated predicament, in trying to navigate my horse along a

road filled with excited Germans, with bayonets on their guns, I had,

literally, a hard road to travel.

I intended to go back to the Seminary, which I had recently left,

thinking it the best place to get a good view of the field. I was

steering my horse in that direction, down the main street of the town,

when I discovered that, seemingly, everybody was coming away from there.

It looked as if the show was over and the crowd was rushing along the

streets, as if anxious to catch the first car, or the last train.

I did not realize that it was a retreat until I saw riding up the road,

in a direction away from the Seminary, a cavalcade, which I knew to be a

General and Staff.

It was General Doubleday. The handsome General, erect and dignified at

the head of his Staff, was riding alone with a bearing very much as I

have witnessed other Generals on the fancy parades at the head of the

column of play soldiers.

Except for an angry flush on his face, and evidently in a bad humor

about something that had gone wrong, he was as cool as I have seen him

since on ordinary occasions.

On looking through the dusty and crowded streets that dreadful afternoon

toward the Seminary, which I had so recently left some distance inside

of our lines, I was astonished beyond measure to see that a battery was

right in the middle of the road firing like all nation toward us. It has

always remained one of the great surprises of my life to understand how

that Rebel battery could possibly have gotten through our army so

suddenly and have been firing shells down the road into our retreating

column from _our_ hill, when I thought, according to the tactics, it

ought to have been two or three miles out of the road on their own hill.

The frequent shots did not hasten General Doubleday's pace a particle;

he kept on giving his orders in a sullen, ill-natured tone, but walked

his horse as slowly as if heading a funeral procession.

My young heart was distressed to see that our men were beginning to pour

into the main street from every direction--all were eagerly making for

the main road through town to Cemetery Hill.

It was very much as if a church, or theatre, had been dismissed in a

panic; the people who were in the side aisles were rushing down on the

crowds in the main entrance, so that everything became blocked by the

confusion worse confounded.

The ladies of the town, from almost every house and window, were

imploring the men to give them some explanation of the movement, the

very suddenness and excitement of which bordered on a panic.

As a Pennsylvania boy, I felt that it was disgraceful to abandon one of

our own towns to Rebel invaders, and with such thoughts burning within

me, and fired by the excitement of the hour, remembering that in my ride

into the town that morning I had passed Slocum's (Twelfth) Corps only a

little way out, I rode up, facing the stately Doubleday, and, after

saluting, said:

"General, I passed General Slocum only a little way out the road." The

General, without halting his slow movement, gruffly said:

"Where is Slocum?"

"Why, out the road a little piece."

"When did you see him?"

"This morning."

Just then a shell went over the top of a house, exploded on the roof,

making a most infernal noise, which scared all the horses, and in the

mix-up, as I was facing the General, my horse could not march backwards,

I became tangled up with him, and impeded for a moment his progress.

Turning to me, with a savage expression, he said:

"Get out of my way, ---- you. We all know where Slocum was this morning.

Where is Slocum now? Who in ---- are you, anyhow?"

I didn't insist on continuing the conversation with General Doubleday at

the time; but I have had the pleasure of hearing from this grand old

man, since the publication of this day's experience.

When I saw so indisputably that everybody else was going to leave town,

I concluded that I might as well go too, and I stood not on the order of

my going, but went at once.

On the occasion of President Cleveland's visit to Gettysburg, it was my

pleasure, as well as my business as a newspaper man, to accompany that

party. I heard then one of the old residents--one of the "reliable old

liars"--tell a distinguished party that the Rebel band played "Dixie" on

the square of the town at 1 P. M. on that day.

I want to say that is not true. There was lots of music at 1 P. M., but

there were no bands playing that day that I ever heard of. It was late

in the afternoon when we had our parade through the streets of

Gettysburg to the music of booming cannon, screeching shell, and the

sharp notes of musketry.

This music was in the air all around us, accompanied by the groans and

cries of the wounded and dying men, who were being piled into the court

house and churches of the old burg.

I managed to crowd my frenzied horse through the dense mass of soldiers,

wagons, etc., who were surging up the main street toward Cemetery Hill.

I got there just as soon as I could, too.

On reaching the brow of the hill, I was gratified and surprised to see

General Howard sitting on his horse, quite alone, in the lot to the

right of the cemetery gate, or across the road from it.

All of this time, the men of the Eleventh Corps, which, in the retreat

led the way, had been coming steadily up the hill from town and kept on

going down over the hill on the other side, like so many sheep that

follow a leader blindly over a fence.

It never occurred to me that there would be any halt then, and I assert

here, bluntly, my opinion, as being unprejudiced and based solely on the

events as they actually occurred to me at that day, that General Howard

had not, at that hour, any other expectation than to retreat further

back. He certainly had not made any effort whatever to stop the rushing

to the rear of his men of the Eleventh Corps. They not only swarmed up

the one road, but came straggling through the by-ways and fields,

skipping over the stone fence, and, unmolested, kept going on farther

back, as if it were a matter of course.

I stopped on the side of the road, near General Howard that I might look

around from this elevation.

To my consternation, I discovered, from the musketry and confusion, that

the Rebels were going it lively over toward our extreme right, in the

direction of what is now known as Culp's Hill.

I was satisfied that the Rebels would get around to the road I had come

down on, and capture the entire force then at Gettysburg.

For obvious reasons, I did not intend to be made prisoner, if my horse's

legs could keep me out of the grip of the encircling Rebs.

While I was making my way back to the road I ran against General

Hancock, who had just come up in search of Howard. Hancock--brilliant,

dashing, glorious Hancock--rode across the way to Howard, who had been

standing silently biting his finger-nails, evidently as much rattled as

it was possible for a good soldier to be.

"Howard," said Hancock, in a voice and with an emphasis that attracted

the attention of the crowd that had gathered there, "let's get them

behind that stone fence; they can never get us out of that."

Howard looked surprised, and said something in a low voice, trembling

with excitement, which I took to be an acquiescence with Hancock's

suggestion. There were some other words between them that were not

heard, but we all knew that Hancock, from his fiery, almost blustering

manner, was urging Howard to the importance of this step. Hancock's

very presence seemed to inspire the men, who had now begun to gather on

the hill in great crowds, attracted by the excitable manner of the

General.

Just then Doubleday reached this point. Hancock, upon seeing this

fighting General, abruptly leaving Howard, turned to Doubleday and began

to explain with excited gestures the importance of securing this

position. Doubleday, at a glance, seemed to take in the importance of

this step. He and Hancock talked together for a moment only, when

Hancock, without again referring to Howard (who still sat silently in

his saddle, looking over toward Culp's Hill, his back now turned to the

crowd), said to Doubleday:

"Now, you put your men behind that fence, and don't let another man go

back of it." Then, turning to the Staff of assembled officers that were

there, he said: "Don't allow another ---- man to go over that hill; drive

them all up behind that stone wall."

Some one asked if they--the Staff--should use force indiscriminately.

Doubleday retorted, violently: "Yes; shoot any ---- man that refuses to

obey."

Some officer whom I can not locate turned to all of us, took command,

and ordered every officer and soldier to draw his pistol and saber and

prevent another man from going down the hill. For the first and only

time during the four years of the war I used a saber on our own men of

the Eleventh Corps. No more men went back, thanks to Hancock. Howard and

Hancock, standing together, were having some further animated

conversation. I was close enough to hear only these words, spoken

petulantly by Howard in answer to something that had been said to him:

"Hancock, you cannot command here to-day."

Hancock rode over to Doubleday; they exchanged a few words in private,

heated talk; Doubleday took charge, and it was he who executed Hancock's

commands and saved the position. Howard received the credit and the

thanks of Congress for having selected this position, but I assert here,

as if it were a dying statement and my hopes of eternity hung on it,

that Howard did not, until Hancock forced him to act, take any steps to

hold the place.

Hancock's arrival upon the field, in obedience to General Meade's

command, turned defeat into victory. His imposing presence, together

with the admirable disposition of the First and Eleventh Corps and

Buford's Cavalry, created in General Lee's mind the impression that we

had been reinforced. In proof of this fact I will refer to the official

reports of General Lee, lately published, in which he states that he had

"restrained pursuit" because of the belief that we had been reinforced.

Much has been written upon the subject of this battle of Gettysburg, but

this point has been little touched upon by any writer who is a wholly

disinterested witness. My testimony is not of a regimental kind, for I

am simply trying to tell of my own personal observation and experience.

As a Headquarters-Staff man, I went everywhere I considered it safe to

go. I only knew such regiments as contained Pennsylvania friends, and

especially those of the Pennsylvania Reserves, while I knew certain

other commands in the Second and Fifth Corps. I generally knew where to

find them when we were in camp, but would only meet them on the march

accidentally.

There was one little incident that occurred, however, in the presence of

Hancock, Howard, Doubleday, and the crowd which had gathered around them

on Cemetery Hill, that some of the survivors who may read this article

will remember, and may thereby establish the identity of the men or

regiments which were "going up the hill and down again." After it had

been decided by Hancock and Doubleday to try and stop the rout of the

Eleventh Corps, Howard "caught on," as we say nowadays, but only

awakened to the importance of holding the place after Hancock had

bulldozed him into it. One big, tall fellow, with side-whiskers (I give

his description because I do not know his name or regiment), who was

carrying the regimental colors, rolled up, stalked over to where Howard

was spurring his horse around at a lively waltz, issuing his orders to

everybody who would carry into effect Hancock's suggestions.

This Color-Sergeant, in a wild and dramatic way, stood beside Howard's

frisky horse and made his little speech, which was listened to with more

apparent deference than had been accorded to Hancock. I am not conscious

of having any personal feeling or prejudice against General Howard--in

fact, I am politically the other way--but think, as a chronicler of

events, that I can be perfectly fair now in my estimation of men and

events which occurred twenty-five years ago. This Color-Sergeant and

Howard had a little scene up on the hill to which almost everybody else

was oblivious, having as much as they could attend to at the time

themselves. But I heard the Sergeant say, in quite a loud voice: "I'll

take the flag down there," pointing to the stone wall just below, "if

these men will stand by me." Howard replied in a low voice, tremulous

with excitement, at which the color-bearer and a few men started down

toward the stone wall, which was the last I ever saw or heard of them,

although I have little doubt, if this man lived through the battle, he

was favorably mentioned in Howard's report, and got his commission, as

it was a brave act on the part of the color-bearer; but I can't help but

think it would have looked better (to my eyes at least) if he had

stopped with his colors at the wall on his way up, and not have made his

little speech for apparent effect.

Perhaps some person will ask why Generals Hancock and Doubleday did not

lay claim to the credit of this manoeuver at the time. Probably they

did, but of this I know nothing. Howard was Hancock's senior, and, as

such, was entitled to the command during Meade's absence. But through

some hocuspocus Howard received the vote of thanks by Congress for doing

that which he did not do, and so the matter stands to-day.

Hancock was a noble-looking soldier. There was something in his

appearance during a fight, while on his large horse, that was

wonderfully impressive. Sheridan's ride up the Valley, in which his

presence is credited with turning a disastrous defeat into a victory,

was no more important in its results, in my estimation, than Hancock's

dashing and well-timed arrival on Cemetery Hill on the afternoon of the

first day of Gettysburg. There can be little doubt but that his prompt

action secured the position, and his very presence, while talking with

Howard, served to check the fugitives who were passing over the hill in

droves.

It may also be asked why I bring this subject up at this late date, and

after Hancock's death? For years I have avoided all talk on the subject

of army experience. I would have sooner asked Hancock to take a drink in

a public-bar-room than to have broached this matter to him. He was not

the sort of a man who invited everybody's opinion. He always impressed

me, and I was near him often, with the feeling that he was the ideal

Regular soldier, and could only be approached through official

channels. It was probably to this disposition, to leave everything to

official reports, that can be attributed the fact that he did not always

obtain through the newspapers the credit to which he was clearly

entitled.

I therefore contend that Hancock is the hero of Gettysburg, not only of

the third, but of the first day; and had he been in supreme command, and

remained unharmed, General Lee would not have gotten away so easily; the

war might have ended a year sooner than it did, and more than likely

Gettysburg would have been in history what Appomattox now is, while

Grant would have equally divided honors with Hancock. I sometimes think

that, like a great many other good Generals in the East, Hancock became

soured by the promotion of Grant's Western men to the best position in

the Army of the Potomac.

Grand old Army of the Potomac! Noble, patient, long-suffering Army of

the Potomac. Its greatest battles were fought while Meade and Hancock

were subordinates--before Grant came out of the West to lead it to the

Wilderness and Cold Harbor.

Everybody on Cemetery Hill did their utmost to check the shattered

column, which had been doubled back from the right and the officers and

men thrown into confusion; and the few men of the Staff had a hard time

to rally these demoralized soldiers, for, as is well known to everybody

who has had any connection with the army, a body of men once broken are

about as hard to control as is a resistless mountain torrent.

I became so much engaged in this work, personally, that for a while I

neglected to look around to see what was happening elsewhere. The men

had come up from the town, and all stopped on the hill behind the wall,

their guns cocked and lying across the top.

I was seated on my horse by the side of the big arched fancy gate of the

old Cemetery, and, before I suspected that the Rebels were near, a

minie-ball struck the brick-work of the gate, which I found, upon

examination, was but a few feet above my head.

I had turned briskly around in search of some of my recent companions,

to tell them that evidently the Rebel sharpshooters had secured places

on the roofs, when I was almost paralyzed to discover that they had

disappeared--scarcely anybody to be seen, save a lot of infantry, who

were hugging the ground all around. Not being under the orders of any

particular officer, I was, of course, like "nobody's child," and had to

look out for myself. I hurriedly got behind the hill, when, to my

consternation, I heard the rapid, sharp, hammer-like firing over on

Culp's Hill, which seemed to me to be directly in our rear. It is a

geometrical fact that the Rebels were almost in the rear of our position

on Cemetery Hill. A glance at a map will explain this. Cemetery Hill

projects like the point or promontory of a peninsula out into the sea of

the Rebel Army, which was apparently on three sides of it.

The first thing I did was to look around for Hancock, thinking, if he

was somewhere about, I would attach myself to him, as a means to get me

out safely. But he was nowhere in sight; neither was Doubleday, Howard

or any of the big guns I had just left on the hill; and, glancing down

the Baltimore road to the rear, I saw such signs of general commotion

that it gave me the impression that we were going to be surrounded.

I thought then that Hancock had made an awful big mistake in allowing

the men up there to be caught in the rear while lying behind the stone

wall looking in the opposite direction. I was not the only one who

entertained this opinion at that juncture, by a large majority. But

future events proved that Hancock was right and we were all wrong.

I went back over the same old road, along which I had dashed so

gallantly in the morning, and did not stop until safely established near

General Pleasonton, and so far to the rear that the sound of guns did

not disturb my rest that night.

One day of Gettysburg should be enough. It was for me. The battle has

been fought over so often in the newspapers that there is scarcely

anything new to be said. Of course, my experience was peculiar in

this--that I went as I pleased. Regimental history relates only to the

observations from one fixed point.

The evening of the first day it looked badly enough to me, and if I had

been Commander-in-Chief, I think I should have changed the base to a

point a little farther away from the Rebels. I was defeated.

I was on hand bright and early the morning of the second day. I was not

in so much of a hurry to save the day as I had been the first day. I

rode down the same road I did the morning before, but I went along more

cautiously. There was no booming of guns to be heard. Though nearly two

hundred thousand men had been gathered there in the night, the

surroundings the second morning were decidedly peaceful--unusually

quiet--ominously as compared with the first morning and the evening of

the first day.

I had slept in the same haymow from which I had been awakened the

previous morning.

I came down the road straight toward Cemetery Hill to find

headquarters--at least, that is what I started out to reach. I was

stopped before I got up the hill, by an order from somebody to "Get out

of the road." I got off as directed, and went into a little grove to the

left, and almost in the rear of the Cemetery, where I had seen a group

of officers on horseback. I do not remember who they were, but, seeing

that they did not know any more than I about the "prospect," which was

just then the important question, I tied my horse to a tree, that I

might reconnoiter on foot, and find out something for myself. I

proceeded to climb up the crest of the hill on my hands and knees, with

all the humility, respect and caution that I felt was due to the Rebels.

I wanted to see them all once more very much, indeed, but I did not care

to have any of their sharpshooters discover me first. There were

batteries upon batteries, the horses of which were down on the hill to

the rear, in care of their riders. The artillerymen were, of course,

around their guns, but most of them were hunting places not too much

exposed. I did not see the line at first; you know the artillery is

always behind, or to the rear of a line of battle, supported by

infantry. Bound to see the shape of our advance of that line of battle,

I went as far out as the very crest of the hill nearest the

Cemetery gate. When I got that far I was paralyzed by another yell, from

some unseen quarter, to "Get down, there!" I got down, and in that

abject position heard the voice explain, in not very gentle tones, "The

sharpshooters are on the tops of those houses." The houses referred to

were so close that I could almost count the bricks in the chimney-tops.

There was another curious fellow--an officer--some distance ahead of me,

standing behind a tree, looking for all the world as if he was having

lots of fun playing hide-and-seek with someone. I concluded to play,

too, and crawled up to the base of another tree close beside him. When I

got behind the tree, I felt perfectly safe from an attack of the whole

Rebel army. I was feeling so secure in this position that I became bold

enough to stand to one side, that I might get a good view of our

fellows. I saw them lying down or silently moving about behind that old

stone wall.

[Illustration: A CLOSE CALL AT GETTYSBURG.]

While I was yet intently gazing over the valley in hopes of seeing the

Rebels, there was a little "ping" noise near me, a sharp sting on my

face, as if some one had thrown a handful of gravel at me. It was only

some of the bark of the tree, which had been dusted into my face by a

minie-ball.

I got behind the tree. I stayed there, too, standing up against it as

stiff as a post, and hugging it as close as its own bark. I was afraid

to turn my head either to the left or to the right. I had seen enough,

and slid down to the ground and crawled back on all-fours, after the

manner of the harlequin on the stage. I found the headquarters, which

was located not very far from that spot, but out of reach of any hiding

sharpshooters on the house-tops at the upper end of the town.

During all that morning I was about headquarters, trying to find out

what in thunder was up; everything was oppressively quiet.

In the early afternoon I sent a note addressed to General Meade into the

dingy little old shanty where he had his headquarters. They were having

a prolonged caucus. I proposed to send a detail of men to try to open up

telegraph communication with Baltimore and Washington. I had discovered

that the wires were down at some point on the railroad, and wanted to

rebuild the line. In reply to this suggestion, which may be on file some

place, as it was a written communication, General Meade sent me out to

see General Gregg. This officer, who is a native of Pennsylvania, and at

present is residing at Reading, greeted me most courteously, saying:

"General Meade directs me to say to you, sir, that he appreciates the

importance of securing the telegraph service, and desires you to be

prepared to act upon it."

I was at the headquarters later on, when all the Generals who had been

attending the Council of War came filing out, with their swords

rattling, their faces wearing a determined, if not anxious, expression.

Each of the officers, without uttering a word, but acting as if he had

an important business engagement on hand and was behind time at the

appointment, quickly mounted their horses, all darting off in different

directions.

I took the liberty of propounding a question to General Gregg. I should

consider it impertinent, at my present age, for any one to ask me such a

question.

But these were war times, which is the apology I now tender to General

Gregg publicly. He will get a copy of this book with the author's

compliments.

I asked the General, bluntly, if there "was anything up." He answered by

significantly pointing over his shoulder to General Meade, who was at

the moment in big boots, strutting off to his horse, which an orderly

held near the assembled Staff.

"It looks as if something was up, don't it?"

I thought it did;--and as everybody else was mounting their horses I

followed the example; that is, I followed General Meade, who was my

example, over toward what was then the front of the Round Tops or

Sickles' salient.

I can not go into Sickles' fight at Gettysburg. I know nothing more

about it than has been published, except the impression that I gathered

at the headquarters, and throughout the army at the time, in the days

that immediately followed, which in effect was, that General Sickles had

played a big card in hopes of accomplishing something on his own account

that would give him the command of the Army of the Potomac. As all know,

it was a continual fight between our Generals as to who should be the

Chief. Sickles lost his opportunity and his leg at the same time. It was

the common talk then, and few cared to dispute it some years ago, when

Meade and Hancock were yet alive, that, if Sickles had not lost his leg,

he would have lost his commission.

I was at Gettysburg with General Sickles in July, 1886 and 1888, and

interviewed him for the press on this subject. He showed considerable

feeling over the hostile attitude of other distinguished officers toward

his absurd claim of having won the battle of Gettysburg, by being

defeated the second day.

At the time, it looked to me like another first day, and, as I was

anxious to be on the safe side, I retired to the valley between the

Round Tops.

While riding out toward the rear, from between the Round Tops, I met a

double line of battle slowly advancing. It was so long a line that I

could not see either end of it through the undergrowth. In endeavoring

to find a break, or hole, to get through, I asked some of the officers

what troops these were, and my recollection is they were the

Pennsylvania Reserves. I have often wondered since why some mention is

not made of this reserve being on hand there to receive Longstreet if he

had come through Sickles.

The appalling fear before me, as I faced those fellows advancing, with

their guns loaded and bayonets fixed, pointing at my horse's breast, was

that they wouldn't let me through, but might drive me ahead of them. I

was not ambitious to lead them down through that valley, where so much

noise was being made by Rebel yells and musketry.

I will never forget that double row of dirty faces. They had been on a

forced march all day, perhaps, to reach the field. The dust of the roads

had adhered to their perspiring faces, presenting a war-paint effect

that was ludicrous even at so serious a time.

"How does a man feel in battle?" is a question often asked, or "Were you

frightened the first time?" My answer is: "Yes, and every other time." I

never heard a shell screech, or a minie-ball whistle or whiz, that I

wished, with all my soul, that I had not come. I was scared when I went

in the first and the last battle.

At the end of every fight I felt, somehow, as if the war was a failure,

and we might as well go home, we so seldom had the satisfaction of

seeing the Rebels run.

A majority of people have formed an idea that a battle is a continuous

uproar, from daylight until dark, or during all of the day on which it

occurs. As a matter of fact, the real fight is soon over, one way or

another; that is, the actual contest of the larger bodies ends about as

suddenly as a collision on a railroad.

It is a long time beginning; may be the picket-firing of the night

previous is the first indication; then will come the more frequent

clattering from the skirmish-line, with an occasional shot from a

battery; perhaps it ends with this.

I have nearly always noticed that the officers and men thought it had

ended, and were only suddenly awakened to the fact that it had not, by a

tremendous boom from some battery, that would nearly always be

discovered to be at some point they did not expect a hostile shot to

come from.

It may not be an agreeable thing to print, but it has been my experience

in battle, that it was always the unexpected that happened to our

officers.

The first time I was under fire, I happened to be near a battery, and

became so much excited by the booming of the guns, and the action of the

men and officers, that I did not realize my danger.

A battery pounding shot into an enemy is the most inspiriting music a

soldier can hear. Of course, you can not tell whether the shot hit any

one or not, as they go so far, but you instinctively feel, from the big

noise and fussy kick the thing makes every time it is fired, that

something must get hurt at the other end.

As a rule, it is not the artillery that does the damage; the shells most

frequently go entirely over the heads of a line of battle and drop far

to the rear, where they stampede the mules about the wagon-trains and

scare the skulkers.

_The wounds are not always received at the front._ It is the nasty

_little_ bullets that do the greater damage to the men in line.

On this occasion I felt, from the way this battery had been pounding

into the woods, a mile or so away, that they had killed everybody over

there, so I boldly advanced on my horse to the front or skirmish-line.

On my way out, I saw coming toward me two fellows carrying, or rather

supporting, a third between them; getting closer, I discovered that the

man they were carrying had his leg off; indeed, it seemed as if his

whole lower body had been torn off at the hip, leaving his bleeding

flesh hanging in shreds to his light-blue pantaloons.

I naturally stopped when they got nearer, when I discovered, to my

horror, that the poor man's bowels were actually trailing on the ground.

He was yet alive; his eyes were fixed upon me in a sorrowful, longing

way that I shall never, never get out of my mind.

While paralyzed by this sight, I was so sick that I almost fell off my

horse, by seeing one of the men accidentally tread on his bowels, which

served to draw more of his entrails from his torn and bleeding body. The

poor fellow was then past all pain. I hurried forward to get away from

the horrible sight, only to come on a boy in blue, who was lying flat on

his face, as if he had been literally biting the dust, all choked

up--dead.

You will notice in all the pictures of battles that the dying are

usually represented as throwing up their hands and falling backward

gracefully.

As a matter of fact, the men usually fall forward, unless they are

struck by a missile so large that its weight will carry them backward by

the momentum. I have observed that a wounded man's head drops forward;

this, I presume, has a tendency to cause the body to fall forward with

the weight of the head; and the fact that the dead, who die on the

field, are nearly always found with their faces down, burrowed, has

created the expression, "biting the dust."

As it generally rains after a battle, I have noticed the wounded and

dying nearly always crawl to a pool of water, and their dead faces are

often found as if they had died in an effort to wet their parched

tongues.

Every person I have talked with for five minutes about Gettysburg, asks

the question: "Were you there when Pickett charged?" as if that famous

incident comprised the whole of the battle, whereas it was only the

fire-works at the end of the three days' meeting.

When Pickett's charge was made I was behind the stone wall, about three

miles away, and, consequently, did not see it.

At the "supreme moment," I was quietly picking blackberries in an old

field where the reserve artillery had been parked.

When the tremendous firing began and the reserve artillery were ordered

down, I stopped my blackberrying, out of season, and went down to the

front to see what the fuss was all about.

Pickett's charge has been done--and over-done--so very thoroughly by

both sides, that I shall not even attempt to add a word to the mass of

stuff that has already been printed about it.

There is, however, a little story about a charge of Pennsylvanians in

the Virginia "burg," led by the glorious but unobtrusive Meade, that the

_old_ Army of the Potomac should not themselves forget, nor allow their

old-time enemies to obliterate, or snow under. I refer to the charge of

Meade on the left at Fredericksburg, December 11th, 1862, where, with

fewer numbers, he accomplished greater results than Pickett against

greater odds:

With the Rappahannock River in the rear, Meade led his Division over a

mile of plain under a heavy artillery fire, and _broke the celebrated_

Stonewall Jackson line, and penetrated 600 yards beyond their line. If

he had been sustained, the slaughter at Marye's Heights would have been

avoided.

It was also at Marye's Heights, where greater heroism was shown, where

not one grand attempt was made, but where charge after charge was made

against an absolutely impregnable position, yet one never hears of these

charges.

The gallant Allabach, the veteran of two wars, led the last final

onslaught on Marye's Heights, at the head of a small brigade of

Pennsylvania troops of Humphrey's Division that had never before been

under fire, and this handful comparatively, went into the very jaws of

death, and, though they did not reach the stone wall, they got nearest

to it and kept their ground, within a few rods of it till dark, when

they were ordered to fall back.

_No prisoners were taken_ at Fredericksburg as there were at Gettysburg.

The snake, Secession, had its back-bone broken at Gettysburg to be sure,

but boys of the dear old Army of the Potomac--patient, noble,

long-suffering old Army of the Potomac--remember the early, the dark

days, when Meade, Hancock, Reynold, Warren, Humphreys, etc., were our

immediate commanders; do not forget the _old_ Army of the Potomac and

its numerous general officers when the proper praises are so freely

being given to its later chiefs.

Though the final charge of Pickett, preceded and attended as it was by

peculiarly dramatic surroundings, has furnished a subject for more

speeches, historical essays, paintings, poems, than any other event

which ever occurred in America, yet, in point of fact, history is wrong

in ascribing the credit to Pickett.

The charge was not led by Pickett, neither were the troops who did the

most gallant fighting Virginians.

It is reserved for these Spy papers to record, on the testimony of

reliable, Confederate officers, that Pickett did not get within a mile

of our lines.

The _best_ fighting was done by the North Carolinians and Tennesseeans,

led by Pettigrew; therefore, it should be _Pettigrew's_ charge. In

this, as in many other matters, the historians of the war are at fault.

May we hope that the humble efforts of the "Boys" in these pages, will,

at least, call attention to some of those inaccuracies, with a view of

getting at the truth.

As I have intimated, I have endeavored to collect some recent testimony

from the Southern side, having spent some time on the old war-trail,

which I hope to be able to put in shape soon. The time must come when

the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, will be known, and then,

perhaps, future generations may be taught to see that to the

Pennsylvania Reserves is due some of the honor, valor, gallantry and

patriotism that is now being so freely offered to the Pickett survivors.

No one will question their bravery at Gettysburg on July 3rd, 1863; but

since then, and on July 4th, 1887, the survivors have left themselves

open to attack, in assuming their positions in reference to monuments.

There remains among the Southern people an ignorant, deep-seated belief,

which is being taught the "New South," that, if Longstreet had properly

supported Pickett, they would have been successful, and the country

would have become a Confederacy. There is a great deal of "if" in all

the survivors' talk in the New South, so that we may indulge in the use

of the little word, and propose a few conundrums--possibilities.

What would have been the result, _if_ Meade had been supported by

Franklin, when he broke Stonewall Jackson's line at Fredericksburg? And

_if_ Sedgwick had been properly supported by Hooker, at

Chancellorsville, when he drove Early from behind the "impregnable"

works on Marye's Heights? Once more: _If_ Pickett had succeeded and had

broken into our line, and had been supported by Longstreet, then _if_

the Sixth Corps, which had scarcely been engaged in the great fight, had

turned in on them on the flank, _if_ any of them had gotten back at all

it would have been a miracle. _If_, on the other hand, General Meade had

taken Hancock's advice and turned the Reserves and the Sixth Corps loose

after Pickett the war might have ended. _If_ they were to try it again

they would be whipped worse. _If_ they don't believe it, fire on Fort

Sumter. _If_ we had never been born we would not have to die.

There was one little episode I have never seen recorded. After the

charge of Pickett--on the third day--had failed, everything had quieted

down. Meade, accompanied by his Staff, went over the wall and rode along

our entire front, from Cemetery Hill to the Round Tops, receiving the

cheers of the whole army, or all that was left.

That was the only time I ever heard music on a battlefield; then it was

from a band in the woods at Little Round Top, that played "Hail to the

Chief."

I never hear that old tune, nowadays, on these fancy parades, but it

brings up the recollection of that great day and causes the cold chills

to creep up and down my spine.

I rode with General Meade this day; to prove which, I will ask some of

the survivors who witnessed that event to recall a smooth-faced boy on a

lame horse that brought up the rear of the dashing cavalcade. My nag got

hurt the first day, and I did not have a chance to steal another, and,

as I was bound to be on hand, I had to ride my lame horse.

The General and Staff always go at a break-neck gallop, the Staff

tearing along in the rear, like a tail to a comet, so that, in this

case, I "got left" about a gunshot to the rear; and, because I so

energetically spurred the lame horse, to catch up, our boys, behind the

stone wall, gave me the laugh and some cheers of derision. They were all

feeling pretty good just then, and were excusable.

One of the Staff-officers told me that we had captured General

Longstreet, and when I got over among the Reserves I told this bit of

news, where it created a sensation.

I have never seen an account of that ride along the lines in print. It

is correct, though it may have been the fourth day instead of the third.

You will find in the Rebel reports of the battle, that General Lee

states that, on hearing these shouts and cheers from our army, he

thought it meant an advance on his line, and he made preparations to

meet it. I think it was the cheers for General Meade that he heard, even

so distant as his headquarters.

But we will leave Gettysburg. I want to say something about Kilpatrick

and the Corn Exchange Regiment of emergency men, that came out of

Philadelphia at that time to repel the invasion.

It is not for me to criticise General Meade for not closely pursuing

Lee's shattered army. We all know that, when a rattle-snake is chased

into his hole, he don't leave his tail exposed, but at once presents his

head to the entrance. I remember that some days after Gettysburg, while

we were at Emmittsburg, or between there and Frederick, Maryland,

General Kilpatrick and some of his associates had an animated

conversation about it, which everybody in the neighborhood heard, as

Kilpatrick was a free talker when he became very much interested in a

subject. On this occasion he freely expressed his disgust with the slow

proceedings, but no one who knew Kilpatrick well paid much attention to

his bluster. He was nick-named "Kill Cavalry," because of his

recklessness and apparent disregard of his own and the lives of his men.

I will relate a single incident illustrating this General's character,

that occurred in my hearing at Hagerstown. At the time of the Gettysburg

campaign there had been quite a lot of emergency troops called out by

the Governor of Pennsylvania--"ninety-minute men" we called them. On our

march from Gettysburg we met with these home-guards at different points.

I remember that just outside of the town of Frederick, Maryland, there

was a regiment of these men doing guard duty. As we marched by, and

these citizen-soldiers, who were fresh in their picturesque, zoo-zoo

uniforms, or, as they are sometimes called, "Night-drawers Cadets," the

dirty-looking, old, blue-bloused veterans chaffed them most

unmercifully. It was wet weather, and the roads were muddy, as is always

the case after a battle. Wherever these ninety-minute men were stationed

on guard duty, they were to be found perched as sentries on top of a

pile of cracker-boxes or fence rails, to keep their feet out of the mud,

the boxes giving them the appearance of a statue on a pedestal.

"Pretty boys," "Nice little sogers," "Don't get your feet wet, sonny;

you might take cold," "Let me kiss him for his sister," are mild

specimens of the expressions hurled at them from the marching columns of

old vets.

My recollection is that these were Philadelphia troops. When we reached

Hagerstown, we ran into a lot more of them, that had come down the

Cumberland Valley from Harrisburg and Chambersburg to head Lee off. One

of these organizations was, I think, called the Corn Exchange Regiment,

recruited, or at least fathered, and sent into the field by the wealthy

gentlemen of the Philadelphia Exchange. They were composed of what may

be termed the better class of men; at least, that was their own estimate

of themselves. At their Philadelphia home they probably ranked as rather

an exclusive set of boys. Their officers were decidedly "fresh," to use

a slang term; at least, we around headquarters, who had become

accustomed to pay some attention to military etiquette, were disgusted

to see these line officers crowd around our Generals, to stare at and

talk as familiarly as if they were all corps commanders.

Custer and Kilpatrick, with whom I was then serving, were at first

immensely amused at the efforts of the militia officers to make

themselves agreeable. The officers and men, too, felt, no doubt, that it

was their only opportunity to see a live General, like Kilpatrick and

Custer, and were bound to gratify their curiosity while they had a

chance.

In addition to their curiosity, these chaps were continually imploring

General Kilpatrick to let them have "just one chance at the Rebels."

They begged that they might be permitted to have an opportunity to

distinguish themselves before they returned to Philadelphia.

One evening Kilpatrick told Custer, in my hearing, to put some of these

men out on the picket-line, which was really a most dangerous place, for

they were in close proximity to the rear-guard of Lee's army. The rear

of an army cornered, as was Lee's at that time, is an ugly place to put

a recruit, and General Kilpatrick knew very well that, in yielding to

their foolish requests, he was subjecting them to great danger. But

General Kilpatrick concluded he would have a little fun out of the

recruits, so he placed some of them on the advance line, and watched to

see what they would do if attacked. We all dismounted, and were watching

the lines of Rebels. The officer of the guard protested against having

these new men on his line, saying they would be likely to raise a

hornets' nest about our ears, but Kilpatrick told him to let them try

their hands a little while. These men went up the hill a little

distance, when their brilliant uniforms attracted the attention of the

Johnnies, and, as they acted as though they were going to drive Lee's

army across the Potomac, they let these recruits have a few shots by way

of warning, which was answered by the Philadelphians, who became

excited, with a broadside. The Rebel fire had injured about a dozen of

the recruits, one big fellow keeling over and yelling like a boy

stumping a sore toe. Instead of continuing up the hill, or even falling

back, they all crowded together where the wounded lay, and began to

console with them. They were finally brought away, with the loss of a

few more men, and they did not bother General Kilpatrick again to be

placed in the front rank of the army. But there was one thing about

Kilpatrick: he never ordered a man to go where he was not willing to

lead. I stood beside him the following day, near Williamsport, when a

rifle-ball whizzed close by his ear. Jerking up his hand nervously, as

if stung by a bee, or to brush off a mosquito, he turned to me and said:

"Holy Moses! That ball came near hitting me." But he didn't move out of

range of that sharpshooter--but I did.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

CLOSING CHAPTER.

We were all expecting another great battle at Hagerstown. I hung close

to the headquarters in the stirring days, after Gettysburg, during which

I witnessed some scenes that would make quite interesting reading. At

this time there was frequent communication between the Washington War

Department and Headquarters, the greater part of which, coming by wire,

I had an opportunity of scanning.

In reading the recent _Century_ war-papers, and also some of the

official reports now being published, the thought oftenest occurring to

my mind is, why don't they publish _everything_, even the little straws,

which significantly tell which way the wind was blowing at that time. We

were in a manner besieged by the visitors who thronged about

Headquarters, after Gettysburg, in a _civil_, inquisitive way that was

very annoying to the officers.

General Meade has never received the full meed of praise to which he was

entitled for his management of the Army of the Potomac during and in the

days immediately following Gettysburg.

He was a peculiar man--in many ways, one not constituted to "command"

attention. He was evidently conservative, and, perhaps, too cautious,

but when one recalls that he had _won_ a great victory, and in forcing a

second battle, unprepared, he not only staked his hard-earned laurels,

but he risked the army and the Capitol.

I happen to know that General Meade felt keenly President Lincoln's

severe criticism, though it was uttered in his usual, joking way. The

General was an exceedingly sensitive man, and when he got to hear that

the President compared him and his pursuit of Lee over the Potomac to an

old woman shooing her geese over the river, he actually wanted to

resign.

General Meade was every inch a soldier, as well as a gentleman, by birth

and training.

In camp he was the most unpretentious looking of the General officers.

His spectacled face, rather quiet, scholarly bearing, reminds me of

professors or doctors whom we frequently see; they resemble him in

appearance.

He always wore a slouch hat, and around his neck was invariably worn the

old-fashioned leather _stock_, used in the Regular Army on recruits to

keep their heads checked up.

He usually slept in an ambulance attached to Headquarters.

We learned that Lee had retreated the night before the impending battle,

and early in the morning the cavalry were astir, in pursuit. I rode from

Hagerstown to Williamsport, Md., with General Kilpatrick, following

precisely the same road I had footed it when scouting, just before Bull

Run. We passed through the deserted camps, in which the fires were still

burning. The Rebels had so hurriedly left them that in many places their

camp equipages were left behind.

Kilpatrick was _mad_. He was very mad--on seeing the enemy had all

gotten away, and, putting spurs to his own horse, dashed ahead of his

advance guard, and rode so recklessly that those of us not so well

mounted had difficulty in keeping up.

He instinctively saw that there was no force in his immediate front,

and, without paying any attention to the hundreds of Rebel stragglers

who were on the road, he gave order to his command to hurry on to the

river after him.

On reaching Williamsport, we made a little haul of stragglers, but

Kilpatrick sat on his horse sideways, looking over the river into

Virginia with an expression of disgust on his face that I shall never

forget.

Some of the colored residents of the town told Kilpatrick of the enemy's

manner of retreat. Not a Rebel was in sight, but they also notified him

of a Rebel battery that was slyly masked in the woods over the river,

intended as a deadly ambuscade for any troop that should precipitately

follow too close.

On hearing this, Kilpatrick quietly put a house between himself and the

aforesaid masked battery. When our artillery came up with the cavalry, I

was sent to conduct a section of it to a certain place behind the

houses, but which admitted of the guns pointing between two adjoining

houses.

The colored people who lived in them gave the gunners the exact

location of the Rebels, and in less time than it takes for me to

describe it, our section let them have a dose of the medicine they

intended for us.

The Rebels were so surprised they did not have time to return the

salute, but scampered away as fast as they could. At this, the entire

colored population of the town, which had assembled, broke out in the

wildest yells of delight I had ever heard.

Custer, accompanied by a few officers of his Staff dashed up to

Kilpatrick, who, by the way, was the senior, or the General in Command,

and in his eager, boyish way, said: "General, hadn't I better go down

below here and see if we can't find some of 'those people'?"

General Lee never called the Union Army Federals or Yankees--it was

always "those people."

Kilpatrick laughed as he said something to Custer that was not intended

for his superior, General Meade's ears.

Custer, in his nervous manner, again suggested going after some of

"those people" down below.

As if to gratify Custer's eagerness, not with any expectation of finding

an enemy, Kilpatrick indifferently gave his consent, and Custer, turning

to the Staff-officers, who were with him, gave a few orders and dashed

off. I followed Custer at a gallop.

We rode three or four miles perhaps, when we reached some of our own

cavalry and infantry.

This was in the neighborhood of Falling Waters, and here, on the Potomac

river, almost the same place I had, as a Scout, crossed into Dixie a

year previously. We will, for the present, say good-by to the grand old

Army of the Potomac.

There was a little battle at Falling Waters, in which Custer's Division

participated.