LAUREL HILL.
Through a vista bright of the years long fled,
By the flag-decked graves of our comrades dead,
By the tints of summer, and the winter’s white,
By the sheen of noon, and the shades of night,
There hangs a scene of the olden days,
With a warp of blue, and a woof of gray.
I will cut the web from out the loom,
And place it today ’mid the May-day bloom.
* * * * *
Three times amid the brake they form,
Three times upon the guns they storm,
Three times the army holds its breath,
To see those charges grand of death.
_S. D. Richardson._
For two or three days we remained on the skirmish line, digging rifle
pits to protect ourselves from the fire of the enemy. These were holes
in the ground deep enough for one or more men to stand in, and if we
showed our heads we were pretty sure to draw their attention, so we
kept out of sight as much as possible. But our greatest peril was from
our own line, a quarter of a mile in the rear of us, for there were
several pieces of artillery continually sending shells and solid shot
over our heads into the enemy’s lines, and some of them were too near
us for comfort and safety, for we were on slightly rising ground in
front of them, and the gunners, to do more execution, depressed their
pieces so much that every now and then a shot or shell would skim by,
or over us, as we hugged the ground.
We would watch for the flash of the guns, and drop to the ground, so
the shot generally went over us. In the rifle pit with me were two of
my comrades, one of whom had taken off his haversack, and laid it near
by. A shot from our line struck that haversack, and sent it flying in
every direction.
Comrade Flint was fairly peppered with pieces of tin plate, cup,
knife, fork and spoon, which wounded him severely in several places.
He stood the pain as long as he could, and finally said he was going
back to the lines; we advised him to wait until dark, but the pain was
so great that he could not, and he started on the run across the open
field, back to our main line. Instantly he was a target for the rebel
sharpshooters. We watched him anxiously, and once saw him go down, but
he was up and off in a moment, and reached our lines, where he went
into the hospital.
He received a wound in the leg, from which he never fully recovered.
The other wounds healed after a while, but left indelible scars.
Soon after, the firing ceased, and we felt better, when we were no
longer in danger from our own artillery.
At last, on the morning of the 12th came the order to attack, and our
gallant little brigade commanded by Colonel Prescott, dashed across the
field as far as the foot of Laurel Hill. How our brave boys charged
those works under that heavy shower of grape and canister, none who
survived will ever forget!
But we could not take the works, and had to fall back, under a galling
fire from their whole line. Oh! What a shower of death came down
upon us! Before we got our colors back to our old position, the 32nd
had lost five color bearers, and one hundred and three, out of one
hundred and ninety men, killed or wounded. A number of the boys of our
company lay killed or wounded upon the field we had charged over, and
the constant firing along the whole line of the enemy’s works, made
it dangerous business going out to bring them in; but several of us
determined to do so, in spite of the risk we incurred.
Before leaving home we had made a solemn promise to each other, that no
man should be left unburied or uncared for on the field; that we would
risk life and limbs that our wounded should be cared for, and our dead
comrades tenderly laid in the bosom of mother earth. We usually waited
until night before going out after our fallen comrades, but we could
see the poor fellows lying there under the scorching sun, and felt that
some of them would not hold out until night.
Taking a blanket for a stretcher, four of us started out on the run,
drawing upon us a deadly fire from the enemy. One of our party fell,
wounded in the leg, but the rest managed to take him along in our hasty
retreat. Again and again we made the attempt, succeeding in getting
most of our wounded under cover.
Night came, and we started out to bury our dead. Many a poor fellow
lying upon his face, did I turn over in my search for my comrades
that night. Suddenly I came upon one of my company, still living,
but mortally wounded. He had been shot through the spine, and could
not be moved, so I made him as comfortable as possible by putting a
blanket under his head, and giving him some water. His sufferings
were terrible, but soon over; he knew his time had come, and gave me
messages for his folks and friends at home.
I promised him that I would write and let them know how, and when he
died, and that I would see that he was buried. I remained with him
until death released him from his agony, then closed his eyes, and
covered him with his blanket.
Sadly I left him, and moved on to where I could hear a well known voice
calling for help. It was another of my company badly wounded, but able
to be moved, so I hastily rolled him into a blanket, and we soon had
him within our line.
Busy all night, when daylight came, we had buried our dead, and
gathered in our wounded, thus fulfilling the compact that was never
broken when it was possible for us to keep it. What a comfort it was
to us, that solemn promise, for, far worse than death, was the thought
of lying exposed and unburied on the battlefield. That night was a
sad one, never to be forgotten by me, when we rolled our comrades up
in their blankets, and laid them in graves that will forever remain
unknown.
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