FUN AND FURY ON THE FIELD.
A battle-field, when only a few thousands of men are engaged, is a more
extensive area than most persons would suppose. When large bodies of
men--twenty to fifty thousand on each side--are engaged, a mounted man,
at liberty to gallop from place to place, could scarcely travel the
field over during the continuance of the battle; and a private soldier,
in the smallest affair, sees very little indeed of the field. What
occurs in his own regiment, or probably in his own company, is about
all, and is sometimes more than he actually sees or knows. Thus it is
that, while the field is extensive, it is to each individual limited to
the narrow space of which he is cognizant.
The dense woods of Virginia, often choked with heavy undergrowth, added
greatly to the difficulty of observing the movements of large bodies of
troops extended in line of battle. The commanders were compelled to rely
almost entirely upon the information gained from their staff officers
and the couriers of those in immediate command on the lines.
The beasts of burden which travel the Great Desert scent the oasis and
the well miles away, and, cheered by the prospect of rest and
refreshment, press on with renewed vigor; and in the book of Job it is
said of the horse, "He saith among the trumpets, Ha! ha! and he smelleth
the battle afar off, the thunder of the captains, and the shoutings." So
a soldier, weary and worn, recognizing the signs of approaching battle,
did quicken his lagging steps and cry out for joy at the prospect.
The column, hitherto moving forward with the steadiness of a mighty
river, hesitates, halts, steps back, then forward, hesitates again,
halts. The colonels talk to the brigadier, the brigadiers talk to the
major-general, some officers hurry forward and others hurry to the rear.
Infantry stands to one side of the road while cavalry trots by to the
front. Now some old wagons marked "Ord. Dept." go creaking and rumbling
by. One or two light ambulances, with a gay and careless air, seem to
trip along with the ease of a dancing-girl. They and the surgeons seem
cheerful. Some, not many, ask "What is the matter?" Most of the men
there know exactly: they are on the edge of battle.
Presently a very quiet, almost sleepy looking man on horseback, says,
"Forward, 19th!" and away goes the leading regiment. A little way ahead
the regiment jumps a fence, and--pop! bang! whiz! thud! is all that can
be heard, until the rebel yell reverberates through the woods. Battle?
No! skirmishers advancing.
[Illustration: GOING IN]
Step into the woods now and watch these skirmishers. See how cheerfully
they go in. How rapidly they load, fire, and re-load. They stand six and
twelve feet apart, calling to each other, laughing, shouting and
cheering, but advancing. There: one fellow has dropped his musket like
something red hot. His finger is shot away. His friends congratulate
him, and he walks sadly away to the rear. Another staggers and falls
with a ball through his neck, mortally wounded. Two comrades raise him
to his feet and try to lead him away, but one of them receives a ball in
his thigh which crushes the bone, and he falls groaning to the ground.
The other advises his poor dying friend to lie down, helps him to do so,
and runs to join his advancing comrades. When he overtakes them he finds
every man securely posted behind a tree, loading, firing, and conducting
himself generally with great deliberation and prudence. They have at
last driven the enemy's skirmishers in upon the line of battle, and are
waiting. A score of men have fallen here, some killed outright, some
slightly, some sorely, and some mortally wounded. The elements now add
to the horrors of the hour. Dense clouds hovering near the tree tops add
deeper shadows to the woods. Thunder, deep and ominous, rolls in
prolonged peals across the sky, and lurid lightning darts among the
trees and glistens on the gun barrels. But still they stand.
Now a battery has been hurried into position, the heavy trails have
fallen to the ground, and at the command "Commence firing!" the
cannoniers have stepped in briskly and loaded. The first gun blazes at
the muzzle and away goes a shell. The poor fellows in the woods rejoice
as it crashes through the trees over their heads, and cheer when it
explodes over the enemy's line. Now, what a chorus! Thunder, gun after
gun, shell after shell, musketry, pelting rain, shouts, groans, cheers,
and commands!
But help is coming. At the edge of the woods, where the skirmishers
entered, the brigade is in line. Somebody has ordered, "Load!"
The ramrods glisten and rattle down the barrels of a thousand muskets.
"F-o-o-o-o-r-r-r-r-w-a-a-a-r-r-r-d!" is the next command, and the
brigade disappears in the woods, the canteens rattling, the bushes
crackling, and the officers never ceasing to say, "Close up, men; close
up! guide c-e-n-t-r-r-r-r-e!"
The men on that skirmish line have at last found it advisable to lie
down at full length on the ground, though it is so wet, and place their
heads against the trees in front. They cannot advance and they cannot
retire without, in either case, exposing themselves to almost certain
death. They are waiting for the line of battle to come to their relief.
At last, before they see, they hear the line advancing through the
pines. The snapping of the twigs, the neighing of horses, and hoarse
commands, inspire a husky cheer, and when the line of the old brigade
breaks through the trees in full view, they fairly yell! Every man jumps
to his feet, the brigade presses firmly forward, and soon the roll of
musketry tells all who are waiting to hear that serious work is
progressing away down in the woods. All honor to the devoted infantry.
The hour of glory has arrived for couriers, aides-de-camp, and staff
officers generally. They dash about from place to place like spirits of
unrest. Brigade after brigade and division after division is hurried
into line, and pressed forward into action. Battalions of artillery open
fire from the crests of many hills, and the battle is begun.
[Illustration: EXTENDING THE REAR.]
Ammunition trains climb impassable places, cross ditches without
bridges, and manage somehow to place themselves in reach of the troops.
Ambulances, which an hour before went gayly forward, now slowly and
solemnly return loaded. Shells and musket balls which must have lost
their way, go flitting about here and there, wounding and killing men
who deem themselves far away from danger. The negro cooks turn pale as
these unexpected visitors enter the camps at the rear, and the rear is
"extended" at once.
But our place now is at the front, on the field. We are to watch the
details of a small part of the great expanse. As we approach, a
ludicrous scene presents itself. A strong-armed artilleryman is
energetically thrashing a dejected looking individual with a hickory
bush, and urging him to the front. He has managed to keep out of many a
fight, but now he _must_ go in. The captain has detailed a man to _whip_
him in, and the man is doing it. With every blow the poor fellow yells
and begs to be spared, but his determined guardian will not cease. They
press on, the one screaming and the other lashing, till they reach the
battery in position and firing on the retiring enemy. A battery of the
enemy is replying, and shells are bursting overhead, or ploughing huge
furrows in the ground. Musket balls are "rapping" on the rims of the
wheels and sinking with a deep "thud" into the bodies of the poor
horses. Smoke obscures the scene, but the cannoniers in faint outline
can be seen cheerfully serving the guns.
As the opposing battery ceases firing, and having limbered up, scampers
away, and the last of the enemy's infantry slowly sinks into the woods
out of sight and out of reach, a wild cheer breaks from the cannoniers,
who toss their caps in the air and shout, shake hands and shout again,
while the curtain of smoke is raised by the breeze and borne away.
The cavalry is gone. With jingle and clatter they have passed through
the lines and down the hill, and are already demanding surrender from
many a belated man. There will be no rest for that retreating column.
Stuart, with a twinkle in his eye, his lips puckered as if to whistle a
merry lay, is on their flanks, in their rear, and in their front. The
enemy will send their cavalry after him, of course, but he will stay
with them, nevertheless.
[Illustration]
Add now the stream of wounded men slowly making their way to the rear;
the groups of dejected prisoners plodding along under guard, and you
have about as much of a battle as one private soldier ever sees.
[Illustration: COMING OUT]
But after the battle, man will tell to man what each has seen and felt,
until every man will feel that he has seen the whole. Hear, then, the
stories of battle.
An artilleryman--he must have been a driver--says: when the firing had
ceased an old battery horse, his lower jaw carried away by a shot, with
blood streaming from his wound, staggered up to him, gazed beseechingly
at him, and, groaning piteously, laid his bloody jaws on his shoulder,
and so made his appeal for sympathy. He was beyond help.
The pathetic nature of this story reminds a comrade that a new man in
the battery, desiring to save the labor incident to running up the gun
after the rebound, determined to hold on to the handspike, press the
trail into the ground, and hold her fast. He did try, but the rebound
proceeded as usual, and the labor-saving man was "shocked" at the
failure of his effort. Nothing daunted, the same individual soon after
applied his lips to the vent of the gun, which was choked, and
endeavored to clear it by an energetic blast from his lungs. The vent
was not cleared but the lips of the recruit were nicely browned, and the
detachment greatly amused.
At another gun it has happened that No. 1 and No. 3 have had a
difficulty. No. 3 having failed to serve the vent, there was a premature
explosion, and No. 1, being about to withdraw the rammer, fell heavily
to the ground, apparently dead. No. 3, seeing what a calamity he had
caused, hung over the dead man and begged him to speak and exonerate him
from blame. After No. 3 had exhausted all his eloquence and pathos, No.
1 suddenly rose to his feet and informed him that the premature
explosion was a fact, but the death of No. 1 was a joke intended to warn
him that if he ever failed again to serve that vent, he would have his
head broken by a blow from a rammer-head. This joke having been
completed in all its details, the firing was continued.
Another man tells how Eggleston had his arm torn away by a solid shot,
and, as he walked away, held up the bleeding, quivering stump,
exclaiming, "Never mind, boys; I'll come back soon and try 'em with this
other one." Alas! poor fellow, he had fought his last fight.
Poor Tom, he who was always, as he said, "willing to give 'em half a
leg, or so," was struck about the waist by a shot which almost cut him
in two. He fell heavily to the ground, and, though in awful agony,
managed to say: "Tell mother I died doing my duty."
While the fight lasted, several of the best and bravest received wounds
apparently mortal, and were laid aside covered by an old army blanket.
They refused to die, however, and remain to this day to tell their own
stories of the war and of their marvelous recovery.
At the battle of the Wilderness, May, 1864, a man from North Carolina
precipitated a severe fight by asking a very simple and reasonable
question. The line of battle had been pressed forward and was in close
proximity to the enemy. The thick and tangled undergrowth prevented a
sight of the enemy, but every man felt he was near. Everything was
hushed and still. No one dared to speak above a whisper. It was evening,
and growing dark. As the men lay on the ground, keenly sensible to every
sound, and anxiously waiting, they heard the firm tread of a man walking
along the line. As he walked they heard also the jingle-jangle of a pile
of canteens hung around his neck. He advanced with deliberate mien to
within a few yards of the line and opened a terrific fight by quietly
saying, "Can any you fellows tell a man whar he can git some water?"
Instantly the thicket was illumined by the flash of a thousand muskets,
the men leaped to their feet, the officers shouted, and the battle was
begun. Neither side would yield, and there they fought till many died.
Soon, however, the reserve brigade began to make its way through the
thicket. The first man to appear was the brigadier, thirty yards ahead
of his brigade, his sword between his teeth, and parting the bushes with
both hands as he spurred his horse through the tangled growth. Eager for
the fight, his eyes glaring and his countenance lit up with fury, his
first word was "Forward!" and forward went the line.
[Illustration: THE BATTLE OPENS]
On the march from Petersburg to Appomattox, after a sharp engagement,
some men of Cutshaw's artillery battalion, acting as infantry, made a
stand for a while on a piece of high ground. They noticed, hanging
around in a lonely, distracted way, a tall, lean, shaggy fellow
holding, or rather leaning on, a long staff, around which hung a faded
battle-flag. Thinking him out of his place and skulking, they suggested
to him that it would be well for him to join his regiment. He replied
that his regiment had all run away, and he was merely waiting a chance
to be useful. Just then the enemy's advancing skirmishers poured a hot
fire into the group, and the artillerymen began to discuss the propriety
of leaving. The color-bearer, remembering their insinuations, saw an
opportunity for retaliation. Standing, as he was, in the midst of a
shower of musket balls, he seemed almost ready to fall asleep. But
suddenly his face was illumined with a singularly pleased and childish
smile. Quietly walking up close to the group, he said, "Any you boys
want to _charge_?" The boys answered, "Yes." "Well," said the
imperturbable, "I'm the man to carry this here old flag for you. Just
follow me." So saying he led the squad full into the face of the
advancing enemy, and never once seemed to think of stopping until he was
urged to retire with the squad. He came back smiling from head to foot,
and suffered no more insinuations.
At Gettysburg, when the artillery fire was at its height, a brawny
fellow, who seemed happy at the prospect for a hot time, broke out
singing:--
"Backward, roll backward, O Time in thy flight:
Make me a child again, just for this _fight_!"
Another fellow near him replied, "Yes; and a _gal_ child at that."
At Fredericksburg a good soldier, now a farmer in Chesterfield County,
Virginia, was desperately wounded and lay on the field all night. In the
morning a surgeon approached him and inquired the nature of his wound.
Finding a wound which is always considered fatal, he advised the man to
remain quietly where he was and die. The man insisted on being removed
to a hospital, saying in the most emphatic manner, that though every man
ever wounded as he was (his bowels were punctured by the ball) had died,
he was determined not to die. The surgeon, struck by the man's courage
and nerve, consented to remove him, advising him, however, not to
cherish the hope of recovery. After a hard struggle he did recover, and
is to-day a living example of the power of a determined will.
At the Wilderness, when the fight was raging in the tangled woods and a
man could scarcely trust himself to move in any direction for fear of
going astray or running into the hands of the enemy, a mere boy was
wounded. Rushing out of the woods, his eyes staring and his face pale
with fright, he shouted, "Where's the rear. Mister! I say, Mister!
where's the rear?" Of course he was laughed at. The very grim fact that
there was no "rear," in the sense of safety, made the question
irresistibly ludicrous. The conduct of this boy was not exceptional. It
was no uncommon thing to see the best men badly demoralized and eager to
go to the rear because of a wound scarcely worthy of the name. On the
other hand, it sometimes happened that men seriously wounded could not
be convinced of their danger, and remained on the field.
The day General Stuart fell, mortally wounded, there was a severe fight
in the woods not far from the old Brook Church, a few miles from
Richmond; the enemy was making a determined stand, in order to gain time
to repair a bridge which they were compelled to use, and the Confederate
infantry skirmishers were pushing them hard. The fighting was stubborn
and the casualties on the Confederate side very numerous. In the midst
of the fight a voice was heard shouting, "Where's my boy? I'm looking
for my boy!" Soon the owner of the voice appeared, tall, slim, aged,
with silver gray hair, dressed in a full suit of broadcloth. A tall
silk hat and a clerical collar and cravat completed his attire. His
voice, familiar to the people of Virginia, was deep and powerful. As he
continued to shout, the men replied, "Go back, old gentleman; you'll get
hurt here. Go back; go back!" "No, no;" said he, "I can go anywhere my
boy has to go, and the Lord is here. I want to see my boy, and I will
see him!" Then the order, "Forward!" was given and the men made once
more for the enemy. The old gentleman, his beaver in one hand, a big
stick in the other, his long hair flying, shouting, "Come on, boys!"
disappeared in the depths of the woods, well in front. He was a
Methodist minister, an old member of the Virginia Conference, but his
carriage that day was soldierly and grand. One thought--that _his boy
was there_--made the old man feel that he might brave the danger, too.
No man who saw him there will ever forget the parson who led the charge
at Brook Church.
At the battle of Spottsylvania Court House, a gun in position somewhat
in advance of the line was so much exposed to the enemy's fire that it
was abandoned. Later in the day the battery being ordered to move, the
captain directed the sergeant to take his detachment and bring in the
gun. The sergeant and his gunner, with a number of men, went out to
bring in the gun by hand. Two men lifted the trail and the sergeant
ordered, "All together!" The gun moved, but moved _in a circle_. The
fire was hot, and _all hands were on the same side_--the side farthest
from the enemy! After some persuasion the corporal and the sergeant
managed to induce a man or two to get on the other side, with them, and
they were moving along very comfortably when a shrapnel whacked the
sergeant on his breast, breaking his ribs and tearing away the muscle of
one arm. He fell into the arms of the corporal. Seeing that their only
hope of escaping from this fire was work, the cannoniers bent to the
wheels, and the gun rolled slowly to shelter.
It was at Spottsylvania Court House that the Federal infantry rushed
over the works, and, engaging in a hand-to-hand fight, drove out the
Confederate infantry. On one part of the line the artillerymen stood to
their posts, and when the Federal troops passing the works had massed
themselves inside, fired to the right and left, up and down the lines,
cutting roadways through the compact masses of men, and holding their
positions until the Confederate infantry reformed, drove out the enemy
and re-occupied the line. Several batteries were completely overrun, and
the cannoniers sought and found safety _in front of the works_, whence
the enemy had made their charge.
At another point on the lines, where there was no infantry support, the
enemy charged repeatedly and made every effort to carry the works, but
were handsomely repulsed by _artillery alone_. An examination of the
ground in front of the works after the fight, disclosed the fact that
all the dead and wounded were victims of artillery fire. The dead were
literally torn to pieces, and the wounded dreadfully mangled. Scarcely a
man was hurt on the Confederate side.
At Fort Harrison, a few miles below Richmond, in 1864, a ludicrous scene
resulted from the firing of a salute with shotted guns. Federal
artillery occupied the fort, and the lines immediately in front of it
were held by the "Department Battalion," composed of the clerks in the
various government offices in Richmond, who had been ordered out to meet
an emergency. Just before sundown the detail for picket duty was formed,
and about to march out to the picket line, the clerks presenting quite a
soldierly appearance. Suddenly bang! went a gun in the fort, and a shell
came tearing over. Bang! again, and bang! bang! and more shells
exploding. Pow! pow! what consternation! In an instant the beautiful
line melted away as by magic. Every man took to shelter, and the place
was desolate. The firing was rapid, regular, and apparently aimed to
strike the Confederate lines, but ceased as suddenly as it had begun.
General Custis Lee, whose tent was near by, observing the panic, stepped
quietly up to the parapet of the works, folded his arms, and walked back
and forth without uttering a word or looking to the right or to the
left. His cool behavior, coupled with the silence of the guns, soon
reassured the trembling clerks, and one by one they dropped into line
again. General Butler had heard some news that pleased him, and ordered
a salute with shotted guns. That was all.
Two boys who had volunteered for service with the militia in the same
neighborhood, were detailed for picket duty. It was the custom to put
three men on each post,--two militia boys and one veteran. The boys and
an old soldier of Johnston's division were marched to their post, where
they found, ready dug, a pit about five feet deep and three feet wide.
It was quite dark, and the boys, realizing fully their exposed position,
at once occupied the pit. The old soldier saw he had an opportunity to
have a good time, knowing that those boys would keep wide awake. Giving
them a short lecture about the importance of great watchfulness, he
warned them to be ready to leave there very rapidly at any moment, and,
above all, to keep very quiet. His words were wasted, as the boys would
not have closed their eyes or uttered a word for the world. These little
details arranged, the cunning old soldier prepared to make himself
comfortable. First he gathered a few small twigs and made a _very small_
fire. On the fire he put a battered old tin cup. Into this he poured
some coffee from his canteen. From some mysterious place in his clothes
he drew forth sugar and dropped it into the cup. Next, from an old worn
haversack, he took a "chunk" of raw bacon and a "pone" of corn bread.
Then, drawing a large pocket knife, in a dexterous manner he sliced and
ate his bread and meat, occasionally sipping his coffee. His evening
meal leisurely completed, he filled his pipe, smoked, and stirred up the
imaginations of the boys by telling how dangerous a duty they were
performing; told them how easy it would be for the Yankees to creep up
and shoot them or capture and carry them off. Having finished his smoke,
he knocked out the ashes and dropped the pipe in his pocket. Then he
actually unrolled his blanket and oil-cloth. It made the perspiration
start on the brows of the boys to see the man's folly. Then taking off
his shoes, he laid down on one edge, took hold of the blanket and
oil-cloth, rolled himself over to the other side, and with a kind "good
night" to the boys, began to snore. The poor boys stood like statues in
the pit till broad day. In the morning the old soldier thanked them for
not disturbing him, and quietly proceeded to prepare his breakfast.
After the fight at Fisher's Hill, in 1864, Early's army, in full retreat
and greatly demoralized, was strung out along the valley pike. The
Federal cavalry was darting around picking up prisoners, shooting
drivers, and making themselves generally disagreeable. It happened that
an artilleryman, who was separated from his gun, was making pretty good
time on foot, getting to the rear, and had the _appearance_ of a
demoralized infantryman who had thrown away his musket. So one of these
lively cavalrymen trotted up, and, waving his sabre, told the
artilleryman to "surrender!" But he didn't stop. He merely glanced over
his shoulder, and kept on. Then the cavalryman became indignant and
shouted, "Halt, d--n you; halt!" And still he would not. "Halt," said
the cavalryman, "halt, you d--n s-- of a -----; halt!" Then the
artilleryman halted, and remarking that he didn't allow any man to speak
to _him_ that way, seized a huge stick, turned on the cavalryman,
knocked him out of his saddle, and proceeded on his journey to the
rear.
This artilleryman fought with a musket at Sailor's Creek. He found
himself surrounded by the enemy, who demanded surrender. He refused;
said they must take him; and laid about him with the butt of his musket
till he had damaged some of the party considerably. He was, however,
overpowered and made a prisoner.
Experienced men, in battle, always availed themselves of any shelter
within reach. A tree, a fence, a mound of earth, a ditch, anything.
Sometimes their efforts to find shelter were very amusing and even
silly. Men lying on the ground have been seen to put an old canteen
before their heads as a shelter from musket balls; and during a heavy
fire of artillery, seemed to feel safer _under a tent_. Only recruits
and fools neglected the smallest shelter.
The more experienced troops knew better when to give up than green ones,
and never fought well after they were satisfied that they could not
accomplish their purpose. Consequently it often happened that the best
troops failed where the raw ones did well. The old Confederate soldier
_would_ decide some questions for himself. To the last he maintained the
right of private judgment, and especially on the field of battle.