From Spottsylvania, until the army reached Petersburg, some portion of
the regiment was under fire every day. During this period occurred the
engagements at the North Anna River, Pamunkey, and Cold Harbor. The most
fatiguing march that I ever experienced was that made by our brigade on
its withdrawal from the south bank of the North Anna River, in which we
had a similar experience to that during the withdrawal from the lines at
the Wilderness, the men realizing that if we were attacked then it would
be on the brink of a rapid running river we were about to recross. We
crossed the North Anna River sometime between darkness and midnight, and
then moved by a circuitous route, as the more direct lines were occupied
by other troops. We marched, without any halts other than those
occasioned by blockades ahead of us, all the next day and following
night. In order to prevent my tired men from falling out, and not having
the heart to urge them to keep up while I was riding my horse, I
dismounted and walked at the rear of the company, feeling that so long
as I was able to walk I could with propriety urge the men to do
likewise. It was reported at the time that some of our men died of
exhaustion in the middle of the night; at any rate, when the command
finally halted and stacked arms fully one half of it were not able to
answer the roll-call. During the following twenty-four hours, however,
our stragglers kept coming in.
In a day or two the battle of Cold Harbor occurred. Our regiment went
into line in an unfavorable position, it being in an abandoned
cornfield, the woods beyond being held by the enemy. As was the custom
whenever we went into line at night to throw up temporary breastworks,
we were directed to do so here. The soil was sandy, there were no timber
and no rail fences, and we had few intrenching tools, consequently it
seemed impossible with the facilities at hand to construct any sort of
temporary breastworks. Within a few rods of my company's position in the
lines stood a large house, from which the family had hastily departed.
As there was no timber, the only alternative that suggested itself to me
was to take the roof from the house and break it up for our purpose. I
therefore sent a detail of men who in a short time removed the roof from
this building, while others soon knocked down the rest of the structure.
This material was broken up, the sand piled on it, and thus were
provided the breastworks that protected us the next day. This seemed a
hardship to the occupants of this dwelling, but it was justified by the
circumstances.
During the battle of Cold Harbor I had a second opportunity to see
General Grant, having been sent to General Meade's headquarters where
General Grant happened to be. When I reached headquarters, I found
General Meade sprawled out on the ground with his face buried in a map,
he being very near-sighted. Staff-officers were constantly riding up and
reporting, and about fifty feet from where he lay I saw General Grant
sitting alone on a stretcher. He had nothing to say to any one and
seemed unconcerned. While waiting for my instructions, I intently
watched him. Presently an officer brought up a Confederate officer, who
was a prisoner. Looking up, General Grant quietly asked, "I assume you
have questioned him?" The officer replied, "Yes, but he does not tell
anything." Grant then remarked, "Ask him if he has a recent Richmond
paper." The Confederate officer said that he had and took one from his
haversack, giving it to the officer, who handed it to General Grant.
Grant nodded his head in acknowledgment, and remarking, "You may take
him back," opened the paper and began to read. Just then General
Sheridan rode up. Grant arose, greeted him warmly, and seemed deeply
interested as Sheridan began earnestly telling him, I assume, the
results of his recent movements. Receiving my instructions I then
returned to the regiment.
The crossing of the James River by the army on pontoon bridges, as is
known, was a memorable movement, the river being about two thousand feet
wide there. Our march from the James River to Petersburg was a very hard
one, since the roads were sandy and it seemed that at every two steps
forward we would slip one backward. However, towards evening, we reached
a position near Petersburg, when, tired as we were, it seemed to me a
favorable moment for us to advance and try to capture the town. We could
see trains of cars coming in, their infantry being hastily unloaded, and
everywhere were evidences that they were hurrying up forces to resist
us. The failure to attack that afternoon was a great disappointment to
General Grant, as one reading his _Memoirs_ can ascertain. The next day,
the 17th of June, was my last day of active service in the field.
About the 8th or 9th of June orders had been read out behind the
breastworks in which my appointment as captain was announced. Though I
had always been doing duty as a captain, I had never held the rank of a
first-lieutenant. Subsequently, Adjutant Hill having been wounded, I did
temporary duty as adjutant; and on the 17th of June was with the
regiment in the assault of the enemy's works near the Norfolk road, in
which it suffered so severely. My wound was not received in the assault
but immediately after, and under the following circumstances. The
assault had been unsuccessful because of the failure of some troops on
our right to support us properly, and the command had secured the
protection of a line of breastworks. Acting as adjutant that day I had
been carrying an order, when I noticed lying on the field Lieutenant
Randall, who was lying on his face, and about him were our killed and
wounded, among others, General Morton, General Burnside's chief
engineer. I turned back to see if Randall was alive, and found him lying
with his face buried in the dirt of a corn-hill, the field being a
succession of ridges, and the corn being about eighteen inches high. He
had a hole in his neck and was apparently dying. I brushed the dirt out
of his face so that he could breathe, propped him up on the dirt ridges,
but was unable to carry him into our lines, because I had been suffering
for some days from intermittent fever and was almost too weak to walk
when I went into the engagement. While thus stooping over and in the act
of starting for our lines, a ball struck me alongside of the spine, just
above my sabre belt, and, as afterwards turned out, ploughed up in the
neighborhood of my shoulders. Realizing that I was struck in a bad place
and not wishing to lie there in the sun during the afternoon, I started
for our breastworks, the bullets striking the ground around me as I
crawled. I asked a man who I believed belonged to the Eighteenth Corps
if he could pull me over, as I was unable to get over. He remarked, "I
will, if my partner will help me," and in a moment these two men jumped
upon the breastwork, took me by the collar of my cavalry jacket, jerked
me over, and dropped me inside. It had not occurred to me that I was in
plain sight of the enemy, and it was not until after I was lifting
Randall that I noticed the bullets were striking in the ground around me
and subsequently in the breastworks, as I lay outside of them, when I
asked the man to help me over.
Just after I was pulled over, General Walter C. Newberry, then the
lieutenant-colonel of the Twenty-fourth cavalry, who that day commanded
the regiment, came up to me. I showed him my wound and remarked that I
thought I had a "thirty-day wound." He sent two men who lifted me on my
feet, and, with my arm about their necks and their arms supporting my
body, I walked a considerable distance before I could reach an
ambulance, which took me to the field hospital. On my way to the field
hospital I noticed a corporal, Frederick Gundlach, a brave and honest
soldier, who was walking holding his hand, which seemed to be shattered.
I hailed him and he immediately ran along by the ambulance in which I
was, stayed by me, and waited on me during the afternoon and night.
During the night I was placed in a tent with five other seriously
wounded officers, including Colonel Raulston of the Twenty-fourth and
Captain Burch, the latter dying in the arms of his men as he lay
directly opposite me in the tent, During the night it was reported to us
that an officer outside had been obliged to have his clothing cut off to
get at his wounds, as he had five bullets in his body, in various
places, and a blanket was wanted to put around him. As Corporal Gundlach
had given me his blanket to lie on and my overcoat was wrapped around my
sabre hilt and pistol, so as to make a pillow for me, I gave them the
coat to wrap around this badly wounded man, who proved to be none other
than the Lieutenant Randall that I had assisted when I received my
wound. It was assumed that by brushing the dirt out of his face and
turning him over so he could breathe, he regained consciousness, and
when the enemy's position was taken in a later assault that afternoon,
he, with the other wounded, was brought in. At any rate, he lived
several years after the war, though I never met him again.[4]
[Footnote 4: After the war, a medal of honor was awarded to me on the
recommendation of General Newberry; see correspondence in Appendix A.]
[Illustration: BREVET BRIGADIER GENERAL WALTER C. NEWBERRY]
The day after I was wounded I am unable to account for. I may have been
insensible; at any rate, it was the second day after, that the
ambulances and army wagons were filled with wounded and started for
City Point, whence steamboats conveyed them to Washington. I was
fortunate in being placed in an ambulance with another badly wounded
officer, as these vehicles had springs, while many of the wounded had to
ride in the army wagons that had none, hence when going down hill or
over rough roads the jolting caused great suffering. A whole day was
consumed in making the trip to City Point, delays constantly occurring
because we had to pull out beside the road to permit supply and
ammunition wagons to pass, it being the custom in war always to give the
right of way to supplies for the front. The heat and the dust settling
down on us made it a very trying day, and when the teams reached City
Point a number of the wounded were found dead.
We were placed on a large steamboat, where the cots were arranged on the
decks as near together as they could be placed and permit nurses to pass
between them. These were clean and there was an abundance of food and
drink for those able to partake of it. We were on this steamboat that
night and the following day, reaching the wharf at the foot of Sixth
Street in Washington about sundown. By this time I was suffering
considerably. Because of the nature of my wound I was the last man
removed from the boat, it then being nine o'clock. It was decided that
the best way to handle me was to carry me on the mattress, so a number
of men held it over the stair-well, as I was on the upper deck, while
others took it from below. The journey in an ambulance through the
streets of Washington, then not paved, was a painful one. I finally
reached the Seminary Hospital at Georgetown, where I was bathed and my
soiled clothing replaced by clean linen, and placed in a comfortable cot
which I occupied for nearly four months.
There were, during that period, usually six wounded officers in the room
at a time. Dr. Ducachet was the surgeon-in-chief and Dr. Finn the
assistant surgeon; the latter had charge of me. He took good care of me,
and I am doubtless greatly indebted to him for my recovery. For three
weeks repeated attempts were made to find the ball by probing, but
without success. One day a large swelling appeared on my back, and in
turning me over in bed to dress the wound a sudden discharge occurred
with great force, whereupon the surgeons were summoned and concluded
that this violent discharge must have forced the ball from its lodgment,
which had been beyond the reach of their longest probe, and it was
decided to attempt to get the ball out. After sundown, when the day was
cooler, the weather at that time being excessively hot, the operation
was successfully accomplished. The ball was flattened against my ribs;
two of them were splintered, and pieces of them occasionally worked out
through the wound during the ensuing eight months. Because of the
fracture of my ribs and the wound in my back, I was obliged to lie on
one hip, with the result that I suffered from severe bedsores, and for
weeks was able to get sleep only by taking morphine.
In October of that year the surgeons decided that it would do to remove
me to my home at Dobbs Ferry on the Hudson.
During the following winter I was confined to my bed at intervals by
abscesses forming preliminary to their discharging pieces of bone or
cloth, the last particles coming out the following March or April. The
wound healed in June, though my body was bent and one leg contracted.
Hence I was obliged to walk with a cane for nearly another year,
although I was able to perform clerical work that summer.