THE BATTLE ON THE RIGHT.
THE Pennsylvania Reserves, commanded by General Meade, occupied the
centre of the line of the first corps. They were a noble body of troops,
and had done some of the most splendid fighting of the war on the
Peninsula, and in the bloody but indecisive battles of Pope’s campaign.
Captain Somers, as if in compliment to him for his zeal and his energy,
was sent to bear the order for this division to advance.
The Reserves moved forward with a hearty, cheerful zeal; and presently
the thunder of their artillery, and the rattling volleys of musketry,
proclaimed the commencement of the conflict. A portion of Stonewall
Jackson’s command was before them—men who always fought with the energy
of desperation. They were a worthy foe, and worthily were they met; but
the rebels had the advantage. Their renowned leader had chosen their
position, and the brave Pennsylvanians suffered terribly.
“Fighting Joe,” on his white charger, rode up to the position in the
front of the battle. He was calm and unmoved in the shower of bullets,
and the troops were gladdened and encouraged by his presence. They were
strong without him; they were stronger with him. He gave off his orders
with the utmost coolness, and spoke words of fire, which burned in the
souls of the men. He was there,—the idol of the army,—and there was not
a man who would not have been ashamed to skulk with this noble example
before him. The mighty will of the general was communicated to the
nerves and the muscles of his soldiers, and he multiplied himself
thousands of times in the persons of his devoted followers.
Still they moved on, Meade’s division, supported by that of Ricketts,
nearer to the woods where the rebels were concentrated; and still they
poured in the deadly volleys, until the resistance before them was
sensibly diminished.
“Forward!” was the word that rang along the line; and the Reserves,
supported by two of Ricketts’s brigades, rushed on with cheers, and
entered the oak grove. The rebels were falling back before them, and
they rushed through the woods, across the open field on the other side,
and still onward to the woods beyond the field. But here they were
thrown upon bodies of fresh troops, hurried up to meet them. From the
dark shadows of the wood came showers of bullets from a sheet of flaming
fire. The grove was packed with rebels; the Reserves seemed to melt away
like frost before the sunlight, in that galling fire. They closed up
their shattered lines, and fell doggedly back, pouring in volley after
volley upon the dense masses.
The fortunes of the day seemed suddenly to have been reversed; what had
been victory a moment before, now became defeat. Stonewall Jackson’s
entire line was advancing with those fiendish yells which distinguish
the rebel onslaught. It was a critical moment in the fortunes of the
day; but the genius of the man who held the reins in his hands was equal
to the occasion. He was not a mile in the rear; he was in the front,
where he could see the indications of threatening disaster; where he
could promptly meet and counteract the elements of defeat which had
begun to manifest themselves.
“Captain Somers,” said he, in his calm but earnest tones.
Somers spurred forward his horse, and saluting the general, stood in
readiness for his commands.
“Tell General Ricketts to send me his best brigade instantly.”
It rained shot and shell on the hill-side as Somers dashed away to
execute the order. Presently the “best brigade,” consisting of the
twelfth and thirteenth Massachusetts, the ninth New York, and the
eleventh Pennsylvania, under the command of General Hartsuff,
double-quicked down the hill, amid the falling shot and bursting shell,
which crashed fearfully through the trees, and tore up the earth in
their mad flight. They were veteran troops, commanded by a veteran
soldier of skill and bravery. They passed the general on their march,
and his eye lighted up with satisfaction as he saw the spirit which they
manifested.
“I think they will hold the ground,” said he, as General Hartsuff,
passing the shattered lines of the Reserves, drew up his brigade on the
summit of a hill between them and the exultant foe.
They fired in volleys at first, and then at will; but they did their
work most heroically. None flinched; none fled. The rebels pushed
forward their flushed troops; but these gallant fellows stormed them
with bullets, and, assisted by the brigades of Gibbons and Patrick,
repelled the assault. Jackson’s line suffered severely, and a large
number of field officers were killed in vain attempts to rally them. The
rebels fell back again to the woods from which they had come, and again
this part of the line was safe. There had been a terrible loss in the
gallant brigade which held the brow of the hill, and General Hartsuff
was severely wounded early in the action.
The general of the corps had saved his line in this place—had brought a
success out of a reverse; but his brain was still active. Batteries
rushed like a train of meteors over the field, obedient to his ready
thought. Messages of varied import came to him from division commanders.
Ricketts was hard pressed—could barely hold his position; and a portion
of Mansfield’s corps was sent to his aid. The venerable soldier went
with two of his brigades; but he was mortally wounded, and was borne to
the rear.
“Go to that regiment on the right, Captain Somers, and tell the colonel
not to let his men break on any account,” said the general.
Somers dashed away, and stood before broken fragments of a regiment,
with hardly a commissioned officer left in the line. They were noble and
brave fellows, and they were yielding only when there seemed to be no
one left to lead them. They were giving way, and making a gap in the
line, through which the desperate rebels could burst, and overwhelm the
column.
The staff officer saw at a glance the state of the case. He blamed not
the men; it was the fault of the cowardly officer upon whom the command
had devolved. He was weak and inefficient; at least he was not man
enough for such a trying emergency.
“The general desires to hold this line, at all hazards,” said Somers,
saluting the officer. “Where is the general of this brigade?”
“He has got his hands full yonder,” replied the captain in command of
the regiment.
“You must hold this position without fail.”
“Can’t hold it.”
“Yes, you can!” exclaimed Somers, fiercely.
“I can’t hold it any longer.”
“Forward, my brave boys. The day is ours if we stand up to it a little
while longer!” shouted he to the hard-pressed troops, whose thin ranks
were rapidly becoming thinner under the fierce fire to which they were
subjected. “Follow me!” he added, in clarion tones, as he swung his
sword in the air.
A faint cheer burst from the ranks of the regiment, showing that they
had not wholly lost their spirit. They clutched their muskets tighter,
and looked sternly towards the rebel line.
“Don’t spoil your record for this day, my gallant fellows,” continued
Somers. “You have done gloriously; stick to it to the end.”
“Who are you?” said a gruff fellow in the ranks.
“Captain Somers, of the general’s staff. He expects you to hold this
line. He sent me down to you. Shall I tell him you are a pack of
cowards? Or shall I tell him you have done your duty, and been cut to
pieces in the place where he put you?”
“You bet!” added the gruff fellow. “Come, boys!”
“Follow me!” shouted Somers, as he urged his foaming steed through the
ranks, and waved his sword over his head.
“He’s the chap! Go in, boys,” cried one of the men, as the ranks closed
up, and they followed the intrepid staff officer back to the position
from which they had retreated.
The rebels had seen the break, and were swift to take advantage of it.
They rushed forward, whooping like savages; but the fragmentary regiment
now stood like a wall of iron, and poured a volley into the advancing
horde, before which they quailed, and then retreated.
“Bravo! my noble fellows. ‘Fighting Joe’ is looking at you, and he shall
know all about it.”
“Hurrah!” shouted the brave men, who had gathered new life and hope from
the inspiring words of the young staff officer.
“You will stand firm—won’t you?” demanded Somers.
“Hurrah!” yelled the reorganized, revivified little force, so heartily
that Somers fell back from the front to return to his position at the
side of the general.
“Captain Somers!” said a familiar voice, almost in a yell. “Somers, by
all that is grand and beautiful!”
Somers turned, and saw a man approaching him from the ranks of an
adjoining regiment. He was dressed in the uniform of an officer, but he
had a musket in his hand. He was begrimed with smoke, and his cheek was
blackened by close contact with the piece in his hand.
“Major de Banyan!” replied Somers, as his old friend rushed up to his
side, and seized his hand. “What are you doing here?”
“I happened up here on business, and I went in as a volunteer, on my own
hook,” replied De Banyan, still shaking the hand of the staff officer,
though the bullets were whistling, and the shot and shell were roaring
around him.
“That’s like you. Have you no position?”
“I am a private, just now.”
“By order of the general commanding the first corps, I place you in
command of this broken regiment,” said Somers, not doubting that he
could soon procure a confirmation of his deed.
“Good! that reminds me—”
“No, it don’t; no what-you-call-ems,” laughed Somers.
“You are right, Somers. I have hardly told a story since we parted.”
At this moment the brigadier general rode up, and Somers referred the
matter of the command to him. When he learned what had happened, he
installed Major de Banyan in the temporary charge of the regiment.
Somers said a few words to the boys, to reconcile them to their new
commander. He told them who and what De Banyan was; the major stepped in
front of them, and went to work with his usual skill and bravery. Somers
left his friend, with a promise to see him again as soon as possible,
and rode back to the general.
There was a certain piece of woods on the right which the general
regarded as the key to the position, and which he had determined to take
and to hold. He was in the act of riding forward for the purpose of
examining this point in person, as he did on all important occasions.
Somers reported to him just as he was leaving the front of the most
advanced line of troops. He continued his bold reconnaissance till he
reached the top of the hill, where he dismounted, and went forward on
foot. He coolly and carefully surveyed the ground, returned to his
horse, and remounted.
The storm of musket balls from the point of woods was kept up all this
time with the most determined vigor. The erect, manly form of “Fighting
Joe” had been conspicuous on the field all the morning, and the rebels
had fired at him individually hundreds of times; but he seemed to have a
charmed life. He had been spared to complete the work he had begun, and
which he had so ably and successfully carried forward.
As he mounted his horse he sent Somers off on a mission to the batteries
of artillery planted on the ridge behind him. It was in the midst of one
of the hottest fires of the day. Three men dropped near the general. He
turned and started for another part of the field; but he had hardly
advanced a pace before he was struck in the foot by a rifle ball.
“You are wounded, general,” said Somers, returning to the spot.
“Carry the order I gave you, Captain Somers,” replied he, with an
expression of pain on his noble features.
Somers galloped off to execute his mission.
The general still sat his horse, and gave directions for the capture and
holding of the point he had examined at the peril of his precious life.
The surgeon advised him to leave the field, but he refused to do so. He
swayed backward and forward, reeling from faintness in his saddle. Still
he looked about him, to carry out the purpose which filled his mind.
“There’s a regiment on the right of us. Order it forward! Crawford and
Gordon are coming up. Tell them to take those woods, and hold them; and
it is _our_ fight!” said he, feebly, but with emphasis.
He fainted, but partially recovered, and rode slowly and reluctantly to
the rear, after he had sent word to General Sumner that he was wounded.
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