FROM FALLING WATERS TO BUCKLAND MILLS
The night following the battle of Falling Waters, July 14, 1863, was a
memorable one to the Michigan cavalry brigade, especially to those who
like myself passed it in the field hospital. The log house into which
the wounded were taken was filled with maimed and dying soldiers,
dressed in union blue. The entire medical staff of the division had its
hands full caring for the sufferers. Many were brought in and subjected
to surgical treatment only to die in the operation, or soon thereafter.
Probes were thrust into gaping wounds in search of the deadly missiles,
or to trace the course of the injury. Bandages and lint were applied to
stop the flow of blood. Splintered bones were removed and shattered
limbs amputated. All night long my ears were filled with the groans
wrung from stout hearts by the agonies of pain, and the moans of the
mortally hurt as their lives ebbed slowly away. One poor fellow,
belonging to the First Michigan cavalry, was in the same room with me.
He had a gun-shot wound in the bowels. It was fatal, and he knew it, for
the surgeon had done his duty and told him the truth. He was a manly and
robust young soldier who but a few hours before had been the picture of
health, going into battle without a tremor and receiving his death wound
like a hero. For hours, I watched and wondered at the fortitude with
which he faced his fate. Not a murmur of complaint passed his lips.
Racked with pain and conscious that but a few hours of life remained to
him, he talked as placidly about his wound, his condition and his coming
dissolution, as though conversing about something of common, everyday
concern. He was more solicitous about others than about himself, and
passed away literally like one "who wraps the drapery of his couch about
him and lies down to pleasant dreams." He died about three o'clock in
the morning and I could almost feel the reality of the flight of his
tranquil spirit.
In striking contrast to the picture thus presented, was one in the room
adjoining. Another trooper also fatally wounded, suffered so keenly from
shock and pain that his fortitude gave way. He could not bear the
thought of death. His nerve appeared to have deserted him and his
anguish of mind and body, as he saw the relentless approach of the grim
monster and felt his icy breath, will haunt my memory till I myself
shall have joined the great army of union veterans who are beyond the
reach of pain and the need of pensions.
My own wound gave little annoyance except when the surgeon ran an iron
called a probe into it, which attempt met with so vigorous a protest
from his patient that he desisted and that form of treatment stopped
right there, so far as one cavalryman was concerned. The wound was well
bandaged and plentiful applications of cold water kept out the
inflammation.
Many of the officers and men came in to express their sympathy. Some of
them entertained me with the usual mock congratulations on having won a
"leave" and affected to regard me as a lucky fellow while they were the
real objects of sympathy.
But the circumstances were such as to repress mirth or anything of that
semblance. The regiment was in mourning for its bravest and best. The
Sixth, having been the first regiment to get into the fight, had
suffered more severely than any other. The losses had been grievous, and
it seemed hard that so many bright lights of our little family should be
so suddenly extinguished.
At daylight I was still wide awake but, even amidst such scenes as I
have described, fatigue finally overcame me and I sank into dreamland
only to be startled, at first, by the fancied notes of the bugle
sounding "to horse" or the shouts of horsemen engaged in the fray. At
last, however, "tired nature's sweet restorer" came to my relief and I
fell into a dreamless sleep that lasted for several hours.
When I awoke it was with a delightful sense of mind and body rested and
restored. The wounded foot had ceased its pain. A gentle hand was
bathing my face with cold water from the well, while another was
straightening out the tangled locks which, to tell the truth, were
somewhat unkempt and overgrown from enforced neglect. Two ladies full of
sympathy for the youthful soldier were thus kindly ministering to his
comfort. As soon as fully awake to his surroundings, he opened his eyes
and turned them with what was meant for a look of gratitude upon the
fair friends who seemed like visiting angels in that place of misery and
death.
It was an incongruous picture that presented itself--a strange blending
of the grewsome sights of war with the beautiful environments of peace.
The wonted tranquility of this rural household had been rudely disturbed
by the sudden clangor of arms. A terrible storm of battle--the more
terrible because unforeseen--had broken in upon the quietude of their
home. In the early hours of the morning it had raged all around them. At
the first sound of its approach the terrified inmates fled to the cellar
where they remained till it passed. They had come forth to find their
house turned into a hospital.
The kindness of those ladies is something that the union trooper has
never forgotten, for they flitted across his pathway, a transient vision
of gentleness and mercy in that scene of carnage and suffering.
It was with a melancholy interest that I gazed upon the pallid face of
my dead comrade of the First, who lay, a peaceful smile upon his
features which were bathed in a flood of golden light, as the hot rays
of the July sun penetrated the apartment. The man in the hall was also
dead. Others of the wounded were lying on their improvised couches, as
comfortable as they could be made.
In the afternoon the ambulance train arrived. The wounded were loaded
therein, and started for Hagerstown, bidding farewell to those who
remained on duty, and who had already received marching orders which
would take them back into "Old Virginia."
The journey to Hagerstown was by way of Williamsport and the same pike
we had marched over on the 6th of the month when Jewett was killed, and
on the morning of the 14th when Weber was riding to "one more saber
charge" at Falling Waters.
Nothing is more depressing than to pass over ground where a battle has
recently been fought. Any veteran will say that he prefers the advance
to the retreat--the front to the rear of an army. The true soldier would
rather be on the skirmish-line than in the hospital or among the trains.
Men who can face the cannon's mouth without flinching, shrink from the
surgeon's knife and the amputating-table. The excitement, the noise, the
bugle's note and beat of drum, the roar of artillery, the shriek of
shell, the volley of musketry, the "zip" of bullet or "ping" of spent
ball, the orderly movement of masses of men, the shouting of orders, the
waving of battle-flags--all these things inflame the imagination, stir
the blood, and stimulate men to heroic actions. Above all, the
consciousness that the eyes of comrades are upon him, puts a man upon
his mettle and upon his pride, and compels him oftentimes to simulate a
contempt for danger which he does not feel. The senses are too, in some
sort, deadened to the hazards of the scene and, in battle, one finds
himself doing with resolute will things which under normal conditions
would fill him with abhorrence.
Men fight from mingled motives. Pride, the fear of disgrace, ambition,
the sense of duty--all contribute to keep the courage up to the sticking
point. Few fight because they like it. The bravest are those who, fully
alive to the danger, are possessed of that sublime moral heroism which
sustains them in emergencies that daunt weaker men.
But, when the excitement is over, when the pomp and circumstance are
eliminated, when the unnatural ardor has subsided, when the tumult and
rush have passed, leaving behind only the dismal effects--the ruin and
desolation, the mangled corpses of the killed, the saddening spectacle
of the dying, the sufferings of the wounded--the bravest would, if he
could, blot these things from his sight and from his memory.
The night in the field hospital at Falling Waters did more to put out
the fires of my military spirit and to quench my martial ambition than
did all the experiences of Hunterstown and Gettysburg, of Boonsborough
and Williamsport. And, as the ambulance train laden with wounded wound
its tortuous way through the theater of many a bloody recent
rencounter, it set in motion a train of reflections which were by no
means pleasing. The abandoned arms and accouterments; the debris of
broken-down army wagons; the wrecks of caissons and gun-carriages; the
bloated carcasses of once proud and sleek cavalry chargers; the mounds
showing where the earth had been hastily shoveled over the forms of late
companions-in-arms; everything was suggestive of the desolation, nothing
of the glory, of war.
It was nearly dark when the long train of ambulances halted in the
streets of Hagerstown. Some large buildings had been taken for hospitals
and the wounded were being placed therein as the ambulances successively
arrived. This consumed much time and, while waiting for the forward
wagons to be unloaded, it occurred to me that it would be a nice thing
to obtain quarters in a private house. Barnhart, first sergeant of the
troop, who accompanied me, proposed to make inquiry at once, and ran up
the stone steps of a comfortable-looking brick house opposite the
ambulance and rang the bell. In a moment the door opened and a pleasant
voice inquired what was wanted.
"A wounded officer in the ambulance yonder wants to know if you will
take him in for a day or two until he can get ordered to Washington. He
has funds to recompense you and does not like to go to the hospital."
"Certainly," replied the voice, "bring him in."
And Barnhart, taking me in his arms, carried me into the house and,
guided to the second floor by the same lady who had met him at the
door, deposited his burden on a couch in a well furnished apartment and
we were bidden to make ourselves at home.
In a little while, a nice hot supper of tea, toast, eggs and beefsteak,
enough for both, was brought to the room by our hospitable hostess, who
seemed to take the greatest pleasure in serving her guests with her own
hands. Later in the evening, she called with her husband and they
formally introduced themselves. They were young married people with one
child, a beautiful little girl of six or eight summers. He was a
merchant and kept a store in an adjoining building. They spent the
evening in the room, chatting of the stirring events of the month and,
indeed, their experiences had been scarcely less exciting than our own.
Hagerstown had been right in the whirl of the battle-storm which had
been raging in Maryland. Both armies had passed through its streets and
bivouacked in its environs. More than once the opposing forces had
contended for possession of the town. Twice the union cavalry had
charged in and driven the confederates out, and once had been forced,
themselves, to vacate in a hurry. It was almost inside its limits that
Captain Snyder, of the First Michigan cavalry, serving on Kilpatrick's
staff, had with the saber fought single-handed five confederate horsemen
and he was lying wounded mortally in a neighboring building. Our kind
host and hostess entertained us until a late hour with interesting
recitals of what they had seen from the inside or "between the lines."
That night after a refreshing bath, with head pillowed in down, I stowed
myself away between snowy sheets for a dreamless sleep that lasted until
the sun was high up in the eastern heavens. Barnhart was already astir
and soon brought a surgeon to diagnose the case and decide what
disposition should be made of the patient. Then the L--s and their
little daughter came in with a cheery "good morning" and a steaming
breakfast of coffee, cakes and other things fragrant enough and tempting
enough to tickle the senses of an epicure. And, not content with
providing the best of what the house afforded, Mr. L. brought in the
choicest of cigars by the handful, insisting on my finding solace in the
fumes of the fragrant weed.
"Do not be afraid to smoke in your room," said the sunny Mrs. L., "my
husband smokes and I am not the least bit afraid that it will harm the
furnishings."
I glanced with a deprecatory gesture at the lace curtains and other rich
furniture of the room, as much as to say, "Could not think of it," and
in fact, before lighting a cigar, I took a seat by the open window where
I sat and puffed the blue smoke into the bluer atmosphere, beguiling the
time the while, talking with these good friends about the war.
That was the very poetry of a soldier's life. For the better part of a
week the two cavalrymen were the guests of that hospitable family who,
at the last, declined to receive any remuneration for their kindness.
The journey to Washington was by rail. In the cars groups of interested
citizens, and soldiers as well, questioned us eagerly for the latest
news from the front, and our tongues were kept busy answering a steady
fire of questions. No incident of the campaign was too trivial to find
willing ears to listen when it was told. The operations of Kilpatrick's
division seemed to be well known and there was much complimentary
comment upon his energy and his dash. The name of Custer, "the boy
general," was seemingly on every tongue and there was no disposition on
our part to conceal the fact that we had been with them.
Arriving at the capital in the middle of the day, we were driven to the
Washington house, at the corner of Pennsylvania avenue and
Four-and-one-half street, where a room was engaged and preparations were
made to remain until the surgeon would say it was safe to start for
home.
[Illustration: CHARLES E. STORRS]
The Washington house was a hotel of the second class but many nice
people stopped there. Among the regular guests was Senator Henry Wilson,
of Massachusetts, afterwards elected vice-president on the ticket with
Grant. He was a very modest man, plain in dress and unassuming in
manner. No one would have suspected from his bearing that he was a
senator and from the great commonwealth of Massachusetts. The colleague
of Charles Sumner, Henry Wilson was at that time one of the ablest, most
widely-known and influential statesmen of his day. Conspicuous among
the anti-slavery leaders of New England, his voice always had been heard
in defense of human rights. His loyalty to the union was equaled only by
his devotion to the interests of the soldiers. He lived a quiet,
unostentatious life, at the hotel, where his well-known face and figure
could be seen when the senate was not in session. He was a man of strong
mentality, of sturdy frame and marked individuality. As chairman of the
committee on military affairs he had been able to make himself extremely
useful to the government in the prosecution of the war, and the soldiers
found in him always a friend. He was very agreeable and companionable,
and did not hold himself aloof from the common herd, as smaller men in
his position might have done. He was seen often chatting with other
guests of the house, when they were gathered in the parlors, after or
awaiting meals. Once, I met him at an impromptu dancing party, and he
entered into the amusement with the zest of youth.
A month in Washington, and a surgeon's certificate secured the necessary
"leave" when, accompanied by Lieutenant C.E. Storrs of troop "B," who
had been severely wounded in one of the engagements in Virginia, after
Falling Waters, I started by the Pennsylvania line, for the old home in
Michigan, stopping a couple of days, en route, at Altoona, to breathe
the fresh mountain air.
Resuming the journey, we reached Pittsburg, to be met at the station by
a committee stationed there for the purpose of looking out for the
comfort of all soldiers who passed through the city, either going or
coming. We were conducted to a commodious dining hall, where a free
dinner, cooked and served by the fair hands of the patriotic ladies of
the "Smoky City," was furnished. It was an experience which left in our
minds a most grateful appreciation of the noble spirit that actuated the
Northern women in war times.
It was scarce two-thirds of a year since, as schoolboys innocent of war,
though wearing the union blue, we had gone forth to try our mettle as
soldiers, and it needs not to be said that there was a warm welcome home
for the veterans fresh from one of the most memorable military campaigns
in all the history of the world. The greetings then and there received
were ample compensation for all that we had done and dared and suffered.
I can never forget how kind the people were; how they gathered at the
railroad station; how cordially they grasped us by the hand; how
solicitous they were for our comfort; how tenderly we were nursed back
to health and strength; how fondly an affectionate mother hung upon
every word as we told the story of the exploits of the boys in the
field; how generously the neighbors dropped in to offer congratulations;
how eagerly they inquired about absent friends; how earnestly they
discussed the prospect of ultimate victory; how deep and abiding was
their faith in the justice of the cause and in the ability of the
government to maintain the union; and how determined that nothing must
be held back that was needed to accomplish that result. For some days
there was a regular levee beneath my father's roof and the good people
of the town gave the union soldier much cause to remember them with
gratitude as long as he lives.
Only in a single instance was anything said that seemed obnoxious to a
nice sense of propriety, or that marred the harmony of an almost
universally expressed sentiment of patriotic approval of what was doing
to preserve the life of the nation--a sentiment in which partisanism or
party politics cut no figure whatever. One caller had the bad taste to
indulge in severe and unfriendly criticism of "Old Abe," as he called
the president. That was going too far and I defended Mr. Lincoln against
his animadversions with all the warmth, if not the eloquence, of the
experienced advocate--certainly with the earnestness born of a sincere
admiration for Abraham Lincoln and love of his noble traits of
character, his single-hearted devotion to his country. I had seen him in
Washington weighed down with a tremendous load of responsibility such as
few men could have endured. I had noted as I grasped his hand the
terrible strain under which he seemed to be suffering; the appearance of
weariness which he brought with him to the interview; the pale, anxious
cast of his countenance; the piteous, far-away look of his eyes; and by
all these tokens he said, as plainly as if he had put it into words;
"Love and solicitude for my country are slowly, but surely, wearing away
my life." I saw shining through his homely features the spirit of one of
the grandest, noblest, most lovable of the characters who have been
brought by the exigencies of fate to the head of human affairs. The
soldiers loved him and they idealized him. He was to them the
personification of the union cause. The day for the discussion of
abstract principles had long gone by. Their ideal had ceased to be an
impersonal one. All the hope, the faith, the patriotism of the soldiers
centered around the personality of the president. In their eyes and
thoughts, he stood for the idea of nationality, as Luther stood for
religious liberty, Cromwell for parliamentary privilege, or Washington
for colonial independence. To blame him, was to censure the boys in blue
and the cause for which they fought. No man whose heart was not wholly
with the Northern armies in the struggle, could rise to an appreciation
of the character of Lincoln.
But the great heart of the North never ceased to beat in harmony with
the music of the union. The exceptions to the rule were so rare as to
scarcely merit notice. The "copperheads" and "knights of the golden
circle" will hardly cut so much of a figure in history as do the tories
of the Revolution.
On the 11th day of October, 1863, after an absence of three months
duration, during which time I had been commissioned major to fill the
vacancy caused by the death of Weber, I took passage at Washington on a
ramshackle train over the Orange and Alexandria railroad to go to the
front again. Storrs, whose wound had healed, joined me and we made the
journey together.
The train reached Bealton Station, north of the Rappahannock river, a
little before dark. The harbingers of a retreating army were beginning
to troop in from the front. The army of the Potomac was falling back
toward the fastnesses of Centerville, the army of Northern Virginia in
close pursuit. Meade, who in July was chasing Lee across the Potomac
back into Virginia, was himself now being hurried by Lee over the
Rappahannock. The tables had been completely turned. The pursued had
become the pursuer.
As usual, the flanking process had been resorted to. Using his cavalry
as a screen, Lee was attempting to maneuver his infantry around Meade's
right and, after the manner of Stonewall Jackson in the Second Bull Run
campaign of 1862, interpose between the federal army and Washington.
Thanks to the vigilance of his outposts, the union commander detected
the movement in time, and was able to thwart the strategy of his able
adversary. Keeping his army well in hand, he retreated to Bull Run,
Fairfax and Centerville.
While this was going on, there was a series of spirited encounters
between the union and confederate cavalry, commanded by Pleasonton and
Stuart, respectively--the former bringing up the rear, and covering the
retreat, the latter bold and aggressive as was his wont.
These affairs, which began on the 9th, culminated on the 11th in one of
the most exciting, if not brilliant, engagements of the war, Kilpatrick
taking a prominent part, second only to that performed by the heroic
John Buford and his First cavalry division.
When the movement began, on the evening of the 9th, Fitzhugh Lee was
left to hold the line along the south bank of the Rapidan river,
Buford's cavalry division confronting him on the north side. Stuart,
with Hampton's division of three brigades, Hampton being still disabled
from the wounds received at Gettysburg, spent the 10th swarming on the
right flank of the confederate army, in the country between Madison
Court House and Woodville on the Sperryville pike. Kilpatrick was in the
vicinity of Culpeper Court House. Stuart succeeded not only in veiling
the movements of the confederate army completely, but on the morning of
the 11th, found time to concentrate his forces and attack Kilpatrick at
Culpeper. Buford crossed the Rapidan to make a reconnoissance, and
encountering Fitzhugh Lee, recrossed at Raccoon Ford, closely followed
by the latter. The pursuit was kept up through Stevensburg, Buford
retreating toward Brandy Station.
When Stuart heard Fitzhugh Lee's guns, he withdrew from Kilpatrick's
front and started across country, intending to head off the federal
cavalry and reach Fleetwood, the high ground near the Brandy Station, in
advance of both Buford and Kilpatrick. The latter, however, soon
discovered what Stuart was trying to do, and then began a horse race of
three converging columns toward Brandy Station, Stuart on the left,
Buford followed by Fitzhugh Lee on the right, and Kilpatrick in the
center. Buford was in first and took possession of Fleetwood. Rosser
with one of Lee's brigades, formed facing Buford, so that when the head
of Kilpatrick's column approached, Rosser was across its path, but
fronting in the direction opposite to that from which it was coming.
Kilpatrick, beset on both flanks and in rear, and seeing a force of the
enemy in front also, and ignorant of Buford's whereabouts, formed his
leading regiments and proceeded to charge through to where Buford was
getting into position. This charge was led by Pleasonton, Custer and
Kilpatrick, in person. Rosser, seeing what was coming, and caught
between two fires, dextrously withdrew to one side, and when the rear of
Kilpatrick's division was opposite to him, charged it on one flank while
Stuart assaulted it on the other, and there was a general melee, in
which each side performed prodigies of valor and inflicted severe damage
on the other. The First and Fifth Michigan regiments were with the
advance, while the Sixth and Seventh helped to bring up the rear.
The rear of the column had the worst of it and was very roughly
handled. The two divisions having united, Pleasonton took command and,
bringing his artillery hurriedly into position, soon had Stuart whipped
to a standstill.
All the fighting in this battle was done on horseback, and no more
daring work was done by either side, on any of the battle fields of the
war, than was seen at Brandy Station. Those who were in it, describe it
as the most stirring and picturesque scene that they ever witnessed;
especially when the three long columns, one of blue and two of gray,
were racing on converging lines toward the objective point on Fleetwood
hill. It must have been a pretty picture: Buford hurrying into line to
face to the rear; the federal batteries unlimbering and going into
position to resist the coming attack; Rosser galloping front into line,
to find himself attacked front and rear; Kilpatrick, with Rosser in his
front, Fitzhugh Lee and Stuart on his flanks; detachments breaking out
of the confederate columns to attack the flanks and rear of Kilpatrick's
flying division; federal regiments halting and facing toward the points
of the compass whence these attacks came; then falling back to new
positions, stubbornly contesting every inch of ground; the fluttering of
guidons and battle-flags, the flash of sabers and puffs of pistol
shots--altogether a most brilliant spectacle.
Stuart was kept at bay until after nightfall, when Pleasonton withdrew
in safety across the river.
It has been claimed that Brandy Station was the greatest cavalry
engagement of the war. Sheridan, who was then still in the west, and
consequently not "there" awards that honor to Yellow Tavern, fought the
following season. Doubtless he was right, for the latter was a well
planned battle in which all the movements were controlled by a single
will. But most of the fighting at Yellow Tavern was done on foot, though
Custer's mounted charge at the critical moment, won the day. Brandy
Station was a battle in which all the troopers were kept in the saddle.
It was, however, a battle with no plan, though it is conceded that
Pleasonton handled his command with much skill after the two divisions
had united. His artillery was particularly effective. Captain Don G.
Lovell, of the Sixth Michigan, the senior officer present with the
regiment, greatly distinguished himself in the difficult duty of
guarding the rear, meeting emergencies as they arose with the
characteristic courage and coolness which distinguished him on all
occasions on the field of battle.
The battle ended about the time our train reached Bealton, so Storrs and
I missed the opportunity of taking part in one of the most memorable
contests of the civil war.
After a night on the platform of the railroad station, we started at
dawn to find the brigade. From wounded stragglers the salient events of
the previous day were learned and the inference drawn from the
information which they were able to give was that the cavalry must be
encamped somewhere not far away. All agreed that it was having a lively
experience. Everything, however, was at sixes and sevens and it was only
after a long and toilsome search, that the regimental quartermaster was
located among the trains. My horse, equipments and arms had disappeared,
but fortunately Storrs found his outfit intact and, having two mounts,
he loaned me one. Selecting from the quartermaster's surplus supplies a
government saber, revolver and belt, thus equipped and mounted on
Storrs's horse, I rode in search of the regiment, which we ascertained
to be in camp in the woods, some distance away from the trains.
When at last found, it proved to be a sorry looking regiment, but a
wreck and remnant of its former self. With two troops ("I" and "M")
absent on detached service in the Shenandoah valley, the Sixth Michigan
started in the Gettysburg campaign, June 21, with between 500 and 600
troopers in the saddle. When Storrs and I rode into that silvan camp, on
that bright October morning, there were less than 100 men "present for
duty" including not a single field officer. Many of the troops were
commanded by lieutenants, some of them by sergeants, and one had neither
officer nor non-commissioned officer. They had been fighting, marching
and countermarching for months, and had a jaded, dejected appearance,
not pleasant to look upon, and very far removed indeed from the buoyant
and hopeful air with which they entered upon the campaign. At one point,
during the retreat of the day before, it had been necessary to leap
the horses over a difficult ditch. Many of them fell into it, and the
riders were overtaken by the enemy's horse before they could be
extricated. Among these was Hobart, sergeant major, who was taken to
Libby prison, where he remained until the next year, when he was
exchanged.
[Illustration: GEORGE A. CUSTER (ABOUT 1870)]
The next thing, was to report to General Custer for duty. It was my
first personal interview with the great cavalryman. He was at his
headquarters, in the woods, taking life in as light-hearted a way as
though he had not just come out of a fight, and did not expect others to
come right along. He acted like a man who made a business of his
profession; who went about the work of fighting battles and winning
victories, as a railroad superintendent goes about the business of
running trains. When in action, his whole mind was concentrated on the
duty and responsibility of the moment; in camp, he was genial and
companionable, blithe as a boy. Indeed he was a boy in years, though a
man in courage and in discretion.
After drawing rations and forage, the march was resumed and, little of
incident that was important intervening, on the 14th the division was
encamped on the north side of Bull Run, near the Gainesville or
Warrenton turnpike, where we remained undisturbed until the evening of
the 18th, when the forward movement began which culminated on the 19th
in the battle of Buckland Mills, which will be the theme of the next
chapter.