IN A BIG FIGHT WITH HANCOCK’S VETERANS.
The next morning we were awakened by the booming of cannon and clash of
musketry. As we got up off the ground we could see smoke curling up from
the tops of the trees on a hillside a mile or more to the south of us. We
were foot-sore and covered with dust from our big march of the previous
day, and few of us had any water in our canteens. Before we had time to
find any or make coffee we got the command “fall in” and were soon
advancing toward the firing line.
On every hand there were evidences of the terrific fighting that had been
going on for several days. The fields were strewn with clothing,
knapsacks, canteens, muskets, dead horses and broken artillery caissons,
and the trees were riddled with bullets, shot and shell. The dead had been
buried but with such haste that in many places the bodies were scarcely
covered. One time as we came to a halt I was horrified to see a human hand
protruding from the earth near my foot.
We had not gone far before we began to meet the wounded, some able to
walk, while others were borne on stretchers and blankets. It surely began
to look like real warfare. Our men grew silent and their faces took on a
serious expression. We knew that our time had come and that the regiment
with its full ranks was to strengthen the thin line in front.
On our march the day before there had been much discussion among the
musicians as to what we would do in case of a battle. No instructions had
been given us and we had rather come to the conclusion among ourselves
that when we got to close quarters we would drop out and keep as much out
of range as possible.
Our anxiety about the part we were to take in the conflict increased as we
approached the front. Occasionally some of the boys would suggest to Harry
Marshall, our drum major, that it was about time for us to fall out. There
was “no use of us going up to get shot at when we had nothing to shoot
back with.”
Finally when we paused for a few moments Harry approached the colonel and,
saluting, asked if there was any use of us needlessly exposing ourselves.
“Needless exposure,” yelled the colonel. “What in ---- did you enlist for?
Your place is with the regiment and I’ll see that you are instructed as to
your duties.” And, turning to our surgeon, he said: “Major, I want you to
take charge of the musicians and in case of a fight see that the young
rascals do their duty.”
I have always thought that but for this incident we should have seen less
of the front line than we did that summer.
Dr. Payne, our surgeon, was a fine fellow and he had seen much service
before being assigned to our regiment. He immediately told us to fall out
to one side and proceeded to tear up some red flannel in small strips
which he tied around our right arms, explaining that this was a badge the
enemy would respect when we were caring for the wounded.
While the doctor was fixing us up our regiment marched by and there is
nothing in all my war memories that made a deeper impression on me than
that scene.
I see them now as I saw them on that bright May morning--father, friends,
comrades, marching with steady step, shoulder to shoulder, on to meet the
foe in mortal encounter.
We followed in the rear of the regiment and were halted just under the
brow of a hill, where we stood in line nearly two hours. Bullets clipped
small branches from the trees and shells went swishing through the air
over our heads. A couple burst in front of us and an occasional solid shot
would go rolling down the hill.
Probably there is no more trying situation for troops to be placed in
than to be held as a reserve during a battle. The tension on one’s nerves
is something awful. If one is going to be shot it is something of a
satisfaction to be able to return the compliment.
While the regiment was in line a few of us hunted up a spring and carried
water to our friends who could not leave the ranks. One of the few times
that I remember seeing tears in my father’s eyes was when I handed him a
canteen full of water that morning.
The fighting in our front ceased about ten o’clock and we were moved about
two miles to the left. In the afternoon we settled down in some woods and
were permitted to take the rest we so much needed, and the next morning we
were a jolly lot as we sipped our coffee and nibbled hardtack.
Some of the men grumbled, however, because we did not get a chance to take
a hand in the affair of the day before.
The forces of Grant and Lee, numbering some 200,000, had been hammering
away at each other for about ten days and the carnage had been great, but
the forenoon of the day in mind was as quiet and peaceful as if there was
not an armed man within ten miles.
It was but the calm before a storm, and scores of our regiment who were so
full of life and hope that bright May morning were weltering in their
blood before sundown.
About two o’clock in the afternoon an orderly with foam-covered horse rode
up to our colonel and handed him a message. The men noticed that the color
came to the officer’s face and they held their breath for the command that
they knew was coming.
Gracey, our little Swiss bugler, who was selected by Gen. Hancock a few
weeks later to sound the charge for the Second Corps at Cold Harbor
because his bugle could be heard farther than any other, blew a blast on
his silver trumpet that brought every man to his feet and in less than
five minutes the Second Heavy were standing in line at “attention.”
The colonel rode out in front of the regiment and said “men of the Second
New York, the time has come when you will have an opportunity to show your
mettle. Keep together; don’t let your lines be broken; keep cool; obey
orders and you will be all right.”
The men started a cheer for the colonel, but he motioned silence. Then
came the command “Fours right, march!”
We soon came to a nice smooth road which ran through the woods and then we
got orders to “double quick.”
Then we heard heavy musketry firing which increased in volume continually
and we thought the whole rebel army were taking a hand in.
The boys in the ranks made sundry comments as we rushed along, such as
“Guess we’ll get initiated this afternoon.”
“Wouldn’t you like to be back in the forts now?” “Keep step there, Jimmy.”
Jimmy West was a little Irishman who could never keep step.
When we emerged from the woods into a large open field we could see a long
line of battle on a hillside probably half a mile away.
Our regiment was quickly formed in column by battalions, our colors
unfurled, and as we double quicked across that field 1,500 strong, with
perfect alignment as if it were a review, it was thrilling, inspiring and
to have been there was to have the scene fixed in one’s memory forever.
Other regiments besides our own were hurrying to the front. Batteries of
artillery went by with the horses on the gallop and the drivers lashing
them just as you have seen them in pictures.
Generals’ aides and orderlies rode like mad to and fro directing the
troops to positions, for Gen. Ewell had broken through the Union lines in
a desperate effort to turn the right flank of Grant’s army.
THE PAGEANTRY OF WAR.
War certainly has its fascinations as well as its horrors, and there is an
enchantment that thrills in the movements of large bodies of soldiery with
their bayonets glistening in the sun, the flags and guidons flying, the
trumpets of the cavalry ringing piercingly and thrillingly, the field
batteries rattling and rumbling along the road, with a score or more of
bands playing. Nothing can make so striking or enchanting a picture.
Artists can portray such a scene on canvas, but they cannot make you feel
the thrill you experience when you are an active participant, touching
elbows and keeping step with a thousand comrades whose hearts are young
and gay.
An officer rode up to our colonel and gave him instructions to report to
Gen. Tyler off to the right of the open field. We were assigned a position
behind a low stone fence, where we waited for about fifteen minutes. While
lying there the order was given to “fix bayonets.” If you have “been
there” yourself you know all about it. If not, let me tell you in all
sincerity that the clicking of the cold steel will make an impression on
one that will send the chills down his spine every time he thinks of it in
after years.
HORRIBLY SUGGESTIVE.
From our position behind the wall we could not see the fighting, but the
din of the battle came rolling and crashing to us through the woods and
the wounded from the front line kept coming to the rear, covered with
blood and the smoke of battle.
The sight wasn’t pleasant, and moreover it was an object lesson that was
horribly suggestive. The affair was getting too serious for much joking
by the merrymakers in the ranks. The men were silent, but I know that they
were doing a heap of thinking.
The orders to go forward did not come any too soon, for the suspense of
waiting is ten times more trying to a man’s nerves than to charge the
enemy’s lines.
We moved across another open field, where a Jefferson county battery (“C”
of the 1st Artillery) was in position and shelling a piece of woods.
Gen. Tyler ordered our colonel to detail two companies to support the
battery and our company was one of them. I had to go with the regiment,
and my father stay with his company. There was not much time for
leave-taking. The father drew his boy to his side, pushed his cap back,
pressed his lips to his forehead. Neither spoke. It was not necessary.
Each knew the other’s thoughts.
Capt. Smith, whose heart was tender as that of any woman,--“The tenderest
are the bravest”--patted the drummer boy of Co. H on his shoulder as they
parted and when a few feet had separated them called to him “good-bye,”
and waved his sword in what might be the last farewell.
Our regiment took an advanced position to the left of the battery where we
were ordered to lie down and the men loaded their rifles. “Begins to look
like business, boys,” remarked Dave Russell. Little puffs of dust were
kicked up here and there as the rebel bullets struck the ground in our
front.
Soon they came nearer and finally began to go over our heads with a
“zz-p-” or a “c-s-ss-s-” which indicated that the Confederates were
crowding back the Union lines. “This ain’t a fair show,” observed one of
the boys. “Let us lay here and get plugged full of lead and never see a
reb or get a chance to shoot one.”
The surgeon ordered us to leave our knapsacks, drums, etc., in the yard of
a house near by, and I will mention now that up to this time we have never
seen that house again.
About the time we had got ourselves in fighting trim Gracey’s bugle
sounded “forward,” and our regiment went across the field on a run and
into the pine woods, the artillery behind us throwing shell over our
heads. The woods were full of flying missiles and the first the Second New
York knew they got a volley of musketry from the flank and rear.
Investigation revealed the fact that the troops who had fired the volley
were the Seventh New York. The woods were so dense and full of smoke that
it was hard to discern a body of troops a short distance away. The enemy
could only be located by the flash of their guns.
Our colonel was ordered by Gen. Tyler to hold a slight elevation near a
ravine. Our lines were spread out and the men ordered to lie down.
“Steady, men, and don’t shoot too high,” sang out Col. Whistler. “Better
order them rear rank fellows to aim higher or they’ll blow our brains
out,” says one of the front rank men.
“Shut up; no talking in the ranks!” commanded Adjutant Corwin. All of this
time men were getting hit by the rebel bullets. “Bill Wright’s killed,”
someone said, and the news was passed along the line.
“If I was in command of this regiment I’d order a charge on the Johnnies
and I’d drive them or git licked in the attempt,” said big Dave Russell.
One of the saddest sights of the day was to see the major of the First
Massachusetts as he rode back through our lines with a bullet wound in his
forehead and the blood streaming all over him, and he hardly able to hang
on to his horse. He died a few moments later.
This regiment had about 350 casualties in the fight. Over one-third of
that number were killed outright.
The contortions of one of our drum corps boys who was badly demoralized by
the flying bullets, was so ludicrous that I should have laughed if I had
been killed for it the next minute. Every time one of those “z-z-ping”
minies came near him he would leap in the air and then fall flat on the
ground.
Was I frightened? Hold your head down so that I can whisper in your ear
and I will admit in strict confidence that I was never so scared in all
my life. But I felt somewhat as one of our boys expressed it when he said:
“By the great horn spoons, they’ll never know I’m afraid if I can help
it.”
While we were lying there one of the old Pennsylvania Buck Tail regiments
of the Fifth Corps passed over us to do some skirmish work. There were
several of these regiments and they were famous fighters. The men all wore
a buck’s tail on their caps.
Late in the afternoon our regiment took part in a charge and had to go
over a rail fence. Our colonel tried to have his horse jump the fence but
he would not do it until one of the men took a couple of rails off the
top, and then he went over. Down in a ravine he got stopped again with a
vine that caught him across the breast. Col. Whistler swore like a trooper
and put the spurs to him, but the vine was too strong and men had to
trample it to the ground. Col. Whistler elevated himself several degrees
in the estimation of his men that day by going into the battle mounted. He
had been a martinet when in camp, and was of a peppery disposition. But
his conduct at Spottsylvania commanded the respect of all. “I tell you,”
said one of the boys, “Jeremiah N. G. Whistler is an old fighting cock.”
“He can’t forget his tactics, though,” said another. “Do you mind that
when we got up to make that dash through the ravine we did not get the
command ‘forward’ until he had dressed us to the right.”
The fighting continued until well into the night and when the report of
the last gun died out the troops laid down on their arms until morning.
The surgeons and their helpers worked all night removing the wounded. We
carried them out of the woods in blankets.
In the rear of our division there were three amputating tables with deep
trenches dug at the foot. In the morning those trenches were full of
amputated limbs, hands and fingers, and the piles above the ground were as
high as the tables. The confederate forces withdrew from our front in the
night, leaving their dead on the field, which were buried by our men as
they laid away their comrades.
The clash of arms in which we had had a part was no small affair. Probably
more than 40,000 men on each side had taken part in the battle, but the
country was so uneven and densely wooded that a participant saw but little
of what was going on outside of his own regiment. In fact in almost every
engagement the rank and file knew but little of the operations away from
their immediate vicinity.
At our informal dress parade that night an order from Gen. Meade was read,
complimenting the heavy artillery regiments for their soldierly conduct
the previous day, and saying he would thereafter rely upon them as upon
the tried veterans of the Second and Fifth Corps with whom we had fought
our first great battle.
The day after a battle is always a sad one in a regiment. Men search for
missing comrades and some are found cold in death who were full of life
the day before. No jests are spoken. The terribleness of war has been
forcibly impressed on all participants.
The surgeon said that our colonel praised the boys for their assistance in
caring for the wounded, but part of us lost our drums, as after we
followed the regiment into the woods the lines were shifted about so that
we never again saw the house where we had left them. But drums were little
used the next few months. Drills, inspections, dress parades, etc., gave
place to marching, fighting, digging trenches and throwing up breastworks,
for we were with Gen. Grant, who proposed to “fight it out on that line if
it took all summer.”