BLOODY COLD HARBOR.
The next move in the great game of war between Grant and Lee was Cold
Harbor--a name indelibly impressed upon every survivor of the campaign. It
recalls two weeks of hunger, thirst, hardships that language is inadequate
to describe; unsuccessful assaults and losses, that tell the story of most
desperate fighting. It was Greek against Greek, veteran against veteran.
No one seems to know why the place was so named for, as Pat. Devereaux of
our company expressed it, “’twas no harbor at all, and divil a drop of
water to make ’wan wid.” Grant considered it an important point, however,
and tried to get there ahead of Lee, but as a “comrade in gray” expressed
it, “Uncle Robert wasn’t caught napping anywhere.”
Our corps reached there at a little past 6 the morning of June 2, after an
all-night march with the heat and dust oppressive beyond description. An
attack had been ordered for the morning, but was postponed because of the
exhausted condition of the troops.
A DESPERATE WISH.
If I tell you that I heard many wish that they might receive a wound in
the impending fight you may think me “yarning,” but it is true
nevertheless, for the men were so utterly worn out that they would have
willingly risked a wound for the sake of the rest it would give them.
The troops were placed in position during the day and all instructions
issued to the various commanders preparatory for the assault that was to
take place at 4.30 the morning of the 3d.
A BUGLER’S GRIEF.
Pardon a little digression while I tell you about a bugler who was a
bugler from “way back.” There were hundreds and thousands of buglers in
the army, but I never heard one who could touch a note to George Gracey of
our regiment. One blast of his trumpet would indicate the location of the
2d New York, among a score of regiments. There was music in every sound he
made, and I have seen officers of other commands stop and listen when the
little Swiss was trumpeting the calls.
At Cold Harbor he was selected by Gen. Hancock to sound the charge which
sent 20,000 of his men into action, because his bugle could be heard
clearer and farther than others. It was a proud moment for our little
bugler, but the story is not complete without telling you how the
tender-hearted fellow sat down and wept like a child, when, a few moments
later, he saw the ghastly procession of mangled and bleeding comrades
coming back.
He was afterwards bugler for Gen. Nelson A. Miles at division headquarters
and served until the close of the war. For many years he was bugler at the
Bath Soldier’s Home.
I last saw him at a reunion of our regiment at Frankfort, N. Y., and,
although he was bent over with the weight of three score years and ten, he
had not forgotten his cunning with the bugle and when he alighted from an
early morning train and let off a few blasts from his old war-scarred
trumpet the citizens of that peaceful Mohawk village must have thought
that Gabriel had come.
TAPS!
George Gracey has long since been “mustered out,” and he who had trilled
that sweet, sad and long farewell at the graves of thousands of his
comrades has had “taps” sounded for him.
THE BATTLE.
When the rays of the rising sun lifted the mists from the Chickahominy
lowlands on the morning of June 3, 1864, Cold Harbor was scarcely known
beyond the sound of a rifle shot. When that same sun was dropping behind
the western horizon in the evening of that day the name was on the tongues
of millions all over the land.
Promptly at 4.30 a. m. the attack was made by the 2d, 6th and 18th corps.
Gen. Francis B. Barlow (after the war attorney general of New York) led
our division and forced the enemy to retreat from a sunken road.
Gen. Nelson A. Miles was our brigade commander at the time.
Beyond the road was a hill from which the enemy’s artillery were enabled
to do frightful execution. Barlow again ordered a charge and led his men
with a rush, carrying everything before them, capturing several hundred
prisoners, a stand of colors and three pieces of artillery. Gen. Gibbons’
second division on the right did some magnificent fighting. Gen. Birney’s
third division were in reserve and not actively engaged.
The vigorousness of the contest may be inferred from the fact that the
losses of the two divisions were over 2,200 and the assault was over
inside of one hour.
The casualties of the other commands engaged brought the losses of that
assault up to nearly 6,000 men.
Think of it! Quite one-fourth of the population of Watertown put out of
action in less than one hour’s time.
The musicians of our regiment were not with the assaulting column this
day, but the writer had a father with the force and can assure the reader
that it was a mighty anxious time until he found him unharmed.
BRAVERY OF THE WOUNDED.
We had plenty of work to do in assisting the surgeons. Acres of ground
were covered with bleeding, mangled men with the dust and smoke of battle
upon them. It was touching to notice how bravely most of them endured
suffering while needing attention and comforts that could not be given
them.
I recall how little Will Whitney, one of the “ponies” of our company as
the boys were called, lay there on the ground shot clear through the body,
patiently waiting his turn, while a big fellow with a wounded hand was
dancing around and making a terrible fuss until Whitney, thoroughly
disgusted, spoke out. “Shut up, there, old man, you’re not the only one
that got scratched in this fight.”
I assisted to the rear another of the lads of Co. H, Henry C. Potter, a
former schoolmate at Carthage, and as bright and promising a young man as
any who went to the war. His left arm was badly shattered, necessitating
an amputation. There was not a murmur; not a regret. He was glad it was
not his right one, for with that saved he could be of some help to his
father in the store. He made me promise to stay by him during the
operation, and after it was over I assisted him into an ambulance and bade
him a last good-bye, for he did not live to see Jefferson county again.
IN INTRENCHMENTS.
After the fighting of June 3 Gen. Grant instructed the commanding officers
to have the troops intrench themselves as best they could.
In many places the lines were only forty or fifty yards apart. The ground
all about was low and marshy, which caused chills and fever.
Our regiment occupied a sort of angle so that we were exposed to bullets
from the flank as well as front. The sharpshooters got in lots of their
deadly work at Cold Harbor, and if a head was shown above the earthworks
several “minies” would go whizzing past. Just for fun the boys used to
elevate their caps on a bayonet for the “Johnnies” to shoot at.
The men on the picket line dug holes or trenches to protect themselves and
could only be relieved at night under the cover of darkness. All day long
they would lie there in the broiling sun with little food or water, and
between the lines were dead men and horses which polluted the atmosphere.
Some of the wounded from the fight of the 3d were on the field up to the
7th, completely covered by the fire of the enemy’s pickets and
sharpshooters, although the men made heroic efforts every night to bring
their comrades in.
A TRUCE.
“Let us bury our dead:
Since we may not of vantage or victory prate;
And our army, so grand in the onslaught of late,
All crippled has shrunk to its trenches instead,
For the carnage was great;
Let us bury our dead.”
“Haste and bury our dead!
No time for revolving of right and of wrong;
We must venture our souls with the rest of the throng;
And our God must be judge, as He sits over head,
Of the weak and the strong,
While we bury our dead.”
Gen. Grant made overtures to Lee the 5th for a truce, but no cessation of
hostilities took place until the evening of the 7th, the hours being from
6 to 8.
The dead were buried where they fell and, strange as it may seem, quite a
few men were found alive after lying there about four days without any
food or water except what they may have had when wounded.
The case of a man I assisted in bringing in our lines who had five wounds
on his body was a sad one, but the surgeons thought his life could be
saved.
I wish I might find words to portray to the reader something of the
impressiveness of the scene at Cold Harbor that night.
Imagine, if you can, two mighty armies--that for weeks had been grappling
with each other in deadly contest, each doing its utmost to slay and
destroy the other, laying aside their implements of war as the day draws
to a close, and with the sun casting its last red glare over all, as out
from the ranks on either side came the men of war on their errand of
mercy; the blue and gray intermingling, looking for friends and comrades
that had fallen; permitted to carry them back into their own ranks to live
or die among those with whom they served.
The picture will never be effaced from my memory, and all who witnessed
that or a similar scene, will heartily endorse the saying of the late
General Sherman that “War is hell.”
REFUSED TO BE BURIED.
The burial of the dead on the battlefield had to be done so hurriedly many
times that more than one poor fellow who perhaps had been stunned and left
on the field had a “close call” to being buried alive. A case in mind was
that of one at Cold Harbor who had been picked up as dead, and as the men
dropped their burden by the open trench the shock resuscitated the man and
he faintly asked:
“What’s going on, boys?”
The response was, “We were going to bury you, Shorty.”
“Not if I know myself,” he replied. “Get me a cup of coffee and I’ll be
all right; I won’t be buried by that country clodhopper.”
The “clodhopper” referred to was the sergeant in charge of the squad, who
belonged to a company of our regiment that came from the central part of
the state, while the man who had been so near the “dark valley” was a
member of a New York City company.
TO ARMS AGAIN.
At 8 o’clock sharp the white flags were furled, and the buglers from
either side sounded the “recall.” The men returned to their commands, the
swords were unsheathed, the muskets reloaded, the cannon unmuzzled and
hostilities were resumed--such is war.
“Hark! the musketry roars, and the rifles reply:
Oh, the fight will be close and the carnage be dread;
To the ranks let us hie--
We have buried our dead.”