The brigade broke camp at Deep Bottom the 26th of August and marched to
a position in the lines before Petersburgh, pitching the camp near the
Jerusalem Plank Road. The routine of our duty as closely investing
troops ran thus: one day of twenty-four hours we would be on the picket
line in our front, placed along a run that intersected an exposed
field, the enemy's picket line lying on the other side of the run. Here
in the head-high holes some of our predecessors had dug, we shivered
through the night, and broiled through the day, not daring to lift our
heads above our rude earth-works until dark; firing and observing
through the rude embrasures the banks of earth before our picket-holes
were pierced with. When relieved, always at night, and just after dark,
we would only fall back into the front line of works, (batteries
connected by infantry parapets,) to remain there forty-eight hours.
Then relieved by in-coming pickets we would fall back to our camp and
remain until morning, the next day being spent on fatigue duty,
strengthening the lines of works. Then after another twenty-four hours
spent in camp we went on picket again. All this time in camp and out of
it, we were under fire, the bullets of the enemy ever singing around
our ears, whether we were on the picket line, the main one, the reserve
one or in camp, an invested one lying behind a parapet and flanked with
batteries of field pieces and gatling guns. And often in camp, in the
night, a sudden commotion would take place, to tell that some poor
fellow had been severely wounded or perhaps killed, while curling up to
his tent-mate under their blankets. But we dreaded the picket line the
most, especially the day hours of it, not on account of its danger, for
it was a comparatively safe one, all knowing the danger of exposure and
conforming to the necessity of keeping closely covered, but to lay for
so many hours under a hot sun in a hole in the ground, with only "hard
tack" and greasy boiled pork to eat, and the warm water of our--the
night before filled--canteens to drink was very disagreeable. Then the
certainty that a rush of the enemy meant death or imprisonment for all
pickets on the line of attack was not a quieting one.
It was on this picket line that First-Sergeant Bassett was killed the
night of the 15th of September. It was a bright, moonlight night, we
had just relieved the 1st Maryland, our men crept forward, each squad
well informed of its assigned position, and all suddenly hurried for
their positions, getting under cover as speedily as possible, the
relieved pickets stealing as quietly away for the main line. This was
the method of relieving here, but this night some of the relieved
pickets moved up the hill somewhat carelessly, their plates and cups
clanking noisily and themselves visible in the bright moonlight, so
drawing a sharp fire from the enemy's pickets, by which several of the
careless fellows were wounded.
Sergeant Bassett was to enter the extreme left picket hole to be
occupied by our regiment. Lieutenant Maxfield returned from leave, and
commanding D again, was assisting in placing the line, and was in the
picket hole when Sergeant Bassett came running to it, in a crouching
position, just as the enemy opened fire on the careless Maryland men.
Reaching it, Captain Maxfield says, the Sergeant thoughtlessly stood
erect on the edge of the pit, while saying, "Well, boys, I'm here,"
then fell forward into the Lieutenant's arms, a bullet having pierced
his throat. Sergeant Bassett was my friend and tent-mate as well as my
comrade. Only the night before his death he had talked long of the soon
coming end of his term of service, a service he considered already
ended by the law of right, he having enlisted on the 7th day of
September three years before. But the constituted authorities
considered that the three years he had enlisted for must date from
October 19th, the date of his muster into service. The point was
acknowledged to be a debatable one and Bassett was told that it was his
privilege to stay in camp if he chose not to expose himself to the
chances of the front line. But Frank was too high spirited a man to
split hairs with his honor; he was either a soldier or a civilian, and
if held would be as a soldier and not as a prisoner, declaring that
until he was free to go North he would be with D wherever its lot was
cast. And with D our bright, brave, true-hearted comrade died, heaping
the measure of his duty with his life. The tour of duty in the main
line, although affording more liberty of movement, was a dangerous one,
especially for those stationed in front of the "Elliott" salient of the
Confederates. It was under this salient that the mine had been exploded
in the dim of a July morning. From its protruding point hundreds of men
had been hurled from sleep into eternity, and for its mutilated
possession hundreds more had died. From this grim point of the
Confederate line, the hillside before it rough with hillocks of bare
earth and rugged with yawning chasms, the result of the explosion, the
enemy kept up a sharp and almost continuous night fire, for it was so
close to our line that pickets were not thrown out before it by either
side. And on dark nights their artillery at this point of the line
would be frequently fired to throw a flashing light over the rough
ground between the lines of works. Our heavy artillery was not averse
to trying its weight with the Confederates at any time. General
Humphreys praises the proficiency attending the gunners of this branch
of artillery service in silencing the fire of the batteries of the
enemy. They had an especial fancy for every now and then opening just
at sunrise with every gun they had a roaring, shrieking salute to his
rising majesty. Sometimes they did it for practice, sometimes to
disconcert and alarm the enemy, sometimes to jubilate over some
advantage some one of our armies had somewhere gained. One morning at
daybreak, when a detachment of the regiment, including D, was in the
little horseshoe shaped outwork we had before "Fort Hell," a messenger
came along the line to let us know that at sunrise all our heavy guns
would open. I was awake and in charge of a line of guards along the
line of D, while the rest of the men, tired with a sleepless night
watch, were dozing and napping here and there, crouching, lying,
leaning in all possible positions but an erect one, but every man with
his rifle clutched by a hand. It was my duty to awaken them and
acquaint them with the coming bombardment, but I thought it would be a
good joke to let the roar of the guns do the awakening. In a few
minutes it came, a sudden roaring of batteries and the shrieking and
bursting of shells just as the first ray of sunlight flashed from the
east. The men of D not awake, awoke promptly, every man after his
nature, some plunging for the bomb-proof, some springing for the
parapet, and some just jumping to their feet and whirling around and
around during a minute or so of desperate bewilderment. The men who
leaped to the parapet to repel any coming enemy thought it a very good
joke indeed, the momentarily bewildered ones had seen better jokes, but
the ones that plunged for the bomb-proof were loud in expressing their
indignation at the severest joke of their experience. It was on this
line that the informal election was held by the regiment, Lincoln or
McClellan, and the only vote cast for McClellan in D was by stout old
Private Maddox. When rallied on his "disloyal" choice, as many
preferred patriots thought it, Maddox wrathfully shouted, "My
grandfather was a democrat, my father was a democrat, and by the
Almighty, I'll not go back on either of them." If his argument did not
convince his questioners of the soundness of his logic, his blazing
eyes and stalwart form gave it a respectful consideration.
Private Maddox was not a conventional thinker anyway. On Strawberry
Plains when a bullet went zipping through his cap, instead of raising a
loud thanksgiving for his narrow escape, just by the hair of his head,
he boiled over with rage at the injury to his cap, vowing that if he
could get his hands on the rebel who fired the damaging shot, he would
whip him within an inch of his scoundrelly life.
The twenty-four hours passed in camp gave us time for necessary
domestic labors--washing, mending, gun and equipment cleaning. Though
still under fire, we were released from the necessity of bearing guns
and accoutrements, for which reason these few hours were looked forward
to as a sort of turning out to grass, and as gladly as any old horse
ever scuttled out of harness to roll in the clover, did we strip off
our galling belts to stretch ourselves and enjoy our short space of
comparative liberty, those of us not so unfortunate as to lose it in
some detail of fatigue or other detested duty. Thus time ran in the
entrenchments before Petersburgh until the 24th of September, when we
moved back to a distance from the line of fire, making a new camp and
giving an opportunity for the commanding officers to gratify their
passion for drills, they revelling, according to Captain Maxfield's
diary, both the 26th and the 27th in Company and Battalion drills.