_The very Man Grant Wanted--Sheridan at the Head of the Cavalry--Lively
Times in the Wilderness--Falling Back--Little Phil to the Rescue--A
Close Call for the Doctors--The First Night After the Opening of the
Fight--A Town in Mourning._
[Illustration: 9111]
HIL SHERIDAN never led his men into a ticklish place and left them
to get out by themselves. He never sent his soldiers on a dangerous
expedition without arranging to have assistance at hand if there was a
suspicion that help would be needed. And he never asked his men to go
where he was not willing to go himself.
I wish I had known all this on the morning of Thursday, May 5, 1864.
It would have saved me from a great deal of worry about the fate of the
cavalry corps in the Wilderness, and also from no little anxiety as
to what was to become of the youngest trooper in Company I, First
Massachusetts cavalry. But Sheridan was new to the Army of the Potomac.
He came East with Grant. The old soldiers in our brigade had done
considerable kicking because a number of cavalry generals who had raided
around in Virginia, had been jumped by Sheridan.
Gen. Grant in his “Memoirs,” says, referring to his assuming command
of the Army of the Potomac: “In one of my early interviews with the
President, I expressed my dissatisfaction with the little that had been
accomplished by the cavalry so far in the war, and the belief that
it was capable of accomplishing much more than it had done if under a
thorough leader. I said I wanted the very best man in the army for that
command. Halleck was present, and spoke up, saying, 'How would Sheridan
do?' I replied, 'The very man I want.' The President said I could have
anybody I wanted. Sheridan was telegraphed for that day, and on his
arrival was assigned to the cavalry corps of the Army of the Potomac.”
Grant was right--he was always right--and Little Phil not only proved a
thorough leader of the cavalry corps, but he demonstrated his ability to
command an army in one of the most successful campaigns of the war.
“Where are our hosses?” demanded a Berkshire boy, who was one of the
first to come up with the sergeant and two men left to guide us to the
reserve, as stated in the last chapter.
“In the woods back up the turnpike about a mile.”
“This is a nice way to treat American soldiers!” exclaimed a corporal,
who had left both his boots in the mud in the plowed field. “I can't run
through blackberry brush barefooted!”
“I'm going to camp here till they bring back my horse and something to
eat. I didn't enlist to caper around on foot in such a place as this,”
said another.
I volunteered to take the sergeant's steed and go and see that the
horses were sent to meet us, but at that moment there was heard the
noise of the rebel cavalry coming in on our flank crashing through the
bushes.
“You couldn't manage my horse--he's so fiery,” said the sergeant. “I
can't hold him when he takes it into his head to go where the other
horses are.”
Away went the sergeant and the two men who had been left with him, on a
gallop up the road.
“Follow me!” shouted the sergeant, as he put spurs to his charger.
We followed.
As the sergeant and his two companions turned a bend in the road, rebel
cavalrymen, who had penetrated the jungle almost to the turnpike, opened
fire on the three troopers. It was a race for life. The bullets whistled
close to the ears of the Federals as they dashed by the Johnnies in
ambush. Then the saddle girth of one of the privates gave way, and the
terrified trooper was left sitting on his saddle in the middle of the
road, his horse going on with the procession. He shouted, “Whoa!” The
“rebel yell” went up as the Yankee went down. It stimulated him to the
greatest effort of his life. Springing to his feet he held the saddle
between his head and the Confederates to shield off their bullets, and
darted into the bushes to the left of the turnpike. As he reached the
thicket he threw the saddle back into the road and shouted defiantly at
his would-be executioners:
“Take the old saddle, you infernal asses. I've got no use for it without
a horse!”
Then he bounded away through the forest, keeping well to the left of the
road. He was a pitiable sight when he rejoined the company that night.
His clothes were literally torn off. He would not have been presentable
at all if an artilleryman had not given him a spare shirt. It may be
stated that several others reported to their company commander in about
the same fix.
Some of us had taken such a deep interest in what was going on up the
turnpike, that we almost forgot the rebels who were looking for us. I
remember that I laughed, tired and concerned for my own safety though
I was. The ludicrous figure cut by our comrade as he glanced around him
when he landed in the road and yelled “Whoa!”--as if a runaway horse
would stop under such circumstances--was too much for my risibility. But
I did not have my laugh out. It was interrupted by one of our sergeants
shouting:
“Streak it, boys--here they come!”
We made nearly as good time in getting away from that place as the
mounted troopers had scored, and for the same reason. The butternut-clad
cavalrymen fired their carbines almost in our faces at the first round.
We needed no further notice to take to the woods. It was entirely
unnecessary for “our six-footer corporal” to urge us to “remember Lot's
wife,” as he led the retreat over the brow of the hill and bounded down
the slope out of range.
As I halted after crossing the divide to catch my breath, a terrible
racket broke out in the woods to the right. As near as I could judge,
not having paid much attention to the points of the compass, there was
trouble somewhere in the vicinity of the turnpike where we had parted
with the Confederates. There was no mistaking the sounds. There was
fighting out there in the woods, and the cheering of Federal cavalrymen
was heard above the yell of our late pursuers.
“We're licking 'em out o' their boots!” said my bunkey, who had kept
neck and neck with me through the woods.
“That's what we're doing.”
“I'd go back and take a hand if I had a horse.”
“So would I.”
Several of our boys ventured to the top of the hill, and then along the
ridge toward the turnpike. They soon came to a rail fence, and on the
other side of it was a squadron of Federal cavalry drawn up in line.
It did not take us long to introduce ourselves. We ascertained from the
troopers who belonged to the Tenth New York that our regiment was on the
other side of the road about a quarter of a mile north. By this time the
firing on our front had dwindled down to irregular skirmishing.
As we were getting over the fence to go in the direction pointed out,
Sheridan rode up. He came from the front, and was greeted with a hearty
cheer that was echoed by cavalry posted away to the left, and also by
those of us who had breath enough left to shout. “Little Phil” waved his
hat, which he was holding in his hand.
“Our line is all right, boys,” and he galloped up the turnpike to report
to Grant, who was at Meade's headquarters.
Sheridan had inflicted severe punishment on the rebel cavalry that had
come in on our flank. He was informed of the condition of affairs at the
front, and at the time our battalion was ordered to fall back, a line
had been formed further up the turnpike ready to receive the rebels. The
road was left clear, and as Hampton's “critter companies” followed the
dismounted Union troopers, they fell into the trap. Then they went
back faster than they had come. Sheridan's troopers charged, and
the chagrined gray-coats were driven way beyond the ravine where our
battalion had held the line of the rail fence before our ammunition
failed.
As the memory of that day's events comes to me now, there is a
sprinkling of regret that I was forced to “streak it” through the
Wilderness. It completely destroyed my confidence in the ability of our
regiment to put down the rebellion single-handed at one fell swoop. And,
moreover, a good many of us were almost naked when we reached the horses
after our run through the forest. Yet it was necessary that sacrifices
should be made. Sheridan was fishing with live bait, and it was part of
the programme that the bait should be kept moving.
When I reached my company, which was waiting orders near the turnpike
leading to Todd's Tavern, I was informed that my horse had been killed
by a shell while the animals were being led to the rear. I felt the loss
of my horse keenly. And then my saddle-bags were gone, with the picture
of my best girl and other memories of home.
Orders came for the regiment to move a little further to the left.
An infantry brigade was forming on our right. There had been serious
business on the other side of a strip of woods to the right of the
line occupied by the cavalry. Wounded men were carried to the rear on
stretchers. Several army surgeons had ventured to establish a field
hospital well up to the front line. The Johnnies may have had a
hankering for the medical stores in the hospital chests that were
unpacked so temptingly near the enemy, for they made a dash for the
wagons. But this time the Confederates made a mistake. The infantry
holding the line in front of the “doctors' den” peppered the gray-coats
until the would-be consumers of United States _spiritus fermaiti_ were
glad to turn and get back out of range as fast as their legs could carry
them.
The narrow escape of the medical men showed that they had spread
out their operating instruments too near the enemy, and the base of
operations was removed over a hill to the rear. There was a stampede
when the rebels charged to break the line in front of the field
hospital, and a horse belonging to one of the surgeons dashed down the
turnpike. The infantrymen made no effort to stop the animal--the average
foot soldier was afraid of a horse--and it occurred to me that the horse
was just about what I needed to complete my outfit. My heart beat
a double tattoo as I attempted to spread myself across the road to
intercept the runaway. He came on at full speed, but as he shied toward
the fence to pass by me, I was fortunate enough to catch the bridle
rein, and that horse was mine--till further orders.
[Illustration: 0119]
I examined the saddle girths and found everything in good shape. After
I had taken up the stirrup straps--the doctor's legs were considerably
longer than mine--I mounted the prize, and once more felt there was a
possibility that the Southern Confederacy might be conquered! Then I
took an inventory of the contents of the doctor's saddle-bags. There
was a bottle of hospital brandy in one of the bags. It was the “genuine
stuff,” as Sergeant Warren remarked that night when I allowed him to
sample it. I investigated further and found a field glass, several
boxes of pills, a few rolls of bandages and lint, with a small case of
instruments. There were two six-shooters in the holsters on the pommel
of the saddle, and a surgeon's regulation sword fastened on the left
side. A canteen, and a haversack containing a couple of ham sandwiches,
a piece of cheese and a can of condensed milk were included in the
outfit. I whistled dinner call at once, and made an excellent meal on
what the medical man had provided for his supper. Then I rejoined my
company.
The Wilderness was full of terror when night came on and spread its
mantle of darkness over the scenes of bloodshed. On every hand could
be heard the groans of the wounded and dying. The gathering of the
unfortunates went on all night, and the poor fellows were borne to the
field hospitals. There was heavy firing at intervals. Here and there the
bivouac fires lighted up the otherwise Egyptian darkness and served to
make the shadows all the darker, and to give the surroundings a weird
and dismal aspect. It seemed as if daylight would never return. When it
did break we hailed it joyfully, although we knew that the light of the
newborn day would witness a renewal of the conflict.
We did not unsaddle our horses that night, but along about midnight
we were given an opportunity to feed our chargers and make coffee for
ourselves. Preceding the feed the company rolls were called by the first
sergeants. In Company I not more than fifty per cent, of the number
on the roll responded--I mean of the number that had charged down the
turnpike Thursday morning. A majority of the boys who failed to show up
at the first roll-call in the Wilderness put in an appearance later on.
It was the same with other regiments. In a battle like that of the
Wilderness there was a good deal of the go-as-you-please, especially
if there were charges and retreats and frequent changes in formations.
Details would be made from companies for skirmishes and other duties,
and the men so detailed when they returned were unable to find their
companies, their regiments having been transferred to another part of
the field. I recall an incident of the Battle of the Wilderness that
was the cause of a whole town going into mourning: Company B of the One
hundred and twenty-fifth New York Volunteers contained many Berlin boys.
In one of the movements in the Wilderness that regiment marched past the
First Massachusetts. I was on the watch for Company B. I think it was
after the second day's battle. The One hundred and twenty-fifth had been
fighting furiously somewhere near the Brock road, and the slaughter had
been great. The ranks of the regiment were depleted, and when I spotted
the Berlin boys I saw that B Company had suffered badly. There were only
two or three faces that I recognized. Rube Fry was one, I think.
“Halloo, Company B!”
“Halloo!--there's Alex Allen's boy.”
“Where's the rest of the company--the Berlin boys?”
“All killed but six.”
“It will be sad news for Berlin.”
“Yes; and it will be a wonder if any of us escape if we don't get out of
the Wilderness pretty soon.”
“It will indeed.”
“Good-by.”
“Good-by, Rube. I'll write home if I get a chance.” I got the chance the
day that we started on Sheridan's raid--May 8. I wrote the news just as
I had received it. There was mourning all over the town when that letter
reached Berlin. The news from the front was contradicted, however, soon
after by letters from several of the boys who had been included in the
list of casualties I had sent home. It seems that a part of the One
hundred and twenty-fifth was sent on picket duty to the left, and a
charge had been made by the men not included in the detail. Lieut.-Col.
A. B. Myer and thirty-four men out of one hundred and four who made the
charge were killed. Somehow the report had been started that all the
rest of the regiment had been killed or wounded or taken prisoners. I
was rejoiced to learn when I next met the One hundred and twenty-fifth,
after Sheridan's raid, that the report of the casualties in Company
B sent home in my letter after the Battle of the Wilderness was
exaggerated.
I find in the roster of B Company as given in the history of the One
hundred and twenty-fifth New York Volunteers by Chaplain Ezra D. Simons
of that regiment, that none of B Company was killed in the Wilderness,
and only five were wounded.
But B Company did not escape so luckily in the battle of Spottsylvania,
following close on the heels of the Wilderness. Several were killed
outright and a number wounded. The company lost twenty-four men,
killed and died, during its service--a number far above the average of
companies throughout the army. The One hundred and twenty-fifth made a
splendid record.
I was always glad to run across the regiment at the front, and to
compare notes with the Berlin boys in Company B.