April 29th we broke camp and proceeded to near Culpepper Court-house.
Before leaving camp we sent our extra baggage, clothing, etc., to
Washington, and, of course, never saw them again. During the night of
May 3d we marched for the Rapidan, crossing at Germania Ford. The next
evening we camped in order of battle near the Wilderness Tavern. The
following morning the division moved out on a country road toward
Robertson's Tavern. Passing through woods, we came to an open field,
where line of battle was formed. The Bucktails were in front,
skirmishing. We could see them on the ridge, and their occasional shouts
and rapid firing showed that the battle had begun. For the first time I
heard the whistle of the rifle ball, as a stray one now and then
whistled over the line of battle. After waiting thus for some time, we
moved back some distance, in the direction from which we had come. Here
I spoke a few words with John Elliot, the last we ever exchanged. In
the confusion which followed he was made prisoner, and died at
Andersonville. Soon the noise of battle began to deepen in our front and
at the right. Hurried orders were received; the line moved by the right
flank, double-quick. The Seventh Regiment deployed and vanished into the
woods, forward, and the Eleventh followed in line of battle. Moving on
through the thick underbrush, the enemy was quickly encountered. Their
first volley was deadly. A ball struck Boss. M'Cullough in the forehead.
He fell dead, a portion of his shattered brain lodging on the arm of
John Stanley, a boy of seventeen, who had come to us during the Spring.
John shuddered, shook it from the sleeve of his blouse, raised his gun
and began firing. Captain Jones, of Company A, White, of Company C, and
many others, fell dead before this first volley. Soon it was discovered
that the division was flanked. Our line was at right angles with the
position in which the subsequent fighting took place. To crown all, the
woods took fire, and soon the only problem that remained was to withdraw
as quickly and safely as possible.
While this turmoil was progressing, to me so strange and bewildering,
the surgeon, Dr. Lyon, came across me, and directed me to go to a
certain point at the edge of the woods, east of the Wilderness Tavern,
to help care for the wounded. Thither I made my way. As I passed on
through the woods, I was soon out of reach of the bullets, which had
been flying thick and fast. When I came to the open ground, I saw more
clearly than ever the results of the battle, still going on in the woods
beyond. The multitude of wounded and dying men crowded the road. Some
were limping painfully along; others were being carried on stretchers,
or helped along by comrades.
Reaching the designated place, I found the field tents erected, and all
full of suffering men. I took charge of one in which were twenty-seven
wounded, several amputations, and other bad cases. They lay with their
heads toward the canvas, a narrow path being left between their feet.
All that could be done for them was to give them food and water, bathe
their wounds, and render any little service by which their sufferings
might be mitigated. Their heroic patience astonished me. Men, torn and
mangled, would utter no groan, nor give any vocal expression to the
agonies which racked them, except sometimes when sleep or delirium found
the overmastering will off guard.
Toward evening I learned that the regiment was just beyond the
Wilderness tavern; and, getting relieved for a short time, I started to
go to them, as I had the extra coffee of the mess. As I came in sight,
they moved hurriedly away toward the right, where the battle was raging
fiercely. It was useless to follow, and I began to retrace my steps.
Pausing a moment on an elevated knoll, I gazed on the strange scene that
spread out before me. From the right on the turnpike, a line, somewhat
curved, extended a distance of three or four miles to the left. On the
right the line was enveloped in woods, in which a terrific conflict was
going on. Sedgwick's corps was standing between the army and disaster.
In the center, on elevated ground, beyond some low woods, I could see a
rebel line of battle, while the sharp fire of skirmishers in front
showed that here the lines of blue and gray would soon smite together.
Further toward the left, a line of blue extended along the edge of a
narrow field, facing the woods just beyond, into which it poured
incessant volleys, while the smoke that rose up from the woods showed
that an active foe was there. Behind our line, flat on the ground, lay a
second one. A tragedy, grandly, awfully sublime, was enacting before me.
A hundred thousand men were grappling in deadly conflict. While I gazed
the line of battle slackened its fire; the second one rose from the
ground; then both swept forward across the field and into the woods
beyond, bearing the enemy before them. For a few moments there was
silence, and then the struggle was renewed as fiercely as ever. I
returned to the field-tents to go on with my work of mercy among the
suffering.
As night drew on the battle ceased, and the men lay down to sleep where
they had fought, ready to renew the strife at the return of light. In
the tents there, while the army beyond was resting, part of our nation's
heroes continued the contest through the solemn hours of night. They
fought with the giant Pain, and some of them went down into the dark
valley, and close by the chill waters they faced the King of Terrors.
I slept none that night. As morning approached, I went to the edge of
the little opening which had been cleared in the woods for the tents.
While I stood here looking off toward the scene of yesterday's battle,
the sound of a single rifle shot rang out on the air, then another and
another, and then a deafening roar of musketry burst forth and raged
along the whole line, continuing almost without interruption all day.
In the afternoon Lieutenant Boggs and David Steen were brought in
wounded, the former by a rifle ball in the thigh, the latter severely
bruised by a fragment of shell. He had been wounded at Gaines' Mill and
Fredericksburg. After his return this time, I heard him say that he had
come to have more dread of going into battle since he had been wounded
so often. Still he never shrank from duty. He was killed the following
August at Welden Railroad.
Here I saw the only instance of impatience on the part of a wounded man
of which I have any recollection. A young fellow lay about the middle of
the tent, wounded in the knee, a ball having cut the skin on one side
without injuring the bone. His long legs were extended almost across
the narrow path along which I was compelled to walk in passing from one
to another. He was grumbling and complaining, demanding and receiving
attentions in a gruff and uncivil manner. He would also mutter
threatenings of what he would do should I hurt him in stepping over his
crooked legs outstretched in my way. To all of this I paid no attention
and signs of ill-nature continued. Finally, a bright young man opposite,
whose leg was amputated at the thigh, raised himself on his elbow and
proceeded to express his opinion of such conduct in language much more
forcible than pious.
From this place we moved some distance to the left, where the tents were
erected in an open field. Here an incident occurred which illustrates
the false estimate placed upon the civilization of the North by the
masses of the South. A wounded rebel, an intelligent-looking young man,
was brought in from the field in an ambulance. We came with a stretcher
to carry him into the tent. He looked at us with a frightened, helpless
look, and asked:
"You won't hurt me, will you?"
I assured him we would be just as careful as possible. He seemed
surprised to be treated with kindness, having been taught, evidently,
that the Yankee invader was a barbarian. Removed to the tent, I examined
his wound. A bullet had passed through the ankle joint, and the only
remedy was amputation. He inquired how it was. It seemed hard to tell
him that he must go through life maimed.
"That is a bad foot; but the surgeons will do the best they can for it.
You may lose it." Some time after he was removed, I suppose to have his
foot amputated, and I saw him no more.
The next move was to Spotsylvania. Grant had grappled with his enemy,
intending to hold on "all Summer." The same spirit seemed to animate his
army, from General Meade down to the latest recruit in the ranks. The
lines of blue came out from the smoking underbrush of the Wilderness,
their ranks torn and decimated, and closed in around the bristling
batteries and rifle-pits of Spotsylvania with a relentless courage that
was sublime.
Here the tents were pitched in a little, open lot, a house to the right
as you faced the position where the fighting was in progress. The tents
were not sufficient to contain the wounded, and they lay on the ground
on the outside by thousands. Those long rows of suffering forms, gashed
and mangled in every conceivable manner, told a dreadful tale of human
wrath. That gallant division, the Reserves, had preserved their
well-earned reputation for stubborn valor at a terrible cost. Their
greatest loss was sustained in a single onset against the rebel
position. The enemy was posted in strong rifle-pits, beyond a narrow
strip of swamp. Orders were given to charge these works. The division
moved forward. They had never failed in such an undertaking. Their
charge had always pierced the enemy's line. This had been their record
during three years of warfare. But men can not accomplish
impossibilities. Baffled by the swamp, cut by the merciless fire that
blazed out from the pits, they are driven back, rally, re-form and
charge the second and third time, and then retire to the position from
which they had come out.
The field-tents here were nearer the front than before. Bullets and an
occasional shell whistled over us. My work was still the same, caring
for the wounded, assisting the surgeon, or occasionally binding up a
wound myself.
During the second day, while engaged at the farther end of the tent, I
heard at the front a familiar voice. As soon as I was disengaged I went
to the front end of the tent, eager to learn from whom the well-known
voice proceeded. There lay a large, noble-looking young man, severely
wounded in the thigh. He was conversing quietly with a wounded comrade
by his side. Voice and face were as familiar as if heard and seen but
yesterday. Puzzled and deeply interested, I did not speak, but proceeded
to bathe his wound. While thus engaged, his eyes fell upon my face.
Looking at me intently a moment, his face brightened, and he exclaimed:
"You are Rob M'Bride, aren't you?"
"Yes; and you are Billy Craig," was the immediate reply.
As soon as he pronounced my name, it all came to me in a moment. We had
been school-mates at Courtney's School-house. He was then one of the
"big boys," and I a lad of nine or ten. I had not seen him since. He was
one of those large-hearted, royal souls, that could find pleasure in
little acts of kindness, that bound me to him very closely. He bore his
sufferings with heroic fortitude. When the time came to remove the
wounded, and they were being hurried away in ambulances and rough army
wagons, I went to Dr. Lyon and told him of the case. He went with me to
an ambulance and ordered room reserved in it for him. I then had him
carried to it, made him as comfortable as possible, bade him good-bye
and God speed, and saw him no more on earth. He died from his wound some
time in June.
May 11th, Lewis Grossman, of Company C, was brought in, terribly wounded
by a shell. One arm and leg were crushed, and he was otherwise bruised.
I did not see him until after the arm and leg were amputated. He was a
young man of great physical endurance, or he would never have rallied
from the shock. He was as pale as a corpse when first brought into the
tent, but rallied in a little while, and was able to take some
refreshment. When left to himself his mind wandered, and he would talk
as if he were engaged in the quiet pursuits of peace. Unless prevented,
he would remove the bandages from the stumps of his amputated limbs.
When spoken to, however, he would refrain from this, and talk rationally
of the present circumstances. Dr. Lyon finally told me to give my
attention entirely to him. This I did until he was sent away. He told me
how his wound was received. He was in front, skirmishing. He was in the
road in front of a rebel battery, and in the act of loading his gun.
Perceiving they were about to fire, he still delayed a moment, thinking
to get in another shot before leaping to the shelter of a large tree
that stood near. It was a costly delay.
The shell came screaming toward him, burst, and dashed him stunned and
mangled to the ground. As he concluded this narrative, he added, with
the utmost seriousness: "But they haven't made much off me, after all.
I've peppered them in almost every battle the Potomac army has fought
since the war began."
He got along finely, and there seemed every prospect of recovery. When
some of the boys called on him at Washington, on their way home in June,
he requested them to say nothing to his friends about the extent of his
wounds. But from some cause--perhaps gangrene--he died August 3d, and
is buried in the National Cemetery at Arlington.
Nearly opposite Lewis lay a young man of very fine face and attractive
appearance. He was mortally wounded. Most of the time his sufferings
were very great, but no earthly skill could bring any relief. As death
drew on, his mind wandered. He was fighting his battles over again. He
was not the poor, crushed mortality that lay here. His spirit was over
yonder, where the cannon's sullen roar and the awful din of musketry,
the cheers of the struggling combatants, told of a deadly strife.
Sometimes he was distressed and troubled, sometimes exultant. Anon his
face would light up with the strange fire of battle, and he would raise
his arm and cheer. Once he said quite distinctly: "Here is a chance for
a brave man." Later he became calm, and quietly fell asleep, to wake no
more on earth till the great day of God.
"Soldier, sleep, thy warfare o'er,
Sleep the sleep that knows no waking,
Dream of battle-fields no more."
One of the Bucktail Regiment lay on the ground in front of the tent,
shot through the chest. He was, perhaps, twenty-five years of age,
large and well-formed, his face stamped with the marks of intelligence.
While engaged near him, I saw another of that band of heroes coming
toward him with great strides, an expression of anguish on his face
which I can not forget. He threw himself on his knees by the wounded
man, kissed him, then covered his face with his hands, and his great
manly form shook with convulsive sobbings. Tears trickled down the
cheeks of the other. Not a word was spoken until, after a while, the
storm of emotion had passed. Then they conversed calmly for a while, and
parted with the quiet dignity of brave men who say farewell while the
shadow of death lies dark around them.
A man was brought in shot through both thighs. I did not know his name,
but had heard his voice among the worshipers in the church-tent at
Bristoe Station, and knew that he was a man of God. After a brief
examination, the surgeon announced that amputation would be necessary.
"Very well, doctor; get around to it as quick as you can. I suffer
terribly."
Another was shot in the thigh, the bone shattered to the hip. When told
that the limb must be amputated he objected.
"But you will die if it is not done."
"I can't help that; it shall not be amputated with my consent."
Within twenty-four hours he was dead. Whether wise in his decision or
not, he met the result without flinching or complaint.
A boy with his arm torn off by a shell expressed his only complaint in
the words, "I never can fight any more."
One evening, worn out by constant labor and watching, I lay down in a
vacant place in the tent, from which a dead soldier had been removed, to
find rest for mind and body in sleep. As I lay there thinking of the
dreadful scenes around me, of the wounded and dying here, the dead just
over yonder, I began to wonder what would be the sensations of a man
shot in the brain. Suddenly there came a shock, as if the whole
machinery of life had stopped at once. How long a time elapsed before
consciousness was resumed I do not know; the interval may have been
momentary; but as a dim sense of being stole over me again, I was quite
convinced that a stray shot had struck me in the head. Rousing myself, I
deliberately felt my head, to learn the exact state of things. To my
surprise and gratification, I found every thing in due order. I leave
it to those who are skilled in the mysteries of the nervous system to
explain the phenomenon; but you must allow me to believe that I know
something of what it is to be shot in the head.
The time arrived, at length, when the field hospitals must be moved
because of the changed position of the army. A heavy rain began on the
11th, and continued for some days, making the roads almost impassable.
The wounded that remained were removed as speedily and as mercifully as
possible. Some had to be left behind. Nurses were detailed to remain
with them. As night came on every thing was in readiness, and the rest
of us were directed to take our departure without delay. Two of us
started together after dark. We made our way through the mud and intense
darkness about twenty rods, to the edge of a wood. We resolved to go no
further, come what might. Doubling myself up at the root of an old
stump, I was soon oblivious to both rain and danger. Just as day was
breaking, I awoke, and arousing my companion, we hastened away.