On the 16th we marched to the James River. I do not know at what point.
The rest of the corps, together with the Second, Sixth, and Ninth, had
crossed at Wilcox's Landing. I think we must have reached the river
lower down. We were crowded on board transports. Judging from the time
we were on board, we must have been carried a considerable distance up
the river. We landed on the south side. Here we rested awhile. I went
down to the river to bathe and to wash a shirt. Hundreds of soldiers
were in the water, plunging, splashing, diving, enjoying themselves like
schoolboys. After sharing in the sport to my heart's content, I washed
my shirt. The process was simple enough. The garment was well soaped,
then held on a large stone and pounded with a club or any thing
convenient. A final washing out completed the operation. This is the
usual _modus operandi_ during a campaign. When I have described this
process in these latter days, some of my good friends have manifested
an unreasonable and unnecessary skepticism as to the real and ultimate
object of the pounding. But I solemnly affirm that the purpose is to
expel the dirt from the garment.
There is a little animal. Every soldier knows him. Noah Webster, LL.D.,
knew him. Noah is good authority. He derives his name from the Gothic
verb _liusan_, to devour.
The noble Roman knew him. He called him _pediculus_. He is truly
democratic in his instincts and disposition.
[Illustration: HE IS A COPPERHEAD.]
He loves a rebel. But a copperhead loves a fat army contract. So does
he. On this line he is cosmopolitan. He has some splendid business
qualifications. He is modest, retiring, persistent, insinuating. He
comes to stay. He will stay if you let him. He sticketh closer than a
brother. If you don't want him you must skirmish for him. You can not
argue him out of it.
I once knew a warrior that cultivated him contrary to army regulations.
We protested. They were firm friends, like David and Jonathan.
One day stern Law, embodied in a corporal and a file of men with
glistening bayonets, took that man down to the running brook, and,
regardless of the frosty air and chilly temperature, with a scrubbing
broom they cleansed and variously purified him, furnished him a new
outfit of regulation clothing, and brought him back as bright and rosy
as need be. He made some remarks. They were comprehensive, but not to
edification, and we will not reproduce them. If that veteran still
breathes the vital air, he voted for Hancock last Fall.
This seems like a digression, but it is suggested by the facts of the
case. As before remarked, I washed that shirt. When I began it was only
an ordinary shirt. When I got through it was a most extraordinary
garment. There were "millions in it." I skirmished, and washed again.
The result was astonishing. I thought of Moses, Aaron, and Egypt, and
wondered why Pharaoh did not let the people go. It was a _moving_ sight.
It may be there yet, or it may have followed the army. I do not know. I
retired from the scene sadder, but wiser.
During the forenoon the march to Petersburg began. The day was very
warm, and the dust which rose as the column pressed on rendered the hot
air stifling. The men suffered greatly from thirst. I do not remember
any march more trying in this respect. Late in the afternoon we halted
to rest. There was a strip of rough, broken ground on the right, a kind
of ravine, about half a mile away. I went over there in search of water.
Not a drop could be found. Returning to the column, I learned that there
was water some distance to the left. Here was a beautiful spring of
clear, cold water flowing in abundance. My intention was to drink very
moderately; but I forgot all about this when I raised my quart cup,
brimming full of the delicious beverage, to my lips. Of course I paid
the penalty of my imprudence, and before dark was so ill that I was
compelled to leave the ranks. I kept up with the column until after
dark, but finally gave up all hopes of keeping with them, and camped
till morning. The regiment, meantime, had reached the vicinity of
Petersburg, and during the severe fighting there, had suffered some
loss. Lieutenant-colonel Pattee was dangerously wounded. Lieutenant
Steel, of Company A, received a terrible wound in the face. Abe
Eshelman, formerly of the Eleventh, was mortally wounded, and died a few
days later at City Point. The regiment was on a sandy ridge in front of
woods, facing the rebel works, at a point nearly where the Norfolk
Railroad passed through their lines. Behind them, in such a position as
to fire almost over them, was a battery of rifled guns, which kept up a
fire of shells upon the rebel works at intervals day and night. The
rebel batteries responded at intervals of but a few minutes. This
position was also under a continual fire from rebel sharpshooters, their
balls reaching as far as the woods beyond with fatal effect.
The second day we were here, June 18th, William Rutter was mortally
wounded. He had picked up a piece of corn-cake in the field back of the
works. Some jesting remark was made about the cake and the rebel that
made it, when he said he would go out and get some more. He was sitting
in the pit beside me. He rose, still laughing, to carry out his purpose;
but as his head and shoulders were exposed above the pit, there was a
sharp "crash," and he grasped his left shoulder with his right hand and
uttered a smothered exclamation of pain. A large rifle ball had
penetrated and crushed the shoulder joint. He was taken back at once,
and the arm amputated. It was reported that he did not survive the
operation; but I have since learned that he lived till the 15th of July.
We lost a number of men in this way and on the picket line.
The pickets were changed during the night, usually between nine and ten
o'clock. This was the occasion for a lively time down on the line, in
which the artillery usually joined. Sometimes this picket firing, with
its accompaniment of booming cannon and screaming shells, would rise
almost to the dignity of a night battle. In front, from the picket pits,
rifles blazed and flashed with their crackling roar; and farther back,
the great guns belched forth their lurid flames, casting a momentary
glare over the weird scene. The gunners would range their guns before
dark, so as to give the rebels a good one when the time should arrive.
Every device was resorted to that would make this night-firing effective
and annoying to the enemy.
Not long after the siege began, and while we were yet at this point of
the line, we got a mortar-battery--two guns--into position. One clear,
calm evening, the Yankees proceeded to try a little of this new-fangled
music on our friends across the lines. The mortars were planted some
distance to the right, and in such a position that we had a fine chance
for observation. The line had been unusually quiet, as if the beauty of
the tranquil sunset hour had subdued for a season the fierce spirit of
war in the hearts of men. The sun's last ray had faded from hill-top and
tree, and twilight was settling down upon the scene, when we heard on
our right a strange, grumbling, muffled roar; and with a rushing sound,
we saw what seemed two lighted tapers mounting upward, describing a
curve through the air, and descending upon the rebel works, followed by
two sharp, ringing explosions. There was a moment's pause, and then
"boo-oom," and again two curves of light were marked along the dark
sky, and the great shells descended upon the rebel works, exploding with
a terrific crash. Still no reply from the rebel guns. Again the mortars
boom out as before; but now, as if by a preconcerted signal, the
batteries for about a mile along the rebel line cut loose at once, a
perfect volley of cannon, all centered on the one point, around which
the shells burst and flashed like a thousand thunderbolts. Not a cannon
replied from our lines; only at intervals, for a while, would growl out
that "boo-oom," and above the flash of bursting shells and flaming
cannon would rise those two little points of light, curving slowly
upward and then down, with a seeming deliberation that contrasted oddly
with the whirl and bustle below. This continued a few minutes, and the
"boo-oom" ceased. The little mortar-battery was "knocked out of time."
Then there arose along our line a great "ha-ha"--an army laughing. Such
was the spirit in which the men had watched this unequal combat. But the
laugh quickly changed to a cheer, and a hundred cannon roared out their
savage thunder from either line. Gradually the noise of strife died
away, and an hour later the army slept.
As before noted, our rifle-pits extended along a sandy ridge, the ground
open in front, sloping downward to the railroad. On our right the ground
was somewhat rough and broken; but immediately in front, at the
railroad, the ground rose abruptly for several feet, and then sloped
gradually upward toward the rebel works. Toward the left of this point,
the abrupt rise disappeared; but in general, the rebel works crowned
elevated ground beyond, and the entrenched picket-lines of the two
armies were in the open ground between the railroad and the rebel
entrenchments. On the right, as you would go down from our trenches to
the road, a kind of ravine extended toward the rebel works, and was
commanded by their rifles. A large and well-manned picket-pit was
established at its head, from which they sent their bullets hissing down
almost without hindrance.
On the afternoon of June 19th, I think it was, word came in from our
picket-line that ammunition was running short, and a fresh supply must
be sent out. Myself and nine others were detailed to perform this rather
delicate operation. The ammunition wagons were beyond the strip of woods
in our rear, and we must run the gauntlet of sharpshooters, and risk
odd shells in going and returning over this route, before getting
started from the works. Taking each a piece of shelter-tent, in which to
carry cartridges, we started for the wagons. If any man, that has been
placed in similar circumstances, can say that he felt no unusual
agitation, in view of the possible consequences, I must be allowed to
suggest that he is got up on a different plan from myself. The truth is,
I was considerably shaken up over the matter. It would seem quite heroic
to be able to say that I was glad of it, when assigned to this dangerous
duty. I am free to confess I was _not_ glad of it. When selected for
this purpose, I went through with it. The world looks very bright, on a
fine June day, to a healthy boy of seventeen. He is not particularly
anxious to exchange it for another, least of all by way of minie balls,
when he has no chance to send back any in return. To do our work without
faltering, it was necessary to count on a hurried burial down there
between the lines that night. Whatever reckoning others made, this is
how it seemed to me, and we might just as well look the probabilities
square in the face.
Taking as much ammunition as each could conveniently carry, we returned
to the rifle-pits, and thence to the skirmish-line. For some distance we
had partial protection from the rifle balls, by crouching low as we
walked; but as we advanced we drew the fire of the rebels more and more,
as they discovered us and our object. At last we reached the ravine. It
seemed as if a perfect stream of bullets was hissing down it; but we
must pass. One after another we dashed through. As I passed, I turned my
head to the right, and glanced up the ravine. The pit, at its head,
seemed to smoke, from the rapid fire of its occupants. As I turned my
head, a bullet clipped close to my face, and seemed to touch my hair.
Onward we went, at the top of our speed, and soon reached the shelter of
the high bank by the railroad.
Here we rested a few minutes. All were safe thus far. A fine spring
bubbled out of the bank. How cool and refreshing its water seemed! Here
were a number of men who had been shot on the picket line, some dead,
others dying, one or two unharmed, caring for the wounded, until night
should permit their removal. The sight of these mangled, bloody forms
here was grimly suggestive. We must not _think_ too much. The most
dangerous part of our work still remained. The ammunition must go to the
picket pits--must be carried there under the close range of rebel
riflemen. During our progress thus far our pickets had kept up a sharp
fire on the enemy. As we started for the pits the fight became more
exciting. Both parties exposed themselves more recklessly, the rebels to
shoot us before we could complete our mission, and our men to keep them
down and make their fire less deadly. Bullets hissed at every step. I
went toward the left, past several pits, I know not how far, and stopped
at one in which was a lieutenant. Forgetting the situation for a moment,
I stood upright, and stretched myself for relief from the weariness of
carrying my heavy load. Instantly a bullet whizzed past my head, and
dashed into a tree in the rear of the pit. Quick as a flash the
lieutenant jerked me down, and warned me of the danger of exposure.
After resting awhile, I started to return. Back to the railroad, again
our only protection was the rapid fire and deadly aim of our riflemen.
Thence to the main line, the only point we dreaded much was passing the
ravine. The return was at last successfully accomplished.
Notwithstanding the severity of the fire to which we were exposed but
one of our number was injured--mortally wounded, I was told. Had it not
been for the return fire of our own men not one of us would have reached
the picket line alive.
This was my first and only visit to the picket line at this point. The
same evening I was detailed for guard duty at brigade headquarters,
where I remained till after July 4th.
On this part of the line it was not the custom to station videttes in
front of the picket pits at night, as was usually done. A constant fire
was kept up day and night. The boys used to invent various contrivances
for the special benefit of the "graybacks." I have seen them work for
hours to mold a bullet of such form as would make a particularly ugly
sound, and then fire it across with a double charge of powder. But the
favorite amusement was shooting iron ramrods. These could be picked up
by hundreds over the battle-ground of the previous days, and, with a
little careful fixing, could be made to fly with considerable accuracy.
They were thought to have peculiar penetrating power, if they could be
made to strike a picket pit with the sharp end. As they would send such
an unusual missile whizzing through the air, they would laugh and
chuckle over the anticipated consternation it would cause. One result
often prophesied was that they would "string" a goodly number of the
enemy on the ramrod. Whether such direful results were ever produced, we
had no means of knowing.
Colonel Carle, of the One Hundred and Ninety-first, then in command of
the brigade, had his headquarters in the woods about a hundred yards in
the rear of the line. Here we were exposed to shells and stray
rifle-balls, which occasionally reached us. The only damage inflicted
was the loss of a quart of coffee, which was overturned by a fragment of
shell striking in our fire while we were preparing dinner. About the
same time one man was wounded at division headquarters, a few rods to
our right.
It is remarkable how indifferent men become to danger under such
circumstances. While myself and another soldier were engaged in washing
some clothes one day, at a little stream to the right of this place, a
bullet passed within a foot of our heads. The only effect was to turn
our conversation to the subject of the range of rifles. It would
naturally be supposed that, under such constant danger of death or
wounds, men would be in continual dread of what _might_ happen. As a
rule, it is quite otherwise. Feelings of dread and uneasiness gradually
give way to a sense of comparative security.
Coming under fire for the first time, a man usually feels as if he were
about as large as a good-sized barn, and consequently very likely to
take in all the balls, shells, grape, and canister, and such odds and
ends, coming in his direction. After a while he begins to realize that
he is not so large, after all, and frequent and continued experience
confirms him in the view. That which unnerves the recruit is not alone
the fear of injury or death to himself, but also the very nature of the
terrible tragedy about to be enacted. He takes his place in line of
battle as they are forming for a charge, knowing that hundreds of men
who now stand with him there in the full flush of life and health and
the hopefulness of vigorous manhood, in one hour will lie dead in their
blood, or be racked with the agony of shattered limbs or torn flesh.
What man of ordinary humanity can be unmoved by such surroundings? No
man should regard war otherwise than with the utmost horror, nor
sanction it except as an awful, inevitable necessity. Some such feeling
as this is in the breast of most men on the eve of battle, modified
somewhat by the fact that the stern necessity is present. The difference
between a recruit and a veteran is, mainly, that the latter has learned
to command, perhaps to ignore, such feelings.
For my own part, I can remember few occasions when such thoughts did not
oppress me during the waiting which is frequently incident to the
opening of an engagement. These thoughts soon vanish amid the noise and
excitement of battle.
You may ask whether soldiers feel any scruples as to shedding blood. I
answer, first and in general, kill is the game. You know it, and prefer
that the killing should be confined as much as possible to the parties
over yonder. If this seems to you to be a cold-blooded way of looking at
things, please remember I am not representing the ideal, but the real.
Again, suppose the bullets are coming thick and fast from the woods
over yonder, you soon discover that the only way to stop them is to send
in your own as close as possible.
In firing, we always took aim, though often we could not see the enemy
on account of trees or brush in which they were concealed. In such case
we took aim at the point where they were supposed to be, guided by the
smoke, a glimpse of a battle-flag, or the glitter of a gun here and
there. The men were sometimes ordered to keep up a fire when not an
enemy could be seen. The One Hundred and Ninetieth was generally sent on
the skirmish line. The men always preferred this, and did not like it if
this place was given to another regiment. Those who were not accustomed
to skirmishing dreaded it. On the other hand, our boys were uneasy if
placed in line of battle. As a matter of course, the skirmishers took
aim in fighting. It was not seldom a question of marksmanship between
two men, each the other's target. We took advantage of every thing
possible in the way of "cover," the main point being to go ahead, stir
up every thing in front, develop the enemy's position, drive in his
skirmishers. A line of skirmishers is always thrown forward when the
presence of an enemy is suspected. They will soon discover what is in
front. Advancing at a distance of five paces apart, the loss is not so
great as if a regular line were advanced in the same manner. In the
Summer of 1864 the One Hundred and Ninetieth was armed with the Spencer
rifle, an eight-shooter, and well adapted to work on the skirmish line.