CHAPTER VIII.

IN A BIG FIGHT WITH HANCOCK’S VETERANS.

The next morning we were awakened by the booming of cannon and clash of musketry. As we got up off the ground we could see smoke curling up from the tops of the trees on a hillside a mile or more to the south of us. We were foot-sore and covered with dust from our big march of the previous day, and few of us had any water in our canteens. Before we had time to find any or make coffee we got the command “fall in” and were soon advancing toward the firing line.

On every hand there were evidences of the terrific fighting that had been going on for several days. The fields were strewn with clothing, knapsacks, canteens, muskets, dead horses and broken artillery caissons, and the trees were riddled with bullets, shot and shell. The dead had been buried but with such haste that in many places the bodies were scarcely covered. One time as we came to a halt I was horrified to see a human hand protruding from the earth near my foot.

We had not gone far before we began to meet the wounded, some able to walk, while others were borne on stretchers and blankets. It surely began to look like real warfare. Our men grew silent and their faces took on a serious expression. We knew that our time had come and that the regiment with its full ranks was to strengthen the thin line in front.

On our march the day before there had been much discussion among the musicians as to what we would do in case of a battle. No instructions had been given us and we had rather come to the conclusion among ourselves that when we got to close quarters we would drop out and keep as much out of range as possible.

Our anxiety about the part we were to take in the conflict increased as we approached the front. Occasionally some of the boys would suggest to Harry Marshall, our drum major, that it was about time for us to fall out. There was “no use of us going up to get shot at when we had nothing to shoot back with.”

Finally when we paused for a few moments Harry approached the colonel and, saluting, asked if there was any use of us needlessly exposing ourselves.

“Needless exposure,” yelled the colonel. “What in ---- did you enlist for? Your place is with the regiment and I’ll see that you are instructed as to your duties.” And, turning to our surgeon, he said: “Major, I want you to take charge of the musicians and in case of a fight see that the young rascals do their duty.”

I have always thought that but for this incident we should have seen less of the front line than we did that summer.

Dr. Payne, our surgeon, was a fine fellow and he had seen much service before being assigned to our regiment. He immediately told us to fall out to one side and proceeded to tear up some red flannel in small strips which he tied around our right arms, explaining that this was a badge the enemy would respect when we were caring for the wounded.

While the doctor was fixing us up our regiment marched by and there is nothing in all my war memories that made a deeper impression on me than that scene.

I see them now as I saw them on that bright May morning--father, friends, comrades, marching with steady step, shoulder to shoulder, on to meet the foe in mortal encounter.

We followed in the rear of the regiment and were halted just under the brow of a hill, where we stood in line nearly two hours. Bullets clipped small branches from the trees and shells went swishing through the air over our heads. A couple burst in front of us and an occasional solid shot would go rolling down the hill.

Probably there is no more trying situation for troops to be placed in than to be held as a reserve during a battle. The tension on one’s nerves is something awful. If one is going to be shot it is something of a satisfaction to be able to return the compliment.

While the regiment was in line a few of us hunted up a spring and carried water to our friends who could not leave the ranks. One of the few times that I remember seeing tears in my father’s eyes was when I handed him a canteen full of water that morning.

The fighting in our front ceased about ten o’clock and we were moved about two miles to the left. In the afternoon we settled down in some woods and were permitted to take the rest we so much needed, and the next morning we were a jolly lot as we sipped our coffee and nibbled hardtack.

Some of the men grumbled, however, because we did not get a chance to take a hand in the affair of the day before.

The forces of Grant and Lee, numbering some 200,000, had been hammering away at each other for about ten days and the carnage had been great, but the forenoon of the day in mind was as quiet and peaceful as if there was not an armed man within ten miles.

It was but the calm before a storm, and scores of our regiment who were so full of life and hope that bright May morning were weltering in their blood before sundown.

About two o’clock in the afternoon an orderly with foam-covered horse rode up to our colonel and handed him a message. The men noticed that the color came to the officer’s face and they held their breath for the command that they knew was coming.

Gracey, our little Swiss bugler, who was selected by Gen. Hancock a few weeks later to sound the charge for the Second Corps at Cold Harbor because his bugle could be heard farther than any other, blew a blast on his silver trumpet that brought every man to his feet and in less than five minutes the Second Heavy were standing in line at “attention.”

The colonel rode out in front of the regiment and said “men of the Second New York, the time has come when you will have an opportunity to show your mettle. Keep together; don’t let your lines be broken; keep cool; obey orders and you will be all right.”

The men started a cheer for the colonel, but he motioned silence. Then came the command “Fours right, march!”

We soon came to a nice smooth road which ran through the woods and then we got orders to “double quick.”

Then we heard heavy musketry firing which increased in volume continually and we thought the whole rebel army were taking a hand in.

The boys in the ranks made sundry comments as we rushed along, such as “Guess we’ll get initiated this afternoon.”

“Wouldn’t you like to be back in the forts now?” “Keep step there, Jimmy.” Jimmy West was a little Irishman who could never keep step.

When we emerged from the woods into a large open field we could see a long line of battle on a hillside probably half a mile away.

Our regiment was quickly formed in column by battalions, our colors unfurled, and as we double quicked across that field 1,500 strong, with perfect alignment as if it were a review, it was thrilling, inspiring and to have been there was to have the scene fixed in one’s memory forever. Other regiments besides our own were hurrying to the front. Batteries of artillery went by with the horses on the gallop and the drivers lashing them just as you have seen them in pictures.

Generals’ aides and orderlies rode like mad to and fro directing the troops to positions, for Gen. Ewell had broken through the Union lines in a desperate effort to turn the right flank of Grant’s army.

THE PAGEANTRY OF WAR.

War certainly has its fascinations as well as its horrors, and there is an enchantment that thrills in the movements of large bodies of soldiery with their bayonets glistening in the sun, the flags and guidons flying, the trumpets of the cavalry ringing piercingly and thrillingly, the field batteries rattling and rumbling along the road, with a score or more of bands playing. Nothing can make so striking or enchanting a picture. Artists can portray such a scene on canvas, but they cannot make you feel the thrill you experience when you are an active participant, touching elbows and keeping step with a thousand comrades whose hearts are young and gay.

An officer rode up to our colonel and gave him instructions to report to Gen. Tyler off to the right of the open field. We were assigned a position behind a low stone fence, where we waited for about fifteen minutes. While lying there the order was given to “fix bayonets.” If you have “been there” yourself you know all about it. If not, let me tell you in all sincerity that the clicking of the cold steel will make an impression on one that will send the chills down his spine every time he thinks of it in after years.

HORRIBLY SUGGESTIVE.

From our position behind the wall we could not see the fighting, but the din of the battle came rolling and crashing to us through the woods and the wounded from the front line kept coming to the rear, covered with blood and the smoke of battle.

The sight wasn’t pleasant, and moreover it was an object lesson that was horribly suggestive. The affair was getting too serious for much joking by the merrymakers in the ranks. The men were silent, but I know that they were doing a heap of thinking.

The orders to go forward did not come any too soon, for the suspense of waiting is ten times more trying to a man’s nerves than to charge the enemy’s lines.

We moved across another open field, where a Jefferson county battery (“C” of the 1st Artillery) was in position and shelling a piece of woods.

Gen. Tyler ordered our colonel to detail two companies to support the battery and our company was one of them. I had to go with the regiment, and my father stay with his company. There was not much time for leave-taking. The father drew his boy to his side, pushed his cap back, pressed his lips to his forehead. Neither spoke. It was not necessary. Each knew the other’s thoughts.

Capt. Smith, whose heart was tender as that of any woman,--“The tenderest are the bravest”--patted the drummer boy of Co. H on his shoulder as they parted and when a few feet had separated them called to him “good-bye,” and waved his sword in what might be the last farewell.

Our regiment took an advanced position to the left of the battery where we were ordered to lie down and the men loaded their rifles. “Begins to look like business, boys,” remarked Dave Russell. Little puffs of dust were kicked up here and there as the rebel bullets struck the ground in our front.

Soon they came nearer and finally began to go over our heads with a “zz-p-” or a “c-s-ss-s-” which indicated that the Confederates were crowding back the Union lines. “This ain’t a fair show,” observed one of the boys. “Let us lay here and get plugged full of lead and never see a reb or get a chance to shoot one.”

The surgeon ordered us to leave our knapsacks, drums, etc., in the yard of a house near by, and I will mention now that up to this time we have never seen that house again.

About the time we had got ourselves in fighting trim Gracey’s bugle sounded “forward,” and our regiment went across the field on a run and into the pine woods, the artillery behind us throwing shell over our heads. The woods were full of flying missiles and the first the Second New York knew they got a volley of musketry from the flank and rear. Investigation revealed the fact that the troops who had fired the volley were the Seventh New York. The woods were so dense and full of smoke that it was hard to discern a body of troops a short distance away. The enemy could only be located by the flash of their guns.

Our colonel was ordered by Gen. Tyler to hold a slight elevation near a ravine. Our lines were spread out and the men ordered to lie down.

“Steady, men, and don’t shoot too high,” sang out Col. Whistler. “Better order them rear rank fellows to aim higher or they’ll blow our brains out,” says one of the front rank men.

“Shut up; no talking in the ranks!” commanded Adjutant Corwin. All of this time men were getting hit by the rebel bullets. “Bill Wright’s killed,” someone said, and the news was passed along the line.

“If I was in command of this regiment I’d order a charge on the Johnnies and I’d drive them or git licked in the attempt,” said big Dave Russell.

One of the saddest sights of the day was to see the major of the First Massachusetts as he rode back through our lines with a bullet wound in his forehead and the blood streaming all over him, and he hardly able to hang on to his horse. He died a few moments later.

This regiment had about 350 casualties in the fight. Over one-third of that number were killed outright.

The contortions of one of our drum corps boys who was badly demoralized by the flying bullets, was so ludicrous that I should have laughed if I had been killed for it the next minute. Every time one of those “z-z-ping” minies came near him he would leap in the air and then fall flat on the ground.

Was I frightened? Hold your head down so that I can whisper in your ear and I will admit in strict confidence that I was never so scared in all my life. But I felt somewhat as one of our boys expressed it when he said: “By the great horn spoons, they’ll never know I’m afraid if I can help it.”

While we were lying there one of the old Pennsylvania Buck Tail regiments of the Fifth Corps passed over us to do some skirmish work. There were several of these regiments and they were famous fighters. The men all wore a buck’s tail on their caps.

Late in the afternoon our regiment took part in a charge and had to go over a rail fence. Our colonel tried to have his horse jump the fence but he would not do it until one of the men took a couple of rails off the top, and then he went over. Down in a ravine he got stopped again with a vine that caught him across the breast. Col. Whistler swore like a trooper and put the spurs to him, but the vine was too strong and men had to trample it to the ground. Col. Whistler elevated himself several degrees in the estimation of his men that day by going into the battle mounted. He had been a martinet when in camp, and was of a peppery disposition. But his conduct at Spottsylvania commanded the respect of all. “I tell you,” said one of the boys, “Jeremiah N. G. Whistler is an old fighting cock.” “He can’t forget his tactics, though,” said another. “Do you mind that when we got up to make that dash through the ravine we did not get the command ‘forward’ until he had dressed us to the right.”

The fighting continued until well into the night and when the report of the last gun died out the troops laid down on their arms until morning.

The surgeons and their helpers worked all night removing the wounded. We carried them out of the woods in blankets.

In the rear of our division there were three amputating tables with deep trenches dug at the foot. In the morning those trenches were full of amputated limbs, hands and fingers, and the piles above the ground were as high as the tables. The confederate forces withdrew from our front in the night, leaving their dead on the field, which were buried by our men as they laid away their comrades.

The clash of arms in which we had had a part was no small affair. Probably more than 40,000 men on each side had taken part in the battle, but the country was so uneven and densely wooded that a participant saw but little of what was going on outside of his own regiment. In fact in almost every engagement the rank and file knew but little of the operations away from their immediate vicinity.

At our informal dress parade that night an order from Gen. Meade was read, complimenting the heavy artillery regiments for their soldierly conduct the previous day, and saying he would thereafter rely upon them as upon the tried veterans of the Second and Fifth Corps with whom we had fought our first great battle.

The day after a battle is always a sad one in a regiment. Men search for missing comrades and some are found cold in death who were full of life the day before. No jests are spoken. The terribleness of war has been forcibly impressed on all participants.

The surgeon said that our colonel praised the boys for their assistance in caring for the wounded, but part of us lost our drums, as after we followed the regiment into the woods the lines were shifted about so that we never again saw the house where we had left them. But drums were little used the next few months. Drills, inspections, dress parades, etc., gave place to marching, fighting, digging trenches and throwing up breastworks, for we were with Gen. Grant, who proposed to “fight it out on that line if it took all summer.”