Part 2

We recrossed the river, and started towards Richmond. After marching about two miles, we halted to draw rations, and the rations for the picket were left behind. The company commissary and myself were left to guard them. We remained until ten o'clock the next day, when we started in pursuit of our corps, they having twelve hours the start. We marched nearly all night, and on the second morning came up to the regiment just as they were starting out on a reconnoissance. I there got a pass to march in the rear, but to come to the regiment that night. Oh, how thankful I was to get a chance to rest my feet, for they were badly blistered and very sore. That morning, we had for breakfast fried chicken (one that we had captured on our march) and sweet potatoes. It was the best meal that I had while I was in the service. When we got a little rested, we started again in pursuit of the regiment, which we found without any difficulty. We had a good night's rest, but when morning came, we had to take the advance. We moved about two miles, skirmishing most of the way. Finally, we made a charge, and drove the enemy from the heights. There we rested a few moments, and charged again, but to no purpose; we could not drive them away from their works. The fighting was very hard; our loss was very heavy. We lost in that charge some of the best men of the regiment, and we mourned their loss as we would a brother. But owing to the hardness of our work that day, we were allowed to fall back, and rest for a few days, which we needed very much.

At this place, General Grant rode along the lines. The men's cheers were almost deafening. We were then near Shady Grove Church, but in a short time the move commenced for Coal Harbor. On account of a colonel in the Ninth Corps withdrawing his men before orders, we were left in a bad position, for the enemy were on three sides, and near enough for the shells to come among us from all directions. This was a critical position. But as darkness overspread the field of action, we had stopped their advance. In the morning, our lines were strengthened, and were ordered to charge. The enemy had fortified during the night. The Twenty-first Pennsylvania Cavalry, dismounted, here joined our brigade. They were a grand set of men, numbering eleven hundred; while our Thirty-second was now reduced to two hundred, and we had lost about five hundred. We formed under the enemy's musketry fire, after getting over our breastworks. Then the order to advance rang through the lines. On we went, until nearly out of breath, when we saw the enemy leaving their first line of works, and retreating behind their second; but their artillery made sad havoc in our lines. When we got to the breastworks, we opened fire on them before they could recover from the panic.

I beheld several vacant places in my company when I looked round. There was a man who fought almost by my side, who was shot, the ball passing through the jugular vein of the neck. He fell at my feet, and died in a few moments. We had four to bury belonging to Company E, and there were two mortally wounded.

The next morning, the enemy had left, and we started for Coal Harbor. At this place, we did not have much fighting to do, our duty being picket in the Chickahominy Swamps. Here I saw where General McClellan's men were stationed, the trees being marked with name, regiment, company, and depth of water. I should have thought more would have died than did, for the water was nearly waist-deep; and there the men had to stand, when they might have stood a few rods in the rear, and had dry ground to stand on. These swamps are a dismal place. The river at this point is so narrow that you can fell a tree across it, and then cross on the tree. It is very muddy and deep. The two picket-lines were friendly. We did not fire at each other, but often passed to the centre of the stream, and there traded coffee for tobacco and hard-bread for corn-meal. We tried all we could to get them to desert, and were often successful. A good many of them got tired of the war, and wished it would close. I did not blame them for that, for their cause looked dark, and there was not much probability of success. Still, they thought we could not take Richmond. After doing picket-duty a few days, we were ordered to cross the river, and move toward White Oak Swamps, and destroy the bridge there. We were in support of the cavalry, which went and did the work; it took all day.

We started on another flank movement towards the James River. It was a hard march, all day and part of the night, not leaving us much time to rest. When we arrived there, we pitched our tents in a wheat-field, and commenced gathering wheat for bread. The guard were stationed about half a mile in advance of the camp, under the command of the major of the Twenty-first Pennsylvania Cavalry. We arrived on the line after dark. In the morning, he ordered an advance of fifty rods, which brought us into the woods. We hurried and got our breakfast, for we saw that the major wanted to show his authority, and we expected another move; and so it was, for in the course of an hour, he ordered an advance of a mile and a half in line. The men were stationed five paces apart. The advance commenced, but we had not gone more than half the distance, before the line was broken, and it was noon before it was formed again. We made some raids; I got for my share two nice salt shad and a small bag of corn-meal. Thus wore away the day. Late in the afternoon, we returned to the old line, were relieved, and went to our camp for the night. The next morning, we crossed the James River. At what point we landed I never knew; our brigade was among the first that crossed. At last, the lines were ordered forward, although it was four o'clock in the afternoon. The sun was pouring down its intolerable heat, and it did not seem as though man or beast could live. There was no air in motion; but we must go, or die in the attempt. We marched from four o'clock until about seven without halting, when the doctor rode ahead of the column and directed a halt. The orders then came that we should stop five minutes every hour, and that every man should keep in his place who possibly could, for we were to be at Petersburg at two o'clock that night, a distance of twenty miles. We could, at this time, plainly hear the sound of the cannon. On we went, our road being lighted by the burning of the houses on the way, not one of which was left, for miles. At twelve o'clock, we halted for refreshments and rest, within two miles of our destination. Here the roll was called, and the officers were ordered to see that none fell out; and when we arrived at our destination, the roll was called again. This was what we called a forced march. One member of Company E (although I am sorry to say it) was in the habit of falling out to keep out of battles, and on this march he tried his luck, but was picked up by the cavalry provost-guard which followed in the rear. They marched him to the front, where he was compelled to fight, while we rested for a day. We then advanced, and passing the outer works of Petersburg, beheld scenes too horrible for description. The ground was thickly strewn with the dead and dying, showing what havoc had been made in their lines. Driven from their works, they rallied and tried to retake them, which they could not do. Their loss must have been more than ours at this place of action. We marched on for a short distance, then forming our lines, awaited orders. In about an hour, they came; and we moved into a wheat-field and charged the enemy's lines, driving in their pickets, and capturing the Norfolk and Petersburg Railroads.

TWO KINDS OF OFFICERS.

Here we lost our colonel, an officer we all loved for his bravery and for his kindness to his men. We thought more of him than of all the rest of the officers in the regiment. He was a man beloved by all at home, and was willing to fare as his men did. There was a great difference between Colonel Prescott (for that was his name) and another Federal officer who would ride his horse over the men, when they got tired and exhausted on the march, even if they had a pass to march in the rear. And then, look at a certain captain who left us at Spottsylvania under the pretence of being sick; but the sound of the battle is what made him sick; for he was a coward, in my opinion. He never returned to the regiment again. The next we heard of him, he was boarding in Washington, and then in New York State, in good health.

Company E was commanded by the orderly sergeant the most of the time. Occasionally, there would be a lieutenant detailed to take command, but would soon be relieved by wounds. The company as well as the whole regiment suffered great loss after taking the Norfolk and Petersburg Railroad. We were relieved and arranged for another charge; this time, to take a ravine running lengthwise of our lines, that the enemy had possession of. We formed on the railroad behind its high banks, cutting steps so that we could climb up; and then the order was given to forward. "Forward! forward!" rang through the lines, and with deafening veils we went on. The ravine was cleared, and we had possession of it. But our day's work was not yet done, for we immediately formed for another charge; this time with fixed bayonets and for their main works. When all was in readiness, the orders again rang through the lines, and we were in motion. On, on, we went, their shot making sad havock in our lines; but still we kept on, until the Twenty-first Pennsylvania Cavalry, dismounted, broke, and fell in our rear for us to protect them. What a shame it was, for, in a few moments more, the works would have been ours. The enemy had commenced to retreat, and were drawing away their artillery, when they noticed the break in our lines. But we rallied, and held our lines until late in the night; when we were relieved, and moved off to the left, and stopped to rest. Fatigue, hardships, and sickness had worn me down, but I would not ask to go to the hospital, for I would rather be with the company as long as possible. I think this was the eighteenth of June, 1864. We did not move out of range of the enemy's fire; and there was a good many wounded without being able to do anything to prevent the fire. I was hit four times during the day with spent-balls. This was the twentieth or the twenty-first of June, 1864.

SEVERE FIGHTING--WOUNDED.

We again moved to the left, and halted in the woods, where we remained until the afternoon of the twenty-second, when we were again called into action, the enemy having succeeded in breaking the lines between the Second and Ninth Corps. We were hurried on to death or victory. We succeeded in stopping them, when we were ordered to another point still farther to the left, where the enemy were concentrating their men for another break. We moved by the left flank, which brought the dismounted Twenty-first Pennsylvania Cavalry ahead. The artillery-fire here was the worst I had seen. The air seemed to be full of the deadly missiles. It was almost impossible for a man to stand for a moment. But through this fire we must pass. We started as fast as we could run; but when we had got into the heaviest of the fire, we found, to our horror, that the dismounted Twenty-first Pennsylvania Cavalry had become frightened and lain down. We could not pass them, and so were obliged to stand under the awful shelling until they could be got out of the way.

At this place, I lost my arm,--a place never to be forgotten. Here Fort Hell was built. As we were standing there, a shell came through one man, and then exploded, taking my right arm off, and killing four of my comrades, making five lives destroyed and one wounded. I never expected to get home, or even off of the field, but I was bound to do all I could. When the shell hit me, it took part of my arm off, and I never saw the hand afterward. I was at this time one mile from any surgical assistance, and walked that distance, while the blood was fast leaving me, notwithstanding I had bandaged the arm as tight as possible. Only by the assistance of kind friends did I reach the ambulance. The surgeon examined my arm, and could then do nothing more than to cord it again, and give me morphine. I was so weak as to be unable to walk or hardly stand. I got into the ambulance to go to the Division Hospital, which was seven miles distant over rough roads. It was eight o'clock in the evening when I arrived at this hospital. I had for a bed, a straw bedtick spread on the ground (but no straw in it), and no pillow to put under my head. I had not long to wait before the surgeon came along; and, at my earnest request, I was taken to the amputating-room, and placed on the table. This is the last that I remember until after my arm was amputated. After I had fully come to my senses, I was conducted back to my bed on the ground, and there I remained during the night with my bloody clothes on.

What a long and sleepless night, with no one to console or comfort me. My thoughts ran back to the happy days I had spent at home, and to the loved ones I had left behind. I never expected to behold them again; But morning came at last, and the bombardment around Petersburg was renewed. We could hear the firing distinctly. How often I thought of my poor soldier friends that were still remaining in the regiment on the morning of the twenty-second of June, 1864. We could only muster ninety guns; how many were wounded on that day, I never knew. At about ten o'clock on the day of the twenty-third, one of my company came in and saw me lying there with my bloody clothes on. He brought a pail of water, and washed off the blood which had dried on very hard; he also got me some clean clothes; and I felt some relieved after getting cleaned up, but I had no appetite to eat anything. All I could do was to lay there and think of home, and think how they would feel when they came to know of my misfortune,--to hear that I was crippled for life. These were the thoughts that passed through my mind, as I lay on the ground at the hospital. I was cared for as well as I could be in such a place; but it was different from being at home, with a dear mother or wife to care for one. But I was not destined to remain at this hospital long, for on the twenty-fourth, we were sent to City Point. I thought I should be nearer home, so I was anxious to go; but when I found I must go in an army wagon, my heart failed me. I had seen men with nothing but flesh-wounds get into the ambulances, and I in an army-wagon; but this was my lot; and I had to stand it, or die. The roads were very rough, and we were a long time in going seven miles. How glad I was when I got to the end of my journey. There I met one of my company that was slightly wounded. He met me at the wagon, and helped me out, and I was placed in the ward with him. The scenes at City Point are beyond description. The dead were being carried out at all hours of the day, and I expected to go in a short time. The heat was awful. I remained a few days, and then went to Washington. The very thought of City Point is enough to make one sick; it was the worst place I ever saw; thousands of men lay mangled in every form. The sight was too horrible for description. When I was informed that I was to go to Washington, my heart beat with joy, for I knew that I should be near my friends who were living there. While I remained at City Point, I wrote to all my friends at home, for I never expected to come home again. We were treated well, and had all the comforts that could be expected. Never but once while at City Point did I have occasion to find fault with my treatment; and then the nurse would not dress my arm, which was fly-blown, and the worms began to work into the amputation. This was more than horrid. I reported the nurse to the ward-master, and for my reply was told to mind my own business, which I thought I would do by reporting him to the sergeant; but the ward-master was anxious to buy me off, when he found that the surgeon belonged to my regiment. From that time, to the time I left City Point, I had good care; and I think that he did all that he could to get me away, and was also glad when I was gone. When I was asked if I could walk to the boat, my reply was that I could. I was told to be in readiness at ten o'clock. I had not attempted to walk at all; but, with the aid of my comrade, I managed to get to the boat. I hated to part with a friend so dear as he had proved to me; but we bade each other farewell, and parted. At about noon, the boat started down the river; I was not able to sit up, so I could not see the landscape down the James River. I rested better on the boat than I had done since I lost my arm. We halted at Fortress Monroe a short time, and then moved toward the Potomac River; and ascending that, we arrived at Washington between eight and nine o'clock in the evening of the twenty-seventh of June.

After remaining at Washington a few moments, we crossed the river to Alexandria; there the ambulance took us and carried us to Slough Barracks (a portion of the Third Division Hospital), a distance of one mile. This hospital is situated about one mile from Alexandria, on the Orange and Alexandria Railroad, and also near Leesburg pike-road. Fort Ellsworth stands on the right, and Fort Lyon on the left. Thus they were strongly fortified. It was very pleasant around this place; the ground was kept neat and clean, and everything was neat about the building and tents. We were treated kindly; and as I gained strength, I would go to walk every morning. This, I think, did me more good than anything else. I sent word to my uncle that I was there, and they received the word Saturday night, and came Sunday to see me. How glad I was to see them, they being the first friends I had seen since I left home. I began now to long to come home. I little thought how tiresome it was to ride; but the surgeon knew better than to let me go. I had by this time become acquainted with the assistant-surgeon of the Third Division Hospital, Dr. Elliott. I thought everything of him, as a man and as a doctor. I was finally taken with the jaundice, which, but for the friendship of a young widow lady, would probably have caused my death. She was very kind in bringing me everything that she thought would do me good. She was from Ohio, and came there in company with her husband. He entered the army; and she, with two children, were left behind. He was mortally wounded at the battle of the Wilderness, but lived until he arrived at Washington. He sent for his wife, but died a few hours before she reached there. I was one week so sick, that my life was despaired of; but with good care, I began to improve, and it was not long before I was able to go round the hospital and call on my soldier comrades. For a morning walk, I would go through the whole hospital, and say and do what I could to cheer the men up. When I was able to go out, my strength gained rapidly. Here I remained from the twenty-eighth of June until the twenty-sixth of August, when I was discharged. During the time that I remained at the hospital, I visited my uncle on Monson Hill, and had a good time and plenty of fruit.

The kindest people I ever met in the South, were the Quakers. They would call and see the inmates of the hospital, and bring them berries, peaches, custards, and, in fact, everything that the men needed. I was sorry to leave the hospital, for I had found some friends that were friends indeed. Reports were in circulation at home at the time, that I was wounded, and had died from the effects of my wounds. I had written, but the letters did not reach my friends. On the twenty-sixth day of August, I bade farewell to the hospital, never expecting to return. But at Washington, I found that my papers were not made out right, and I must go back to get them rectified. When this was done, I returned to Washington, remained there three days, and then started for home. After riding all night and until four o'clock the next day, I arrived in Hartford, Ct., where I met my wife, and remained there until the next morning, when we started for Springfield. This was the first day of September, 1864, having been away eleven months and eighteen days. I worked as watchman at the Water-shops in Springfield, Mass., until the spring of 1865, when I was obliged to resign the position on account of the law made by Congress, depriving me of my pension, if employed by the Government.

While I was in the army, I endeavored to do my duty as became a soldier, always trying to do as I was ordered, and doing my whole duty. I was sorry that I could not remain with my regiment. I have fought and suffered for my country; and thank God that the war has closed, and peace once more reigns through the land; and should war again break out, I would willingly sacrifice my other arm, or life, if need be, to sustain our liberty and independence.

In conclusion, I must say, that I am glad to see so many that are mindful of the invalid soldier, and appear to realize what he has sacrificed for their benefit as well as his own; but, on the other hand, there are a large number that have made themselves independently rich out of this war, that would see the soldiers starve before they would lend a helping hand. I have often had it said to me, "You draw a pension." My reply is, "I do; but what are fifteen dollars a month toward supporting a man and wife?" It is something, to be sure. We are thankful that it is so large. We all feel as though the Government was doing all it could for the benefit of its soldiers that have been crippled in its defence. Long may the Stars and Stripes wave "O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave."

PRATT BROTHERS, Book and Job Printers, 37 Cornhill, Boston.

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Transcriber's Note:

Page 27, "o'colck" changed to "o'clock" (about ten o'clock on the)