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Title: In The Ranks - From the Wilderness to Appomattox Court House
Author: McBride, R. E.
Language: English
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Copyright Status: Not copyrighted in the United States. If you live elsewhere check the laws of your country before downloading this ebook. See comments about copyright issues at end of book.

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Internet Archive/American Libraries.)



[Illustration: R. E. McBRIDE.]



  IN THE RANKS:

  FROM THE

  WILDERNESS TO APPOMATTOX COURT-HOUSE.



  THE WAR,
  AS SEEN AND EXPERIENCED BY A PRIVATE SOLDIER IN THE
  ARMY OF THE POTOMAC.



  BY REV. R. E. M'BRIDE.



  A tale of the times of old. The deeds of days of other years.
  --OSSIAN.



  CINCINNATI:
  PRINTED BY WALDEN & STOWE,
  FOR THE AUTHOR.
  1881



  Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1881, by

  R. E. M'BRIDE,

  In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.



PREFACE.


In giving this book to the public we do so under the same plea which
justifies those pleasant gatherings called "reunions," where men of the
same regiment, corps, or army, meet to extend friendly greetings to each
other, to friends, and all comrades in arms.

The writer has found it a pleasant task to recall the scenes of fifteen
years ago, when, a mere boy in years, he had a part in the events here
recorded. He is conscious of a kindly affection toward the men who were
his companions during those stirring times. Kindness, thoughtfulness,
forbearance, toward the boy-soldier, are not forgotten. If he found any
thing different from these in his intercourse with men or officers, it
has passed from memory, and he would not recall it if he could.

We trust, also, that this work may have a mission of utility to the
generation that has grown up since the war.

There is a certain almost indefinable something, which has been summed
up under the expression, "military traditions." This comes not alone
from formal histories of the wars of the nation, but more largely from
the history which each soldier carried home with him after the war was
over. It meant something more than a certain amount of small family
vanity, when men used to say, "My father was a soldier of the
Revolution;" "My father fought at Lundy's Lane."

There lay back of this the stories told to wondering little ones while
they gathered around the arm-chair of the soldier grandfather. Here were
planted the seeds of military ardor that found expression at Gettysburg,
Vicksburg, Atlanta, and the Wilderness. It is thus the past of the
nation projects itself into the present. Our comrades that sleep down
yonder guard their country more effectually than if, full armed, they
kept unceasing watch on all her borders. Though dead, they yet
speak,--yes _live_, in the spirit which yet lives in the hearts of their
countrymen. The cause they died for our children will love; the
institutions they preserved at such cost, our sons will perpetuate by
intelligent devotion to freedom and her laws.

Is it in vain, then, my comrade, that I sit down in your family circle,
and tell your children the story of our hardships, trials, reverses,
victories?

This narrative is submitted to you almost as first written, when
intended only for the perusal of my own family. In recounting events
subsequent to August 19, 1864, when the One Hundred and Ninetieth is
spoken of, the One Hundred and Ninety-first is also included, as they
were practically one.

Since completing the work, the author has learned that the report of the
Adjutant-general of Pennsylvania gives these regiments, the One Hundred
and Ninetieth and One Hundred and Ninety-first, no credit for service
subsequent to the battle of Welden Railroad, in August, 1864. We give
an explanation of this in the closing chapter, and send forth this
volume, hoping that it may serve, in some measure, to do justice to as
devoted a body of men as Pennsylvania sent to the field.

SENECA, KANSAS, March, 1881.



CONTENTS.


   PAGE.

  Alexander, John, 25

  Appomattox Battle, 215

  Amusements, 93, 158


  Bethsaida Church, 66

  Birkman, Capt., 72, 118

  Boggs, Lieut., 35

  Baiers, Lieut., 21


  Carle, Col., 94, 100, 225

  Coleman, Mike, 26, 68, 172, 182

  Coleman, Sergt., 47, 72

  Culp, Eckard, 68

  Craig, Wm., 39


  Delo, Chaplain, 59

  Dodds, Jasper, 21

  Dunn, Geo., 134

  Dillinger, 121


  Eshelman, Abe, 26, 85

  Elliot, John, 28

  Execution, 133

  Edgar, John, 170


  Fort Federal Hill, 112

  Fort Steadman, 162

  Five Forks Battle, 188


  Gaines' Mill Battle, 20

  Ginter, 217

  Ghosts, 49

  Graham, Daniel, 60

  Gravelly Run Battle, 172

  Grossman, Louis, 40


  Harris, Wm., 135

  Hatcher's Run Battle, 148

  Hartshorn, 73

  Hayden, Lieut., 73, 221

  Hop, 135


  Jones, Capt., 31


  Kinsey, Capt., 73, 120

  Kenedy, W. H. H., 224


  M'Cullough, M. F., 31

  M'Guire, J., 135

  Miller, Ed., 182

  Moreland, C. L., 63, 100

  Mortars, 88

  Mushrush, Benj., 27


  North Ann River Battle, 62


  Overdoff, 120


  Petersburg, 85

  Pattee, Col., 73, 85, 118, 179, 219

  Peacock, Lieut., 118

  Preston, Geo., 121


  Quaker Road Battle, 171


  Robbins, 215

  Rowanty Creek Battle, 148

  Running the Gauntlet, 90

  Rutter, Wm., 85

  Ramrods, 93


  Stanley, John, 31, 69

  Stewart, Joe, 25

  Stewart, Capt., 22

  Steen, David, 33

  Shaffer, J., 68

  Spotsylvania, 37


  Walb, L. C., 204

  Welden Railroad, 118

  Welden Raid, 124

  White, Allen, 31

  White Oak Swamp Battle, 75

  Wilderness Battle, 30

  Woods, O'Harra, 22

  Wright, Ernest, 218

  Whisky, 140



INTRODUCTION.


I have long purposed the following work, designing to put in a form
somewhat permanent my recollections of experiences in the great war,
believing it may be a source of satisfaction to my children in later
years. Already many of those scenes begin to appear dim and dreamlike,
through the receding years, and many faces, once so clearly pictured in
memory as seen around the camp-fire, in the march, and on the field of
battle, have faded quite away. These things admonish me that what is
done must be done quickly.

In the following pages you will find the names of men otherwise unknown,
because their part in the great conflict was an humble one, yet none the
less grand and heroic. This is written during the brief and uncertain
intervals of leisure that may be caught up here and there amid the
pressing work of the pastorate. You will not, then, I trust, undervalue
it because of literary blemishes. It is _history_ as really as more
pretentious works. It is a specimen of the _minutiæ_ of history, a story
of the war as seen by a private in the ranks, not by one who, as a
favored spectator, could survey the movements of a whole army at a
glance, and hence could, _must_, individualize brigades, divisions, army
corps. It is the war in field, woods, underbrush, picket-post,
skirmish-line, camp, march, bivouac. During 1864 no memorandum was kept,
and a diary kept during the spring of 1865 was lost, within a year after
the close of the war. Hence I have depended on memory alone, aided in
fixing dates, etc., by reference to written works. Beyond this, the
histories consulted were of little assistance, as their record of events
sometimes differed materially from my recollection of them. In such
cases I tell my own story, as the object is to record these things as
they appeared to me.

In recording events of which I was not myself a witness, I give the
story as heard from the lips of comrades. Such portions are easily
discernible in the body of the narrative. You can have them for what
they are worth.

    "I can not tell how the truth may be,
    I tell the tale as 'twas told to me."



IN THE RANKS.



CHAPTER I.

"WAR!"


It is a little word. A child may pronounce it; but what word that ever
fell from human lips has a meaning full of such intensity of horror as
this little word? At its sound there rises up a grim vision of "confused
noise and garments rolled in blood." April 12, 1861, cannon fired by
traitor hands, boomed out over Charleston harbor. The dire sound that
shook the air that Spring morning did not die away in reverberating
echoes from sea to shore, from island to headland. It rolled on through
all the land, over mountain and valley, moaning in every home, at every
fireside, "War! War! War!"

Are we a civilized people? What is civilization? Is it possible to
eliminate the tiger from human nature? Who would have dreamed that the
men of the North, busy with plowing and sowing, planning, contriving,
inventing, could prove themselves on a hundred battle-fields a fiercely
warlike people? The world looked on with wonder as they rushed eagerly
into the conflict, pouring out their blood like water and their wealth
without measure, for a sentiment, a principle, that may be summed up in
the one word--"nationality." "The great uprising" was not the movement
of a blind, unreasoning impulse. A fire had been smoldering in the North
for years. The first cannon shot, that hurtled around the old flag as it
floated over the walls of Fort Sumter shook down the barriers that
confined it, and the free winds of liberty fanned it to a devouring
flame.

The Yankee--let the name be proudly spoken--as he turned the furrow,
stood by his work bench, or listened to the jarring clank of his
machinery, had mused with heavy heart and shame-flushed cheek how a
haughty, brutal, un-American spirit had drawn a line across the land,
and said, "Beyond this is _not_ your country. Here your free speech,
free labor, and free thought shall never come." While this line was
imaginary, he had waited for better days and larger thought to change
the current of the times; but when it was transformed into bristling
bayonets and frowning cannon, the tiger rose up within him, and with
unquestioning faith he took up the gauge of battle. Men talked of the
"cold blood of the North." That blood had surged impetuously through the
veins of warrior freemen for a hundred generations. Here in the New
World it had lost none of its vigor. The sturdy spirit that in other
years ruled the hand that wielded the battle-ax, still ruled, when the
hand was employed in subduing mountain and prairie. The North was averse
to war, because it was rising to that higher civilization that abhors
violence, discards brute methods, and relies on the intellectual and
moral. Such a people, driven to desperation, move right forward to the
accomplishment of their object with a scorn of cost or consequences
unknown to a lower type. Hence it is that the people of the North,
without hesitation, grappled with a rebellion the most formidable ever
successfully encountered by any government. For a like reason their
great armies, melting away like frost before the sun when the rebel flag
went down, mingled again with the people without jar or confusion.

Turning away from a half million graves, wherein they had buried their
slain, their bravest and best beloved, they forgot all bitterness for
joy that peace had come. No people in the world had greater reason for
severity than the victors in this strife. War, willful, unprovoked,
without the shadow of justification, had been thrust upon them. This had
been preceded by a series of usurpations the most unblushing ever
endured by a free people. These were a part of the plan of a band of
traitors, who had plotted for years to overthrow the existing order of
things, and establish an empire with human slavery for its chief
corner-stone.

The "Golden Circle," with its center at Havana, Cuba, its radii
extending to Pennsylvania on the North, the isthmus on the south, and
sweeping from shore to shore, was the bold dream of the men who plotted
the destruction of the American republic. Their object was pursued with
a cold-blooded disregard of all right, human and divine, worthy of the
pagan brutality of the Roman Triumvirate. Prating about the
"Constitution" with hypocritical cant, they trampled upon every
safeguard of popular liberty, and at last, in defiance of even the forms
of law, plunged the people of the Southern States into a war with the
government, which, even if successful in securing a separation, could
only have been the beginning of woes, as their plans would develop.

But notwithstanding the heinousness of the accomplished crime, not a man
was punished. It is doubtful whether popular opinion would have approved
the punishment of even the arch-traitor, Jeff Davis. The common
sentiment was expressed by the oft-repeated verdict: "Enough of blood
has been shed." Whether this was wise or not it is vain to inquire.
Perhaps the future will vindicate the wisdom of the generous course of
the government. Thus far it has seemed like folly. The South has shown a
persistent vindictiveness unequaled in the history of any people, a
cruelty toward the helpless victims of their hate that is shameful to
the last degree. The cowardly assassination of political opponents, the
brutal murder of black men, women, and children, has been defended
openly or covertly by pulpit, press, and platform. If any disapprove,
their voice is not heard in condemnation of the wrong.

This may have resulted partly from the fact that many of the people of
the North, notably many so-called statesmen, ignored common sense and
gave way to gush and sentiment. There is nothing gained in this prosy
world by calling black white. The leaders of the rebellion were guilty
of the horrible crime of _treason_, and we baptized it something else.
The result is manifest to all who are not willfully and wickedly blind
to the facts.

Yet it is the part of duty to hope for the speedy coming of an era of
calmer judgment, of real and healthy patriotism, when every American
citizen will claim our whole land as his _country_.



CHAPTER II.


When the civil war began, my home was with the family of Mr. John Dunn,
in Butler County, Pennsylvania. The old gentleman was a Democrat, and at
first had little to say about the war. One evening he returned from the
village in a state of intense excitement. He had heard of the disastrous
battle at Bull Run. It is no exaggeration to say that he "pranced"
around the room, chewing his tobacco with great vigor, telling how many
of our "poor boys" had been slaughtered by the ---- rebels. His apathy
was at an end. He could see where the line lay between treason and
patriotism, when once that line was traced in blood.

At this time two Butler County companies, C and D, of the Eleventh
Pennsylvania Reserve Volunteer Corps, were in camp near Pittsburg. The
corps was sent forward to Washington at once, and from that time till
the close of their term of service, they gallantly represented the
Keystone State in every battle fought by the Army of the Potomac. My
brother, Wm. A., was a private in Company C. He enlisted June 10, 1861,
and fell, with many other brave men, at the battle of Gaines' Mill, June
27, 1862.

From what I could learn from those who were present, the following are
the facts concerning the disaster which befell the regiment in this
engagement, and my brother's death:

Late in the afternoon of the 27th, the Eleventh moved forward to relieve
a New Jersey regiment, which had been fighting in a piece of woods near
the center of the line. The rebels came swarming against them, line
after line, but were continually driven back by the relentless volleys
that blazed out from the ranks of the Eleventh. Unfortunately, about the
time they became engaged, the line on either side of them was driven
back, and they were left to contend alone against terrible odds. Neither
men nor officers knew their real situation until men began to fall, from
volleys poured into them from the flanks. Major Johns went in the
direction from which the fire was coming, thinking that some of our own
troops were firing on them through mistake. He was made prisoner.
Adjutant M'Coy was ordered to report the condition of things to General
Mead. On reaching the open ground, he saw the battle flags of nine rebel
regiments on the flank and rear. He at once reported to the colonel.
Orders were given to fall back, the intention being to hew a way out
through the enemy. At this point my brother fell. Having just loaded his
gun as the command was given to move toward the rear, he paused to give
a parting shot. A bullet struck him in the face, penetrating the brain,
and he fell dead.

The regiment, hemmed in on every side by overwhelming numbers, with
one-fourth of their number killed or wounded, at last surrendered.
Company D lost eight men, killed, in this engagement, besides a number
mortally wounded or permanently disabled. Of the former was Jasper
Dodds, who was wounded in the knee by a rifle ball. After being removed
to Richmond, he wrote a cheerful letter to his mother and friends at
home, no doubt expecting to recover. He died July 18th. Jacob Baiers,
then sergeant, afterwards promoted to captain, was shot through the
lungs, and never wholly recovered. He continued in service, however,
until April, 1864. The regiment was exchanged in time to participate in
the second Bull Run battle, where again their loss was terrible. Seven
men of Company D were killed or mortally wounded. It is said that Jesse
Fry and Boss. M'Cullough were the only men of the company on their feet
and unhurt at the close of the battle. Scarcely were their ranks
somewhat filled up by returning convalescents, when the other great
battles followed. On every field they left their dead. "South Mountain,"
"Antietam," "Fredericksburg,"--these words you can see in the muster
roll, after that word which even yet chills the heart, "killed." Captain
Stewart was struck through the breast at Fredericksburg, and died in two
hours. Young O'Harra Woods was promoted for gallant conduct in this
battle. The honor was well bestowed and nobly borne. He fell at
Gettysburg, July 2, 1863, bravely leading his men in that great battle.
But why particularize; brave men all.

    "Theirs not to make reply,
    Theirs not to reason why,
    Theirs but to do and die."



CHAPTER III.


Butler County, famous for rocks, hills, buckwheat, psalm-singing, and
soap mines. Psalm singing? Yes. The sturdy Scotch-Irish that grew among
her hills, as a rule, would sing to the Lord with no other words than
those of the warrior king and the holy men of old. Have you heard their
solemn songs? I hear them to-night--it is not imagination, not "their
songs," but "our songs." A voice of singing floats down through the
years, very holy and very tender; for now all the singers are "evermore
before the throne," except two, whose infant lips could scarce pronounce
the words:

    "Lord, bless and pity us,
      Shine on us with thy face;
    That th' earth thy way, and nations all
      May know thy saving grace."

Yes, psalm-singing! But the soap mines? We protest! We have hunted
huckleberries on her hills; we have pursued the groundhog in her woods,
the 'coon around her cornfields; we have swum and fished in her
sparkling streams; from Dan to Beersheba we have worked, played, done
"many things we ought not to have done," and left undone many things it
was our duty to do; but we never saw a soap mine. We can testify before
all the world that the people of Butler County make their soap in the
usual innocent and odorous manner.

PROSPECT, Butler County, a dreamy village of the olden time.
The houses accommodate themselves to the cross-roads. One road stretches
from the county seat westward; the other from the "stone house" goes
winding along toward Pittsburg. The houses have also a contented, self
satisfied look; the stores and the tavern seem to consider themselves
permanent factors in the world's machinery. On a pleasant day an
"honorable" or two might be seen sunning themselves in front of store or
tavern, whittling, and adding dignity to the surroundings.

In this quiet village one chilly morning in December, 1863, the writer
mounted the stage-coach and went rattling over the frozen ground toward
Pittsburg, to enlist in the volunteer service. Just seventeen years ago
that very morning I had begun the business of life on rather limited
capital; and although it had been improved with considerable success,
yet the kindly prophecies, particularly of my copperhead friends, did
not portend a very lengthy nor brilliant military career. The next day I
made my way to the provost-marshal's office, and, after due examination,
was pronounced all right, and sworn into the service. If I lied about my
age, obliging memory has written it over with something else, and it is
gone from me. But I think Captain ----, of Prospect, did the lying; at
least let us hope that he has sufficiently repented of it long ere this.

I selected Company D, of the Eleventh Pennsylvania Regular Volunteer
Corps, and was assigned accordingly. The recruits were retained for some
time at Camp Copeland, then about the dreariest, most uncomfortable
place I ever saw; shelter and provisions insufficient, bad whisky and
blacklegs abundant. Joe Stewart, John Alexander, and myself tented
together here. They had enlisted for the One Hundredth Pennsylvania, the
"Roundheads." Joe was an old acquaintance. He served gallantly till the
close of the war. John was a noble boy and found a soldier's death at
Cold Harbor. After one of the fruitless charges made there, when the
Roundheads came back foiled of their purpose, John was not with them. In
the darkness of night which quickly closed around, Joe went out to
search for him. As he was picking his way stealthily among the dead and
dying, he heard a well known voice calling softly near by, "Joe, Joe, is
that you?" It was John, lying there, shot through the breast. He warned
his rescuer to be very cautious, as the rebel videttes were near. With
much difficulty he got him back to our lines. This was the night of June
2d, and he died on the 4th.

I left the latter part of January to join the regiment, then camped at
Bristoe Station, on the Orange and Alexandria Railroad. With me were two
recruits for Company E, Abe Eshelman and Mike Coleman. The former was
killed at Petersburg; the latter, a live Irishman, was mustered out at
the close of the war, after a year and a half of valiant service for his
adopted country. We went by Harrisburg, Baltimore, and Washington,
thence by the Orange and Alexandria road, every mile historic ground,
past Bull Run, where, the soldiers say, the dead would not stay buried,
and finally we alight at Bristoe Station. On the right over there are
the Bucktails; a little further toward the west the Second is camped.
Over the hill toward Brentsville, past the artillery camp, is the
Eleventh.

Here I found John Elliot, who had served with the regiment since its
organization. He, brother William, and myself had been boy companions
before the war, although I was younger than they. I went into the mess
with him, S. L. Parker, and Benjamin Mushrush. After being with them but
a short time, I was taken with that scourge of the army, measles, and
was removed to the surgeon's tent. I was on picket when the disease made
itself felt. The day and night on which I was on duty were stormy, rain
and snow. As a result, I had a lively time of it. The disease left my
voice so impaired that, for a long time, I was unable to speak above a
whisper. During my stay at the surgeon's tent, I employed myself
studying his books on surgery, and acquired a knowledge on the subject
which was utilized at a later period.

John Elliot had enlisted April 25, 1861, although not mustered into the
United States service until July 5th of the same year. He felt that he
should be mustered out at the former date of 1864. As the time drew near
we conversed frequently on the subject, and he was in some perplexity as
to duty in the case. The morning of the 25th found him on picket. I
prepared the morning meal for the mess and then relieved him until he
should breakfast. Soon he returned in a more than usually cheerful
spirit. After chatting pleasantly for a time, he spoke of his term of
enlistment.

"I have that matter all arranged now," he said, "as far as I am
concerned. I am not certain whether the government has a right to hold
me any longer or not; but I will stay till it sees fit to discharge me.
The country needs soldiers this Spring. I would like to visit home. It's
been three years since I saw mother and the boys; but it's all right.
God has kept me safely through all these battles, and I can trust him
for time to come."

This was the substance of his language, his exact words, as near as I
can remember. They are noble words; as grand as ever fell from the lips
of Christian hero. Many a time afterward they were an inspiration to me.
His face was bright that beautiful Spring morning with a joy that was
not of earth. The night watches had been spent communing with God,--yes,
face to face. Had he known that the midsummer sun would look down upon
his grave, would his decision have been different? I think not. He knew
too much of war and battles not to count the cost. From a Southern
prison-pen his brave spirit went up to God.



CHAPTER IV.


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.



CHAPTER V.


This closed my experience in the hospital. I was so worn out by the
constant strain which such labor made on body and mind, that rest was
imperative. During all these days I could get no definite information of
the fate of John Elliot. The wounded reported that he was missing, but
whether among the dead or living they could not tell. It was difficult
to drive away the thought of the painful possibilities that imagination
would bring up. Had he been disabled that first day in the wilderness
and perished in the flames of the burning woods? Had he been mortally
wounded, and died alone in the thick underbrush which veiled so many
tragic scenes? Had death come more swiftly and mercifully, or was he a
prisoner and unharmed? Such were the questions that might be solved by
inquiry among the members of the company.

After some delay I found the regiment by a little stream called the Ny.
The spot on which they were camped, or rather resting under arms, was
within beautiful shelling range of the rebel batteries, as I found out
afterward to my great discomfort and dismay. Toward evening, Sergeant W.
Coleman was taken quite sick, and at his request I started with him to
find the hospital. After proceeding some distance, he became so ill that
we could go no further, and some means of conveyance must be found. A
stretcher was procured, and two men to carry him. To these I confided my
charge, and began to retrace my steps. It was now after dark, a clear,
moonless night. Crossing the little stream at the point where I had left
the regiment a few hours before, to my great disappointment not a man
could be found.

What to do was a puzzling question. The resolution was finally taken to
spend a few hours, at least, in trying to find them. At first I started
in a direction bearing toward the right, but soon met a column marching
toward the left. Reasoning that if troops were being moved to the left,
none would be moving at the same time toward the right, I fell in with
this column, determined to see what the outcome would be. Soon the open
ground was crossed, and the column began to bear to the right of its
line of march, through the woods. Presently I noticed that an unusual
silence was observed. Not a word was spoken above a whisper, every noise
and clatter incident to the march were carefully avoided.

Growing weary at length, and reflecting that after all I might be going
away from the regiment instead of toward it, I dropped out of the line
and lay down against the root of a tree close to the road, to sleep till
morning. Half sleeping and half waking I lay there, dreamily watching
that army of shadows gliding stealthily by. Shadows they seemed as they
moved hurriedly along under the gloom of the overhanging trees, as
noiseless almost as an army of spirits from Homer's nether world. The
mystery of this secret night march served to quicken imagination, and I
could see this same column grimly marshaling in "battle's magnificently
stern array" in the dim light of the coming morning, ready to burst upon
some exposed point of the enemy's line.

Opening my eyes a little later, the same ghostly procession was filing
past, but in an opposite direction. This meant that, sooner or later,
my rest must be disturbed, or I might be left in an exposed and
dangerous position. Present comfort, however, being the stronger motive
just then, prevailed, and I sank into unconsciousness again. From this I
was aroused by some one shaking me by the shoulder and warning me in a
whisper that I must wake up and come on. The muffled "tramp, tramp" had
ceased, the rear of that shadowy army was vanishing in the darkness; one
solitary figure waited, delaying a moment, to see if I was fully awake.
Rising, I followed. Reaching the open ground from which we had entered
the woods, I found myself alone and bewildered. Proceeding some distance
with rather a vague notion of direction, I determined to make a final
halt till morning. All that was necessary to make myself comfortable was
to sink down on the ground without removing any thing, my knapsack
fitting conveniently under the back of my head, supporting head and
shoulder as if intended for the purpose. Thus bestowing myself by the
side of a rail fence, I was soon sleeping soundly.

But my rest was destined not to be undisturbed. Something awoke me.
What! Was this night given over to ghosts and spirits intangible? Again
the forms of men were gliding noiselessly about me. Above were the
twinkling stars, around were busy men, and silence everywhere. With
instinctive cautiousness I lay motionless, furtively noting the curious
scene. A moment's careful attention explained it in part. One by one the
rails of the fence were taken up with the utmost caution and borne away.
They were building breastworks somewhere. There was work to be done, I
thought, and preferred to finish my much delayed sleep, if allowed to do
so. I lay motionless, only sufficiently awake to dimly take in the
situation. Twice men came and stooped over me with their faces close to
mine, looked intently, and turned away in silence. Congratulating myself
on my good fortune, that I was going to sleep the night out while others
worked, I gave myself again to repose.

When I awoke the sun had got fairly started on his course, and was
pouring his rays full into my face. The events of the preceding night
seemed like a dream; but there was evidence about me that my visitants
had not been as ghostly as they seemed. The fence by which I had lain
down had disappeared, and I was alone in an open field. Utterly
bewildered, I addressed myself to the somewhat difficult task of
deciding what must be done. On either side of me could be seen what I
knew to be earth-works, but not a living thing was visible. The field
gave evidence of having been fought over, for the well-known _débris_ of
a battle were strewn around. At length my mind was made up to go to the
rear, find the division hospital, and get information.

But where _was_ rear? Where was front? Where was any thing? After
meditating profoundly on these questions, I decided that my course lay
in the direction of the earth-works on one side of the open ground. This
was the "rear," and these works had been abandoned in the progress of
advance. Proceeding leisurely in this direction, I had not advanced far
until I was surprised by the boom of a cannon behind me. A shell
screamed over my head, and exploded with a sharp ring against the
earth-works a few hundred yards ahead of me. Looking back, I saw a
Yankee officer standing on the earth-work, glass in hand, watching the
effects of the shot. This was a revelation. I was between the lines, and
heading for the rebel works. That shot saved me a trip to a Confederate
prison-pen. Hastily retracing my steps, I lost no time in reaching our
lines, expecting each moment that an artillery battle would break out
while I was between the combatants. The position was perhaps a half-mile
to the right of the spot where I had last seen the regiment. No infantry
was visible, but no doubt there were troops concealed in the woods near
by. The sharp ridges by which the open ground was broken were occupied
by artillery, the men standing by their guns.

The day was before me, and I was resolved to have a little more
experience; the more so as I could make my observations in comparative
safety. Those guns frowning grimly over the earthen redoubts meant
mischief. I would see an artillery fight; my curiosity was soon amply
gratified. Standing near a vacant redoubt, looking toward the rebel
batteries, suddenly a white smoke burst forth, followed by the roar of
cannon and the hissing shriek of shells, as the noisy missiles came
tearing through the air toward us. After the first discharge, the rebel
fire was directed chiefly to the right of the earth-work behind which I
had taken refuge, though shells kept striking and bursting around. My
position, however, was favorable for a view of our own batteries, and
for observing the effect of the enemy's fire. Sometimes the shells would
strike the ground, sending the dirt many feet into the air, and go
tearing across the field, touching the ground and bounding again at
intervals. Others would strike the earth-works, or explode in the air,
and hurl their fragments far and near, whizzing and buzzing to the
earth.

This noisy combat lasted for some time, and ceased,--not because either
of the combatants was seriously damaged, as far as I could see, but
because they were tired of it.

This will be as appropriate a place as any to remark, that "shelling" is
usually quite harmless, except when the guns are served by skilled
artillerists, and under favorable circumstances. Unless the shell is
exploded at the proper distance and altitude in front of a line, it is
not likely to do any injury. A cannonade which, to the uninitiated,
would seem sufficient to destroy every thing before it, will be faced
with the utmost equanimity by veteran troops, if the artillerist have
the range too "long." It is always very annoying, however, as there is
no telling when a shell may prove a little "short," and distribute its
fragments for rods along the line. The men are usually ordered to lie
down, unless directly engaged. The shell cleaves the air with a
frightful sound, that is but faintly described by the word "shriek." Few
men can refrain from "dodging," as the dangerous missile comes over with
its unearthly sound. The writer has frequently tried it, but can
remember no instance of marked success, except while engaged, or
otherwise employed. Perhaps the most disagreeable sound of all, is when
the guns are charged with grape and cannister, and send their
destructive contents through the air with a grinding, groaning, gnashing
sound, that chills the blood of the listener. This may partly result
from association, as such a charge is seldom used except at close range,
on a charging line. Then, if directed by cool, determined men, the
effect is terrible. Those who have once heard this sound can never
forget it. It requires but little imagination to fancy that the fiend
which was sending forth such loud defiance just now, has grappled with
his adversary and is hissing out his horrid rage in the midst of Titanic
strugglings. A little experience will enable you to determine from the
sound what a gun is firing; shot, shell, or grape. The artillery-men
usually have little fear of shell, but dread a volley from infantry.
With the infantry the case is reversed. Generally the men preferred the
branch of service to which they were accustomed. Each did not envy the
other.

The cavalryman rode all day; but at night he had to care for both
himself and horse. The infantryman had nothing to care for but himself.
He would make his coffee, and sleep all night, while the cavalryman must
scout, or picket front or flank. Sometimes the infantry must spend a
part of the night in throwing up breastworks, or making a night march;
but usually he considers himself more certain of rest and comfort than
his fellow-soldiers of the mounted force.



CHAPTER VI.


I now continued my search for information as to the whereabouts of the
regiment. I had almost reached the little flat by the Ny, at the point
where I had last seen my comrades the evening before, when, to my
astonishment, the roar of cannon broke forth again, and the shells came
hissing over my head and bursting all around me. There was not even a
stump or stone for shelter from the pelting storm of iron, and in the
woods just over the stream, the trees were being torn and rent asunder
as if by thunderbolts. This was more of a joke than I had bargained for.
Reflecting a moment, I concluded to take my chances among the trees. A
slender foot-log over the stream afforded means of crossing. When about
the middle of the log a shell howled close to my head and dashed through
a tree with a fearful crash. Nothing deterred, I sat down at the root of
a sturdy oak which would shelter me from fragments, at least, and waited
for something to "turn up." The rebels evidently thought that troops
were concealed in the woods, and were determined to make it hot for
them. They made it lively for me; but unless that afforded them some
satisfaction, they might have saved their ammunition.

Later I learned that the Reserves had moved to the left. Passing along
in that direction, I came to a hill on which a battery was planted. The
men were standing by their guns, ready for action. Close behind these,
on the face of the hill were the caissons, and back of these, men
holding the horses, the men themselves sheltered in holes which they had
dug in the hillside. Things looked decidedly breezy about that hill. My
curiosity to witness an artillery fight had been fully gratified some
time before; so I passed on without delay, and soon found the object of
my search some distance further to the left.

Late in the afternoon of the 17th an orderly galloped to headquarters,
the bugle sounded "fall in," and we were moving toward the right at a
rapid pace. Heavy firing could be heard in the direction of our right
flank, and we were hurrying toward the scene of action, to strengthen
the threatened point. We arrived about dark. The fighting had almost
ceased, and the enemy were handsomely repulsed. The attack had been made
on a body of inexperienced troops, mostly heavy artillery, who were
marching from Fredericksburg to join the Army of the Potomac. They were
well-drilled and disciplined, and made a gallant and successful fight,
though with heavy loss. In their first fight they had faced Lee's best
veterans, and defeated them. The old soldiers were inclined to regard it
as rather a joke--the lively manner in which the rebs welcomed them to
the front. This disposition to see a bright, a laughable side to every
thing, may be set down as one of the peculiarities of the Yankee
soldier. In victory or defeat, success or disaster, ease or hardship,
some one of a group of soldiers could find something from which to
extract a jest or on which to found a pun.

The next morning I went out over the field. Details of men were engaged
in burying their fallen comrades. The dead were collected in groups, a
trench sufficiently wide and deep was dug, and they were laid side by
side as decently as possible, and covered with two or three feet of
earth. When it could be done, the graves were marked. I have seen this
done by our men for the rebel dead, when there was time and leisure for
such care.

Under an apple tree lay a rebel who had been shot in the forehead, a
little above the center. He must have been shot before sunset of the
previous day. It was about noon when I saw him, and strange to say, he
was still alive. He was unconscious, and probably had been from the
moment he was struck.

In a negro cabin lay a young rebel soldier, a fair-faced, handsome boy,
shot through the right lung. I inquired after his wants, and made him as
comfortable as might be. He said he had not suffered for want of care.
Soldiers had been in frequently during the day, and all had been very
kind. He spoke of this with great satisfaction. I notified Dr. Lyon of
the case, and he was taken care of.

The next day we advanced some distance toward the enemy. Skirmishers
were thrown forward, but no serious fighting took place. As the
skirmishers were going out, Chaplain Delo dryly inquired if he might not
accompany them, giving as his reason that he would like to get Captain
Coder's horse killed if it could be done conveniently. He had charge of
a horse belonging to the captain, who had displeased him about something
in connection with the horse. There was no opportunity of gratifying the
worthy chaplain's wishes.

Again the army was in motion, leaving behind now as useless what before
had been fought for so tenaciously. As we moved away, the Eleventh was
in the rear, nothing between us and the enemy, but some cavalry, to
cover the rear of the column, as the army moved off to strike Lee from a
new position. We were passing over a wide, open piece of country. The
rebel cavalry and our own had become hotly engaged, and a spirited fight
was in progress clear across the open ground behind us.

About this time Daniel Graham became quite ill, and was compelled to
fall out of the ranks. I remained with him to help him along. The
undertaking proved to be rather a serious one. He would struggle bravely
on for a while, and then sit down panting and exhausted. I carried his
gun and knapsack, and finally took him by the arm to keep him up.

Meantime the battle going on behind us drew nearer and nearer, and the
bullets were whistling around us with uncomfortable frequency. At last
Daniel became utterly discouraged; and, as he dropped upon the ground to
rest at one of his frequent halts, he declared it was no use, he could
go no further. He urged me to leave him, and make my escape.

"There's no use of talking that way. After you rest a few minutes, we'll
try it again."

"But I'm clear used up, and there's no use of both of us being
prisoners."

"We're not prisoners yet by a good deal. We are going to come out all
right. You are worth two dead men yet."

But notwithstanding my brave words, I was almost of his opinion, though
not convinced that the time had come to give up all hope. It was my duty
to stay with him as long as there was any prospect of getting him off.

Our cavalry was now nearly up to where we were, and I announced that he
must come along. Helping him to his feet, we started. Courage and
strength now seemed to revive. We made good progress, and were soon out
of danger. In the course of an hour or two he was able to take his gun
again, and in the evening we came up with the regiment.

In trying to recall the scenes of this period, there are some that seem
like the fragments of a half-forgotten dream, distinct in themselves,
but without any definite connection as to time or place. They are but
pictures, some of them becoming faded and indistinct; others bright and
fresh, as if they had come from the painter's hand but yesterday. I see
a long column of weary soldiers, winding along over hill and valley, in
the night, gliding past a stately mansion, with beautiful grounds and
shaded walks, and everywhere the freshness and fragrance of Spring.
Again I see a line of battle stretching out across an open field, the
men resting lazily in their ranks. A little to the left, near some shade
trees, stands a battery, ready for action, the guns pointing toward some
unseen enemy beyond. It is noon, and the sunlight is pouring down upon
the scene, bright and clear.

May 23d we came to the North Ann. We halted in open ground, before we
reached the river. Fighting was in progress at the front, where the
rebels were disputing the passage of the river. While we waited here, a
battery came thundering past at full speed, and soon the roar of their
guns told that they had found something to do.

While this was in progress, we were ordered to move. The column was
headed, first to the rear, then toward our right. By a rapid march we
reached a ford, higher up the river. Without delay we waded right
through. The water was swift, and three or four feet deep in places. The
bottom of the river was stony, and the stones were slippery. This, with
the swiftness of the stream, made the footing of the most active rather
precarious. A German, named Moreland, a teacher by profession, and a man
of fine qualities, had joined the company but a little while before. He
was not very active at best, and at this time had very sore feet. As we
were hurrying across, suddenly a wonderful splashing and floundering
were heard toward the rear of the company, and Moreland's feet were
discovered twinkling above the surface of the water, while with his head
he seemed to be making a critical examination of the bottom of the
stream. At last he regained his footing, puffing and blowing like a
porpoise, amid the cheers and horse-laughs of his comrades.

Once across, no time was to be lost. We had stolen a march on the
rebels, and if we would use our advantage we must be about it. The
movement was not long unknown to the enemy. As fast as the troops
reached the high ground on the other side, they formed line of battle,
keeping the left flank covered by the river, and facing down stream. As
the remaining troops crossed, they formed on the right, the line as it
formed advancing downward and outward from the river, in a curve.

The Eleventh was not far from the left. They moved down the stream some
distance, and halted in the midst of a beautiful farm. Before them was a
valley, across which the Bucktails were advancing as skirmishers, and
beyond this the ground rose again, and curved off toward woods in the
distance. Scarcely had our line reached this point, when the enemy "came
down like the wolf on the fold." Judging from the promptness and vigor
with which they assailed us, they evidently counted on making our
enterprise another Ball's Bluff affair.

As the Bucktails advanced, their rapid firing warned us that they had
discovered the advance of the enemy. Dust was seen rising on the high
ground beyond, and horses were dimly seen. We judged that batteries were
coming into position. We were not long in doubt. Suddenly a perfect
volley of artillery burst forth. The air seemed filled with the
shrieking shells and whizzing fragments. The men could do no more than
lie down and let the storm rage. For some time we had not a single gun
in position to reply, and the rebels poured in their fire without
hindrance. Soldiers who had been through all the battles of the Potomac
army, affirmed that they never experienced such a noisy onset, except at
Gettysburg. As quickly as possible our batteries came into position, on
both sides of the river. Now the tumult was doubled. The earth seemed to
shake. When our artillery opened in reply, the rebels turned their
attention in that direction; but on account of the awkwardness of their
gunners, we were annoyed almost as much as when under their direct fire.
On the right there was severe infantry fighting. Of this we could hear
little, on account of the terrible cannonading going on around us. The
losses of the regiment were slight, owing to the fact that the rebels
overshot us. A few were wounded, but I think none were killed. The loss
of the corps was about 350. The rebel loss was reported at 1,000,
including General Brown, who was in command.

May was now drawing to a close, and with it would close the history of
the Pennsylvania Reserves. The 30th found us in the vicinity of
Bethsaida Church. We were moving on with those stops and starts which
indicate that the head of the column has met with some obstruction.
Skirmishing was going on in front, and from time to time the boom of
cannon came rolling up from the left. We were moving along a road which
led through open farm country, and through a strip of woods, beyond
which skirmishing was heard. During one of the frequent halts, while the
men were resting, some standing, others sitting or reclining at ease, a
rifle ball came whistling through the air, and struck with a sharp snap
in the rail-pile on which myself and others were sitting. It struck
between Jim Shaffer and myself. We both naturally squirmed a little at
the unpleasant nearness of the malicious little messenger. The affair
called forth laughter and jocular exclamations from those around: "How
are you _Johnnie_!" "Hit 'em again!" "Go _in_!"

The incident would not have caused any special notice, had it not been
so unexpected, on account of our distance from the scene of action.

Forward now through the woods, out upon the open ground beyond, where
the division is forming for its last battle. Their left now rests not
far from where their right was when they fought at Gaines' Mill, nearly
two years before. They advance some distance. "Some one has blundered."
They have no support on either wing. They are flanked, and, after a
brief struggle, are driven back. Some noble men were lost here. Parks,
of Company D, is mortally wounded; Daniel Graham is made prisoner. In
the retreat, two men carry back John Stanley, wounded in the arm and
side. At the wood they rally. A fence is torn down, and with this and
whatever is nearest at hand a breastwork is hastily improvised. A few of
the Bucktails have rallied on their right, and thrown up a similar
defense of logs, rails, any thing that can stop a bullet. Here the line
seems to terminate; but just beyond and a little back, is a brass
battery, concealed by bushes, every gun charged with grape and canister.
A house stands close behind the line, in a recess of the woods.

Now the enemy is seen advancing. Line after line comes swinging out.
Shells come screaming over. One explodes in front of Company D. Its
fragments sever the flagstaff close to Jim Shaffer's head, rip open Mike
Coleman's cap, tear off Culp's arm near the shoulder. Another bursts in
the house, and sets it on fire. A woman, bearing a baby in one arm and
leading by the hand a little child, comes out of the house, still
unharmed. Frightened and bewildered, she is passing along the rear of
the line instead of hastening away from it. A kind-hearted soldier
directs her toward a place of safety. But now the rebel lines are within
rifle range. Volley after volley is poured into them, and their ranks
melt before the terrible fire. In our front they falter; but toward the
right they see a chance for victory. They will swing around our flank,
and crush us as they did but an hour before. With exultant yells, their
left comes sweeping on, wheeling to envelop our right. But now there
bursts from the underbrush a blast as if from the pit, crashing,
tearing, grinding, enfilading their lines, leaving in its track a swath
of dead and dying. This is decisive, and the battle is won.

Over a hundred dead were counted in front of the Eleventh and the few
Bucktails on their right. One man was struck with a charge of grape, or
by a bursting shell, and his body from the knees to the neck was crushed
and torn into an indistinguishable mass.

John Stanley, who was wounded in this action, was a brave, noble boy.
Looking along the company line, with its veterans of so many battles,
the remnant of a hundred as brave men as ever followed a battle flag,
you would not have guessed that this boyish face could be the calmest in
the hour of trial. During that month of battles, he was always in his
place, without bravado, but with unflinching courage, doing his duty. I
saw him at the woods, as they were taking him from the field. His pale
face was as calm as ever. He never returned to us, nor did I learn the
result of his wounds.

The next morning the Reserves were withdrawn from the front. Their term
of service had expired. The veterans and recruits were reorganized,
forming the One Hundred and Ninetieth and One Hundred and Ninety-first
Pennsylvania Volunteer Infantry. The others started on their homeward
march.

Of Company D, fourteen men returned--five non-commissioned officers and
nine privates. Eleven had re-enlisted. Thirty-five were dead, of whom
twenty-three had been killed in battle or mortally wounded; and six were
prisoners in the hands of the enemy, of whom two died.

Of the eleven veterans, only seven were present, the others being
wounded or prisoners. By the close of the war, forty of the original one
hundred and one had died in the service. During the first three years,
twenty-four were discharged for wounds or sickness. Such is the record
of these heroic men. Mingled feelings of joy and sadness were in the
hearts of all, as good-byes were spoken, and they marched away. The
war-worn veterans, who now turned their footsteps homeward, and those
who stood there, watching their going that day, knew too well how
certainly these "good-byes" might be "farewells." I think I saw tears in
a certain brave colonel's eyes; and perhaps strong hands were clasped
with a little more than usual fervor, as friend looked into the face of
friend; but there was no "scene." These men were too much in earnest for
that.



CHAPTER VII.


Then came reorganization. It seemed like a "general breaking up." It
was. Instead of the mere handful of men that stood about the torn and
tattered colors of the old regiment but yesterday, nearly a thousand
were grouped together in the new organization. They might all be
considered veterans. Some had been in service since the beginning of the
war; all had, at least, the experience of the present campaign. It was
generally felt that the new regiment had in it some elements of success
not to be found in one brought into existence under ordinary
circumstances. The officers of both regiments were tried men, who had
the confidence of all. Most of them had risen from the ranks, and had
received promotion, step by step, with the approval of their comrades.
Sergeant William Coleman, of Company D, was made first-lieutenant of
Company I; and Lieutenant R. Birkman, of Company E, was promoted to
captain of Company A, of the One Hundred and Ninetieth. These both
served faithfully until the close of the war. Lieutenant Hayden, of
Company --, of the Eleventh, was transferred to the One Hundred and
Ninety-first, and lost a leg at Appomattox Court-house, the morning of
Lee's surrender.

With organization still incomplete, these two regiments were pushed
forward to the front, and had a share in the terrible fighting at Cold
Harbor. As soon as possible, however, the organization was completed,
and the two companion regiments became the Third Brigade, Third
Division, Fifth Army Corps. William R. Hartshorn was commissioned
colonel of the One Hundred and Ninetieth, and Joseph B. Pattee
lieutenant-colonel. The latter, a brave and capable officer, commanded
the regiment during its entire history, except when absent, wounded, as
Colonel Hartshorn was absent, for some cause, most of the time. I was
assigned to Company C. Neri B. Kinsey was captain. Lieutenant Moses W.
Lucore was in command until some time after July, when Captain Kinsey
returned. He was severely wounded, in October, and discharged the
following March, on account of his wounds. The regiment adopted the
bucktail, in honor of the old "Bucktails," who were more largely
represented in the One Hundred and Ninetieth than any other regiment.

In the afternoon of June 12th, we received marching orders, and soon
tents were struck, and we were on our way, none knew whither. At this
time we were short of provisions. I had a very small quantity of coffee,
but nothing else, except fresh meat, which had just been issued. When
orders came to strike tents for the march, I was engaged in cooking a
slice of fresh beef, by holding it to the fire, spitted on a sharp
stick. With an appetite sharpened by a more than orthodox fast, I was
watching the operation most devoutly; and the savory odor which rose
from the sputtering morsel awakened anticipations which only a
ferociously hungry man can imagine. But I was doomed to illustrate the
words of the Scottish bard:

    "The best laid plans of mice or men
              Gang aft aglee."

With my half-cooked meat in my hand, I swung on my knapsack, and we
marched away. The march continued, without intermission, during the
night, except now and then a brief halt for rest. Towards morning we
crossed the Chickahominy, at Long's Bridge. Here we halted for rest and
breakfast. My entire commissary outfit consisted of about one
teaspoonful of coffee. We had halted for breakfast, and might as well go
through with the programme. I went to the river and procured about a
pint of liquid from that famous stream, and boiled the coffee with due
circumspection, and drank the product.

The final member of the above sentence is not inserted to inform the
reader that we did not _eat_ the "product"; but, in explanation, when we
thought of that Chickahominy water, the "old man" stirred mightily
within us, and we greatly desired to say that it was good, knowing well
with what unction every unfortunate that ever tasted it, would say, "O,
_what_ a lie!" We would like also to insert a few thoughts about G.
Washington, who could not tell a lie, but we forbear. We drank that
coffee as a war measure.

Our course was then toward the right, a short distance along the river,
soon bearing away from it toward Richmond. During the forenoon we
reached White Oak Swamp, where the enemy was encountered in strong
force. We moved out past some timber to where the cavalry were
skirmishing with rebel troops posted in the woods beyond. Part of the
regiment deployed as skirmishers and advanced to where the cavalry were
fighting and joined in the fray. The rest remained in their rear as
support. We lay down in a slight depression of the ground about four
rods behind the skirmishers. As we were getting into position a few were
wounded; but after arrangements were completed, we lay in comparative
safety. About three hundred or more yards to the left, on a little
knoll, two guns were in position. Except these, which seemed
unsupported, I could see no other force. Where the other troops were or
how posted, I have not been able to make out.

The day was warm, and after our night march, the men were fatigued and
sleepy. Before long many of them were sleeping soundly, unmindful of the
bullets that were whistling over. I do not know how long we lay thus.
There is a peculiar satisfaction in sleeping under circumstances of
danger. You are no more exposed than when awake, and you don't have to
do the thinking. Suddenly I awoke to a consciousness that something had
"broken loose." A volley of musketry was poured into us from the rising
ground in front of our skirmishers, and the bullets were hissing close
above us. I lay still a moment as they passed over, and then sprang to
my feet. The skirmishers were giving way, still facing the rebel line of
battle that was charging forward. On the left, our guns were belching
forth grape and canister into the rebel infantry, that came sweeping on
like ocean waves. I think these guns were lost. The last I saw of them
the rebel troops seemed to roll right over them. We were driven back to
the woods. Here we checked their advance, and held the ground till
night. A part of the Fifth Corps and one division of cavalry had been
thrown up in this direction to make a diversion, and also to cover the
flank of Grant's army while it crossed the Peninsula to the James River,
and placed itself before Petersburg. Hence there was not much object in
fighting except to hold our position for a sufficient length of time. In
the evening a heavy force of the enemy was reported moving toward our
left. For this reason, or in carrying out the original programme, we
marched in the same direction, starting just after dark. As we fell back
in the afternoon, I found a haversack containing some hard-tack. This
our mess divided. We did not fail to commiserate the unlucky chap whose
loss was our gain. This was a very unsatisfactory fight. It always
seemed to me like a scrub race. The rebels plunged in as if they thought
it was a 2.20 affair, at the least. The march continued all night. About
two in the morning I concluded that the thing had gone on about long
enough, and, without any ceremony, made my bed beside a stump in a
little opening in a strip of woods through which we were passing. It was
after sunrise when I awoke. Breakfast was not an elaborate affair, and
was quickly dispatched. It consisted of the vivid recollection of the
two delicious hard-tacks which I had eaten the day before. It was light
diet, but the best that could be afforded. I found that the column,
after keeping the road right on for some time, had about faced and
retraced their steps to a point opposite where I had slept. A road here
led to the left of our original line of march. This they followed a
couple of miles and camped. I found them without trouble. Here we
waited, with nothing to eat, till the evening of the 15th. This is the
only time I ever felt the pangs of extreme hunger. During three days and
nights of almost constant marching and fighting, I had eaten one ration
of fresh beef and two crackers. It seemed as if I was all stomach, and
each several cubic inch of that stomach clamoring incessantly for
"grub."

The boys amused themselves laying out an imaginary bill of fare. The
merits of sundry inviting dishes were zealously discussed. Roast turkey
was eloquently extolled by one; another set forth the attractions of a
table to which forest, mountain-stream, or river had contributed
delights. Sometimes the grotesque imagination of some wild fellow would
conjure up a feast so full of horror that a famished cannibal might well
protest. In striking contrast with this was the gentle pathos of word
and manner as some boy told of dinner at the old farm-house among the
hills, where mother poured out the fragrant coffee, rich with honest
cream.

      NOTE.--Some additional facts have been learned
      regarding this affair. The One Hundred and Ninety-first was
      on our left, beyond the battery. The attack was made about
      four in the afternoon. The One Hundred and Ninety-first had
      fallen back, and Colonel Pattee had received orders to
      withdraw. Deeming it hazardous to retire across open ground
      under such a fire, he rallied the skirmishers on the
      reserve, and met the charge of the enemy there. In a few
      minutes the Colonel's horse was shot dead under him. After a
      sharp fight the rebels broke, and we retreated to the woods
      before they could rally. The battery was not captured. A
      failure to hold our position here would have compelled a
      general battle, and delayed the flank movement to the James.



CHAPTER VIII.


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.



CHAPTER IX.


June 23d the brigade was withdrawn from this position for a day's rest.
Our stay at this point had been almost equivalent to continuous
fighting. We had lost men every day in killed and wounded. At
headquarters we had received orders to prepare to move. After we were
packed up ready to march, there was still a little delay before
starting. Young Robbins and myself sat down with our backs against a
tree, taking it easy. As we were sitting thus, a bullet came singing
over, and struck the tree close to our heads. The ball was so far spent
that it did not enter the tree, and was picked up by Robbins. We
concluded this would do as a parting salute, and soon got out of that
without any lingering regrets.

On the morning of the 24th the brigade moved to the left, and went into
works before occupied by men of the Second Corps, on the Jerusalem
plank-road. They should have reached this position before daylight, but
did not. They could have reached the works with very little exposure by
coming in a little further to the right. Instead of this, the column was
led by Colonel Carle through open ground, less than eighteen hundred
yards from rebel batteries. These, of course, opened on them with shell,
causing considerable loss. Moreland, of our company, was among the
killed. A shell struck him in the chest. The men, without waiting for
orders, but without disorder, moved obliquely to the right, to reach the
protection of lower ground, which there led up to the works. This called
forth such violent protest and condemnation from Colonel Carle, that the
result was a serious mutiny in the One Hundred and Ninetieth. Both
officers and men felt that it was a blunder and an outrage to be thus
needlessly exposed; and when Carle cursed them as cowards, they resented
it. Confusion followed. The officers, almost to a man, refused to obey
orders, or do any thing, until the insult should be retracted. The men
were becoming dangerous. Carle rode up to Adjutant Wright, and ordered
him to restore order, and take the men on to the works. Wright replied
defiantly and profanely. Carle laid his hand on his pistol. Instantly a
score of rifles were leveled on him. Yells and curses resounded on every
side. He withdrew his hand, apologized to both officers and men, and
they moved on to the rifle-pits without further trouble. Carle had the
reputation of being a good officer; but it was said that he was under
the influence of whisky at this time. I was with the brigade tent and
baggage, and knew nothing of this until I visited the company the next
evening. Neither do I remember who was in command of the regiment on
this occasion. I think the colonel, lieutenant-colonel, and major were
all absent, wounded. After we had been here a few days, arrangements
were made to desist from picket firing; and after this we were no longer
subjected to the peril resulting from this useless and barbarous
practice. The loss of men from this cause was said to be about eighty a
day in Grant's army, and was probably not less on the other side. Where
the lines were so close, it was probably necessary and justifiable.

I remained at brigade headquarters until some time after July 4th, and
was then relieved and returned to the regiment. It was then posted on
the left of the Jerusalem road. Our camp was on sloping ground, the
rifle pit at the foot of the slope. A few rods in front rose a slight
ridge, and beyond this, a narrow fringe of timber shut out the rebel
works from direct view. In this timber, or just beyond it, were our
pickets. The well from which we obtained our supply of water was between
our rifle-pits and the ridge spoken of. Further to the left, our line
extended into woods, where the timber had been "slashed" in front for
several hundred yards.

Back of where Company C's camp was, on the left side of the road as you
faced the works, we soon after began the construction of a fort, called
Fort Warren. It was four hundred feet square, strongly and carefully
constructed. When finished, the ditch must have been twelve feet deep.
The rebels did not get the range of our position at first, but annoyed
us a good deal at times by pitching shells around at a venture. In a few
days they would strike the vicinity of the fort with considerable
accuracy, and kept at it with a persistence which showed that they were
certain of the locality. After the work had progressed some time we felt
no concern about the shelling. If it became too lively, we would
stretch ourselves in the bottom of the ditch, and wait for the thing to
let up, with great resignation, as we preferred this to working.

The confederate gunners had a way of sending shells "hopping" across,
which was rather uncomfortable. One evening they were entertaining us in
this fashion. The little ridge in front of our pits generally prevented
shells from striking them, though the camp on the sloping ground behind
was exposed. We had gone down to the works, waiting for the rebels to
get through with their fun, which we regarded as comparatively harmless.
We could see the flash of the gun, and by the time the shell would
arrive, we would be safely sheltered behind the pit. One of these,
however, struck the pit a few feet to my left. We waited a few seconds,
expecting to hear it explode. Thinking the fuse had been extinguished,
the men had risen up again and were indulging in jocular remarks over
the matter, when, to our astonishment, the shell exploded in the air
about ten feet high and nearly over the works, not far from where it
struck. Where it had been during the intervening seconds we could not
imagine. Fortunately no one was injured.

At this time, one of the men, who had not yet had supper, became
impatient and started out for water. Just as he reached the well a shell
came bounding over and struck him. A single exclamation of pain
announced the result. Some of the men were at his side in a moment. A
stretcher was procured, and he was carried back to the ambulance stand,
to be taken to the hospital. The shell struck him about midway between
the knee and ankle, leaving the fragment dangling by a few shreds.

While engaged in constructing Fort Warren we alternated in work with a
regiment of colored troops. They were fine, soldierly fellows, and stood
the shelling quite as well as any green troops.

At the entrance of the inclosure, of course, there was no ditch, a space
being left about twelve feet wide. Passing along, one day, I saw a young
colored soldier standing on this narrow passage between the ditches,
curiously examining a twelve-pound shell which had been thrown over, and
had failed to explode. Addressing him and taking the shell in my hands,
I proceeded to give him a scientific explanation of how the thing
worked. After expatiating at considerable length and in glowing language
on the prodigious effects of such projectiles, I then unfolded to him
the manner in which this particular sample might be exploded.

"Do you see that thing?" pointing to the fuse.

"Yes, sah, I sees him," replied the dusky warrior.

"Well, now, if I spit on that--the thing will go off. See here--_yeep!_
_yeep!_" as I spat on it and hurled it into the ditch. With a yell and a
screech a Comanche might have been proud of, that darkey "lit out." As
he ran he turned his head, and seeing me dancing a war-dance to work off
the extra hilarity which his fright had occasioned, he pulled up and
joined in the laugh.

Work at this place continued about two weeks. One morning we were roused
up before daylight and ordered to strike tents quietly. In ten minutes
the column was moving down the plank road toward the rear. We went about
half a mile and camped. The next morning we again struck tents before
daylight, and moving toward the front, we formed line of battle in the
rear of Fort Warren. Here we lay till after sunrise, when we returned to
about the same place from which we had started. What all this meant was
more than we could make out, but we supposed that an attack was
anticipated.

We were then placed on picket still farther to the left. We called it
picket duty; but as far as I could ascertain, we were the only force in
front of the enemy on this part of the line. This ground had been fought
over. The Second Corps had been driven from here June 23d, with heavy
loss of men and guns. From the manner in which the trees were cut and
splintered by bullets and cannon-shot, it would scarcely seem possible
for a human being to remain alive on part of the ground. The loss had
been terrible. Many of the dead had been buried in the trenches. Others,
by the score, were buried where they fell, in rebel fashion, by throwing
some dirt over them where they lay. Now, after the lapse of a couple of
weeks, the dirt had washed from them, in some instances. Here and there
you might see an arm, a leg, or a ghastly head protruding from a slight
mound of earth. If any man was enamored of the glory of war, it was
good for him to sit down and meditate in such a field as this.

Two of the boys sat down to their dinner, one day, near some bushes at
the edge of the woods. The coffee was poured out, the frying-pan, with
its contents of fried meat was beside the blackened coffee-cups. They
were squatted on the ground on either side eating with a hearty relish,
when one of them noticed more closely the bushes just overhanging the
frying-pan, within a few inches of it. A human hand, dried, black,
shriveled, protruded from the leaves, the distorted fingers in attitude
as if about to make a grab at the contents of the pan. You suppose they
turned away in horror at such an intrusion on their feast. Why so? The
dead were all around us. When we slept at night behind the trenches, we
made our beds by them. Under such circumstances human nature suffers a
reaction, and horrors become the common things of life. These young men
did nothing of the kind. With a light remark suggested by the idea of
such a party wanting to rob them of their dinner, they moved the pan a
little, and finished their meal. This done, they examined further, and
found it to be the half-buried remains of a rebel soldier. On a scrap of
paper they found the name, company, regiment, and State. The paper also
contained a request for the burial of the body. They prepared a grave
and buried him. Then as a matter of courtesy and humanity, one of them
went out between the lines and was met there by a rebel soldier, to whom
he related the circumstances, and requested him to join in this becoming
duty by preparing a properly inscribed head-board. This was cheerfully
done, and the board set up at the grave. In passing to and fro between
the lines other dead were found, and these, too, were decently interred.

The days passed on pleasantly, and without special incident. No videttes
were kept out, except in the night. None were needed, as the ground was
open and level between us and the enemy. There was no picket firing, and
we had a very comfortable time of it. We could watch the artillery
"practice," which took place almost every evening, between the batteries
on our right, without any apprehension that they would practice on us.

One evening I sat on the rifle-pit, watching this. Scores of the men
were doing the same, or were idling the time away as suited them best.
The sun had sunk from sight; but as the shells would burst over the
rebel redoubt, which was then the mark of our artillerists, they seemed
balls of silver, in the rays of the sun, now invisible to us. Then they
would expand, and roll away in little snowy cloudlets, almost before the
sound of the explosion would reach us. Suddenly a great column of smoke
shot upward from the redoubt; dark at first, but turning to a silver
whiteness, as the rays of the sun touched it. A sound that seemed to
shake the earth came rumbling through the air. A shell had reached and
exploded the magazine. A laugh, with a cheer here and there, ran along
our heavy picket-line. The rebels called out: "Stop laughing, Yanks!"
"Stop that laughing!"

Whether this would have resulted in an outbreak between the pickets, is
uncertain; but a moment later a shell came screaming across, about ten
feet above the pits, passing a few rods to my right. Thinking this was
but introductory, the men dived for the pits, and the laugh was suddenly
and indefinitely postponed. Then a general "ha-ha" rose from the rebel
pickets, and good nature was restored.

Some time in July I was taken sick with fever. I stayed a day or two at
the surgeon's tent, but can not remember much about what occurred. I
gave away every thing I had. Fortunately I gave my gun to Joe Bovard,
who took care of it. I remember nothing of this, but he told me so
afterward. I have also an indistinct recollection of being sent away in
an ambulance, of being very sick at City Point, of the dull, dreamy
indolence of convalescence. I was then sent to Davis' Island, New York.
I improved rapidly during the voyage. I was here but a few days when I
received a furlough, to report at Philadelphia, September 10th. The
patriotic people of Pittsburg had ample and generous arrangements to
care for the sick and wounded soldiers that passed through their city.
Arriving there weak and dispirited, a gentleman met me at the train, and
took me to a place where every convenience and comfort was provided. I
had looked so long on the forbidding, bloody front of war, that it was a
most pleasing revelation to discover that back here was the warm, loving
heart of Peace.



CHAPTER X.


I arrived at Philadelphia the night of September 10th. There had been a
serious riot during the evening, between the soldiers from the hospital
and some of those patriotic citizens who, although painfully loyal at
times, have a great antipathy to blue. I reached the Citizens' Hospital
without molestation. The next morning a large crowd of rioters gathered
in the vicinity of the hospital, and a murderous raid was anticipated;
but they dispersed without any demonstration.

From Philadelphia I was transferred, at my own request, to Little York,
Pennsylvania. Although now quite recovered, I was detained here some
time, in the hospital drum corps, as a musician. We went out one night,
on the occasion of a Republican meeting. We started to parade the
principal streets with a transparency, the usual following of small
boys, etc. A crowd of patriots cheerfully greeted us with stones,
brickbats, and like tokens of sympathy. We returned to headquarters in
about twenty minutes, a demoralized outfit. The bass drum was broken,
one drummer's head was peeled, the transparency was smashed, and we were
mad. The managers gave us a dollar apiece; we disposed of our
instruments, and started up street to look for any little incident that
might afford balm for our wounded feelings. Opportunities were plenty,
and many a cracked head bore testimony to the zeal with which the great
national issues were discussed.

About the middle of October, myself and a large number of other
convalescents started to rejoin our regiments, at the front. We went by
rail to Baltimore, and remained over night at Fort Federal Hill, to go
on by steamer, on the morrow. The "heavies," doing garrison duty here,
were accustomed to dealing with recruits, and counted on making them
step around in fine military style. This crowd was composed of men to
whom soldiering was no novelty, and they had no fancy for extras. Hence,
when they were ordered, with much pomp and assurance, to fall in line,
in front of the barracks that evening, for roll call, at nine o'clock,
there was something of a scene. The anathematical display has rarely
been equaled in modern times. Perhaps twenty-five men out of several
hundred at last took their place in a sort of line, with much gravity
and feigned decorum, playing green, standing in any thing but soldierly
attitude. Behind them, perched on the railing, windows, or wherever they
could best see the show, was about as unruly and uproarious a crowd as
could well be found. After vainly trying to bring order out of
confusion, the sergeant, in great disgust, began to call the roll. A
name is called:

"Here!"

"Here!"

"Here!"

On all sides the word "Here" is bellowed and screamed by a score of
voices. The face of the burly sergeant grows red with fury, but he
proceeds.

"John Smith."

Another chorus of hooting, jeering response, and then, in a momentary
lull of the hubbub, a stentorian voice solemnly announces:

"He's gone to ---- long ago."

This rather startling announcement is hailed with another outburst of
laughter, yells, and cat-calls, interjected with allusions to the
sergeant, which were far from complimentary. Finally, having exhausted
his extensive vocabulary of maledictions on that mob of obdurate
sinners, this patriotic officer took himself away, and the boys turned
in for the night.

The next forenoon we went on board a steamer, but did not start down the
bay till toward evening. The vessel may be called "steamer" as a matter
of courtesy. The thing went by steam, but I would not care to ship a
cargo of hogs on such a contrivance, unless they were of the kind that
ran violently down the mountain. During the night the weather changed. A
strong wind, with rain, swept across the bay. I was asleep on the deck
when the storm came on, and awoke thoroughly wet and cold. Leaving my
water-soaked blanket where it lay, I started to go below. The door was
closed. A soldier, standing in the hatchway, suggested that by our
united efforts we could push it open. I put my shoulder against the
door, and he braced himself against me, and we gave a heave. The door
went open and I went in, plunging headlong into the crowd lying on the
floor, as close as packed herring.

Nobody swore, except those who were most severely bruised by our feet.
There was an opening left in the side of the vessel, about two feet wide
by twelve feet long. In the slow-going days before the war, this stately
ship was probably used for transporting cattle, and the hole was made
for the humane purpose of giving the animals air. Now it let in both air
and water. I finally made my way down into the hold, and there, with the
coal, dirt, and other things, found a more agreeable temperature. We
reached Fortress Monroe the next evening. Here we were transferred to
another vessel, and went up the James River, arriving at City Point the
following evening.

This trip was very unpleasant. Besides the discomfort caused by the
stormy weather, we were not provided with rations. No doubt provisions
were furnished, and somebody got the benefit of them. On the second day
those in charge of the vessel, in collusion with the officer in charge
of our escort, proposed selling us lunch at the rate of fifty cents for
a slice of meat and a piece of bread. Their enterprise did not pan out
very well. But few bought, preferring hunger to submitting to the
outrage. During the entire trip I ate not more than two ordinary
hard-tacks.

Arriving at City Point, we were provided with a substantial supper. Our
hotel accommodations, however, were not strictly first-class. Recruits
and returning convalescents arriving here were provided with lodgings
during their stay in a huge board structure known by the expressive name
of "The Bull Pen." As to rooms, furnishings, and general appointments,
the government had been exceedingly frugal. In fact, the entire outfit
consisted of four walls, roof, and floor, joined together on principles
of the strictest economy. The floor was comfortably carpeted with mud to
the depth of about an inch and a half. Tobacco chewings, cigar stumps,
etc., added variety and flavor.

On this particular occasion the institution was so crowded that you
could not get room to lie down, all to yourself. This was no serious
objection, as it furnished ample apology for resting your feet on the
other fellow's stomach. Thieves found the "Bull Pen" an excellent place
for plying their trade. The recruits and substitutes finding
entertainment here usually had some money.

This night, after the lights were out, and all had been quiet for some
time, I lay doubled up on the floor still wide awake. In such a
gathering there are usually some splendid snorers. This crowd had some
performers of rare merit. My location was toward the end of the
building. Lying here, listening drowsily to the odd sounds about me, I
heard a slight commotion down toward the center of the building, then a
blow, and the cry of "Thief!" Then more blows, a general rising up of
that part of the congregation, and a pouring out of profane objurgations
that was surprising. The swearing and pounding went on with great vigor
for some minutes, those not directly engaged cheering the others on with
hoots and yells. In fact, a free fight was going on down there in the
intense darkness, every body thumping every one within reach, thinking
to spot the thief. Finally some one struck a match. As its flickering
rays lighted up the gloom, they revealed a dozen or so of disgusted
combatants glaring savagely on each other, and each wanting to know who
was the thief. Of course it was impossible to find him now.



CHAPTER XI.


The next day I reached the regiment, then on the Welden Railroad, near
the Yellow Tavern. I say "the regiment." I mean what was left of it.
Instead of the large, full organization I left in July, it was now but a
remnant. Four commissioned officers of the One Hundred and Ninetieth
remained. These were Colonel Pattee, Adjutant Wright, Captain Birkman,
and Lieutenant Peacock. Of Company C, there were but ten men, myself
making the eleventh.

A terrible calamity had befallen them at the time the Welden Railroad
was taken from the enemy, August 18th and 19th. The brigade was sent
forward to skirmish. They advanced and drove every thing before them
till they struck the main force of the enemy. Here they fortified and
held their ground without support until the afternoon of the 19th, when
they were compelled to surrender. A few escaped by taking the suicidal
risk of running through a gap in the rebel lines. Mike Coleman, Captain
Birkman, and a few others escaped in this way. Mike told me he heard men
call "Halt! Halt!" on every side; but he looked neither to the right nor
left, and went ahead. Dave Steen was killed in this battle. A ball
struck him in the breast, a little to the right, and high up, severing
one of the large blood vessels. As he fell, two of the men ran to him.
He asked for his Bible--his only words. Hastily opening his knapsack,
they handed it to him. Almost as his fingers closed on the holy book,
his spirit hastened away from that scene of turmoil to the rest above.
He was a brave soldier and a true man.

After the ground had been re-occupied, as it quickly was by men of the
Ninth Corps, his remaining comrades buried him, and placed around his
grave a rude framework to protect it from disturbance. The few that
escaped, together with returning absentees, represented the organization
under Colonel Pattee, who had now recovered from his wound. During
September and October the regiment suffered considerable loss in
fighting along the left of our line at various points.

On one occasion they were ordered to advance and "feel" the enemy. The
design was merely to drive in his pickets, and compel him to show his
strength. As soon as the command "forward" was given, away they went
with a yell, sweeping the rebel pickets before them, and on into the
works beyond, before the enemy knew what was the matter or could recover
from his astonishment. An attempt was made to recall them as they went
rushing on toward the rebel works; but signals and bugle-calls were
unheeded. They entered, and for a time held a part of the rebel works.
Of course, this could not last long. It was not the intention to bring
on a general engagement, and they were not supported. In a little while
they were driven back again with serious loss. Captain Kinsey, of
Company C, was severely wounded, and never returned. In trying to bring
Captain Kinsey off the field, young Overdoff was killed, shot through
the head. When he first came to the company he was not very well liked;
but his kind and pleasant bearing soon made friends of all. From his
first experience in the Wilderness until his death, he was loved and
honored as a brave and fearless soldier.

In the latter part of November the Ninth Corps was passing, one day,
and I went over to the road, and waited till the One Hundredth
Pennsylvania came along. Here were many familiar faces. George Preston
was there, his face as honest and bright as in boyhood's days; and
George Dillinger--or was his name Hugh? Names become confused as the
mind runs back over so many years. What I saw there was but a section of
the past slipped forward, and given a different setting. My earliest
recollections were connected with these faces, when, at church or school
in the pleasant Summer-time, in one we listened to the good Irish
pastor's "sixteenthly" and "seventeenthly" and "in conclusion" as
sedately as our seniors; and in the other we took our regular flogging,
as prescribed by the lamented Solomon. The stalwart boys in blue were
the same boys still; but now they were the heroes of many a hard-fought
battle. The hurried questions and answers of that brief interview
touched upon as tragic scenes as ever employed the pen of genius. They
told how one fell here, another there--dead for the land they loved.

December 7, 1864, we started on a raid, the object of which was to
disturb the enemy's railroad communications toward the south. We
followed the Jerusalem plank-road one day's march, reaching Notaway
River in the evening, at Freeman's Ford. Our force was a strong one,
consisting of the Fifth Corps, under General Warren, and a division of
cavalry. With this force we felt quite at home within one day's march of
the main army. Once across the river, and at a greater distance, we
might stir up all the game we could take care of. Such was the feeling
expressed by the soldiers as they discussed the situation on the march
that day, and indulged in conjectures as to our probable destination and
the outcome of the expedition. Of course, the company wag had a hearing
while he expounded his views as to what we would do to the Confederacy
or the Confederacy to us. The soldiers had confidence in General Warren,
and regarded him as a prudent and efficient officer. He had the
reputation of being personally brave and fearless.

As evening approached, we turned to the right from the plank-road, and
halted in a corn-field, not far from the river. As we were about to
break ranks we heard on our right the clatter and snapping of gun-caps,
which, in a regiment armed with muzzle-loading guns, usually follows
the command to prepare to load. This sounded like business; but nothing
further indicating trouble occurred, and soon the cheerful camp-fires
enlivened the scene, and we proceeded to make ourselves comfortable.

It was the general impression that we would soon move on, and make a
night march; but as time passed, the men made down their beds, and
addressed themselves to sleep. About ten or eleven o'clock,
orders--perhaps delayed--were received for the men to camp for the
night, the march to be resumed at two in the morning. It at once entered
into the fertile brain of Lieutenant Peacock to extract a little fun
from the circumstances. Going to a group of men sleeping soundly under
their blankets, he deliberately roused them up and informed them that
they could sleep till two o'clock.

"Well, what the ---- did you wake us up for, to tell us that?"

"Why, you ---- lunatic, aren't two sleeps better than one?"

Then would follow a volley of protestations and modified blessings from
one side and the other.

At two in the morning we were again on the march. We passed Sussex Court
House and a place called Corman's Well. In the evening we reached the
North Cross House, on the Halifax road, thirty miles from Petersburg.
Here we struck the Welden Railroad, and the work of destruction began.
It was an exciting scene as the work progressed. There was an abundance
of ties along the road, and of these fires were built beside the track.
As far as the eye could reach the track was a line of blazing fires and
busy, shouting men. A brigade would stack arms on the bank beside the
track; then, taking hold of the rails, would begin to lift and surge on
it altogether, shouting in unison:

"Ohé!"

"Ohé!"

"Set her _up_!"

"Ohé!"

Soon it would begin to give, and quickly would be hurled over from the
road-bed with a ripping, crashing sound, followed by the shouts and
cheers of the men. Then came the process of detaching the part thus
overturned from that still undisturbed, if this had not been previously
accomplished. Using a length of rail as a lever, this was quickly done,
and in a surprisingly brief space of time the rails of a half-mile of
road would be lying on blazing piles of ties. As a general rule, the
rails were laid on the fire, and the heating of the middle portion would
cause them to bend by their own weight, thus rendering them useless.
When there was time, the men twisted the hot rails around trees or
telegraph poles, or wreathed them together in fantastic shapes. We
worked nearly all night. Toward morning we halted in a field, and slept
for a couple of hours. Early in the morning the work was resumed, and
continued till evening, with only brief intermission for dinner. It
rained during the day, and became very cold toward evening. Night found
us near a stream; I do not know whether it was the Meherrin River or a
tributary of that stream. If the latter, it must have been near its
junction with the river. The town of Bellefield is on the Meherrin. We
tore up the road to that town. The town was held by a force of rebel
infantry, and also artillery to the number of seven or eight guns.

A dismal storm of snow and sleet came on in the evening, and we could
only anticipate a night of discomfort. Not long after dark we were
ordered to fall in, with only arms and ammunition. The intention was to
surprise the rebel force at Bellefield, or, at least, this was the
belief of the men. If so, the project was abandoned. We crossed the
stream, and tore up some more track, and returned. At this time the only
man lost by the regiment during the raid was killed.

As we overturned a stretch of rail, as before described, he was caught
under it as it fell. In the darkness and confusion no one noticed the
accident but myself; and such was the noise and shouting, it was some
time before I could make it known. As soon as possible we lifted the
rails and drew him out. His chest was crushed by the great weight, and
he scarcely breathed after he was extricated.

We spent the night standing around the fires. Sleep was impossible. The
freezing mud was ankle deep, and, as the sleety storm swept by, it
encased the outer world in an icy covering. Muffled in rubber blankets,
crouched around the fires, to get what warmth and comfort they could, as
the driving wind whirled the flames this way and that, the soldiers
waited for the return of day.

The next morning the return march began. Flankers were kept out on each
side of the column, to guard against surprise, and to prevent men from
straggling out from the column, as it was known that rebel cavalry was
hanging on our flank and rear, ready to inflict whatever damage they
could. There was an occasional dash on our rear; but this was easily
repulsed, and the day passed without special incident.

We camped that night in woods, two days' march from Petersburg. The
storm still continued, but not so severe as during the previous night. I
was fortunate enough to secure a piece of board, by means of which I
provided myself comfortable lodging for the night. That board was torn
from the side of a church near by. It was none the worse for that.
Perhaps that church never before did any service in the cause of loyalty
and the Union. That night it kept some Union soldiers off the wet
ground. The next morning the march was resumed. Before we had gone far,
we made a discovery that was enough to bring the blush of shame to the
face of any civilized man. Some of our men, who had fallen behind in the
march out, had been inhumanly butchered. I suppose the citizens, with
their usual stupidity, thought we would never return, and no day of
reckoning would come; and, finding these men in their power, murdered
them with a cold-blooded brutality only equaled by the most degraded
savages. Some were found riddled with bullets and stripped of their
clothing; some had their throats cut, besides gunshot wounds. My first
information was from Mike Coleman, who told me, with a look of horror in
his face, of the blood-curdling sight he had just witnessed.

This discovery had a peculiar effect upon the soldiers. Even those who
were usually undemonstrative gave vent to their feelings in hearty
curses on the rebellion, and every thing connected with it. The wish was
freely expressed that Lee might intercept us, and bring on the final
battle between civilization and barbarism. Up to this time there had
been no destruction of private property, except a mill, which had been
burned as a war measure, and a house, from which a cavalryman had been
treacherously shot; but now, either with or without orders, the men
began to burn and destroy every thing within their reach. Even the
fences were fired when it could be done. Not a single able-bodied man
could be seen along the route; they had fled from the wrath to come.

The One Hundred and Ninetieth was on the flank most of the day. About
the middle of the afternoon, we reached a group of houses and
outbuildings, which might almost be called a village. Here the head of
the column halted, and the flankers drew in near the road. A large
dwelling-house stood on the left of the road, the side on which we were.
The buildings on the other side of the road were already in flames, and
men were preparing to fire the dwelling-house. An old man was looking
out of a little out-door kitchen. He was leaning on his staff, trembling
with age, cold, and terror. A woman, bearing in her arms a babe but a
few months old, came out of the house. Her pale face and quiet bearing,
as she walked hurriedly away from the door, touched the gentler nature
in the soldiers' hearts, that was now dominated by the tiger, which the
sight of blood unjustly shed had aroused. Sympathy was marked on every
face. Not an unkind word was spoken; but the house must burn. This
general distress must teach the lesson that even _war_ has its limit of
barbarity.

That evening we recrossed the Notaway River, and camped about a quarter
of a mile beyond, where we camped the first night out. Here we were
joined by troops that had been sent down from Petersburg for that
purpose.

A large house, perhaps a tavern, stood near the road, nearly opposite
the site of our former camp. We had not been long in camp till we saw
this house, and the buildings connected with it, wrapped in flames. From
the fact that the place was not fired at once, we supposed it would be
spared. The case was thus explained: When the men first came to the
house, they were informed, on inquiry, that there was no man about. The
woman who seemed to be the mistress of the house, claimed to be a widow.
Investigation revealed a Springfield rifle and the uniform of a murdered
soldier concealed about the premises. This was sufficient. The house was
fired; and, as the flames spread, a man ran out from some place of
concealment, and tried to escape. He received the mercy he had given.

During the night the sky cleared, and by morning the ground was frozen.
You would suppose that the soldiers suffered from the cold. Most of them
slept as comfortably as you would at home, on such a night, covered over
with your quilts and blankets. How was it done? Every man wore an
overcoat, carried one wool blanket, a rubber blanket, and at least one
piece of canvas tent, five feet square. We "bunked" at least two
together, sometimes three. This gave two or three heavy wool blankets,
as many rubber blankets, besides the shelter tents. If the ground was
wet, we put a rubber blanket and a piece of tent under us; otherwise,
only one of these, and the rest over us. Then, with a fire on one side,
and a log on the other, there was no trouble about getting a good
night's sleep. Such were our sleeping arrangements this cold night.

The march of the following day was very trying, because of the roughness
of the ground and the extreme cold. In the evening we arrived in the
vicinity of Petersburg, and took our place on the left of our lines,
rather toward the rear. The loss of the Union forces during this raid
was about one hundred, killed and wounded.



CHAPTER XII.


Our camp was in woods. The ground was somewhat flat and wet, but with
good facilities for draining. A deep ditch was dug around the camp on
three sides. We had plenty of timber near the camp for building tents.
The tents built by the soldiers for Winter-quarters were generally about
nine feet by seven, built of logs, five feet high. A ridge pole was
fastened up at the proper height, over which four shelter tents,
buttoned together, were stretched and brought down to the top log on
either side, and securely fastened. This formed the roof. The gable ends
were closed with pieces of shelter-tent, boards, or some substitute.

A door about three feet high was left in the side next the company
street. A chimney, with fire-place, was made at one end, carried up a
foot above the roof. It was built of clay and sticks. Usually the tents
were uniform in this respect, the chimney of each at the same side of
the tent. Two beds or bunks, one above the other, were made of poles
covered with a layer of leafy twigs, if possible. On these were laid
wool blankets, rubber blankets, extra clothing, etc., making a very
comfortable bed. Cracker boxes furnished material for door, seats, and
table. The chinks between the logs were closed with clay mortar. The
Winter-quarters of a regiment was simply a neat, cleanly village of
small log houses, with this peculiarity, that only one row of houses
faced on a street.

A military execution took place not long after our return from the
Welden raid. A man had deserted to the enemy from a Maryland regiment,
was captured, tried, and sentenced to be hung. The troops were ordered
out to witness the execution. A hollow square was formed around the
scaffold, and in due time the doomed man was led forth, accompanied by a
guard, provost-marshal, and chaplain. The prisoner promptly ascended the
scaffold, the sentence was read, and prayer was offered by the chaplain.
The rope was placed about his neck, and an attempt was made to draw the
cap over his head. It was found that the cap should have been put on
first, and they loosed the rope to change it. At this point the
trap-door gave way, and precipitated them all to the ground. The straps
with which the prisoner's knees had been bound were now loosed, so that
he could again ascend the scaffold. He sat on the steps while repairs
were made. When all was ready he took his place on the trap-door, first
testing it with his weight, to see whether it might again give way
prematurely. The cap was now drawn over his head, the noose adjusted,
and the trap sprung. After he had hung for some time, we marched back to
camp.

Our stay at this camp was very pleasant. The location was supposed to be
unhealthy, and they issued whisky and quinine to the men for a while.
This did more harm than good.

My tent-mates were George Dunn, Joe Bovard, and Andy Shank. Joe Bovard
had been in the service from the beginning of the war. He was over six
feet in height, a good-natured, manly fellow. George Dunn extended
upward to an altitude of at least six feet and a half, besides running
along the ground an extraordinary distance before being started in a
vertical direction. Our tent was larger than the ordinary, ten by
twelve feet, well daubed and comfortable.

One day Jim M'Guire solicited "the hospitality of our tent for the
purpose of entertaining some friends." This meant that they wanted to
have a high old time, and our tent would be very convenient for that
purpose because of its size. Early next morning the festivities began.
Commissary whisky was provided in abundance. "Sport" (William Harris)
furnished music for the occasion, which he extracted from an old fiddle
procured from some unexplainable source. The ball opened with a good
pull all around from the canteen. Ordinary forms of entertainment and
social enjoyment soon became stale and they concluded to try the mazy
dance. Our tent was floored with puncheons, and the racket which they
kicked up was something marvelous. Occasionally I looked in to see how
the thing was progressing. "Sport" was perched upon the upper bunk, his
chin on the fiddle, his tongue protruding from his mouth, and wiggling
to and fro in time to the music, while on his face was a look of solemn
intensity, as if his life depended on his efforts. The dances were
necessarily limited to "French Fours," but these were rendered with
great animation and in the latest style of art. As George Dunn would
execute some of the fancy flourishes with which their figures were
profusely ornamented, his head would bob against the canvas roof. This
was suggestive. Procuring a stick of proper size, I crossed over to the
rear street, and stood back of the tent watching my opportunity.
Presently Dunn's head came bobbing against the canvas, and I brought the
stick down on it with a good, sharp crack. The effect was all that could
be desired. There came an unearthly bellow, accompanied, I grieve to
say, with many exclamations suggestive of the future prospects of the
culprit who had cracked the head of the festive dancer. Out they poured
through the little door in hot haste to chastise the offender; but he
was nowhere to be found. Failing in their search, they returned and
resumed their exercises.

Although the day was quite mild and pleasant, there was some fire in the
tent, and a thin column of smoke rose lazily from the chimney top.
Thinking to add still further the spice of variety to the occasion, I
took a cast-off garment and spread it over the top of the chimney, and
awaited events.

Meantime within, the dance waxed warm again. The fiddle shrieked, the
government stogies thundered upon the puncheon floor; but soon it was
evident that all things were not as they had been from the beginning.
Confusion first fell upon the fiddler. His dulcet notes, as they whirled
through their lofty flight, reeled, and staggered, and fell, to give
place to anathemas, steady and well sustained. Smoke filled the tent,
and came creeping out through every crevice. They rose up as one man and
cursed the chimney with great vehemence. They came scrambling out of the
door, wiping their weeping eyes. A brief investigation revealed the
cause of their discomfiture. In dislodging the offending garment from
the chimney they nearly wrecked that ornamental structure. As soon as
Shank saw what was the matter, he at once announced that "that ---- ----
had done it. He had played that trick on him once before, when he was
getting dinner." From this and other remarks that were made, I thought
it prudent to withhold all further co-operation. Toward evening the
entertainment came to a close. This was hastened by unfavorable rumors
from regimental headquarters. After carefully reconnoitering the
position, I ventured to present myself at the tent. Dunn was deposited
on the lower bunk, overcome by the varied duties of the day. The upper
bunk had not proved equal to the emergency, and had broken down. The
table, seats, and door were broken. The canvas roof was torn loose at
one side and hung disconsolately from the ridge-pole. Shank was in the
tent; Joe Bovard was sitting on a stump in front, evidently holding a
discussion with his stomach. "Sport" was capering around with many sage
remarks and comical gesticulations intended to express his sympathy.
Just then Shank came out of the tent, and made for him, to chastise him
for some offense. "Sport" fled up the street and across a little bridge
to the parade-ground. The feet of his pursuer were heavy, and when he
came to the bridge he paused, reflected a moment, and deliberately tore
it up, and returned with a very satisfied expression of countenance,
remarking:

"I've cu-cut off 'is communications off, anyhow."

This little episode of camp life seems to reach a very flat conclusion.
But the facts leave no alternative. It required about two days' diligent
labor to clean up and repair, to say nothing about Dunn's head, stomach,
and general constitution. The working of prohibition was well
illustrated in the army. If the traffic had been "regulated" as it is
throughout a large portion of our country, the effectiveness of the army
would have been destroyed within six months. As it was, the officers in
charge of the commissary department were prohibited from selling to the
privates. They tell us now that there is no use of trying to reduce
drunkenness in this way. We cite the army as an illustration of
successful prohibition. If men had been inclined to evade the law, they
could have obtained liquor as readily as in civil life. If the evil had
become manifest, a remedy could have been applied more directly than in
civil life. But it was not necessary. If intoxicating liquors are made
difficult to obtain, multitudes who would otherwise use them and become
drunkards will not take the trouble to procure them. We affirm that this
was demonstrated in the Army of the Potomac. There was very little
drunkenness. A few would secure whisky, and become intoxicated.
Sometimes it was accomplished by forging the name of an officer to an
order. In the revel just described one of the men disguised himself in
the uniform of an officer, and bought the whisky.

I never knew whisky to do the men any good. It was certainly one of the
strangest of follies to issue whisky rations, as was sometimes done on
occasions of peculiar exposure. The men who never tasted stimulants had
the most endurance, and suffered the least from cold or exposure of any
kind. We wonder at the delusions of witchcraft, and can scarcely
comprehend how men could so abandon common sense as to give credence to
such folly; but the absurdity of the use of alcoholic stimulants is not
less puerile. The time will come when it will be told with pitying
wonder how men of this day stupidly ignore the ghastly results of the
liquor traffic to themselves and others, and with supine meanness bow
their necks to the yoke which it fastens upon them. They will believe
the most barefaced lies, assent to the shallowest sophisms of the
liquor-dealers, and turn a deaf ear to the most evident dictates of
common sense, justice, and prudence.

I think it is Thomas Carlyle says: "England has a population of thirty
millions, mostly fools." The same comment is fairly applicable to every
so-called civilized people in the world. The dealers say, "It is a
benefit to trade." The fools echo, "We can not have prosperity in state,
county, or town without the dram-shops." The brewers and distillers say,
"It enhances the value of property and products of all kinds." The fools
answer, with idiotic promptness and docility, "Yes, we must continue
this ulcerous cancer upon the body politic--this unclean, pestilential,
gangrenous sore, reeking with disease, vice, poverty, madness, to
increase the price of grain." Yes, gentlemen, grain is more profitable
deposited in the stomach of your son or your neighbor's son, in the form
of whisky, mixed with sundry deadly drugs to give it "tone," than in
pork, beef, or mutton, or transformed into the power which sets the
whirling spindles of the East in motion, fires up the black caverns of a
thousand furnaces, and fills unnumbered homes with joy and plenty. This
would do very well if you saw fit to wait till the redeemed drunkard
would recover health and manly ambition, and provide his family with
sufficient food, clothing, and shelter. But there is a more direct way
to turn your produce into money. Transform it into liquor. With this,
arm the vampires that suck the people's blood, and turn them loose after
him. Post them in every city, village, cross-roads. They will strip him,
ruin him, finally kill him; but never mind that. They will make you
quick returns in bright dollars. There is, however, one disadvantage
incident to this method, which is worthy of consideration. The victims
of the dram-seller die, and he must make more drunkards or his business
will be gone. He may get his clutches on your boy. He will, if he can.
This would be very unpleasant. However, if such a thing should occur,
you can drive your son away, banish him from your sight. Then, if you
should hear some time that he has ended the struggle with pistol, rope,
or poison, thus decreasing the income of yourself and your partner, the
dram-seller, you can console yourself with pious reflections on the
mysterious ways of Providence.



CHAPTER XIII.


At this time pickets were only changed every third day, "three-day
picket," we called it. We preferred this, as it gave us such a long time
without any duty of this kind, that the change was welcome. We were
almost two months in this camp, and during this time I was only on
picket twice. There was no enemy in our immediate front. The days passed
as tranquilly and as free from danger as if war had never been. Now and
then you could hear a boom of cannon far to the right; but if you wanted
to see a rebel, you had to travel four or five miles to get a glimpse of
one.

The second time I was on picket, the weather was extremely cold. The
first day we were placed on reserve, at a substantial rifle pit, about
fifty yards back of the regular picket line. During the night, for some
reason, we had orders to strengthen the line. I was sent to the extreme
right of our brigade line, where we joined with pickets of German
troops. The posts were about a hundred yards apart, at each post a
strong rifle-pit. The fires were built at the right or left of the
rifle-pit, and carefully screened with bushes, so that those about them
could not be seen from the outside. Our line here was in woods, and the
timber was cut down between the posts. In front of the posts, videttes
were placed during the night, who were relieved every two hours. The men
at this post were from a Delaware regiment, and all strangers to me.

It was very cold work, standing vidette two hours at a time; in fact, my
toes were slightly frosted the first night. We discussed the question,
and concluded we could relieve matters a little. We arranged with the
men on the post at our left to put out but one man from the two posts.
By alternating, we would only be on post one-half as long. The officer
in charge of the line would come from the left, and it was arranged that
the other post would signal us when he approached, and one of us would
go out. In this way we always had a man out from each post when he
inquired into matters. This was rather an irresponsible way of running
the Army of the Potomac, but it seemed to us an improvement.

An incident occurred the second night, which convinced us that our plan
was open to objection. The men were all sleeping around the fire, except
one, a nervous fellow, of whose qualities I had not a high opinion. I
must have been sleeping but lightly. Suddenly I was aroused by a noise
outside the screen, to the right, as if some one had been passing
stealthily along and tripped, falling headlong. I was instantly on my
feet, and telling the men to scatter out and see what was the matter, I
hastened out toward the right, followed only by the nervous man. We
searched the ground carefully as far as the pit on our right. With our
bayonets we thrust among the brush, and examined every dark corner,
without any result. We returned, to find part of the men still at the
fire, and the rest behind the rifle-pit outside. A similar search toward
the left was equally fruitless. We never were able to explain the thing
satisfactorily, but concluded to keep out our videttes.

After the Hatcher's Run campaign, I saw one of these men in rather
unfavorable circumstances. We had been in camp a few days, and were
engaged in building our tents, when we heard the sound of a fife and
drum approaching. As they drew near, we saw a corporal and a file of
men, and in their midst one of the heroes of the picket adventure, who
had shivered over the fire that night, when he should have been out
looking for the supposed intruder. Across his back was hung a board,
about three feet long by one in breadth, on which was inscribed, in
large letters:

  =COWARD.=

The musicians were playing "Rogues' March," to which the soldiers had
adapted the following touching lines:

    "Poor old soldier,
     Poor old soldier,
     Bucked and gagged and sent to ----,
     Because he wouldn't soldier."



CHAPTER XIV.


The morning of February 5th found our camp in a bustle of preparation.
We had orders to march, leaving our tents "_in statu quo_," taking only
overcoats, arms, and haversacks. General Warren was mounted on his old
gray horse. This we regarded as a sure sign that a fight was on the
programme. The column headed toward the left. Then we knew that Warren
had done well to mount the old gray. A tender spot of the Confederacy
lay in that direction. The "Southside Railroad" was the main artery that
carried life-blood to the rebel army, and was guarded with jealous care.

The morning was bright, crisp, and frosty. The men were in excellent
spirits. We had with us a number of waggish fellows that would be the
life of any company, jovial, hearty, able to bring forth a joke under
the most forbidding circumstances. One of these (Smith let us call him)
had served eight years in the regular army before the rebellion, and
had been in the volunteer service during the entire war. He was a
sturdy, big-hearted fellow, now becoming somewhat gray with years. His
favorite word was "Woo-haw," which he pressed into service quite
frequently. From this we called him "Old Woo-haw."

Some time in the forenoon we found the enemy intrenched at Rowanty
Creek, just below the junction of Gravelly Run and Hatcher's Run. From a
slight ridge about three hundred yards back, open ground sloped down to
the run, where there were a few small trees on the bank, which sloped
abruptly to the water. The stream was perhaps fifteen feet wide. On the
other side the ground rose again as abruptly as on the side next to us;
and on the bank were the rebel rifle-pits, this side of the stream being
also covered with woods. It was not more than twenty-five or thirty
yards from the side of the stream on which we were approaching to the
pits beyond.

At this time I was armed with a Springfield rifle, muzzle-loader, while
the rest had the Spencer. I never professed to have a natural appetite
for cold lead, broken bones, etc., and very much disliked to go into a
skirmish with a "long Tom." However, there was no help for it. The
sharp crack of carbines showed that the cavalry had met with stubborn
resistance. At the first halt after we heard firing, I loaded her up and
was ready.

As the head of the regiment reached the ridge, we halted. The cavalry
were keeping up a lively fire just ahead and on the right, and there was
every prospect of an interesting time. Very soon we were ordered forward
to skirmish. As the order was received, Smith remarked, with a peculiar
twang to his heavy voice and an odd twist of his head:

"Now, boys, the woo-hawin' is a-goin' to begin."

We followed the road over the ridge, and filed to the right on a
farm-road which led in this direction. As we filed right Colonel
Pattee's voice rang out:

"Deploy, skirmishers!"

We came around the corner on a run, and as the order was given the men
faced toward the enemy, and advanced as they deployed. Before the rear
of the regiment had left the main road, the rest were charging down
through the open field. They looked like a mob as they broke ranks and
went pell-mell over the field, yelling like madmen. But there was
method in their disorder, and before they had passed over half the
distance they were in as good position as if they had gone about it in
the most formal manner. It was a reckless movement; but the officers
were not responsible for it, as no order was given except to deploy.

Reaching the stream, we found it covered with ice, on which we hoped to
cross. One of the foremost boys stepped upon it, and it at once gave
way, and let him into the water. Just the top of his head stuck out
above the fragments of ice. He was fished out as expeditiously as
possible, and the idea of crossing in that way was abandoned. Men came
down with axes, and proceeded to fell trees across the run on which to
cross. While this was going on, we did our best to keep the rebels down
behind their works, and render their fire ineffectual. We soon succeeded
in this, but not until they had inflicted some loss. Sullivan was
standing a little below me, when a bullet clipped by his left hip,
cutting his pants about three inches, but doing no harm. A ball touched
my hand as I was capping my gun. Others struck close around. Soon the
trees were down, and part of the men crossed, while others kept careful
watch on the rebels, and fired rapidly to keep them down. When enough
had crossed, perhaps forty or fifty, then every body yelled, and those
who had crossed charged the pits, and the rest came crowding over. Some
of the rebels surrendered, and a few escaped. As the final charge was
made, the line of battle came down, reaching the run just in time to
lose some men. There may have been some reason unknown to us for
bringing them down; but as far as we could see, it was a mistake. Our
loss was fifteen wounded and one or two killed.

The losses of a regiment do not always show its courage nor its
effectiveness as a military organization, but rather its lack of
discipline, and unskillful handling. The One Hundred and Ninetieth was
composed of well-trained, veteran soldiers, and had good officers. This
fight shows how such a regiment may incur serious disaster without room
for just reflection on the skill, courage, or discipline of men or
officers. Had a much stronger force been behind those works, situated as
they were, our heedless charge would have resulted in a bloody repulse,
unless speedily supported by a charge from the line of battle, which
would have involved heavy loss.

The road which we had followed is called the stage-road. Crossing the
run, we followed it in the direction of Dinwiddie Court House, until we
reached the Quaker road. The enemy was not encountered in our front, but
farther to the right there was severe fighting along Hatcher's Run.
During the night we moved to a position near Dabney's Mill. I think we
followed the Vaughan road. In crossing Gravelly Run, there was some
delay in getting the column over. After we had reached the other side,
and were waiting for the others, a colonel offended one of the men of
Company A, ordering him away from a fire by which the colonel was
standing. This called forth some of the liveliest sort of vituperation.
Such combinations of opprobrious epithets are rarely exhibited. That
man's relatives, near and remote, male and female, were brought into
requisition to define the exquisite meanness of his nature and origin.
The discomfited nabob appealed to Colonel Pattee for redress, who sent
Adjutant Wright back to quiet the boys.

During the day we moved out from our position near the run, into the
woods in front, and formed line of battle. The One Hundred and Ninetieth
was in the line. The day was dismal. Rain and snow had fallen during the
preceding night, and now it was growing colder. Our line advanced over
ground partly swampy. In maneuvering to pass one of these difficult
places, the Two Hundred and Tenth Pennsylvania was massed behind us, and
came crowding close after. Some of the men would break through the crust
of ice, and sink into the mud beneath. Among others, George Dunn,
notwithstanding the size of his feet, went plunging in, half-way to his
knee. When the foot was withdrawn, it was found that the shoe had been
left in the depths below. George hesitated, thinking, perhaps, to
attempt a rescue; but it was too late. The Two Hundred and Tenth, coming
on in close divisions, trampled it down beyond all hope of recovery.
Advancing some distance, the line halted. The formation of the Second
Division must have been imperfect, on account of the nature of the
ground. This probably caused the delay.

On the right a severe engagement was in progress, and in front was some
skirmishing. The men, as usual with them when placed in line of battle,
were uneasy and dissatisfied. Soon they began to go out, one at a time,
then by twos and threes, toward the front. No objection was made by the
officers, until the line began to grow thin. A little later, part of the
line became engaged; but, as the right of the corps had been checked, we
were soon withdrawn, and took a position not far from the run, where we
intrenched and held the ground. Here we were on the left, where our line
rested on the run. We were considerably annoyed by shells, which came
nearly from our rear. Our pits faced down the run, and afforded no
protection from shells coming from the enemy's position at our right.

On the morning of the 8th we had orders to "fall in," and soon we were
in line, ready to move. Passing to the right a short distance, we
halted, at a gap in the rifle-pits, where a road led out to the front; I
think it was the Vaughan Road. Soon an aid rode up to Colonel Pattee
with orders. Some one inquired, of those standing nearest the colonel,
what the orders were. One of them replied, with the utmost seriousness:

"The orders are for the One Hundred and Ninetieth to report in ---- in
less than ten minutes."

We passed out on this road some distance, and then bore to the right,
over ground strewn with dead horses, that had been killed during the
cavalry fighting of the preceding days. After advancing about a mile, we
halted in open ground, and formed line of battle. On our right, and some
distance in front, was timber. We hastily intrenched, for this purpose
tearing down a house. We judged that the enemy would not let us remain
long undisturbed; nor were we mistaken. Through the still, frosty air we
heard the sound of preparation. We could hear the officers giving
orders, and the snapping of caps as they prepared to load. Their line of
battle extended far past our left, and a line was evidently preparing to
come down on our right flank. We threw up pits on each flank, and
waited, uncertain of the result. We knew of no arrangement to prevent
our being overwhelmed by numbers. This suspense continued for some time,
and we expected every moment that the vengeful storm would burst upon
us. But now an aid was seen galloping toward us, and we were ordered to
withdraw from our exposed position. We lost no time in regaining the
works we had left in the morning. What this little side show was for, we
could not imagine. Perhaps it was a misunderstanding.

The same day we recrossed Hatcher's Run, and began the construction of
permanent works on that side. We worked by reliefs, three hours on duty
and three off. We had run out of provisions, and a fresh supply failed
to arrive. The men became dissatisfied, and finally refused to work.
Threats of compelling them to work were made. The men answered by
gathering up their guns and starting for the woods, in the rear. At this
point General Warren came down and spoke to the men in a reasonable
manner. The mere fact of his coming among them had a good effect on the
men. He urged the necessity of the work, and told them that if
provisions were not on hand by a given time, he would consent to their
ceasing from work. The men then went to work cheerfully.

Jack M'Bride and myself had previously solved, in a measure, the
difficult problem of reconciling the conflicting claims of an empty
stomach and the vigorous prosecution of the war. As night came on, we
retired some distance into the woods, built a fire, and made ourselves
comfortable. The next morning we found a piece of pork, which had been
lost or thrown away three or four days before. It was good. We scraped
the mud from it carefully, and ate it with a relish. We then came back
and went to work with the rest.

After these works had been completed, we moved some distance down
Hatcher's Run, to a small branch of that stream, called Arthur's Creek.
Our position was on the left flank of the army, facing rather toward the
rear. For the third time this winter we built winter-quarters. Our camp
was pleasantly located, fronting a large farm, in the rear woods.
Brigade and division headquarters were in the woods, our picket-line in
the open ground beyond the farm-house, a mile from camp.

On the 7th of February, the next day after the fight near Dabney's Mill,
I got a Spencer rifle, and kept it until we were mustered out. The
spiral spring of the magazine was damaged in some way, so that it would
receive only four or five cartridges, instead of seven. I repaired it by
taking the spring out entirely. It would then receive nine or ten, and
a little practice made the experiment a success.

Duty was light, and our main business was amusing ourselves. For in-door
amusement, euchre was the favorite. There was not much gambling, but
many fine points were settled by "best three out of five." One form of
out-door amusement was the following: A peg was driven into the ground,
and to this were fastened two ropes, fifteen or twenty feet long. Two
men were then blindfolded, and placed one at the end of each rope, on
opposite sides of the peg. To one was given a notched stick, about two
feet long; and also another, to rub over it, making a scraping sound. He
was called the "scraper." To the other was given a pant-leg, or
something of this kind, stuffed with paper or rags. He was called the
"pounder," and it was his business to "pound" the scraper, if he could.
They were each required to keep hold of his rope. The boys would
sometimes stand around a circle of this kind by the hour, and watch the
fun. The two would move about with catlike caution, each listening for
the other. Sometimes the pounder would think he had the other, _sure_;
and, listening most earnestly, anticipated triumph shining from his
face, he would bring his weapon down on nothing. Again, the scraper,
thinking the pounder, who was right beside him, was far away, would rest
the end of his notched stick on the ground, and draw the other along it,
"scrape-scrape," when down would come the pant-leg on his head, followed
by shouts of laughter from the audience.

The soldiers built a large tent for religious meetings, and a revival of
extraordinary interest took place during our stay here. The noble
Christian young men who did this work remember those meetings with
satisfaction now, whether they are on earth or in heaven. They conducted
them without the aid of a minister. No! they themselves were ministers
of God, anointed from on high for this work.

Some of the conversions were remarkable. One young man, whom I had known
as a brave, fearless fellow, was converted during a meeting of peculiar
power. The change was plain and evident to all. His handsome face was
continually bright with the peace of God. He fell in battle, March 31st,
and died in the arms of his comrades, who were trying to carry him back
when our line was broken and routed.

As Spring drew near came the reviews and various movements that indicate
the approach of active operations. Some changes were made in the
brigade. It now consisted of the fragments of three Pennsylvania
regiments, the One Hundred and Ninetieth, One Hundred and Ninety-first,
and One Hundred and Fifty-seventh; two Delaware regiments, now
consolidated into one, and the Two Hundred and Tenth Pennsylvania. The
latter was a one-year regiment, and almost as large as the rest of the
brigade. They were a fine body of men, reliable and well-drilled. There
were but five commissioned officers in the One Hundred and Ninetieth.
Colonel Pattee and Adjutant Wright, Captain Birkman, Lieutenants Coleman
and Peacock. Captain Birkman had charge of Companies A, B, and C. The
One Hundred and Ninetieth and One Hundred and Ninety-first acted
together as one regiment, under command of Colonel Pattee. The fragment
of the One Hundred and Fifty-seventh--not more than forty or fifty
men--was regarded as a part of the One Hundred and Ninety-first.

We held this little band in high esteem. They were heroes, every man of
them. Captain Carter was in command. We were the Third Brigade, Second
Division, Fifth Corps.



CHAPTER XV.

_THE BEGINNING OF THE END._


On the morning of March 25th, I know not why, our camp was astir earlier
than usual. Heavy cannonading could be heard toward the right, but this
was nothing uncommon. As time passed on, the noise of strife continued,
and seemed to extend farther toward the left. Eating a hasty breakfast,
I started toward the scene of action, determined to ascertain the cause
of the unusual uproar. When starting from camp, I did not suppose it was
any thing more serious than an artillery fight of more than ordinary
interest. As I went on the sound swelled to a steady roar, which showed
that a determined battle was in progress. Drawing nearer, I saw the
troops in line of battle, the shells bursting, and cannon flaming as far
as the eye could reach.

I was informed that Fort Steadman had been taken, and a part of our
works captured by the enemy. Supposing that we would be ordered to the
right to retrieve the disaster, I started to return to camp. I had not
proceeded far when I saw the head of the column approaching. I hurried
back to camp and procured my gun and accouterments and started to
overtake the troops. I was joined by Lewis, who had also been absent.
Only the pickets and ordinary camp guard remained. As we passed along we
met President Lincoln, General Meade, and staff, coming toward the left.
We concluded to greet them with due ceremony. As we met them we halted
on the bank by the road and presented arms. The President raised his
hat, and turned to General Meade with some humorous remark as they rode
on. It seemed a reversal of things for the head of the nation to pass in
review before a couple of stragglers.

We found the Second and Third Divisions drawn up in the rear of the
works as support, awaiting events. A large number of prisoners passed to
the rear while we waited here. Farther to the left, the First Division
advanced on the enemy's works, and was repulsed with considerable loss,
but succeeded in establishing our lines nearer to those of the enemy.
We were not engaged, and returned to our quarters in the evening.

The next morning I started early to visit an acquaintance belonging to
the One Hundred and Fifty-fifth Pennsylvania, First Division. It was not
yet sunrise when I reached their camp. The acquaintance whom I had come
to visit was on picket, and I went out along the line to find him. The
pickets were stationed in woods, and the men were engaged in building or
strengthening their intrenchments. Passing along the line, I noticed
that the men kept close to the pits. I inquired if things were woolly
out there, and was informed that the latitude was decidedly unhealthy.

I now noticed a Yankee vidette about twenty-five yards in front, rifle
in hand, sticking close to a tree, and scarcely fifty yards farther on,
a rebel vidette peered cautiously past another tree. The vigilance with
which they watched each other revealed both the danger and security of
the situation. If all were watching each other as jealously as these, I
could continue my observations with comparative safety. A little farther
toward the left I reached open ground. Arrangements had been made,
under flag of truce, for burying our dead who had fallen in the battle
of the previous day. Quite a number of dead lay scattered over the
field, some of them close up to the rebel works. They were carried back
within our own lines and buried there. They were carried on blankets,
one man taking hold of each corner, and thus bearing them along.

Four men thus engaged, halted with their burden to rest as they were
passing near me. In the blanket lay a boy, certainly not more than
eighteen or nineteen years old. At first glance you could scarcely
believe that he was dead. Surely the grim King could not stamp upon
dying clay a smile so pleasant, a laugh so winning, as shone out from
those parted lips and half-closed eyes! But just over his heart,
half-concealed by his arm, that bloody rent in his blouse showed how he
died.

  "Somebody's darling is cold and dead."

I looked upon that handsome, boyish face with wonder. The smile was so
happy and so life-like that the first impression was only that of light
and careless mirth; but the lines curved away into an expression of
solemn majesty, is if the passing spirit, thrilled with the full
perception of the grandeur of its own immortality, had left this impress
on the tenement of clay.

On the way back to camp, evidences were everywhere visible that the
final act of the great national tragedy would quickly come on. That
afternoon I made ready for active operations by purchasing from the
"commissary" a couple of pounds of extra coffee. The regulation quantity
was sufficient while in camp; but after a hard day's march there was a
strong inclination to throw an extra handful into the old coffee-pot. As
a result, the inexperienced frequently found themselves short after a
few days, to their discomfort and actual disadvantage.



CHAPTER XVI.


The next morning, March 27th, I went on picket. Some time after
midnight, on the 28th, we were withdrawn, and returned to camp. Orders
had come to prepare for the march. The camp was astir with busy life. In
a little while our tents, that looked so neat and trim last evening,
with their white canvas roofs and clean-swept streets, will be silent,
cheerless, and deserted. My tent-mates had taken down our shelter-tents,
and I had nothing to do but pack my knapsack, and all was ready.

In some of the dismantled tents the fires still burned, casting their
flickering rays upward through the air, while about them, sitting or
lounging at ease, were men equipped for the stern work of war, ready to
fall into line at the word of command. The stirring scene had in it not
a little of sadness. We had passed pleasant hours in this camp. That
tender something of association which clings around the thought of "the
old campground" breathed through the darkness that night, and glanced
in the camp-fires that dimly lighted up the warlike scene. These would
be our last Winter-quarters. For some, the next night would bring the
quiet "bivouac of the dead."

The strength of the Fifth Corps was as follows:

  First Division, General Griffin,      6,180
  Second Division, General Ayer,        3,980
  Third Division, General Crawford,     5,250
                                       ------
     Total,                            15,410

The artillery consisted of twenty guns, and there was an escort of forty
cavalry.

The march began at three o'clock on the morning of the 29th, the Second
Division in the advance. We passed down what was called the stage-road
toward Rowanty Creek, the same road on which we had marched February
5th, at the time of the Hatcher's Run fighting. We reached the vicinity
of the creek a little after daybreak, and formed line of battle in the
open ground south-east of the residence of W. Perkins. Much to our
dissatisfaction the One Hundred and Ninetieth was placed in the line,
and the Two Hundred and Tenth was deployed as skirmishers. They did not
advance till the line was formed, and then not far enough ahead of us to
be of any use. Fortunately no enemy was found; but time might have been
saved by a prompt advance of the skirmishers without waiting for the
line.

Crossing Rowanty without opposition, we followed the stage-road to its
junction with the Quaker road. Up this we marched toward Gravelly Run.
The First Division, however, followed the stage-road some distance
farther. How far we advanced up the Quaker road I am unable to say; but
we finally turned to the left, and formed line of battle, facing the
west. In our front was quite an expanse of open ground sloping down
toward woods beyond. About a hundred yards to our left was a battery,
ready for action. The Two Hundred and Tenth was again sent forward to
skirmish. They advanced with due form and ceremony until they neared the
woods, when they opened fire with such a racket that we supposed the
enemy had been found in force. But they soon let up, and presently sent
back a solitary prisoner, about as forlorn, dilapidated looking a
specimen of grayback as could be imagined.

While we were waiting, John Edgar went down to the battery, in which he
had served for a considerable time, detached from his company for this
purpose; but he had left it and rejoined his company without being
returned in due form. He was at once placed under arrest as a deserter
by the officer in command, the man whose brutal treatment had caused
Edgar's unauthorized return to the regiment. This made quite a
commotion, and might have produced serious trouble; but as soon as
Colonel Pattee learned what had occurred, he went down to the battery,
and demanded and secured Edgar's release without delay.

After remaining here some time, we moved farther toward the left. Here
the One Hundred and Ninetieth deployed as skirmishers, and advanced into
the woods, facing the south-west. We remained in this position during
the night. Meantime the First Division had passed up the Quaker road. At
an old sawmill about half a mile from the Boydton plank-road they
encountered the enemy at four in the evening. A brief but terrific
conflict ensued, in which the enemy was driven back to the junction of
the two roads. We knew from the rapid discharges of artillery and the
heavy volleys of musketry that the great struggle had begun. The First
Division lost 367 killed and wounded, while the loss of the enemy was
heavier.

At dark on the 29th rain began to fall, and continued during the night
and the following day, making the roads almost impassable. On the
morning of the 30th we left the position held during the previous night,
and moved up the Quaker road. Near the sawmill we turned to the left,
and crossed the Boydton plank-road near Mrs. Butler's. In the field
there were dark patches of blood on the ground, here and there, which
the rain had not yet washed out. Guns that had dropped from the hands of
wounded or slain, knapsacks, haversacks, accouterments stripped from
mangled men ere they were borne from the field, lay scattered on the
ground over which we passed.

Near the plank-road, we deployed, and advanced across a branch of
Gravelly Run. The right of the regiment rested in open ground, near a
negro's house, and the left extended into the woods in a north-west
direction. I think the division formed on our left, facing the Whiteoak
Road; and we held a gap in our lines, between the Second Corps and our
own. Companies A, B, and C were on the right, in the open ground.

In advancing to this point, we were under a sharp fire, to which we did
not respond, but hastened to throw up pits. On the left of the regiment
the firing was lively, as the men in the woods did not need to be in
such haste entrenching. We were ordered to "rally by fours," and each
group threw up a separate pit.

I was in the group with Mike Coleman, and had a chance to notice one of
his peculiarities. As we advanced to this position, he seemed to be
dazed, and almost unconscious of his surroundings. When we halted to
entrench, with my most vigorous exhortations I could not arouse him to
any interest or exertion. We had no shovel, and must make a pit with
rails and stones, which we could gather up in front. I would urge him to
carry stones and put them in place. He would perhaps pick up a couple,
very leisurely, and lay them on the ground, back of the pit, and then
stand with his hands in his pockets. The bullets would whistle around,
or strike the ground near him, and he would look about as if he did not
understand what it all meant. Yet in battle, he was always cool, brave,
and daring.

In a little while we had a pit, capable of stopping a rifle ball, and
considered ourselves ready for any ordinary emergency. During the day,
the rebels attacked the line on our right, and were repulsed, after a
sharp fight, with considerable loss. They also advanced in our front,
and opened fire on us; but only as accessory to the more determined
movement on our right. The left of the regiment returned the fire; but
we could not see the enemy, and there seemed no reason to justify a
random fire.

There was a man in Company C who was usually troubled with a deficiency
in his knees at such times. Though sufficiently warlike and lion-hearted
by nature, no doubt, yet his legs were his undoing. They worked very
well, when steered for the rear, but otherwise they were a failure. When
the firing began on the right, he took his position behind the pit with
an air of great determination. Pointing his gun--a Springfield
rifle--toward the enemy, he sat crouching low, and looking intently
toward the brush in front. The boys were sitting or standing around,
dividing their attention between the skirmish, partly visible through
the trees, and R----, whose warlike attitude and evident terror called
forth good-natured raillery.

"Steady on the left, R----!"

"Cut her loose, R----!"

"Give 'em ----, R----!"

Such were a few of the cheering exhortations which greeted that
redoubtable warrior. To all these he paid no heed. I suppose, in spite
of his fears, a few shells, a sharp volley, or even a charge from the
enemy, would have given him profound satisfaction--if unharmed
himself--as a vindication of his prudent vigilance. Nothing of the kind
occurred, and soon things resumed their former comparative quiet.

There was not much done during the day, except to get troops in position
and prepare for the struggle of the morrow. There was some skirmishing,
but our losses were not heavy--less than two hundred in the two corps,
the Fifth and Second.

As night approached, a vidette was placed in front of each pit, near the
edge of the woods, which was about forty yards in advance. It was not
yet dark when the first man was posted here, and fire was at once
opened on him, by invisible marksmen in the woods.

At first the bullets went whistling over, but soon they came lower, and
began to strike the fence by which he was standing,--right, left,
close,--with a savage snap. Up to this time our vidette stood it with
seeming indifference; but, as the splinters began to fly from the fence,
his indifference gave place to a lively interest, which called forth the
laughter of the sympathizing spectators. He threw down his gun, and
hastily piled rails together for a protection, and took refuge behind
them.

Night came on, dark and gloomy, the rain continued to fall, and the
soldiers lay down on the water-soaked earth to take what rest they
could. I made a comfortable bed, by leaning two rails against the
rifle-pit. On these I bestowed myself, and drew over me my rubber
blanket. My knapsack was placed under my bed, to protect it from the
rain. My haversack served for a pillow, and, with my cartridge box,
which had not been removed since the morning of the 27th, still strapped
around me, and my rifle in my hands, I sank to sleep, the rain
pattering on the blanket over my head.

About four o'clock, Sergeant Hasler woke me up to go on vidette post. I
arose and followed him in the deep darkness. Reaching the man whom I was
to relieve, instructions were given in a whisper, and in a moment I was
alone.

This was the last watch of the night, and if a surprise was contemplated
by the enemy, the attempt would be made during these two hours. The
rebel pickets were close at hand, and occasional sounds and voices had
been heard by my predecessor. The rain dripped monotonously from the
trees, and now and then a breath of wind moaned drearily through their
branches. The ear alone could detect approaching danger; and thus, with
rifle in hand, I listened, jealously noting every sound.

Time passed on, and at length the almost painful darkness began to
disperse. Objects very near could be indistinctly discerned. What if all
those weary men back there should sleep till clearer light should made
me a mark for the unseen foe, that did such good shooting last evening?
Why were not the videttes, at least, advanced into the underbrush,
instead of being posted at its edge, to be shot at by rebel
sharpshooters? Thoughts like these were running through my mind as
daylight approached. But all anxiety was allayed before long, by the
sergeant calling me to come in.



CHAPTER XVII.


We made a hasty breakfast, and then the waiting of the preceding day
continued. Every rifle stood loaded where it could be grasped in a
moment. As time passed on, there was an evident uneasiness on the left.
About ten o'clock, the occasional picket firing increased to the sharper
rattle of skirmishing, and then deepened to the roar of battle, as the
sound of continuous volleys rolled through the woods, mingled with the
bellow of cannon and the hiss of shells. Every man now stood with rifle
in hand, ready for the decisive moment which had evidently come. Above
the noise of musketry and cannon we could sometimes hear the well-known
rebel yell, and knew that they were charging with all their force. Now
the horrid uproar could be heard moving backward toward the run. But now
orders have come. Word is immediately sent along the line to assemble on
the right. The Sixteenth Maine will relieve us. Colonel Pattee mounts
his horse.

"Fall in!"

"Right face!"

"Forward, double quick, march!"

We plunge into the woods, following the road toward the left. Shells
crash through the trees, and bullets patter around like hail. The left
of the division was flanked and hopelessly turned. The right was
stubbornly resisting, but giving way before the overpowering force that
was crowding down upon it. We halted and faced the front, advancing a
short distance from the road toward the fighting. Wounded men were
limping past. We could see the smoke through the trees, and the men
slowly yielding, fighting as they came.

Colonel Pattee gave an order, but we could not hear a word. We all knew
what it ought to be, and instantly deployed. The line, broken and
shattered, went back past us, and we met the enemy with the rapid fire
of our repeating rifles. We brought them to a stand in our front. If
fresh troops could have been thrown in on our left, the disaster could
have been retrieved at this point, and the rebel charge hurled back;
but our flanks were exposed, and we were many times outnumbered, and in
danger of being surrounded. There was nothing left but to get out of
that the best we could.

Colonel Pattee rode to and fro along the line, mounted on his bay horse,
encouraging and directing his men, steadying and inspiring them by word
and example. Under a less devoted commander we would have been captured
or driven ingloriously from the field. Before we reached the edge of the
woods, the enemy had inclosed us in the form of a V, and were pouring
their fire upon us from the front and both flanks. We brought out most
of our wounded, but some had to be abandoned. Except these, not a man
was taken prisoner. Reaching the edge of the woods, I knew that no stand
could be made before crossing the branch of Gravelly Run. I "stood not
upon the order of my going," but went at once, and at a lively pace.
Colonel Pattee was the last man to leave the woods. He came down across
the narrow field, crouching close to the neck of his horse, which was
reeling and staggering from wounds out of which his life-blood gushed at
every plunge. Leaping from the back of his dying steed, he rallied his
men on foot.

The trees on the side of the ridge which sloped down to the stream
opposite the open ground in which we had intrenched on the 30th,
afforded excellent cover. Here most of the One Hundred and Ninetieth,
and some from other regiments, rallied and faced the enemy. We were not
much more than a heavy skirmish line; but the tide must be stayed here,
at any cost. The rebel lines came surging on, elated with victory; but
before our steady fire they wavered and came to a halt. Thus, with
scarcely the space of a hundred yards between us, we stood and poured at
each other showers of deadly missiles. Rebel shells from somewhere on
our right were grinding through the trees and bursting all around, while
the fire from their infantry was beating on our thin line with terrible
effect. A man close beside me was struck through the face with a rifle
ball, and walked back toward the rear, pale and bleeding. Casting my
eyes toward the left, I saw our color-bearer holding the flag, his face
deadly pale. Brave old Woo-haw had just been struck down by his side and
carried to the rear. Mike Coleman was in his glory. Miller's face wore
its accustomed smile as with grave deliberation he loaded and fired.

But this state of things could not long continue, and the most hopeful
were growing anxious. A few hundred were fighting the force that had
driven a division. But just now on the ridge behind us, a battery
wheeled into position, and sent charge after charge of grape and
canister whizzing across into the enemy's ranks. Still they did not give
way, and the battle raged more fiercely than ever. I had fired not less
than eighty rounds, and only a few cartridges remained. Others had
nearly exhausted their ammunition. At this point, to our great joy, we
saw a line of battle advancing to our support. Steadily, quietly, they
came on, their battle-flags gleaming through the trees, moving as
orderly as if on dress-parade. As they neared us they quickened their
pace, and charged forward with a tremendous cheer. It was a grand sight
as they swept on, every eye fixed on the smoking timber beyond. But the
little stream threw them into disorder, and they went rushing over the
field without waiting to re-form. As they went over the rising ground
which lay between them and the enemy, they received a terrible volley.
Half their number seemed to go down before it. Back they rolled in
confusion, leaving the ground strewn with their dead and wounded. They
came back to the narrow flat by the run. There, as by one impulse, they
rallied and proceeded to re-form their lines. Not a man shirked. While
they were forming, we opened fire again, over and past them. This lasted
but a few minutes, and they were ready to advance. Steadily,
irresistibly, their line passed up the slope, into the woods, driving
every thing before it.

Our ammunition wagons had now come up, and we procured a fresh supply.
We immediately moved down the stream and crossed, to drive back the
enemy and retake the ground lost at this point. Here the bank on the
other side was abrupt, rising thirty or forty feet in a very short
distance, when level ground, partly open and partly wooded, extended
toward the west and north. On this steep bank we formed for the charge,
three lines of battle. The right of the regiment was detached, and
placed on the left of the lines of battle to cover the flank. When the
advance was made we deployed at skirmish distance, at a right angle
with the line, and moving in the same direction. In this advance, which
was made about two in the afternoon, we that were on the flank did not
fire a shot. We were not much exposed, though some bullets whistled
around.

We finally reached a farm-house in the midst of a large plantation. Here
we halted. We found some of our wounded abandoned by the enemy, who
seemed to have disappeared from our front. Perhaps the decisive battle
might have been fought on this afternoon instead of the following day,
by pushing the Fifth Corps across the White Oak Road on the right of the
intrenched position of the rebels. The course followed was probably the
safer one.

At first the house which we had reached seemed to be deserted; but a
little later we found the family, husband, wife, and daughter, concealed
in a cave in the garden. The man was a tall, gray-haired old gentleman,
all of them well dressed and evidently intelligent and refined people.
The old man was so frightened that he could scarcely speak. They seemed
to expect brutal treatment from the barbarians of the North, who, as it
happened, were quite their equals in culture and humanity.

About five in the evening General Bartlett's brigade of the First
Division was sent across the country to threaten the flank of the enemy,
who had now pressed Sheridan back to Dinwiddie Court-house. They marched
out past us toward the south-west, and disappeared from sight.

Darkness soon came on, and we prepared to pass another night under arms.
It had been a hard day. We had lost eighteen hundred men, and inflicted
a loss of one thousand on the enemy. Our losses fell chiefly on the
Second and Third Divisions. Since ten o'clock the struggle had been
almost continuous, and night found the enemy foiled in his purpose of
driving us from our advanced position, which we now held more firmly
than ever; but this was all the gain for either side. Some time after
dark rations were distributed, and we lay down to sleep.

All the accounts of this battle that have come under my notice contain
statements which I am not able to explain, if they are correct. It is
generally stated that the corps advanced toward the White Oak road, the
Second Division in front, the Third next, and the First in the rear;
that the Second Division was driven back on the Third, both on the
First, and that all were forced back to or beyond the Boydton road. From
the preceding narrative it will be seen that this was not true of the
right of the corps. When we were compelled to fall back, in the
forenoon, we did not retreat more than three or four hundred yards. The
point at which we rallied must have been fully half a mile from the
plank-road. If the rest of the corps did not make a stand until they
reached the plank-road, it is rather surprising that a rebel force was
not thrown across the run on our left, by which we would have been
flanked and driven away or captured. The run was a favorable position
for defense, while the vicinity of the plank-road was not so good.
Veteran soldiers like those of the Fifth Corps would certainly rally at
the former point. It is probable that some went back farther, while
enough stopped at the run to check the rebel advance. We must have
fought nearly three-quarters of an hour before we were re-enforced. The
troops sent to our relief were from the Second Corps.



CHAPTER XVIII.

  Pugnavimus ensibus.
  We fought with our swords.

  --REGNER LODBROG.


About midnight the Second Division was ordered down the plank-road to
join Sheridan. Bartlett's brigade had proceeded as far as Gravelly Run,
reaching it at dark. They found the stream swollen, the bridge gone, and
the enemy strongly posted on the other side. The brigade was withdrawn
during the night. It was no easy task to move troops under the
circumstances. Orders had to go from corps commander down through
brigade, regimental, and company officers to the privates, who had to be
aroused from sleep and got into ranks without noise.

Through the deep mud and intense darkness we moved toward Dinwiddie
Court-house. The darkness was so deep that we could tell nothing about
localities. We must have marched past the Court-house. We might easily
have passed the village without being aware of it. We then about-faced
and retraced our steps for some distance. There is a road leads north
from Dinwiddie toward Five Forks. We may have taken this, or we may have
followed the plank-road a couple of miles farther back to a road which
leads across to the one just mentioned. However this may be, daylight
found us confronting the enemy somewhere in this vicinity. The only
force found was a picket or skirmish line, which was easily driven away.
The Second Division massed near the residence of J. M. Brooks, on the
Five Forks road. Here we remained from about 7 A. M. until 10 A. M.
During this time the other two divisions arrived, and took position a
little north of us on the same road. When we reached this point the One
Hundred and Ninetieth was thrown forward in skirmish line.

Meantime, the rebels had retired to their fortified position at Five
Forks. Their works extended more than a mile, east and west, making a
slight angle with the White Oak road, turning northward about a
half-mile east of the Ford road. A heavy skirmish-line was deployed in
front of their left, and extending some distance eastward, and south of
the White Oak road. This force consisted of fourteen hundred riflemen,
reputed the best in Lee's army. In this position they awaited our
attack.

About ten o'clock we began to move, taking the road leading past
Gravelly Run Church. At first there seemed to be some uncertainty about
the movements and position of the enemy; but it was soon evident that
his entire force was in our front. The column advanced along the road,
with frequent brief halts, which indicated that we were nearing the foe.
Erelong we could hear skirmishing, and an occasional discharge of
cannon. Ambulances were passing, freighted with wounded cavalrymen, and
later, stretcher-bearers, with their bloody burdens, met us, as we moved
slowly toward the front.

Near Gravelly Run Church, our line of battle was formed. The Second
Division was on the left, the Third on the right, the First in reserve,
close behind the other two, a little on the right of the center. The two
divisions in front were arranged as follows: Each division placed two
brigades in front, in two lines each, and the remaining brigade in the
rear of the center, in two lines. In the Second Division, the Maryland
Brigade was on the left, ours on the right, and Winthrop's in reserve.
The One Hundred and Ninety-first, including the fragment of the One
Hundred and Fifty-seventh, and the Fourth Delaware, were the first line
of battle, under Colonel Pattee. The One Hundred and Ninetieth was
ordered forward to skirmish. We deployed in the woods, and waited for
the completion of the arrangements going on in our rear. A few rods
farther on there was open ground, which, in our front, gradually sloped
down to woods. Opposite the left of the regiment, the open ground
extended farther toward the north and west, and on that side was a
slight hollow, with rough, broken ground beyond. Rebel skirmishers were
in the woods in our front, now exchanging shots with cavalry in the open
ground near us. Our skirmish-line was ready for business in a few
minutes; but it was some time before the divisions were formed, in
readiness for the assault.

If you should attempt to form an idea of that thin line of waiting men,
who were to lead the way in the decisive struggle, which all knew was at
hand, the mental picture would probably differ widely from the reality.
Cast your eye to the left, along the line. You can see a goodly
distance. The wood is not very dense. That does not look much like
"battle's magnificently stern array." There is nothing magnificent or
stern about it. You expected something of a scene. There is nothing of
the sort. Instead, these men surprise you by their quiet bearing and
seeming indifference. Most of them are young men. A few days ago they
were so neat and tidy in dress and appearance, you might almost mistake
that they were college students playing soldier. Now they are dirty,
smeared with mud, half wet still from the rain, which only ceased this
morning. Some are seated, leaning against the trees, taking it easy,
conversing as pleasantly as if these were the ordinary occurrences of
life. That bright-faced fellow, of Company E, is diligently polishing a
little rusty spot, which he has discovered on his gun barrel. If there
is time, he will scrape the mud from his shoes, and from his pants,
which are stiff with it, almost to the knees. A few are nervous and
anxious, but most of the really faint-hearted took advantage of the hard
march last night to secure absence to-day. Dunn is on hand,--he that
took himself from the field yesterday with such agility, at the
beginning of the fight, and gave such comical reasons for his
unceremonious flight, when he came up in the evening. R---- is in the
line, looking black, silent, and still troubled in his knees. Do these
careless men realize that they are about to decide the fate of a great
nation? Perhaps they are unconscious of the greatness of the present
hour; but what of that? They stood in their lot.

But our waiting is over at last; and, at the word of command, every
soldier is in his place. These men were _not_ stolid, ignorant, nor
inexperienced. Their thinned ranks show how well they know what battle
means. You can see some pale faces, and lips compressed, as
"FORWARD" passes down the line. We pass out of the woods into
the open field. A few rods ahead, some mounted cavalrymen are firing
toward the woods, which conceal the enemy. We can see a puff of smoke
here and there among the trees. A little farther, and the cavalry gallop
away to the right, and bullets begin to whistle past, some over, some
tossing up the dirt at our feet. It would be a waste of powder to return
the fire at this distance; besides, we are going down there. But the
bullets begin to come closer. They are fairly hot as they hiss around
us. We quicken our pace. It is five hundred yards to the woods. The men
on our left open fire--four hundred yards, three, the line slackens a
little, and a volley, and another, and another, bursts in quick
succession from our Spencer rifles. Then a cheer, as we dash for the
woods at headlong speed, yelling and firing as we go. The rebel
skirmishers give way before our charge, and the woods are gained.

Up to this time I had not looked back. I supposed we had advanced about
a thousand yards, and would soon encounter the main force of the enemy.
As we reached the woods, I turned to see if the line of battle was yet
in sight. My eyes fell upon the most stirring scene I ever witnessed.
This was the grandeur, the sublimity of war. The corps was coming in
order of battle, line after line sweeping on with steady step. Their
front extended nearly a mile across the open ground, guns at a
right-shoulder, glittering in the sunlight like silver, battle-flags
fluttering in the air. In front, the skirmishers were fighting savagely;
on the left a score of cannon were thundering, shells screaming out
their horrid warning, as they leaped from the smoking guns. But this
living avalanche swept on in stern silence, as if there breathed within
it a great soul, which scorned to speak or strike but once. A single
glance took in the inspiring scene. I gazed but a moment, and then
hurried into the woods.

The ground here consisted of alternate ridges and depressions, covered
with trees and bushes, with occasional open places. It was hard ground
to fight over, every ridge serving as a rallying point, and affording a
superior position for defense. Our advance was now a succession of
charges. When the rebels were driven from one ridge, they rallied at the
next. A short distance from the edge of the woods, where we first
encountered them, was a little brook, running nearly east; along its
banks were some large rocks, while a few rods nearer were piles of wood,
logs, and other means of shelter. Quite a large group of rebels made a
stand here. Sergeant Hasler, Crocket, one or two others and myself,
centered our attention on these, and advanced upon them, at first taking
what cover we could among the trees, firing rapidly as we went. As we
were pressing forward, my foot tripped on something, and I came to the
ground with stunning force. Crocket, who was a few yards to my right,
hurried toward me, his face the very picture of anxious sympathy, and
inquired if I was struck. Recovering my breath, in a moment I was on my
feet again, and assured him I was all right.

We now rushed on them with a cheer, and they broke and fled. We were so
close on them, that seven of their number took refuge behind a large
rock, while three or four more fled across the brook, leaving one of
their number wounded on its bank. The men behind the rock now waved hats
past it in token of surrender, and soon they were marching toward the
rear in charge of Crocket. The wounded rebel whom I had seen fall, lay
about a rod to the left, shot through the thigh. I gave him a drink,
filled my canteen, and went on.

We had now become scattered, and made our way onward without much regard
to order or concert of action. For a while the two lines were mingled
together in the underbrush, so that you scarcely knew which way to look
for friend or foe. Sometimes I was with others, and again entirely
alone. The woods resounded with the yells of the combatants and the
crack of rifles, as the deadly fight raged along the line.

Passing through the corner of an open field, I noticed some rebels eight
or ten hundred yards to the left and front in such a position that I
could give them a flank fire, while just a short distance from me in the
field was a stone pile. The temptation was too strong to be resisted. I
repaired to the stone pile and opened on them. At the first shot they
looked to see whence it came; the next, they dodged, and hugged close to
their rifle-pit, and then discovering me, they returned the fire. Their
first shots went wild, but they soon got the range, and began to strike
the stone pile. I gave them a few parting shots from my Spencer, and
went on into the woods.

The skirmishing continued at close range, as before. The rebels fought
stubbornly from point to point. Their works seemed farther off than we
expected, but the crisis must come soon. We had just passed over a
ridge, and the rebels had made a stand among the timber beyond. A slight
depression lay between us, down which a gully had been washed by the
water. None of our men were in sight, but I could hear their firing in
the brush, right and left.

Wishing to gain the timber beyond the gully, I started forward without
waiting to recharge my rifle, which I had just fired. The trees which I
wished to gain were not more than forty feet away, and the gully about
half that distance. I had gone but a step or two when a rebel soldier
rose to his feet in the gully, facing me, with rifle in hand. It was a
groundhog case. As he rose, I rushed at him, aiming at his heart and
calling on him to surrender. He instantly dropped his gun. It was all
over in less time than it takes to pen this sentence. His gun was loaded
and capped. We waited till the line of battle came up. As they pushed
through the brush behind us, seeing a rebel soldier, a dozen rifles were
leveled on us; but they saw how it was in time to withhold their fire.
Leaving my prisoner with them, I started forward again.

We soon reached an abrupt rise of ground beyond which we could not
advance. Before us was the left of the enemy's intrenched position. We
had done our work. We had driven every thing before us, and others must
face the storm now. Some kneeling, others lying flat on the ground, we
continued to fire and waited for the line of battle. In a few minutes we
could see them coming on through the woods. A short distance behind us
was a small patch of swampy, boggy ground. As this was approached orders
were given and executed as coolly as if on the parade ground. The
portion of the line opposite the swamp folded back of the other toward
the left, and when the ground was passed, went back to place again
without the least delay or confusion.

As they moved up the bank upon which we were, a volley burst upon them
before which they wavered and swerved backward a few paces, as here and
there a man reeled and staggered or sank to the earth. There was no
panic--not a back turned--only that instinctive shrinking which Life
sometimes feels when Death unexpectedly thrusts out his ghastly face
through the smoke of battle. A color-bearer sprang forward with the
battle-flag. He halted beside me and rested the end of the flagstaff on
the ground. He half-faced about toward the men. His voice rang out like
a bugle blast, as he raised his arm and shouted:

"Here are your colors!"

The line responded with a yell as it sprang forward, and soon was
wrapped in the sulphurous smoke of its volleys which it thundered
against the foe.

As the line moved on, I stepped behind them and passed farther to the
right, and again went out ahead. The "left wheel" which the corps made
in this battle resulted naturally from the position of the forces
engaged. If we had moved directly forward in the direction in which we
started, only the left of the Second Division would have struck the
rebel's works; but the men posted in their front, as they were forced
back, retreated toward the north-west, and we naturally swung around in
following them.

We were now in front of the Third Division, the rebels still contesting
every foot of ground. We finally drove them across an open field about a
hundred yards wide. A road was on our left; at least all the Bucktails
in sight were on the right of the road. A house stood near the road next
to the woods, out of which we had driven the rebels, who were now
firing from the farther side of the field. We were crossing the field,
and some had reached the woods beyond, when the line of battle came up
by the house behind us and opened fire. We hurried back to escape their
bullets, which we considered more dangerous than those of the enemy. I
stood behind them near the house, watching their firing, very much
disgusted with the performance. There was a young lady in the house,
apparently the only occupant. She was almost wild with fright, and gave
vent to her feelings in screams and cries of terror.

A little lieutenant was prancing around back of the line, flourishing
his saber in gallant style. He accosted me, and demanded why I was
standing back, doing nothing. I replied that I did not belong on
his--line, and made some comments perhaps not strictly polite. This
added wrath to his excitement. I think this must have been the first
time he had smelled gunpowder, except at a distance, and he supposed
they were doing grandly. There was no telling how much effort it had
cost him to get his courage screwed up sufficiently to bring him thus
far; and to have this dirty, mud-bedraggled scrub of a boy intimate
that the whole outfit should be furnished with long ears, was too much.
As Homer would say, "his diaphragm became black all over." At this point
Captain Birkman appeared on the scene and announced that he was
responsible for me. This ended the matter.

After firing awhile, this brigade started to advance across the field.
The regiment on the left moved up in good order as far as the edge of
the woods. The others straggled forward in disorder. Both officers and
men seemed to be confused. By the time they reached the woods they were
little better than a mob, and had to halt to re-form. I think the man in
command of the brigade was responsible for this. I now started out to
skirmish again, intending to keep in front of the regiment on the left.
As I reached the point where the road entered the woods, I met Mike
Coleman coming on a run, and greatly excited.

"Why, Mike, I thought you were kilt! I heard you were shot in the head
back yonder."

Scarcely pausing for a reply, he went on:

"We've got them! we've got them! We're right in their rear. We'll take
them all! Why don't these men come on?"

With this he hurried back to the men just behind us, and in a breath
told them the situation, and urged them to come on without delay. To his
great disgust, his appeals were unheeded, and he turned to me saying we
would go alone. But now we saw some of the Bucktails coming forward, and
soon about twenty of us were deployed at skirmish distance, advancing on
the rebel rear. Their line could be seen stretching far to right and
left. Our Spencers rattled among the trees as we rained the bullets upon
them. They turned on us savagely, and their rifles blazed and flashed in
reply. Presently their fire slackened. They right-faced, and began to
move off toward the west, at first with some order; but soon they were
only a panic-stricken mob, fleeing in all directions, some to the right,
some to the left, others toward us. The latter we disarmed and sent to
the rear without any guard, and kept up a fire on those who were running
to the right. They threw down their guns by hundreds, and surrendered.

Toward the close a rebel soldier came toward me at full speed, with his
gun at a trail-arms. I did not notice him until he was within
twenty-five or thirty yards of me. I yelled at him to surrender; but he
came on without checking his speed. I stepped from the tree by which I
was standing, and leveled my rifle on him.

"Drop that gun!" I yelled again.

He dropped it as if it had burned him, and hustled off his
accouterments, and threw them on the ground. I made him stay with me,
intending to take him back myself. My cartridges were about exhausted,
and I fired all but one or two at the rear of the fleeing rebels, and
started back with the prisoner.

The sun had now gone down. The moon was shining peacefully. How quickly
those fateful hours of battle had passed! I started for the point where
our line had formed, expecting to dispose of my prisoner there, and then
sleep all night. As we passed along, the dead lay scattered here and
there as they fell. There was something startlingly solemn in those
motionless forms, the stony eyes staring in the moonlight.

Beyond the church I found a large number of prisoners, and turned over
my man to the guards, and started to return. I was joined by L. C.
Walb, who had also been back with prisoners. The church had been turned
into a hospital. It was full of wounded, and many were laid on the
ground outside. A few rods past the church we lay down to sleep. There
came a reaction after the excitement of the day. Nerves, strained to
their utmost tension for hours, relaxed, and seemed to tingle with the
pain of weariness. The jarring noises of battle were reproduced as the
senses glided through that strange interval between waking and sleeping,
and more than once I came back to consciousness with a start, scarcely
able, for a moment, to distinguish the real and the unreal. A low,
moaning sound came from the hundreds of wounded about the church; not
any single groan or cry of pain, but only a sound as if the hurried
breath from suffering lips smote upon the strings of an unseen harp,
which sounded out its sad cadences through the air. But at last I sunk
into a sound sleep.

Our losses were less severe than on the preceding day. Eight hundred and
thirty-four were killed and wounded, and fifty-four were missing. The
opposing force of the enemy was practically annihilated. Three thousand
were killed and wounded, and five thousand five hundred were made
prisoners. Eleven stand of colors were taken, and four guns, with their
caissons; also wagons and other material.

Captain Birkman, of Company A, says of this battle, in an extract kindly
furnished from his diary: "The most successful attack I ever witnessed."
It was a decisive battle, and settled the fate of the Confederacy. Since
leaving camp on the morning of March 29th, three days before, the Fifth
Corps had lost nearly one-fourth of its number in battles.

In this engagement the direct assault was made by the Second Division,
the other divisions swinging around on the enemy's left flank and rear.
The Third Brigade first struck, and broke through the rebel works.
Sergeant Huck, with the colors of the One Hundred and Ninety-first, was
the first man across the rebel rifle-pits. Colonel Pattee, commanding
the first line, was the first mounted officer across, and leaped his
horse over the breastwork while the foremost of the assailants were
crowding over. They found themselves in the midst of the panic-stricken
rebels, who threw down their arms and surrendered in large numbers. The
Maryland brigade struck the rebel position almost at the same time, and
with like results. The division then passed on down along the rear of
the rebel position, doubling them up rapidly, and driving them in
confusion.

We have read how the infantry faltered, till General Sheridan led them
to the charge. We venture the opinion that this is wholly imaginary.
These two brigades moved upon the rebel works as steadily and swiftly as
the nature of the ground would allow. General Sheridan's reputation does
not need any artificial bolstering, least of all at the expense of
deserving men and officers.

The arbitrary removal of General Warren from the command of the Fifth
Corps was unknown to the soldiers until the following morning. We heard
only expressions of surprise and disapproval. It must be a cause of
regret to all fair-minded men, that he was not allowed to share in this
grand success with the men whom he had so long commanded. He was held in
high esteem by the private soldiers, who regarded him as a brave and
skillful officer.



CHAPTER XIX.


The battle of Five Forks was fought on Saturday. Sabbath morning the sun
rose bright and clear. When we camped the night before, Walb and myself
planned for a substantial night's rest. For the first time since
breaking camp, on the night of March 28th, we unpacked our blankets and
made a bed. It was after sunrise when we awoke. Far to the right we
could hear the low grumble of artillery, sounding like the roar of
distant thunder. Since four o'clock in the morning a great battle had
been raging in front of Petersburg, from the Appomattox on the right, to
Hatcher's Run on the left.

Without waiting for breakfast, we went on to find the regiment. They
were camped not far from where the roads crossed which formed the famous
"Forks." At an early hour we were in motion, toward the right, where
heavy and continuous firing could be distinctly heard. We passed by the
ground where we had fought the evening before. The rebel dead were
strewn far and near, like sheaves of grain in a harvest-field, showing
how destructive had been our fire. The One Hundred and Ninetieth was
deployed on the flank, and moved parallel to the column, at skirmish
distance, about two hundred yards from it.

After marching for some time in the direction of Petersburg, we bore to
the left, and about noon we reached the South Side Railroad, near
Southerland's Station, and marched some distance along it. Beyond the
road we found strong rifle-pits, which the enemy had abandoned. During
the day news reached us that the works in front of Petersburg had been
taken, and there was general rejoicing. That night we bivouaced near the
Appomattox River.

April 3d we moved, at eight in the morning. Some firing was heard on our
left, and many prisoners met us as we marched along. We found cannon
abandoned in the road, and there was evidence on every hand that the
rebels were hard pressed. Our general course was along what is called
the river road, though we did not follow it all the time. Our movements
and progress had to be governed by the supposed movements of the enemy.
At one time we were deployed as skirmishers, and went down to the
river. I do not know the reason of this precaution, but no enemy was
found. We camped that night along the road.

April 4th we resumed the march, soon after sunrise. We were short of
provisions, and foragers were sent out to secure what could be gathered
from the country. I was out in the afternoon. While returning in the
evening, after sun-down, I was shot at by some one, when quite near the
column. That night we reached the Danville Railroad, near Jettersville,
and camped in order of battle, about three miles from Lee's army. For
this reason no fires were made. We had been thrown between him and
Danville, which he was aiming to reach. Here Lee made a mistake. It was
his duty to know of our presence here during the night. He should have
attacked us promptly by daylight on the following morning; and, if
possible, overwhelmed us before the rest of the army could arrive. There
was little if any force confronting him, except the Fifth Corps, not
more than twelve thousand men. I think we reached Jettersville in
advance of the main body of the cavalry.

The morning of the 5th found us intrenched, and expecting an attack from
the enemy. Rebel troops could be seen in the distance, and we supposed
they were forming for battle. We stood behind the works waiting. Their
skirmishers advanced and opened fire on our outposts. Hour after hour
passed. At length the Second and Sixth corps arrived, and Lee's
opportunity was lost.

April 6th we advanced, at first with some caution. But Lee was in full
retreat toward Lynchburg, and we followed. During the day, a body of
rebel cavalry made a dash at the wagon train, and we were ordered back
to drive them off. We went back about three miles at double-quick. We
met quite a number of men who had been skulking with the train, now
rushing for the front at full speed. As we witnessed their
consternation, we were entirely reconciled to the loss of a few wagons,
just to see the "coffee brigade" shaken up. The rebels had been repulsed
by our cavalry before we reached the scene. We remained with the train,
and camped with it during the night. We marched twenty-nine miles, and
arrived within five miles of High Bridge.

On the 7th we still remained with the train. We passed a place where a
rebel wagon train had been attacked by our cavalry. Ammunition and
stores of all kinds were strewn everywhere. Wagon loads of shells had
been emptied out, and lay scattered through the woods.

Some time during the day, we had halted by the road, and, as our rest
was quite prolonged, some of the men had fallen asleep. Among others,
Captain Birkman was sleeping soundly, perhaps dreaming of the peace that
was now almost conquered. The woods were burning, a few rods on our
right. The fire at last reached a lot of shells, which had been thrown
from the wagons, to keep them from falling into the hands of the
Yankees. They went off with a frightful clatter. The captain bounced
from the ground as if a hornet had lifted him. "FALL IN!" he
shouted, grasping his sword. Of course, all who were awake comprehended
the situation, and prudently lay still, to avoid the flying fragments.
As the truth dawned upon him, the captain at first looked "sold" and
disgusted, and then joined in the general laughter.

We halted that night near Prince Edward's Court-house, after a march of
eighteen miles. Here we rejoined the brigade.

April 8th we made the most trying march of all. We lost some time by
going out of the way, and made frequent halts during the forenoon, as if
uncertain of the direction, or suspicious of the movement of the enemy.
About noon we reached Prospect Station, thirteen miles from Farmville.
In the afternoon we settled down to hard marching. We did not halt for
supper. The sun went down, night came on, and still we marched on. By
nine o'clock conversation had ceased--no breath could be wasted in
words. Even "Sport" could no longer muster spirit to crack a joke on any
body. You could only hear the "tramp, tramp" of feet, and the occasional
clatter of a saber. But there was no grumbling. We knew this was the
last forced march. One more blow, and treason would be crushed in the
dust. As the column, from time to time, became clogged by some
obstruction ahead, and halted for a moment, the men would sink down on
the ground, most of them just where they stopped, to catch brief rest
for their aching limbs. At such times I would be sound asleep in a
moment, and more than once the column was marching on and myself with it
when I awoke.

Midnight came, and still we pressed on relentlessly. About one in the
morning we saw lights ahead, which indicated that a halt had been made.
Never did rest and sleep seem sweeter, nor a mile seem longer. It
required a distinct effort of the will to compel each single step. But
at last the task was accomplished. We had marched forty-two miles since
sunrise, and lay within striking distance of the enemy.

The company was represented by Dunn, Bovard, Mike Coleman, Sergeant
Hasler, and myself. The rest had broken down under the terrible strain
and fallen behind. Without removing any thing, I threw myself on the
ground, and knew no more until I was aroused at daylight to go on.

Just after sunrise we halted--for breakfast, they said. It was rather a
grim sort of a joke. Scarcely one in fifty had any thing to eat. A few
had coffee, and fires were made, and we went through the regulation
motions of getting breakfast. This done, we started on again.

It soon became evident that the enemy had been brought to bay. The
confused noise of battle rang through the air. We had halted in the
woods, and stood in the road waiting, sure that the end had come.

Colonel Pattee was on his horse, half faced about toward his men,
evidently impatient and eager. An aid gallops up with orders. Colonel
Pattee looks happy. He gives his old horse an extra jerk:

"FORWARD! DOUBLE QUICK! MARCH!"

On we go toward the scene of conflict.

Again Colonel Pattee's voice rings out: "DEPLOY SKIRMISHERS!"
and in less than a minute a line of Bucktails stretches through the
woods, facing the enemy. There is no waiting. "FORWARD!" passes
down the line, and we move out into the open field in front. A hundred
yards ahead the cavalry are stubbornly facing a heavy force of rebel
infantry that is crowding on them and steadily pushing them back. Now
and then a man falls from his horse or rides back wounded. We were on
lower ground than they, and the bullets whistled above us; but as we
went up the rising ground, they began to hiss around our heads. We
double-quicked forward and began firing.

Between us and the town there was a hollow, and on the farther ridge a
road led down through the village. There was a wood on the left at the
head of the hollow, and on the right a narrow strip of timber ran up to
within two hundred yards of the road. The right of the regiment extended
past the woods, or rather only a small portion of the left would strike
them in moving straight forward. As we came to the ridge overlooking the
hollow, we saw the rebel troops drawn up on the opposite slope. Soon
they gave way and moved off toward the town out of sight, and a battery
from the ridge opened with shell.

As soon as the battery opened fire, Robbins, myself, and two or three
others started toward it. A rail fence ran along the hollow proper on
the side next to us. As we neared the fence, Robbins, who was a few
steps in advance, stopped.

"We had better stay here," he said, as he deliberately aimed at the
battery.

"There are rebels in the woods there," meaning on the left. As he spoke,
a bullet from the left clipped close over his gun barrel.

"See that!" he added, his aim not in the least disturbed. The gunners
were shooting over us, as we supposed, at the line of battle farther
back. But we had only fired a few shots when a shell burst in front of
us, its fragments scattering dirt, fence rails, and splinters for yards
around.

"Well! I think we'll go on," said Robbins. On we went to the farther
side of the hollow, and under shelter of the bank, we kept up our fire
with good effect. We would dodge their shells as they fired, and then
rise and fire till they were ready again. Some riflemen in the vicinity
of the battery gave us trouble, but failed to hit any of us.

After this had continued for some time, the One Hundred and Fifty-fifth
Pennsylvania, a Zouave regiment, came down behind us on a double-quick,
deployed as skirmishers. As they neared the fence a shell from the
battery screamed over our heads, and exploding, killed one of their men.
They heeded this no more than if it had not occurred, and came on with a
cheer. Giving a parting shot to the battery which was now pulling out,
we started on, bearing to the right toward the town. As we neared the
point of the strip of woods on our right, Ginter, of Company E, stopped
and sat down flat on the ground, remarking that it was getting mighty
hot. I was of the same opinion, and halted a few feet in advance of him
and fired a few shots in a kneeling posture. While thus engaged, I heard
the sound of a blow behind me, and looking around, I saw Ginter tumbling
on the ground, his heels in the air. He quickly gathered himself up to a
sitting posture with a very rueful countenance, giving vent to his
feelings in sundry expletives, as soon as he could get breath enough to
deliver them properly. With many a doleful grunt he examined the extent
of his injuries. A bullet had struck the belt of his cartridge-box,
nearly over the heart. The ball had force enough almost to pierce the
leather belt and severely bruise the chest, raising a lump half as large
as a hen's egg, and very painful. Some fellow off to the left had
reached for us, and well-nigh finished Ginter. He did not go to the
rear, but kept on, holding his clothing from the painful bruise, too
much engaged in this to do any more shooting.

A few minutes later, a rebel officer galloped along the line with a
white flag. We were almost to the road at this time, at the outskirts of
the town. We did not think of continuing the fight any longer, but some
rebel soldiers on the left past the town, fired on us when we exposed
ourselves, and we returned the treacherous fire, and advanced across the
road. By the road, facing us as we approached, stood a negro cabin, out
of which a rebel officer came as we reached it. A few words were
exchanged between him and Adjutant Wright, and I think he was allowed to
go down the road to where the main body of the rebel troops had halted.
Our fire continuing, Colonel Pattee rode up to us, excitedly, to learn
what it meant. Adjutant Wright explained that rebel skirmishers were
still firing at us.

"Have this firing stopped at once," he said; and seeing a protest in
Wright's face, he went on: "I tell you, you're excited, adjutant, and
the men are excited. They've surrendered, and this must cease."

"Excited!" was the reply. "If they want to surrender, let _them_ cease
firing."

At this moment a bullet whizzed past the colonel's head, and killed a
cavalry man on the bank beyond him. He rode off to the right, and left
us to manage it to suit ourselves. In a little while the firing from
both sides ceased. The Army of the Potomac had accomplished its
mission. We had fought our last battle. The One Hundred and Ninetieth
and One Hundred and Ninety-first had proved themselves, to the last
hour, worthy successors of the Pennsylvania Reserves.

The preceding narrative will be better understood by a fuller statement
of the part taken by the entire regiment in the engagement. The original
intention was for Colonel Pattee to connect the right of his command
with the First Division and the left with the command of General Ord. On
reaching the front, he discovered that the cavalry were hard pressed,
and would soon be dislodged from the woods, which would have to be
regained at great disadvantage, and perhaps serious loss. He, therefore,
ordered the regiment forward to their relief. Advancing rapidly, they
relieved the cavalry and engaged the enemy before the troops on either
flank were in position. Colonel Pattee now found his skirmish line
confronting heavy lines of battle, and back of these, on the ridge near
the village, in position to sweep all the open ground in front, Lee's
artillery was massed. He at once thinned the exposed center and right of
his line, strengthened the left, and charged boldly forward upon the
enemy, throwing his left around upon their flank. Meantime the right
pressed rapidly on, and engaged the rebel infantry in the open ground,
and, later, the artillery on the ridge. Their infantry was routed, and
driven back over the ridge, where their officers tried in vain to rally
and lead them forward. Their artillery resisted with desperation until
their commander was killed. By this time many of their horses had been
shot, and they tried to drag the guns away by hand. But now the left of
the regiment, under Colonel Pattee, came charging down on their right
flank, bursting upon them like a tornado; and literally mingled
together, almost fighting hand to hand, they went pell-mell toward the
village. Here the flag of truce met them, and soon hostilities ceased.
Rarely has a more brilliant and successful attack been executed in
modern warfare, and it reflects the highest credit upon Colonel Pattee
and his command. Rebel officers who witnessed it spoke in the highest
terms of the splendid and reckless courage with which this skirmish line
dashed upon the heavy masses of the enemy.

The death of the cavalryman, to which reference has been made, was a
cause of great regret to all who witnessed it. He was a brave young man.
When relieved by the Bucktails, he might have retired from the field
with honor, as did most of the command to which he belonged. He
preferred, however, to remain. Falling in with Colonel Pattee, he fought
by his side during all the engagement, charged with him in the last
deadly onset, and escaped unharmed, to fall by the bullet of a cowardly
truce-breaker.

Lieutenant Hayden, of the One Hundred and Ninety-first, a brave young
officer, formerly of the Eleventh Reserves, lost a leg in this battle.
It seemed hard to suffer death or maiming in this, the last hour, let us
hope, that the nation will know of civil strife; but let us honor the
men who were thus faithful to the end.



CHAPTER XX.


Generals Grant, Meade, Ord, and others came down the road to the
village. General Lee and his associates came in the opposite direction.
They met at a house about two hundred yards from us, in full view of the
place where we stood. Here the surrender was completed.

Twenty-six thousand men were surrendered. Besides those who had
straggled and scattered through the country, or willfully deserted, Lee
had lost in battle, since March 29th, 25,750 men. Both armies were much
exhausted, and if Lee could have shaken off the clutch of Sheridan, and
continued his retreat to Lynchburg, Grant would have been compelled to
abandon the pursuit within three days, from lack of food for his army.

As soon as a few wagons came up with provisions, rations were issued to
both armies; but there was not a sufficient supply. We remained on the
skirmish line till the 10th, when we returned to the brigade. Several
days of wet weather followed, and the wagon-trains could not be brought
up. On the 15th we began the homeward march with empty haversacks.

We camped that night at Pamplin's Station. In the evening George Dunn
stole a couple of the meanest, most diminutive, runty little hams you
ever saw. I helped him eat them, and am willing to bear a fair share of
the blame; but a country that can produce such hams needs
reconstruction. On the 16th we reached Farmville. The next day we camped
eight miles from Burksville. At the latter place we rested a few days,
before resuming the march to Washington. Here the news first reached us
of Lincoln's assassination. A number of men, who had been taken
prisoners during 1864, rejoined us.

I was at headquarters one evening, for some purpose, when a soldier
accosted me and inquired for the One Hundred and Ninetieth. He was
ragged, thin, and pale. His hair and beard were of long growth. Looking
into his haggard face and sunken eyes, there was not an outline I could
recognize.

"The One Hundred and Ninetieth is right here. I belong to it."

"Are there any of Company D of the Eleventh Reserves here?"

"Yes; I belonged to Company D."

"You did!"

He leaned toward me, looked intently a moment, then reached out his
hand.

"Why, Mac; I'm glad to find you."

As his face brightened I recognized him. It was Wm. Kenedy, of the old
company. He was made prisoner May 5th, in the Wilderness. He had escaped
from prison, and made his way through the country to our lines,
traveling by night, hiding by day, fed by the slaves, nursed by them
through a fever contracted in the swamps. Rest, food, and clean clothes
soon made him look like himself again.

But my narrative must hasten to a close. We resumed the march, passed
through Petersburg, Richmond, Fredericksburg, and camped at last on
Arlington Heights. We participated in the grand review. It was something
of more than ordinary interest, to see and compare the two great armies.
Most of Sherman's army had but just arrived, and were dusty and
travel-worn; while the army of the Potomac had been resting for some
time, and looked fresher and more sprightly. The latter wore caps, and
the former hats, which gave them a more somber appearance. I was also of
the impression that there were more young men in our army than in
Sherman's.

June 28th we were mustered out, and started the next day for Harrisburg,
where we were discharged, July 2d.

The report of the Adjutant-general of Pennsylvania gives these two
regiments, the One Hundred and Ninetieth and One Hundred and
Ninety-first, no credit for active service subsequent to the battle of
Welden Railroad, August, 1864. At this time, Colonel Carle, of the One
Hundred and Ninety-first, and Colonel Hartshorn, of the One Hundred and
Ninetieth, were made prisoners, with the greater part of their
respective commands, and remained in captivity till after the cessation
of hostilities. The remainder of the two regiments acted together as one
organization, under command of Colonel Pattee, as mentioned on page 118,
until the close of the war. This was by far the longest and most
brilliant period of their history; but of this, the public records of
the State make no mention. At the time of the muster out, Colonel Pattee
was absent, and the report of the One Hundred and Ninetieth was made
out by, or under the supervision of, Colonel Hartshorn; that of the One
Hundred and Ninety-first by Colonel Carle. We suppose that these
officers neglected to insert the names of the engagements which occurred
while Colonel Pattee was in command.

The following is a list of the battles in which the regiment took part:

      WHITE OAK SWAMP,       {190th,} Col. J. B. Pattee.
        June 13, 1864,       {191st,}

      PETERSBURG,            {190th,} Col. J. B. Pattee.
        June 17, 1864,       {191st,}

      WELDON RAILROAD,       {190th,} Col. W. R. Hartshorn.
        August 19, 1864,     {191st,} Col. ---- Carle.[*]

      2D WELDON RAILROAD,     {190th,} Captain Birkman.(?)
        August 21, 1864,      {191st,}

      POPLAR GROVE,           {190th,} Col. J. B. Pattee.
      September 29, 1864,     {191st,}

      HATCHER'S RUN,          (190th,) Col. J. B. Pattee.
        October 27, 1864,     (191st,)

      ROWANTY CREEK,          (190th,) Col. J. B. Pattee.
        February 5, 1865,     (191st,)

      HATCHER'S RUN,          (190th,) Col. J. B. Pattee.
        February 6, 1865,     (191st,)

      GRAVELLY RUN,           (190th,) Col. J. B. Pattee.
        March 31, 1865,       (191st,)

      FIVE FORKS,             (190th,) Col. J. B. Pattee.
        April 1, 1865,        (191st,)

      APPOMATTOX COURT-HOUSE, (190th,) Col. J. B. Pattee.
        April 9, 1865,        (191st,)

* The two colonels in command, with the greater part of their men, were
made prisoners in this battle, after a heavy loss of killed and
wounded.


MAJOR R. M. BIRKMAN.

Major R. M. Birkman was born in St. Louis in April, 1837, and spent his
childhood and early life in Harrisburg, Penn. He was in Philadelphia
when the war was inaugurated by the firing on Fort Sumter, and at once
enlisted in Company E, Eleventh Pennsylvania Reserves. He was made first
sergeant, then commissioned second lieutenant, then promoted to first
lieutenant, and after the reorganization, to captain of Company A, One
Hundred and Ninetieth Pennsylvania.

At the close of the war he received the rank of brevet major for
meritorious service. The following extract shows the esteem in which he
was held by the officers with whom he was associated. It is from a
letter of Brevet Brigadier-general Gwyn, who commanded the brigade in
which he served during the latter part of the war:

"Captain, it affords me pleasure to testify to your bravery, ability,
and universal good conduct in the several bloody fights in which your
regiment was engaged during the late campaign. In the camp, no less than
in the field, your conduct bore testimony to your worth. Sober, steady,
and industrious, you set an example worth following."

In the army, as elsewhere, he was the quiet, unassuming, conscientious
gentleman, doing his duty.

After the war, he returned to Blairsville, Penn., where he married Miss
Mary L. Black, a most estimable lady of that city. He purchased the
Blairsville _Press_, and continued to be editor and publisher of that
paper till 1870. He then bought the _Indiana Register_ and _American_,
and merged the two papers into the _Indiana Progress_, which he
published until the 1st of March, 1880. His health had been gradually
failing for three or four years previous to this date; but he continued
to devote his attention to the work which he loved, until the advance of
disease warned him that his work was done. He then "set his house in
order," fearlessly committed himself to the God whom he had served and
loved, and waited calmly for the last of earth.

As death drew near, his mind went back over the scenes of camp and
field, and he fought his battles o'er again. He died April 24, 1880. For
seven years previous to his death he had been an active member of the
Presbyterian Church, and proved himself an earnest, consistent
Christian.

       *       *       *       *       *

BRIGADIER-GENERAL JOSEPH B. PATTEE.

Brevet Brigadier-General Joseph B. Pattee is a native of Vermont. Of his
life previous to the breaking out of the war we have no information.
When the Pennsylvania Reserves were organized in 1861, he was
commissioned first lieutenant Company B, of the Tenth. December 10,
1862, he was promoted to captain. At Bethesda Church, May 30, 1864, he
was wounded in the knee by a grapeshot. He continued on duty, however,
although this wound troubled him for more than a year afterward. When
the reorganization took place, he was commissioned lieutenant-colonel of
the One Hundred and Ninetieth Pennsylvania. Colonel Hartshorn being
absent, he took command of the regiment. June 17th, he was severely
wounded during the assault on Petersburg. A rifle ball struck him in the
center of the chest, and came out under his arm. This wound compelled an
absence of nearly three months. He returned September 13th, although
still suffering from this wound and the one received in May. During his
absence, Colonel Hartshorn and Colonel Carle, of the One Hundred and
Ninety-first, returned, and took command of their respective regiments.
These officers, with the greater part of their men, were made prisoners
August 19th, and so remained until after the cessation of hostilities.

The remainder of the two regiments, increased during the Fall by
returning convalescents, numbered about five hundred men. Colonel Pattee
took command of these, and they acted together as one organization. To
his care, skill, and courage they owe the brilliant record which they
made during the rest of their history. At Gravelly Run his promptness
and decision saved the Union forces from serious disaster. His gallant
conduct in leading the assault on the rebel intrenchments at Five Forks
is mentioned in the account of that battle. At Appomattox Court-house he
was ordered forward with his regiment from the rear of the division, for
the purpose of making that last dash against Lee, and compelling his
surrender. For the prompt and skillful manner in which this attack was
executed, he was highly complimented by the generals in command, and
was brevetted brigadier-general.

Since the close of the war he has been in the West, and is now engaged
in a land agency business at Canton, Dakota Territory.

       *       *       *       *       *

The following muster-rolls are obtained from the "History of the
Pennsylvania Volunteers." The roll of Company C, One Hundred and
Ninetieth, is defective in that work, and we have added a few names from
memory. The following abbreviations need explanation: M. A. C. D. C. =
Military Asylum Cemetery, District of Columbia; V. R. C. = Veteran
Reserve Corps; N. C. = National Cemetery. The date which follows the
name and rank of an officer, or the name of a private, indicates the
date of enlistment.

Company C, 11th P. R. V. C.

MUSTERED OUT JUNE 13, 1864.

      S. Louden, Capt.; June 10, '61; disc. sur. cer., Sept. 26, '62.

      W. H. Timblin, Capt.; June 10, '61; Brev. Maj.; wounded in
        Wilderness; must. out with Co.

      Newton Redic, 1st Lt.; June 10, '61; killed at Gaines' Mill, June 27,
        '62.

      G. W. Fliger, 1st Lt.; June 10, '61; pris. May 5, '64; disc. March
        12, '65.

      J. C. Kuhn, 2d Lt.; June 10, '61; died of wounds, Sept. 17,
      '62.

      J. H. Sutton, 2d Lt.; June 10, '61; disc. for wounds, July 3, '63.

      W. J. Halderman, 1st Sergt.; Oct. 1, '61; trans. 190th, vet.

      G. W. Milford, Sergt.; June 10, '61; disc. sur. cer., Jan. 20, '63.

      J. H. Christie, Sergt.; June 10, '61; killed at Gaines' Mill, June
        27, '62.

      G. A. Black, Sergt.; June 10, '61; must. out with Co.

      J. T. Kelly, Sergt.; June 10, '61; must. out with Co.

      G. W. Eby, Sergt.; June 10, '61; must. out with Co.

      M. Heckart, Sergt.; June 10, '61; must. out with Co.

      W. Prior, Sergt.; June 10, '61; pris. May 5, '64; died at
        Andersonville, Nov. 28, '64; grave 12,191.

      Hiram Black, Corp.; June 10, '61; died of wounds, Dec. 18, '62.

      J. W. Campbell, Corp., June 10, '61; must. out with Co.

      S. Cook, Corp., June 10, '61; disc. on sur. cer.

      J. H. Meeder, Corp., June 23, '61; disc. on sur. cer.

      R. S. Harper, Corp.; Feb. 24, '62; trans. 190th; disc. Feb. 24, '62.

      J. S. Campbell, Corp.; June 10, '61; pris. May 5, '64; disc. Dec.
        22, '64.

      R. S. Ray, Corp.; June 10, '61; must. out with Co.

      W. P. Black, Corp.; June 10, '61; must. out with Co.

      J. M. Varnum, mus., June 10, '61; must. out with Co.

      J. Heckart, mus., June 23, '61; must. out with Co.


PRIVATES.

      Allen, D. S.; June 10, '61; must. out with Company.

      Adams, H. C.; Oct. 1, '61; disc. sur. cer., June 30, '62.

      Anderson, R. M.; Mar. 4, '62; disc. sur. cer. June 24, '62.

      Birch, D.; June 10, '61; must. out with Company.

      Black, J. R.; June 10, '61; pris. May 5, '64; disc. Dec. 12, '64.

      Bell, S. M.; June 10, '61; disc. for wounds, May 20, '63.

      Brandon, Henry; June 10, '61; disc. for wounds, Oct. 10, '62.

      Beatty, S. R.; June 10, '61; disc. for wounds rec'd at Gaines' Mill.

      Bryan, W. A.; June 10, '61; disc. on sur. cer., Feb. 11, 63.

      Bruner, S.; June 23, '61; pris. May 5, '65, to Ap. 17, '65.

      Black, U. J.; June 10, '61; died Dec. 26, '62; buried in M. A.
        Cem., D. C.

      Beam, J.; June 10, '61; died Aug. 7, '62, of wounds rec'd at
        Gaines' Mill.

      Brewster, J. C.; June 10, '61; died July 23, '62; buried in
        M. A. Cem., D. C.

      Boreland, J. W.; June 10, '61; died May 22, '62.

      Campbell, I.; June 10, '61; must. out with Co.

      Christy, H. F.; June 10, '61; must. out with Co.

      Cannon, J.; June 23, '61; absent, sick, at muster out.

      Campbell, R. G.; Feb. 29, '64; trans. to 190th; pris., died at
        Andersonville, Aug., '64.

      Campbell, Wm.; June 10, '61; died Aug. 1, '63, of wounds rec'd at
        Gettysburg; bur. N. C., sec. D., grave 39.

      Clark, C.; died May 12, '65; bur. Cypress Hill Cem., Long Island

      Dobson, J.; June 10, '61; mort. wounded, May 30, '64.

      Donaldson, J.; June 10, '61; pris. May 30, '64; disc. Dec. 16, '64.

      Edgar, H. J.; June 23, '61; disc. for w'ds, Nov. 23, '62.

      Eshenbaugh, J.; June 10, '61; trans. to 190th; pris., May
        30, '64, to April 17, '65; must. out vet.

      Fliger, E. S.; June 10, '61; disc. on sur. cer., Nov. 27, '61.

      Fliger, Jacob; June 10, '61; disc. on sur. cer., Nov. 27 '62.

      Graham, Jas. K.; June 10, '61; wounded; must. out with Company.

      Grossman, Lewis; June 10, '61; wounded, with loss of arm and leg,
        May 11, '64; died Aug. 3, '64; bur. N. C., Arlington.

      Hindman, R. S.; June 10, '61; must. out with Co.

      Halstead, Jn.; June 23, '61; must. out with Co.

      Hilliard, W.; June 23, '61; must. out with Co.

      Hilliard, W. H.; June 10, '61; disc. sur. cer., May 11, '62.

      Henlen, Jn. D. W.; June 10, '61; disc. sur. cer., Jan. 8, '63.

      Hoffman, Ed.: March 4, '62; trans. to 190th.

      Hilliard, Eli; June 10, '61; died at Richmond, Jan. 11, '63, of
        wounds received at Fredericksburg.

      Hyskill, G.; June 10, '61; killed at Fred., Dec. 13, '62.

      Hart, Samuel; March 4, '62; died Aug. 10, '62.

      Karner, Wm.; June 10, '61; must. out with Company.

      Krause, R.; June 23, '61; pris. May 5, '64; disc. Mar. 1, '65.

      Kepler, A. C.; Oct. 1, '61; w'd and pris. at Gaines' Mill; disc.

      Kautch, Wolfgang; June 10, '61; disc. for wounds, Dec. 31, '63.

      Kenedy, B. F.; Mar. 4, '62; trans. to 190th; disc. at expiration
        of term.

      Larden, T. P.; June 23, '61; wounded at Fred.; pris. May 5; disc.
        Mar. 14, '65.

      Linsay, F.; June 10, '61; died Jan. 4, '63, of wounds rec'd at
        Fred. Dec. 13, '62; bur. M. A. C., D. C.

      Livermore, J.; Oct. 1, '61; trans. V. R. C., Dec. 31, '63.

      Miller, S.; June 10, '61; pris. May 5, '64; disc. Mar. 5, '65.

      M'Cleary, S. E.; June 10, '61; pris. May 5, '64; disc. Mar. 5, '65.

      M'Gill, W. B.; June 10, '61; disc. on sur. cer., Dec. 30, '61.

      Malarkey, D.; June 23, '61; disc. Feb. 11, '63.

      Moore, W. E.; June 10, '61; disc. for w'ds, Sept. 1, '63.

      M'Murry, S.; June 10, '61; disc. for w'ds, Dec. 3, '62.

      M'Elhany, R.; June 10, '61; disc. for w'ds, Dec. 29, '62.

      M'Elvain, R.; June 10, '61; disc. for w'ds, Jan. 15, '63.

      M'Call, Alex.; Feb. 8, '62; disc. for w'ds, rec'd at Fred.

      Milford, J. P.; Aug. 26, '62; trans, to 190th.

      Monnie, F. H.; Sept. 21, '62; trans, to 190th; disc. at expiration
        of term.

      M'Murry, R.; Feb. 8, '62; trans, to 190th; disc. at expiration of
        term.

      M'Camy, J.; Feb. 24, '62; trans. V. R. C., Dec. 21, '63.

      Miller, Isaiah; June 10, '61; died Aug. 13, '62; bur. at Point
        Lookout.

      Martin, Wm.; Sept. 21, '61; died of w'ds. Sept. 17, '62.

      M'Bride, W. A.; June 10, '61; killed at Gaines' Mill, June 27, '62.

      Martin, P. G.; June 23, '61; deserted Mar. 20, '63.

      Patterson, H. B.; June 10, '61; must. out with Co.

      Pearce, J. M.; June 10, '61; disc. for w'ds, Oct. 29, '62.

      Pearce, R. C.; Aug. 26, '62; died Dec. 13, '62; bur. M. A. C., D. C.

      Pettigrew, A. J.; June 10, '61; died July 11, '63, of wounds rec'd
        at Gettysburg.

      Porter, J. R.; Oct. 5, '61; died Sept. 25, '62, of w'ds rec'd at
        Bull Run, Aug. 30, '62.

      Rhodes, G. M.; June 10, '61; disc. on sur. cer., Aug. 23, '62.

      Rothmire, G.; June 10, '61; disc. Sept. 12, '62, for wounds rec'd
        at Gaines' Mill.

      Rinker, Wm.; June 10, '61; disc. Sept. 12, '62, for wounds rec'd
        at Bull Run, Aug. 30, '62.

      Russel, D. H.; Aug. 26, '62; trans. to 191st.

      Rosenberry, J.; June 10, '61; died at Macon, Ga., Dec. 24, '62, of
        wounds rec'd at Fredericksburg.

      Russel, O. H. P.; June 10, '62; died at Richmond, Dec. 31, '62, of
        wounds rec'd at Fredericksburg.

      Sloan, Wm.; June 10, '61; must. out with Company.

      Seaton, Amos; June 10, '61; must. out with Company.

      Shryock, S, P.; June 10, '61; pris. May 5, '64; disc. Mar. 5, '65.

      Say, Hon. H.; Oct. 7, '61; trans. to 191st.

      Stevenson, J. H.; June 10, '61; killed at South Mountain, Sept.
        14, '62.

      Schmidt, C.; June 10, '61; killed at South Mountain, Sept. 14, '62.

      Shepard, J. M.; Sept 21, '61; disc. for w'ds, Feb. 24, '63.

      Taylor, J. L.; June 10, '61; must. out with Company.

      Thompson, W. S.; June 10, '61; disc. on sur. cer., Aug. 2, '62.

      Thompson, J.; Oct. 13, '61; killed at Gaines' Mill.

      White, Allen; June 10, '61; killed at Wilderness, May 5, '64.


Company D, 11th P. R. V. C.

      Wm. Stewart, Capt.; July 5, '61; w'nded 2d Bull Run; killed at
        Fredericksburg, Dec. 13, '62.

      Jacob Baiers, Capt.; July 5, '61; disc. April 9, '64, for wounds
        received at Gaines' Mill.

      Jas. P. Boggs, Capt.; July 5, '61; Brev. Maj.; wd. twice, pris.
        once, must. out with Co.

      J. S. Kenedy, 1st Lt.; July 5, '61; disc. June 13, '63, for wds.
        received at South Mountain, Sept. 14, '62.

      Jesse Donaldson, 2d Lt.; July 5, '61; died at Alexandria, Va., May
        5, '62.

      J. O'Harra Woods, 2d Lt.; July 5, '61; killed at Gettysburg, July
        2, 63; N. C., sec. C., grave 35.

      Wilson R. Potts, 1st Sergt.; July 5, '61; disc. sur. cer. June 10,
        '62.

      Wm. C. Coleman, 1st Sergt.; Sept. 8, '61; trans. 190th to 1st Lt.,
        Co. I; must. out June 28, '65.

      Robt. Ash, Sergt.; July 5, '61; disc. sur. cer. June 10, '62.

      Jn. Ganz, Sergt.; July 5, '61; must. out with Co.

      Sam'l J. Chrisley, Sergt.; July 16, '61; killed at 2d Bull Run,
        Aug. 30, '62.

      Jac. B. Kinsell, Sergt.; July 5, '61; died Jan. 20, '63; wounds
        received at Fred.; Alex, grave 691.

      G. W. M'Gaughey, Sergt.; July 5, '61; died Rich. Feb. 10, '63,
        wounds received at Fred., Dec. 13, '62.

      David C. Steen, Sergt.; July 5, '61; trans. 190th; wd. Gaines'
        Mill, Fred., Wild.; killed Weldon R. R., Aug. 19, '64., vet.

      Geo. Weber, Sergt.; July 5, '61; wounded Fred.; pris. May 5, '64;
        disc. Dec. 17, '64.

      Jas. M'Clelland, Sergt.; July 29, '61; must. out with Co.

      Jas. M. Graves, Sergt.; July 12, '61; pris. May 5, '64; must. out
        Dec. 18, '64.

      Jn. Dunbar, Corp.; July 5, '61; killed at Gaines' Mill, June 27,
        '62.

      Silas Amberson, Corp.; July 5, '61; killed at Gaines' Mill, June
        27, '62.

      Robt. G. Gilleland, Corp.; July 5, '61; disc. sur. cer., Feb. 4,
        '63.

      David P. Stewart, Corp.; July 5, '61; killed at Gaines' Mill, June
        27, '62.

      David S. Parks, Corp.; July 6, '61; killed May 30, '64.

      Jas. R. Moore, Corp.; July 29, '61; disc. on sur. cer., Feb. 7,
        '63.

      Jas. B. Shafer, Corp.; July 29, '61; trans. 190th; must. out June
        28, '65.

      Dan'l Graham, Corp.; July 5, '61; pris. May 30, '64; died ----.

      Jesse Fry, Corp.; July 5, '61; must. out with Co.

      Chas. Minnemyer, Musician; July 6, '61; promoted to prin. must.,
        Nov. 1, '63; must. out with Co.

      Alf. Nixon, musc.; July 5, '61; must. out with Co.


PRIVATES.

      Addleman, Lind. H.; Feb. 24, '62; died at home on Furlough.

      Barron, Barn. C.; July 5, '61; disc. sur. cer., Aug. 3, '62.

      Beers, Jn.; Feb. 8, '62.; trans. 190th; pris. Aug. 19, '64; not
        accounted for.

      Berchtold, Jas.; Feb. 25, '62; trans. U. S. N., Nov. '62.

      Beers, Sm'l; July 5, '61; trans. V. R. C., Sept. 1, '63.

      Beggs, Jn.; July 5, '61; trans. V. R. C., Sept. 1, '63.

      Beatty, Jn. M.; July 5, '61; killed at Gaines' Mill, June 27, '62.

      Bedillion, Peter; July 16, '61; died Jan. 17, '62.

      Beltz, Chas.; ----; died Sept. 4, '62; bur. Alexandria, grave 212.

      Boggs, Wm.; July 5, '61; must. out with Co.

      Brennamin, S.; March 18, '64; trans. 190th; pris. Aug. 18, '64;
        not accounted for.

      Brown, Robt. J.; July 16, '61; trans. 190th; not accounted for.

      Brown, Jn. M.; July 5, '61; must. out with Co.

      Brunnermer, Geo.; Feb. 8, '62; trans. 190th; wd. May 30, Aug. 18,
        '64; must. out, vet.

      Burr, Jacob; Feb. 25, '64; trans. 190th; pris. Aug. 19, '64; not
        accounted for.

      Cartwright, Linas; July 16, '61; disc. sur. cer., March 1, '64.

      Campbell, David; July 16, '61; disc. sur. cer., Aug. 28, 63.

      Cowan, Jn.; July 5, '61; disc sur. cer. ----

      Corans, Jn.; Sept. 12, '61; trans. V. R. C., Sept. 1, '63.

      Cress, Dan'l; July 29, 61; trans. V. R. C., Sept. 1, '63.

      Critchlow, A. W.; July 5, '61; died at N. Y., Oct. 2. '62.

      Critchlow, J. W.; July 5, '61; killed at Gaines' Mill, June 27,
        '62.

      Cornelius, T. J.; July 29, '61; killed at Gaines' Mill, June 27,
        '62.

      Conders, Jn.; July 5, '61; killed at Bull Run, Aug. 30, '62.

      Dodds, Jasper P.; July 12, '61; died at Richmond, July 18, '62, of
        wds. received at Gaines' Mill.

      Dodds, W. F.; July 29, '61; disc. sur. cer., Oct. 7, '62.

      Deer, Jac.; July 5, '61; disc. sur. cer., March 11, '63.

      Divinney, J. G.; Sept. 21, '61; disc. sur. cer, May 9, '62.

      Elliott, J. P.; July 5, '61; pris. May 5, '64; died--.

      Fleming, T. H.; July 5, '61; trans. 190th; must. out with Co.,
        June 28, '65, vet.

      Frail, M.; July 5, '61; killed at Gaines' Mill, June 27, '62.

      Fry, W. M.; July 5, '61; died at Washington, D. C., May 31, '62.

      Graham, D. W.; Sept. 21, '61; disc. sur. cer., Aug. 18, '62.

      Gilleland, R. S.; Feb. 10, '64; trans. 190th; pris. Aug. 19, '64;
        not accounted for.

      Gilleland, W.; Feb. 10, '64; trans. 190th; pris. Aug. 19, '64; not
        accounted for.

      Gilpatrick, M.; March 17, '64; trans. 190th; pris. Aug. 19, '64;
        disc. July 5, '65.

      Gibson, Israel; March 17, '64; trans. 190th; pris. Aug. 19, '64;
        disc. July 5, '65.

      Graham, D. W.; Aug. 19, '61; trans. V. R. C., Sept. 1, '63.

      Greer, J. A.; July 5, '61; trans. V. R. C., Sept. 9, '63.

      Hussleton, G. W.; July 5, '61; pris. May 5, '64; disc. Dec. 22,
        '64.

      Haslett, S. F.; Sept. 10, '61; disc. sur. cer., Nov. 21, '62.

      Haslett, J. B.; March 3, '62; trans. V. R. C., Sept. 1, '63.

      Hare, Peter; July 12, '61; trans. 190th; pris. Aug. 19, '64; shot
        Salis., N. C., Dec. 22, '64, vet.

      Hoyt, Oscar C.; Sept. 21, '61; trans. V. R. C., Sept. 1, '63.

      Johnson, J. B.; July 25, '61; died May 30, '62; bur. M. A. C.,
        D. C.

      Johnston, Vernon; July 5, 61; died July 9, '61.

      Kenedy, Alex.; July 29, '61; disc. sur. cer., Feb. 9, '63.

      Kenedy, W. H. H.; July 5, '61; trans. 190th; pris. May 5, '64;
        must. out June 28, '65, vet.

      Kalb, Eckart; March 10, '62; trans. 190th; wd., loss of arm, May
        30, 64.

      List, Wm.; July 14, '61; must. out with Co.

      Lyon, Sm. A.; July 24 '61; k. Bull Run, Aug. 30, '62.

      Leonard, Jas.; July 5, '61; deserted Aug. 31, '61.

      M'Nair, Robt. A.; July 5, '61; must. out with Co.

      Mushrush, B. L.; July 5, '61; wd. May 5, '64; must. out with Co.

      M'Donald, D. (1); July 5, '61; must. out with Co.

      M'Donald, D. (2); July 16, '61; disc. sur. cer., June 25, '63.

      M'Aleer, B. W.; Feb. 24, '62; trans. 190th; pris, Aug. 19, '64;
        not accounted for.

      M'Bride, R. E.; Dec. 15, '63; trans. 190th; must. out June 27, '65.

      M'Comb, J. H.; Feb. 9, '64; trans. 190th; pris. Aug. 19, '64; not
        accounted for.

      Miller, Ed.; Feb, 25, '64; trans. 190th; must. out with Co., June
        28, '65.

      M'Curdy, S. R.; Sept. 8, '61; trans, to Co. B., May 1, '62; disc.
        sur. cer., June 4, '62.

      M'Knight, J.; Sept. 12, '61; trans. V. R. C., Feb. 5, '64.

      Moreland, C. L.; Apr. 22, '64; trans. 190th; killed at Petersb.,
        June 24, '64; bur. in Poplar Grove Cem., grave 173, sec. C.
        div. D.

      M'Cullough, M. F.; July 6, '61; killed May 5, '64.

      Moore, Wm.; July 16, '61; killed at Gaines' Mill, June 27, '62.

      M'Kinney, J. A.; July 5, '61; killed at Bull Run, Aug. 30, '62.

      M'Neal, W. R.; Sept. 8, '61; died Oct. 25, '62, of wds. rec'd at
        Bull Run, Aug. 30, '62; bur. M. A. C., D. C.

      Nixon, J. E.; July 6, '61; disc. sur. cer., March 28, '64.

      Overdoff, W. C.; March 31, '64; trans. 190th; killed Oct. '64.

      Parker, S. C.; July 5, '61; must. out with Co.

      Pisor, D. W.; July 16, '61; died Nov. 16, '62; buried Camp Parole,
        Hospital Cem. Annapolis, Md.

      Pherson, R. J.; July 29, '61; killed at Bull Run, Aug. 30, '62.

      Rodgers, H.; July 16, '61; disc. sur. cer., June 23, '62.

      Richardson, W.; March 21, '62; trans. 190th; wd. at Fred.; must.
        out June 28, '65, vet.

      Robertson, J.; Feb. 16, '64; trans. 190th; pris. Aug. 19, '64;
        died ----.

      Rice, T. G.; Feb. 13, '64; trans. 190th; pris. Aug. 19, '64; died
        Dec. 23, '64, Salisbury, N. C.

      Rosenberry, S. J.; Feb. 24, '62; died June 23, '62; bur. Mil. As.
        Cem., D. C.

      Rouch, L.; Oct. 5, '61; died at home, Butler County, Sept. 8, '63.

      Smith, S. F.; Sept. 8, '61; disc. sur. cer., Aug. 1, '62.

      Shearer, W. M.; Sept. 8, '61; disc. sur. cer., Aug. 27, '62.

      Stevenson, B.; Feb. 24, '62; disc. sur. cer., March 25, '62.

      Snow, Alf. M.; July 5, '61; trans. 190th; pris. Aug. 19, '64; died
        Salisbury, N. C, vet.

      Shank, A.; Sept. 8, '61; trans. 190th; must. out June 28, '65.,
        vet.

      Shank, Jn.; Feb. 26, '64; trans. 190th; not accounted for.

      Silvers, M.; Sept. 21, '61; trans. V. R. C.

      Stanley, J. S.; March 31, '64; trans. 190th; wd. May 30, '64; not
        accounted for.

      Sinott, Wm.; Sept. 8, '61; killed at Bull Run, Aug. 29, '62.

      Summerville, J. H.; July 5, '61; died at Annapolis, Md., Feb. 28,
        '63, of wds. rec'd at Fred. Dec. 13, '62.

      Teets, Al.; July 5, '61; absent at muster out.

      Thompson, R. W.; July 5, '61; must. out with Co.

      Thompson, G.; July 23, '61; must. out with Co.

      Williamson, Hugh; July 5, '61; wd. at Fred.; absent at muster out.

      Woods, Wm.; July 5, '61; died at Camp Pierpont, Dec. 6, '61.

      Young, Geo.; Feb. 8, '62; disc. sur. cer., June 11, '62.



Company C, 190th P. V.


      Neri B. Kinsey, Capt.; June, 1, '61; Brev. Maj. Oct. 1, '64;
        wounded Oct., '64; disc. Mar. 8, '65.

      Moses W. Lucore, 1st Lt.; June 1, '61; pris. Aug. 19, '64; must.
        out June 28, '65.

      Benj. F. Wright, 2d Lt.; pris. Aug. 19, '64; must. out June 28,
        '65.

      ---- Keeley, Sergt.; must. out June 28, '65.

      ---- Haslett, Sergt.; must. out June 28, '65.

      David C. Steen, Sergt.; killed Aug. 19, '64; sec. D., 11.

      Thos. H. Lindsay, Corp.; Dec. 21, '63; disc. gen. ord., June 1,
        '65.


PRIVATES.

      Brown, Robt. J.; July 16, '61; vet., not accounted for.

      Beers, Jn.; Mar. 17, '62; vet., not accounted for.

      Burr, Jacob; Feb. 25, '64; vet., not accounted for.

      Brunnermer, George; Feb. 8. '62; ward 2; mus.

      Brennamin, Sl.; Mar. 18, '64; pris. Aug. 19, '64; not accounted
        for.

      Bovard, Joseph O.; June 8, '61; must. out with Co., June 28, '65;
        vet.

      Conner, Wm.; Sept. 22, '62; pris. Aug. 19, '64; disc. gen. ord.,
        June 1, '65.

      Coleman, Mike; Dec. 15, '63; must. out with Co., June 28, '65.

      Dunn, Geo.; Sept. 22, '62; disc. gen. ord., June 1, '65.

      Edgar, Jn.; must. out with Co., June 28, '65, vet.

      Eshelman, Abram; Dec. 9, '63; died of wounds rec'd at Petersburg,
        June 17, '64.

      Fulkerson, Smith; Mar. 31, '62; disc. at expiration of term.

      Fleming, Thorn. H.; July 5, '61; must. out with Co., June 28, '64;
        vet.

      Fuller, Jn. A.; pris. Aug. 19, '64; died at Salisbury N. C., Dec.
        12, '65.

      Fairbanks, D.; pris. Aug 19, '64; died Nov. 24, '64.

      Gilpatrick, Mark; Mar. 15, '64; pris. Aug. 19, '64, to Oct. 8,
        '64; disc. July 5, '65.

      Gilleland, Robt. S.; Feb. 10, '64; not accounted for.

      Gilleland, Wilson; Feb. 10, '64; not accounted for.

      Gibson, Israel; Mar. 17, '64; not accounted for.

      Hare, Peter; July 12, '61; pris. Aug. 19, '64; died at Salisbury,
        N. C., Jan. 30, '65, vet.

      Harris, Abram; Feb. 3, '64; disc. gen. ord., May 16, '65.

      Harris, Wm.; Feb. 3, '64; must. out with Co., June 28, '65.

      Kalb, Eckart; Mar. 10, '62; wounded, with loss of arm, May 30, '64.

      Kenedy, W. H. H.; July 5, '61; pris. May 5, '64; must. out with
        Company, June 28, '65, vet.

      Klinglesmith, C.; Feb. 5, '64; must. out with Co., June 28, '65.

      Lewis, Wm.; Oct. 25, '64; disc. gen. ord., June 5, '65.

      Lyons, Owen; Dec. 21, '63; trans. V. R. C.

      M'Aleer, Bernard W.; Feb. 24, '62; not accounted for.

      M'Bride, R. E.; Dec. 15, '63; must. out with Co.

      M'Comb, Jas. H.; Feb. 9, '64; pris. Aug. 19, '64; not accounted
        for.

      M'Guire, Robt. R.; June 8, '61; mustered out with Company, vet.

      M'Guire, Jas. N.; June 8, '61; must. out with Company, vet.,
      wounded.

      Miller, Ed.; Feb. 25, '64; must. out with Company.

      Nicholson, Jn.; Dec. 31, '63; pris. Aug. 19, '64, to Feb. 7, '65;
       disc. June 12, '65.

      Overdoff, Wm. C.; Mar. 31, '64; killed Oct., '64.

      Payne, Wm.; Oct. 20, '61; disc. at expiration of term.

      Rice, Thos. G.; Feb. 13, '64; pris. Aug. 19, '64; died at
        Salisbury, N. C.

      Richardson, Wm.; Mar. 21, '62; must. out with Co., wounded.

      Robertson, Jas.; Feb. 16, '64; pris. Aug. 19, '64; died at
        Salisbury, N. C., Dec. 23, '64.

      Rutter, Wm.; wounded at Petersburg, June 18, '64; died July 15,
        '64.

      Snow, Alf. M.; July 5, '61; pris. Aug. 19, '64; died at Salisbury,
        N. C., vet.

      Shank, Andrew; Sept. 8, '61; must. out with Co., vet., wounded.

      Shank, Jn.; Feb. 26, '64; not accounted for.

      Scott, W. D.; June 8, '61; disc. Jan. 23, '65, vet.

      Stohker, Abram; Dec. 21, '63; pris. Aug. 19, '64, to Jan. 22, '64;
        disc. June 12, '65.

      Sweeney, Chas.; June 8, '61; pris. Aug. 19, '64, to March 1, '65;
        disc. June 24. '65.

      Thiel, Anthony; Feb. 4, '62; disc. gen. ord., June 2, '65.

      Walb, Leonidas C.; June 21, '61; must. out with Company, vet.

      Youler, Benj. F.; June 20, '61; must. out with Co., vet.



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14 Stops, 4 Sets Reeds, =ONLY $65=. =PIANOS=, =$125= up. Paper free.
Address =Daniel F. Beatty, Washington, N. J.=

~~~~~~~~~~

BEATTY ORGANS & PIANOS.

=Organs. Church, Chapel and Parlor, $30 to $1,000, 2 to 33 Stops.
Pianofortes.= Grand, Square & Upright, =$125= to =$1,000=. =Sent on
trial warranted.= =Illustrated Catalogue with Steel-Plate FREE.=
Address or call on Daniel F. Beatty, Washington, N. J.

~~~~~~~~~~

ORGANS AND PIANOS.

=BEATTY CABINET ORGANS.=

=CHURCH, CHAPEL AND PARLOR.=

=BEATTY PIANOFORTES, GRAND SQUARE AND UPRIGHT.=

Best and Sweetest-Toned Instrument in the World.

=ORGANS= =$30=, =$40=, =$50=, to =$1,000=, =2= to =32= Stops.

=PIANOS=, =$125= up to =$1,600=. Every instrument =fully Warranted=.
Sent on trial. Beautiful Illustrated Catalogue and =Steel-Plate
Engraving free=. Those desiring to buy are requested to visit my factory
here, and select the instrument in person.

=Address or call on Daniel F. Beatty, Washington. N. J.=

~~~~~~~~~~

_=ORGANS=_

=14 Stops, 4 Sets Reeds, ONLY $65.= =PIANOS=, =$125= up. Paper free.
=Address Daniel F. Beatty, Washington, N. J.=

~~~~~~~~~~

=BEATTY CABINET ORGANS.=

=CHURCH, CHAPEL AND PARLOR.=

=BEATTY PIANOFORTES, GRAND SQUARE AND UPRIGHT.=

Best and Sweetest-Toned Instrument in the World.

=ORGANS= =$30=, =$40=, =$50=, to =$1,000=, =2= to =32= Stops.

=PIANOS=, =$125= up to =$1,600=. Every instrument =fully Warranted=.
Sent on trial. Beautiful Illustrated Catalogue and =Steel-Plate
Engraving free=. Those desiring to buy are requested to visit my factory
here, and select the instrument in person.

=Address or call on Daniel F. Beatty, Washington, N. J.=

~~~~~~~~~~

_=ORGANS=_

=14 Stops, 4 Sets Reeds, ONLY $65.= =PIANOS=, =$125= up. Paper free.
=Address Daniel F. Beatty, Washington, N. J.=

~~~~~~~~~~

=ORGANS AND PIANOS.=

=BEATTY ORGANS AND PIANOS.=

=Organs, Church, Chapel and Parlor, $30 to $1,000, 2 to 32 Stops.=
=Pianofortes=, Grand, Square & Upright, =$125= to =$1,600=. =Sent on
trial warranted.= =Illustrated Catalogue with Steel-Plate FREE.=
Address or call on Daniel F. Beatty, Washington, N. J.

~~~~~~~~~

_=ORGANS=_ 14 Stops, 4 Sets Reeds, =ONLY $65=. PIANOS, =$125= up. Paper
free. Address =Daniel F. Beatty, Washington, N. J.=

~~~~~~~~~~

=BEATTY ORGANS AND PIANOS.=

=Organs.= =Church, Chapel and Parlor, $30 to $1,000, 2 to 32 Stops.=
=Pianofortes=, Grand, Square & Upright, =$125= to =$1,600=. =Sent on
trial warranted=. =Illustrated Catalogue with Steel-Plate FREE.=
=Address or call on Daniel F. Beatty, Washington, N. J.=

~~~~~~~~~~

=BEATTY CABINET ORGANS.=

=CHURCH, CHAPEL AND PARLOR.=

=BEATTY PIANOFORTES, GRAND SQUARE AND UPRIGHT.=

Best and Sweetest-Toned Instrument in the World.

=ORGANS= =$30=, =$40=, =$50=, to =$1,000=, =2= to =32= Stops.

=PIANOS=, =$125= up to =$1,600=. Every instrument =fully Warranted=.
Sent on trial. Beautiful Illustrated Catalogue and =Steel-Plate
Engraving free=. Those desiring to buy are requested to visit my factory
here, and select the instrument in person.

=Address or call on Daniel F. Beatty, Washington, N. J.=



    +----------------------------------------------------+
    |             Transcriber's Note:                    |
    |                                                    |
    | Inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the       |
    | original document have been preserved.             |
    |                                                    |
    | Typographical errors corrected in the text:        |
    |                                                    |
    | Page    9  Spottsylvania changed to Spotsylvania   |
    | Page   26  steathily changed to stealthily         |
    | Page   26  Bristor changed to Bristoe              |
    | Page   27  Bristor changed to Bristoe              |
    | Page   37  Spottsylvania changed to Spotsylvania   |
    | Page   52  earthern changed to earthen             |
    | Page   74  cookiug changed to cooking              |
    | Page  129  Nintieth changed to Ninetieth           |
    | Page  146  Aross changed to Across                 |
    | Page  174  redoutable changed to redoubtable       |
    | Page  237  Fredericksbug changed to Fredericksburg |
    +----------------------------------------------------+





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