Chapter III

BATTLES OF SPOTTSYLVANIA COURT HOUSE

It was just ten o’clock and each man was looking around for the dryest spot to spread his blanket on, when a courier rode up, with pressing orders for us to get instantly on the march. In a few moments, we were tramping rapidly through the darkness, on a road that led, we knew not whither. We were, as we found out afterwards, leading the great race, that General Lee was making for Spottsylvania Court House to head off Grant in his efforts to get out of the Wilderness in his “push for Richmond.” We were with the vanguard of the skillful movement, by which Longstreet’s Corps was marched entirely around Grant’s left flank, to seize the strong line of the hills around Spottsylvania Court House and hold it till the other two Corps could come to our aid.

We marched all night, a hard, forced march over muddy roads, through the damp, close night. Soon after the start from our bivouac, a brigade of infantry had filed into the road ahead of us, and we could hear, behind us on the road, though we could not see for the darkness, the sound of other troops marching. The Brigade ahead of us, we soon found, to our gratification, to be Barksdale’s Mississippi Brigade, now under command of General Humphreys, since the gallant Barksdale fell at the head of his storming columns at Gettysburg. This was the Brigade to which we had belonged in the earlier organization of the artillery. It was a magnificent body of men, one of the most thorough fighting corps in the army, as they had showed a hundred times, on the bloodiest fields, and were soon, and often to show again. There was a very strong mutual attachment between the First Richmond Howitzers and Barksdale’s Brigade, and we were much pleased to be with them on this march. We mingled with them, as we sped rapidly along, and exchanged greetings, and our several experiences since we had been separated.

The morning of the 8th of May broke, foggy and lowering, and found us still moving swiftly along. The infantry halting for a rest, we passed on ahead, and for some time were marching by ourselves. I well recall the impressions of the scene around us on that early morning march. Our battery seemed all alone on a quiet country road. The birds were singing around us, and it seemed, to us, so sweet! Everybody was impressed by the music of those birds. As the old soldiers will remember, the note of a bird was a sound we rarely heard. The feathered songsters, no doubt, were frightened away, and it was often remarked, that we never saw birds in the neighborhood of camp. So we specially enjoyed the treat of hearing them, now and here, in their own quiet woods, where they had never been disturbed. All was quiet and still and peaceful as any rural scene could be. It seemed to us wondrous sweet and beautiful! All the men were strangely impressed by it. They talked of it to one another. It made our hearts soft, it brought to the mind of many of those weary, war-worn soldiers, other quiet rural scenes, where lay their homes and dear ones, and to which this scene made their hearts go back, in tender memory, and loving imagination. All the eyes did not stay dry as we passed along that road. We talked of this scene many a time long afterwards. And I expect some of the old “Howitzers” still remember that quiet Spottsylvania country road, winding through the woods, on that early Sunday morning, when the birds sang to us, as we hurried on to battle.

Well! the morning wore on, and so did we. By and by, the sun came out through the fog and clouds, and began to make it hot for us. The dampness of the earth made this an easy job. The sun got higher and hotter every minute. The way that close, sultry heat did roast us was pitiful. We would have “larded the lean earth as we walked along,” except that hard bones and muscles of gaunt men didn’t yield any “lard” to speak of. The breakfast hour was not observed, i. e., not with any ceremony. “Cracker nibbling on the fly” was all the visible reminder of that time-honored custom. We were not there to eat, but, to get to Spottsylvania Court House; and steps were more to that purpose than steaks, so we omitted the steaks, and put in the steps; and we put them in very fast, and were putting in a great many of them, it appeared to us. At last, just about twelve o’clock our road wound down to a stream, which I think was the Po, one of the head waters of the Mattaponi River, and then, we went up a very long hill, a bank, surmounted by a rail fence on the left side of the road, and the woods on the other.

Stuart’s Four Thousand Cavalry

Just as we got to the top (our Battery happened just then to be ahead of all the troops, and was the first of the columns to reach the spot), the road came up to the level of the land on the left, which enabled us to see, what, though close by us, had been concealed by the high roadside bank. A farm gate opened into a field, around a farmhouse and outbuildings, and there, covering that field was the whole of Fitz Lee’s Division of Stuart’s cavalry. These heroic fellows had for two days been fighting Warren’s corps of Federal infantry, which General Grant had sent to seize this very line on which we had now arrived. They had fought, mostly dismounted, from hill to hill, from fence to fence, from tree to tree; and so obstinate was their resistance, and so skillful the dispositions of the matchless Stuart, that some thirty thousand men had been forced to take about twenty-six hours to get seven or eight miles, by about forty-five hundred cavalry. But, it was incomparable cavalry, and J. E. B. Stuart was handling it. It was some credit to that Corps to have marched any at all! Thanks to the superb conduct of the cavalry, General Lee’s movement had succeeded! We had beaten the Federal column, and were here, before them, on this much-coveted line, and meant to hold it, too.

I note here in passing, that this Spottsylvania business was a “white day” for the cavalry. When the army came to know of what the cavalry had done, and how they had done it, there was a general outburst of admiration,—the recognition that brave men give to the brave. Stuart and his men were written higher than ever on the honor roll, and the whole army was ready to take off its hat to salute the cavalry.

And, from that day, there was a marked change in the way the army thought and spoke of the cavalry; it took a distinctly different and higher position in the respect of the Army, for it had revealed itself in a new light; it had shown itself signally possessed of the quality, that the infantry and artillery naturally admired most of all others—obstinacy in fight.

As was natural, and highly desirable, each arm of the service had a very exalted idea of its own importance and merit, as compared with the others. In fact the soldier of the “Army of Northern Virginia” filled exactly the Duke of Marlborough’s description of the spirit of a good soldier. “He is a poor soldier,” said the Duke, “who does not think himself as good and better than any other soldier of his own army, and three times as good as any man in the army of the enemy.” That fitted our fellows “to a hair;” each Confederate soldier thought that way.

It was not an unnatural or unreasonable conceit, considering the facts. It must be confessed that modesty as to their quality as soldiers was not the distinguishing virtue of the men of the Army of Northern Virginia, but, it must be considered, in extenuation that their experience in war was by no means a good school for humility. An old Scotch woman once prayed, “Lord, gie us a gude conceit o’ ourselves.” There was a certain wisdom in the old woman’s prayer! The Army of Northern Virginia soldiers had this “gude conceit o’ themselves,” without praying for it; certainly, if they did pray for it, their prayer was answered, “good measure, pressed down, shaken together, and running over.” They had it abundantly! And it was a tremendous element of power in their “make up” as soldiers. It made them the terrible fighters, that all the world knew they were. It largely explains their recorded deeds, and their matchless achievements.

For instance, here at the Wilderness! What was it that made thirty-five thousand men knowingly and cheerfully march to attack one hundred and fifty thousand men, and stick up to them, and fight them for twenty-four hours, without support or reinforcement? It was their good opinion of themselves; their superb confidence. They felt able with thirty-five thousand men, and General Lee, to meet one hundred and fifty thousand men, and hold them, till help came; and didn’t they do it?

Well! they did that kind of thing so often that they couldn’t get humble, and they never have been able to get humble since. They try to—but—they can’t!

But I return from this digression to say, that the different Arms of the service had something of this same feeling, this good opinion of themselves, as compared with one another. Each one had many jokes on the others, and whenever they met, all sorts of “chaffing” went on. In all this, the infantry and artillery felt closer together, and were rather apt, when the occasion offered, to turn their combined guns on the cavalry.

The general point of the jokes and gibes at the cavalry was their supposed tendency to be “scarce” when big fighting was going on.

It wasn’t that anybody doubted the usefulness of cavalry, but their usefulness was imagined to lie in other respects than fighting back the masses of the enemy. And, it wasn’t that anybody supposed that the cavalry did not have plenty of fight in them, if they could get a chance. We knew that when they were at home they were the same stock as we were, and we believed, that if they were along with us, they would do as well; but in the cavalry, well! we didn’t know!

The leaders of the cavalry, Stuart, Hampton, Ashby, Fitz Lee and others, were heroes and household names to the whole army. Their brilliant courage and dare-deviltry, their hairbreadth escapes, and thrilling adventures, their feats of skill, and grace were themes of pride and delight to us all. These cavaliers were the “darlings of the army.” Still, the army would guy the cavalry every chance they got.

It was said that Gen. D. H. Hill proposed to offer a “reward of Five Dollars, to anybody who could find a dead man with spurs on.” And Gen. Jubal Early once, when impatient at the conduct of certain troops in his command threatened “if the cavalry did not do better, he would put them in the army.”

One day, an infantry brigade on the march to Chancellorsville had halted to rest on the pike, near where a narrow road turned off. A cavalryman was seen approaching, in a fast gallop, plainly, in a great hurry. The infantry viewed his approach with great interest, prepared to salute him with neat and appropriate remarks as he passed, by way of making him lively.

Just before he got to the head of the brigade he reached the narrow road and started up it. Instantly a dozen “infants” began to wave their arms excitedly, and shout in loud earnest voices—“Mister, stop there! don’t go a step farther; for heaven’s sake don’t go up that road.” The trooper, startled by this appeal, and the warning gestures of the men, approaching him, pulled in his fast-going horse, and stopped, very impatiently. He said in a sharp tone, “What is the matter, why mustn’t I go up this road? Say quick, I’m in a big hurry.” “Don’t go, we beg you; you’ll never come back alive.” “Humph! is that so?” said this trooper (who had been near breaking a blood vessel in his impatience at being stopped, but cooled off a little, at this ominous remark)—“But what’s ahead? what’s the danger? The road seems quiet?” “Well, Sonny, that’s the danger. Haven’t you heard about it?” “Now, Sonny,” was a term of endearment, which from an “infant” always exasperated the feelings of a cavalryman to the last degree; turned the milk of kindness in a horseman’s breast into the sourest clabber; and it instantly stirred up this trooper. “Look here men, don’t fool with me. Tell me what is the danger up this road,” “Well! we thought we ought to let you know, before you expose yourself. General Hill has offered a reward of Five Dollars for a dead man with spurs on, and if you go up that lonesome road some of these here soldiers will shoot you to get the reward.” “Oh pshaw!” cried the disgusted victim, clapping spurs to his horse, and away he rode, leaving the grinning and delighted “infants” behind, and leaving, too, his opinion of them, and their joke, in language that needed no interpreter.

This sort of thing was going on, all the time. The infantry and artillery would do it. With many, particularly the artillery, who knew better, it was only joking, the soldier-instinct to stir up any passer-by. But with many, especially the infantry, who were not as much “up to snuff” as the artillery, these gibes at the cavalry expressed a serious, tho’ mistaken idea, they had of them. Upon the advance of the enemy, of course, we were accustomed to see cavalrymen hurrying in from the outposts to the rear, to report. So the thoughtless infantry, not considering that this was “part of the large and general plan,” got fixed in their minds an association between the two things,—the advance of the enemy, and, the rapid hurrying off to the rear of the cavalry, until they came to have the fixed idea, that the sight of the enemy always made a cavalryman “hungry for solitude.” They reasoned that, as a mounted man was much better fixed for running away than a footman, it was, by so much, natural that he should run away, and was, by so much, the more likely to do it.

Also, our orders to move and to go into battle were always brought by horsemen; so the horsemen were thought about as causing others to fight instead of doing it themselves. So, in short, it came to pass, that this innocent infantry had a dim sort of notion that the chief end of the cavalry was, in battle time, to run away and bring up other people to do the fighting, and in quiet time, to “range” for buttermilk and other delicacies, which the poor footmen never got. Hence the soubriquet of “buttermilk ranger” universally applied to the cavalry by the army.

But, I assure you, that all this was dispelled at once, and for good and all, at Spottsylvania. Here had these gallants gotten down off their horses. They hadn’t run anywhere at all; didn’t want anybody else to come, and fight for them. They had jumped into about five or six times their number of the flower of the Federal infantry. They met them front to front, and muzzle to muzzle. Of course they had to give back; but it was slowly, very slowly, and they made the enemy pay, in blood, for every step they gained. They had worried these Federals into a fever, and kept them fooling away nearly twenty-six hours of priceless time; and made Grant’s plan fail, and made General Lee’s plan succeed, and had secured the strong line for our defence.

It was a piece of regular, obstinate, bloody, “bulldog” work. We knew, well as we thought of ourselves, that not the staunchest brigade of our veteran “incomparable” infantry, or battery of our canister-shooting artillery, could have fought better, stood better, or achieved more, for the success of the campaign. We felt that General Lee,—that the whole army,—“owed the cavalry one,” “several,” in fact. The army, even the infantry, had come to know the cavalry, at last. Obstinacy, toughness, dogged refusal to be driven, was their test of manhood, and this test the cavalry had signally, and brilliantly met. Everybody was satisfied, the cavalry would do, they were “all right.” We couldn’t praise them enough, we were proud of them. The remark was even suffered to pass, as nothing to his discredit particularly, that our “Magnus Apollo,” General Lee, himself, had once been in the cavalry, and no one resented it now. We knew that it was when he was younger than now. We, of the “Howitzers,” knew very well what arm of the service, and what corps of that arm, the experienced old General would join, if he was enlisting in the Army of Northern Virginia, now, when he knew more than he did. Still! he had been a cavalryman; admit it!

And we all admired the cavalry; honored the cavalry; shouted for the cavalry, from that time! Occasionally, from force of habit, the infantry (the artillery never) would fall from grace at sight of a passing cavalry column, and let fall little attentions, that sounded very like the old-time compliments, but they were not meant that way. It was the soldier-instinct to salute pilgrims. Just as, on a village street, if a dog, of any degree, starts to run, every other dog in sight, or hearing, tears off after him in pursuit, and if he can catch up, instantly attacks him,—not that he has anything against the fugitive, but, simply, because he is running by. The act of running past makes him the enemy of his kind. So, I think, the Confederate infantry assailed, with jokes and gibes, anybody in motion by their camp, or column. They had nothing against him; they attacked him because he was passing by. “It was their nature to.” Of all living men, General Lee, alone, was sacred to them in this. The cavalry always had their full share, and never suffered for want of notice.

This account of the false idea that prevailed, the fun that came of it, and the way it was dispelled, is part of the history of the time. It went to make up the life in the Army of Northern Virginia; it lives in the recollection of that good old time. No record of that old time would be complete without it. So I make no apology for falling into it, in this informal reminiscence.

At one o’clock on Sunday, the 8th of May, we reached the top of the hill near Spottsylvania Court House and suddenly came upon Stuart’s cavalry massed in the yard and field around a farmhouse. They had finished their splendid fight, the van of the army was on the spot to relieve them. They had been withdrawn from confronting the enemy, and were now drawn up here, preparatory to starting off, to overtake Sheridan’s raid toward Richmond; which they did, and, at “Yellow Tavern,” two days after, many of them, the immortal Stuart at their head, died and saved Richmond.

Greetings on the Field of Battle

I have lingered at that farmhouse gate, at the top of the hill, in this story, very much longer than we did in reality. In fact we didn’t linger there at all. Didn’t have a chance! For, the moment we came in sight, at that gate leading into the farmhouse, an officer came dashing out from amongst the troops of cavalry, and galloped across the field toward us. The instant this horseman got out of the crowd, we recognized him. That long waving feather, the long auburn beard, that easy, graceful seat on the swift horse,—that was “J. E. B.” Stuart, and nobody else! He rode up to the foremost group of us, and pulled up his horse. With bright, pleasant, smiling face, he returned our hearty salute with a touch of his hat, and a cheerful, “Good morning, boys! glad to see you. What troops are these?” “Richmond Howitzers, Longstreet’s Corps.” “Good! anybody else along?” “Infantry close behind.” “Good! Well, boys, I’m very glad to see you. I’ve got a little job for you, right now, all waiting for you.” Just then the Captain rode up and saluted. “Captain,” said the General, saluting pleasantly, “Draw our guns through the gate and stop. I’ll want you in ten minutes.” And, away he galloped, back toward the cavalry. The guns pulled in through the gate and halted as they were, on the road leading to the house, close by the cavalry.

We seized this sudden chance to see our old friends among the troopers. In every direction our fellows might be seen darting in among the horses, in search of our friends. Loud and hearty were the shouts of greeting as we recognized, or were seen by, those we sought or unexpectedly lighted on. Brothers, met and embraced. Friends greeted friends. Old schoolmates, who had, three years ago, parted at the schoolroom, locked eager, and loving hands, and asked after others, and told what they could. It was a delightful and touching scene, that meeting there on the edge of a bloody field! they coming out, we going in. There were jokes, and laughs, and cheerful words, but, the hand-clasps were very tight, the sudden uprising of tender feelings, at the sight of faces, and the sound of voices, we had not seen nor heard for years, and that we might see and hear no more. The memories of home, or school, and boyhood, suddenly brought back, by the faces linked with them, made the tears come, and the words very kind, and the tones very gentle.

I had several pleasant encounters. Among others, this: I heard a familiar voice sing out, “William Dame, my dear boy, what on earth are you doing here?” I eagerly turned, and in the figure hasting toward me with outstretched hand,—as soon as I could read between the lines of mud on him,—I recognized my dear old teacher, Jesse Jones. I loved him like an older brother, and was delighted to meet him. I had parted from him, that sad day, three years ago, when our school scattered to the war. I had seen him last, the quiet gentleman, the thoughtful teacher, the pale student, the pink of neatness. Here I find him a dashing officer of the Third Virginia Cavalry, girt with saber and pistols, covered with mud from the crown of his head to the soles of his feet, and just resting from the bloody work of the last two days.

Just here, I had the great pleasure of falling in with my kinsman, and almost brother, Lieut. Robert Page, of the Third Virginia Cavalry, the older brother of my two comrades, and messmates, Carter and John Page. “Bob” was one of the “true blues” who had followed Stuart’s feather from the start, and was going to follow it to the bitter end. I remember how, at the very first, he rode off to the war, from his home, “Locust Grove,” in Cumberland County, Virginia, on his horse, “Goliath,” with his company, the Cumberland Troop. He had stuck to the front, been always up, and ever at his post, all the way through those three long, terrible years. He had deserved, and won his Lieutenancy, and commanded his regiment the last days of the war. He made an enviable record as a soldier for courage, faithfulness, and honor. None better! At Appomattox he was surrendered. And having been forced to cease making war on mankind with the saber, he mended his grip, and continued to make war, with a far deadlier weapon of destruction, the spatula.

All this was very pleasant, but it was very short. Time was up; ten minutes were out! We caught sight of General Stuart cantering across the field toward our guns, the bugle rang, and we tumbled out from amidst the cavalry, in short order, and took our posts around our respective guns.

“Jeb” Stuart Assigns “A Little Job”

Stuart was in front of the column of guns talking to Captain McCarthy; next moment we moved. That is, the “Left Section” moved, the two twelve-pounder brass “Napoleons,” the “Right Section” had two ten-pounder “Parrott” guns and stayed still. We did not rejoin them for several days. It was our “Napoleons” that moved off, we took note of that! Also, we took very scant gun detachments,—all our men, but just enough to work the guns, stayed behind,—we took note of that too! These two circumstances meant business to old artillerymen. We remarked as much, as we trotted beside the guns. “The little job” that General Stuart had alluded to, with his bland and seductive smile, and the merry twinkle of his eye, was, plainly, a very warm little job; however, away we went, “J. E. B.” Stuart riding in front of the guns, with the Captain,—apparently enjoying himself; we reserved our opinion as to the enjoyableness of the occasion, till we should see more and be better able to judge. Two guns of “Callaway’s” and two of “Carlton’s” Batteries of our Battalion,—which had come up while we were disporting with our cavalry friends, back there,—had pulled in behind our two.

The six guns followed the road which turned around the farmhouse, and ran on down toward the back of the farm. There were pine woods about, in different directions, the fields lying between. We saw nothing as yet, and wondered where we were going. We soon found out! About half a mile from the house, the farm road, which here ran along with pine woods on the left and a stretch of open field on the right, turned out toward the open ground. As we passed out from behind that point of woods, we saw “the elephant!” There, about six hundred yards from us were the Federals, seeming to cover the fields. There were lines of infantry, batteries, wagons, ambulances, ordnance trains massed all across the open ground. This was part of Warren’s Corps, which had been pushing for the Spottsylvania line. They thought they had left the “Army of Northern Virginia” back yonder at the “Wilderness,” and had nothing before them but cavalry, and they were halted, now, resting or eating, intending afterwards to advance, and occupy the line, which was back up behind us, where we had left the cavalry and our other guns. That line, so coveted, so important to them, that they had been marching, and fighting to gain, was not a mile off, in sight, in reach, secure now, as they thought. That thought was not only a delusion, it was a snare. They were never to reach it! and the “snare,” I will explain very soon.

As we thus suddenly came upon that sight, we stopped to look at the spectacle. It looked very blue, and I dare say, we looked a shade “blue” ourselves; for we could not see a Confederate anywhere, and we supposed we had no support whatever, though we were better off in this particular than we knew. And the idea of pitching into that host, with six unsupported guns, was not calming to the mind. Coming out from cover of the pines, back of a slight ridge that ran through the field, with a few sassafras bushes on it, we were not seen, and the Federals were in blissful ignorance of what was about to follow. We pulled diagonally across the field to a point, just back of the low ridge, and quietly went into position and unlimbered the guns. We pushed them, by hand, up so that the muzzles just looked clear over the ridge, which thus acted as a low work in our front, and proved a great protection. The field had been freshly plowed for corn, the wheels sunk into it, and the minute we tried to move the guns, by hand, with our small force, we saw what it was going to be, in action, with the sun blazing down.

When all was ready,—guns pointed, limber, and caisson chests opened,—General Stuart said, waving his hand toward that swarming field of Federals, “Boys, I want you to knock that all to pieces for me. So go to work.” And this was the last time we ever saw the superb hero. He rode, right from our guns, to his death at “Yellow Tavern” a day or two after. We have always remembered with the deepest interest, that the very last thing that glorious soldier, “J. E. B.” Stuart, did in the Army of Northern Virginia was to put our guns into position, and give us orders; which we obeyed, to his entire satisfaction, I know, if he had seen it.

The minute General Stuart had given his order, and turned to ride away, Captain McCarthy, sitting on his horse, where he sat during the whole fight, looking as cool as the sun would let him, and far more unconcerned than if he had been going to dinner, sung out, “Section —— commence firing.” It was ours, the Fourth gun’s turn to open the ball. We were all waiting around the guns for the word.

The group, as it stood, is before my mind as vividly as then. Dan McCarthy, Sergt. Ned Stine, acting gunner (vice Tony Dibrell absent, sick, for some time past, who came tearing back, still sick, the moment he heard we were on the warpath) Ben Lambert, No. 1; Joe Bowen, No. 2; Beau Barnes, No. 3; W. M. Dame, No. 4; Bill Hardy, No. 5; Charlie Pleasants, No. 6; Sam Vaden, No. 7; Watt Dibbrell, No. 8! The three drivers of the limber, six yards back of the gun, dismounted, and holding their horses. Ellis, the lead driver, had scooped out the loose dirt, with his hands, and lay down, on his back, in the shallow hole, holding the reins with his upstretched hands.

The third gun was just to our right, the cannoneers grouped around the guns, each man at his post. Travis Moncure, Sergeant, known and loved and honored among us as “Monkey,” always brave and true and smiling, even under fire, Harry Townsend, gunner; Cary Eggleston, No. 1; Pres Ellyson, No. 2; ———— Denman, No. 3; Charlie Kinsolving, No. 4; Charlie Harrington, No. 5; ————, No. 6; ————, No. 7; ————, No. 8; Captain McCarthy sitting his horse, just behind, and between the two guns. The other guns were a little to our left.

All was ready; guns loaded and pointed, carefully, every man at his post,—feeling right solemn too,—and a dead stillness reigned. The Captain’s steady voice rang out! As an echo to it, Dan McCarthy sung out “Fourth detachment commence firing, fire!” I gave the lanyard a jerk. A lurid spout of flame about ten feet long shot from the mouth of the old “Napoleon,” then, in the dead silence, a ringing, crashing roar, that sounded like the heavens were falling, and rolled a wrathful thunder far over the fields and echoing woods. Then became distinct, a savage, venomous scream, along the track of the shell. This grew fainter,—died on our ear! We eagerly watched! Suddenly, right over the heads of the enemy, a flash of fire, a puff of snow-white smoke, which hung like a little cloud! We gave a yell of delight; our shell had gone right into the midst of the Federals, and burst beautifully. The ball was open!

The instant our gun fired we could hear old Moncure sing out, “Third detachment, commence firing, fire!” and the Third piece rang out. The guns on the left joined in, lustily, and in a moment, those six guns were steadily roaring, and hurling a storm of shell upon the enemy.

And now the fun began, and soon “grew fast and furious.” Over in the Federal lines, taken by surprise, all was confusion, worse confounded. We could see men running wildly about, teamsters, jumping into the saddle, and frantically lashing their horses,—wagons, ambulances, ordnance carts, battery forges, tearing furiously, in every direction. Several vehicles upset, and many teams, maddened by the lash, and the confusion, and bursting shells, dashing away uncontrollable. We saw one wagon, flying like the wind, strike a stump, and thrown, team and all, a perfect wreck, on top of a low rail fence, crushing it down, and rolling over it.

This was the only time I ever saw a big army wagon, and team, thrown over a fence.

All that lively time they were having over among the enemy was very amusing to us; we were highly delighted, and enjoyed it very much. Laughter, and jocular remarks on the scene were heard all about, as we worked the gun, and we did our best to keep up the show.

Meanwhile, we were not deceived for a moment. Wild and furious as was the confusion, and running, over the way, we knew, well, it was the wagoners and “bomb-proof” people, who were doing the running, and stirring up the confusion. We knew they were not all running away. We had seen a good deal of artillery in that field, and we knew that we should soon hear from them. And we were not mistaken!

In a few minutes the sound of our guns was suddenly varied by a sharp, venomous screech, clap of thunder, right over our heads, followed by a ripping, tearing, splitting crash, that filled the air; a regular blood freezer. We knew that sound! It was a bursting Parrott shell from a Federal gun! And they had the range.

The enemy had run out about eighteen, or twenty guns, and they let in, mad as hornets. Another shell, and another, and another, came screaming over us. Then they began to swarm; the air seemed full of them,—bursting shells, jagged fragments, balls out of case-shot,—it sounded like a thousand devils, shrieking in the air all about us. Then, the roaring of our guns, the heavy smoke, the sulphurous smell, the shaking of the ground under the thunder of the guns,—it was a fit place for devils to shriek in.

And how hot it was! Twenty guns, in full fire, can make it hot at the foot of the North Pole, and this was not the North Pole! quite the reverse. In addition to the battle heat, the sun was pouring down, hot as blazes; and the labor of working a rapidly firing “Napoleon” gun, with four men, in deeply plowed ground, and the strong excitement of battle—altogether, it was the hottest place I ever saw, or hope I shall ever see, in this world, or in the world to come. It nearly melted the marrow in our bones!

A persimmon sapling stood near our gun. It was trimmed, and chipped down, twig by twig, and limb by limb, by pieces of shell, until it was a lot of scraps scattered over the ground. Sam Vaden, as he passed me, with a shell, said “Dame, just look back over this field behind us. A mosquito couldn’t fly across that field without getting hit.” It looked so! The dirt was being knocked up, wherever you looked, literally, by shower of balls, and shell fragments. It had the appearance of hail striking on the surface of water, only it wasn’t cold.

Well! for three mortal hours this battle raged. They hammered us, and we hammered them. Occasionally, we saw a Federal caisson blown up, which refreshed us, and several of their guns ceased firing—disabled or cannoneers cleared out, we thought—and this refreshed us. We wished they would all blow up, and stop shooting.

After we had been under fire sometime, with nobody hurt as yet, a case-shot burst in front of us, and Hardy, who had just brought up a shell, and was standing right by me, said, in his usual deliberate way, “Dame, I’m hit, and hit very hard, I am afraid.” “Where are you hit?” I asked. He said, “I’m shot through the thigh, and the leg is numbed.” I fired the gun, and jumped down to see what I could do for him. I found the place, and it looked ugly. There was a clean-cut hole right through his pants, to the thickest part of the thigh. I put my finger into the hole, and tore away the cloth to get at the wound, and found to my great, and his greater delight, that the ball had struck, and glanced. It had made a long black bruise and the pain was much greater than if it had gone through the leg. It had struck the great mass of muscle on the outer thigh, and the leg was, for the time, paralyzed and stiff as a poker. He was completely disabled. I said, “Bill, you must get right away from here.” “But I can’t walk a step.” “Well crawl off on your hands and your good foot, not a man could leave the gun, to help you, and go out to the side so as to get soonest from under fire.” So the poor fellow hobbled off, as best he could, all alone, amidst the laughter of the fellows at his novel locomotion. We could see the bullets knocking up the dirt all around him, as he went slowly “hopping the clods” across the plowed fields. But he got off all right. Shortly after Hardy was struck, Charley Pleasants, of Richmond No. ———, at the Third gun, was shot through the thigh. A long and tedious wound which kept him disabled some months. Bill Hardy was back to duty in a day or so. One of the horses, the off horse of the wheel team of our limber, was hit, also. A piece of shell went into his head, between the right eye and ear, cutting the brow band of the bridle. The old horse, a character in the Battery, didn’t seem to mind it; and he wore that piece of shell, in his head, until the end of the war.

And, strange as it seemed, these were all our casualties, under that hot fire; one man, seriously, and one slightly wounded and a horse slightly hurt.

Wounding of Robert Fulton Moore

No! I forgot! There was one other casualty,—Robert Fulton Moore was mortally wounded, in the hat brim. And this gave rise to a most amusing scene. Robert Fulton was a driver to the limber of the third gun. He was a large, soft, man, and was, by no means, characterized by soldierly bearing, or warlike sentiments. On the contrary, he was something of a “butt,” and was always desperately unhappy under fire. He could dodge lower off the back of a horse at sound of a shell, than any man living. His miraculous feats, in this performance, afforded much diversion, whenever the guns went under fire, to us all, except his Sergeant, Moncure, who was very much ashamed of it. Still, in a general, feeble sort of way Robert Fulton had managed to keep up without any flagrant act of flinching from his post. On this occasion he had stood up better than usual. He stood holding his horses, and we noticed, with pleasure, that he was behaving very well under fire. But, it seems, his courage was only “hanging by the eyelids” so to speak.

Presently a piece of shell came whizzing very close to his head. It cut away part of his hat brim, and alas! this was too much! Poor Robert Fulton went all to pieces, instantly. Completely demoralized, panic-stricken and frantic with terror, he dropped his reins, and struck out wildly. It seems, he had seen Ellis, our lead driver, scooping out the hole that has been referred to, and as this was the only hole of any kind in reach, he instinctively struck for it. Ellis was lying down in it, flat on his back, with his arms stretched upward, holding his horses. Robert Fulton rounded the limber, and threw himself down with all his weight, right upon, and completely covering up, Ellis, and stuck his face in the dirt over Ellis’ shoulder, effectually pinning him down. Ellis was a fiery, ugly-tempered fellow, but as brave as Julius Cæsar, and of all men in the battery he had the greatest contempt for Moore, and especially for his present conduct. Ellis, upon finding Moore on top of him, was in a perfect blaze of fury. The breath was nearly knocked out of him by Moore’s weight, and he was mashed into the narrow hole, and embarrassed by the reins of his horses. He tried to throw Moore off, and couldn’t. Then he broke loose! He yelled, and swore, and bit, and pulled Moore’s hair, and socked his spurs into him, with both feet. He would have broken a blood vessel if McCarthy, assisted by Moncure, who had come to look after his driver, had not pulled Moore off, and taken him back to his post.

Our attention was drawn to this scene by the noise. The terrific combat going on in that hole, the sight of Ellis’ legs and arms, tossing wildly in the air, Moore not moving a muscle, but lying still, on top, the dust kicked up by the fray,—it was more than flesh and blood could stand, even under such a fire, and we could hardly work the guns for laughing. After the fight, when Moore had time to look into his injuries, he found that Ellis had nearly skinned him with his spurs. Some days after, we heard Robert Fulton exhibiting his torn hat brim to some passing acquaintance from his own neighborhood, as a trophy of his prowess in this fight. No doubt he preserves it as a sacred relic yet.

A Useful Discovery

In this fight, necessity, the mother of invention, put us up to a device that served us well here, and that we made fullest use of, in every fight we had afterwards. When we had kept up that rapid fire, with a scant gun detachment, in plowed ground, and under a hot sun, for an hour, we were nearly exhausted. After Hardy was wounded, and left us, it was still worse. The hardest labor, and what took most time, was running up the guns from the recoil. We had stopped a moment to rest, and let the gun cool a little, and were discussing the difficulties, when the idea occurred to us. There was an old rail fence near by. Somebody said “let’s get some rails and chock the wheels to keep them from running back.” This struck us all as good, and in an instant we had piled up rails behind the wheels as high as the trail would allow. The effect was, that when the gun fired it simply jerked back against this rail pile, and rested in its place, and so we were saved all the time and labor of running up. We found that we could fire three or four times as rapidly, in this way. So that a chocked gun was equal to four in a fight. We found this simple device of immense service! We were told by the knowing ones that we ran the greatest possible danger. The ordnance people said that if a gun was not allowed to recoil it would certainly burst. But we didn’t mind! A device that saved so much labor, and enabled us to deliver such an extraordinarily effective fire on the battlefield, we were bound to try. We found it acted beautifully. We then knew the guns wouldn’t burst for we had tried it.

We used it afterward in every fight. The instant we were ordered into position, two or three cannoneers would rush off and get rails, or a log or two, to chock the guns. And on two or three very desperate emergencies, during this campaign, this device enabled us to render very important service. It made a battery equal to a battalion, and a good many other batteries took it up, and used it. I believe it added greatly to the effectiveness of our artillery in the close-range fighting of this campaign.

Well! even with this relief, the labor of working our guns in this furious and prolonged fight was fearful! At last the welcome order, “Section cease firing” was given. We limbered up, and drew the guns a short distance to the side, out of the line of fire, and utterly exhausted, we cannoneers, threw ourselves right down on the plowed ground beside the guns, and slept like the dead.

In the meantime, while we had been fighting out in that field, events were taking place near us, of which we, absorbed in the work before us and deafened by the roar of our guns, had taken little notice at the time. As had been described, there was a body of woods some distance off to our right, and another, to our left. When we went into position we had not seen any of our troops, and did not know of the presence of any, near us. We thought we were without support, but as I intimated some time back, we were better off than we knew.

Barksdale’s Mississippi Creeper

It seems, that before we came on the ground, Barksdale’s Mississippi Brigade, which had been marching behind us, had filed off the road, and while we were up on the hill with the cavalry, had quietly, and silently passed into that body of woods to our right, unseen by the enemy. Along the front edge of that wood ran an old rail fence, covered all over with the luxuriant vine known as “Virginia Creeper.” Wide open fields extending in front. Soon, the ground behind that fence was covered with another sort of “creeper,” not as good a “runner” as that on the fence, nor as “green,” but just as tough of fibre, and as hard to “hold on” when it had once fixed itself,—the “Mississippi Creeper.” Silently, as ghosts, the Brigade glided in behind that fence, and lay low, and waited. Right here, was where the Federals’ idea of quietly occupying the Spottsylvania line was going to prove a snare. They had not the dimmest suspicion that we were ahead of them, and between them and that line. They came on, with guileless confidence, and walked right into trouble. Presently, a line of battle with columns of troops behind came marching across the fields upon the concealed Mississippians. Nearer and nearer they came, unsuspecting any danger, till they got nearly up to the fence. One man had actually thrown his leg over the rail to mount. Suddenly! as lightning out of a clear sky, a blinding sheet of flame flashed into their very faces. Then, after one volley, swiftly came the dreadful, venomous roll of musketry, the Mississippians loading and firing “at will,” every man as fast as he could. It was just as if “the angel of death spread his wings to the blast and breathed in the face of the foe as he passed.”

That withering fire tore the ranks of that Division to pieces. It didn’t take those fellows half a second to decide what to do. With yells of dismay, they charged back, out of that hornet’s nest, as if the devil was after them. In headlong rout, they rushed wildly back across the fields, and disappeared in the woods beyond.

They left four hundred and two of their number in front of that fence, and before the fugitives got out of range, their General of Division, General Robinson, was seriously wounded.

Some of our men went out among the Federal wounded to do what they could for their relief. An officer of a Mississippi Regiment came upon a Federal Colonel who lay to all appearance mortally wounded, and gave him a drink of water, and did what else he could for his comfort. The Federal took out a fine gold watch, and said, “Here is a watch that I value very highly. You have been very kind to me, and I would like you to have it, as I am going to die. If I should get over this, and send to you for it you will let me have it, if not, I want you to keep it. But,” he said sadly, “my wound is mortal, I am obliged to die.” The Mississippian left him, and went back to his post, supposing him dead.

Many years after the war, the Mississippi officer was in Baltimore at Barnum’s Hotel. One day, he got into casual talk with a gentleman, at dinner, and, as he seemed to be a good fellow, they smoked their cigars together after dinner, and continued their conversation. By and by they got on the war. It came out, that both of them had served, and on opposite sides. Finally, in telling some particular incidents of his experience, the Federal soldier described this very fight, his being, as he thought mortally wounded, the kindness shown him by a Confederate officer, and his gift to him, of his watch. The Southern man said, “What is your name?” “Col. ————, of Robinson’s Division,” he replied. “Can you be the man? Have I struck you at last?” cried the ex-Confederate. “I’ve got your watch, and here it is, with your name engraved in it.”

Kershaw’s South Carolina “Rice Birds”

It was a singular incident, that these two should meet again so! The meeting was most cordial; the Federal was delighted to get his watch again, made doubly valuable by so strange a history.

While this bloody episode was enacting by the Mississippi Brigade, in the woods to our right, an almost exactly similar scene was going on, in the woods to our left. A portion of Kershaw’s South Carolina Brigade was unwittingly stumbled upon by “Griffin’s” Division in the pines. Another complete ambuscade! The South Carolinians suddenly sprang up before the Federals, let them have it, broke and routed them, and killed, and wounded eighty-seven of them. Our loss was one man. Things were so sudden, so close here, that one of Kershaw’s men killed a Federal soldier, and wounded another with an axe he happened to have in his hand.

These first efforts of “Warren’s” Corps that had gotten up near the Spottsylvania line, “just in time to be too late,” are thus described by Swinton, the admirable historian of the “Army of the Potomac.” (Swinton’s “Army of the Potomac,” p. 443):

“Finally,” he says, “the column (Warren’s) emerged from the woods into a clearing, two miles north of Spottsylvania Court House. Forming in line, Robinson’s Division advanced over the plain. Thus far, only Stuart’s dismounted troops had been encountered, and no other opposition was anticipated; but when half way across the field, and on the point of rising the crest, the troops were met by a savage musketry fire from infantry. Owing to their severe experience in the Wilderness, and the night march, without rest, the men were in an excited, and almost frightened, condition, and the tendency to stampede was so great that General Warren had been compelled to go in front of the leading Brigade. When, therefore, they received a fire in front, from the redoubtable foe they had left in the Wilderness, the line wavered, and fell back in some confusion. General Robinson was at the same time severely wounded, which left the troops without their commander at a critical moment, and they were with some difficulty rallied and reformed in the woods back of the open plain. Griffin’s Division, which advanced on the right of Robinson, soon afterward received the same fire with a like result.”

It seems then, that it was Robinson’s Division that the little Mississippi Brigade sent to the right about, and it was Griffin’s Division, who scared themselves nearly into fits, by flushing Kershaw’s “rice-birds,” in the pines. It was a little hard on these “excited and almost frightened” men of Warren’s. The memory of the fearful shaking up they had got, day before yesterday, was so fresh in their minds that “General Warren himself, the Corps Commander, had to go in front of the leading Brigade” to quiet their nerves, even when they thought they were advancing upon a few dismounted troops. They thought,—a little comfort in this,—that, at least, all those terrible fellows of the Army of Northern Virginia were far behind them. And—to meet them here, still, in front! It must be confessed it was hard! It was a very sad surprise.

It is said that General Grant’s strained relations with General Warren came of Warren’s conduct of this move, to seize the Spottsylvania line. He found great fault with his failure. But, perhaps he was a little hard on Warren. What could Warren do? His men were demoralized, “excited, almost frightened, tending to stampede, needing the Corps General to go in front,” and stopping to dine, instead of pushing on to seize the line. They had to meet men who were not particularly excited, were not at all frightened and had not the least tendency to stampede; in fact, were in the best of spirits, perfectly confident of victory, and did not need a corporal to go in front of them, gaunt, hungry, cool fellows, who never counted noses—in a fight!

It was too much to expect Warren, with men like his, to go anywhere, or take anything, when men like these others were in the way. Grant was too hard on Warren! If it took a Corps Commander, going in front, to encourage them along to advance upon a few troopers. I hardly think that Generals Grant and Meade, and President Lincoln, and Secretary Stanton, all together,—going in front, could have got them up, if they had known who was actually ahead.

However that may be, the object of our rapid all-night march, and of our venturesome stand, out here, in front of the Spottsylvania line, was accomplished! The stir up we gave them with that long artillery fire, and the savage and bloody repulses of two of their divisions made them more nervous than they were before. They spent some time considering who it could be in their front, and considering what to do. Later on, two more Divisions advanced, and our two Brigades and our guns retired.

Our work was done! While we had been out in front amusing the enemy, and keeping them easy, the Brigades of Longstreet’s Corps had been rapidly coming up, and taking position on the all-important line. We now had a sure enough line of battle holding it. And night was falling; the enemy out in front had stopped, and gone to intrenching, instead of pushing on. We knew that during that night our people, Ewell and Hill, would be up. All were safe! We slept the sleep of the weary. So ended the 8th of May. It was a pretty full day for us!

I don’t remember anything at all about the early morning of the next day, the 9th. We were dreadfully tired, and I suppose we slept late, and then lounged about, with nothing to do, yet, in a listless, stupid state. Everything was quiet around us, and nothing to attract attention, or fix it in mind. About mid-day, I recollect noticing bodies of troops, a regiment, a brigade, or two, moving about, here and there, in various directions. We heard that Ewell’s and Hill’s Corps had come up, and these troops we saw, were taking their way leisurely, along, to the various position on the line of battle.

In the afternoon, about four or five o’clock, our guns, the “Napoleon” Section, moved off to take our destined position on the line. We followed a farm road, off toward the left, and presently came down into quite a decided hollow, through which ran a little stream of water. Here we halted! The ground before us rose into a low short hill. Along the ridge of that hill ran the proposed line of battle, and there was the position for which we were making. There was quite a lively picket fire going on, in different directions, and right over the hill, behind which we were, an occasional shell could be heard screeching about, here and there. Several passed over us, high above our heads, and away to the rear. Federal Artillery lazily feeling about to provoke a reply, and find out where somebody was. They felt lonesome, perhaps! It was a calm, sweet sunlit May evening.

Feeling Pulses

In order not to expose us longer than necessary to this fire of the pickets, Lieutenant Anderson, commanding this “Section,” went up on the hill, to select exact position for the guns, so that they might be promptly placed, when we went up. While he was up there reconnoitering, we lay down on the ground, and waited, and talked. The bullets dropped over, near, and among us, now and then, and we knew, that the moment we went up a few steps, on the hill, we would be a mark for sharp-shooters, a particularly unpleasant situation for artillery. But we tried to forget all this, and be as happy and seem as careless as we could. And we would have gotten along very well if let alone. But, there was a dreadful, dirty, snuffy, spectacled old Irishman, named Robert Close, a driver, who took this interval to amuse himself. He would ask us “how we felt,” and he came around to most of us, young fellows, and asked us to let him feel our pulse, and see if we were at all excited, or scared; and he would put his hand on our hearts, to see if they were beating regularly enough. And he would call out the result of his investigation in each case,—the other fellows all sitting around, and eagerly waiting his report. Nobody can tell what a dreadful trial this simple thing was! When just going under fire—and indeed already under some fire—to have your heart and your pulse felt, and reported on to a waiting crowd of comrades! But, all of us youngsters had to undergo it! That cruel, old scoundrel went round to every one of the youngsters. It was an unspeakable humiliation for a cannoneer to be thus fingered by a driver, but what could we do? Not a thing!

We would have liked to knock the old rascal’s head off, but, not one of us would have dared to object to that pulse feeling, and we in turn meekly held out our wrists, and tried to look happy and amused—and made a dismal failure of it. Old Close was as brave, himself, as a lion. He had as soon go in a fight as not; a little sooner! When balls swarmed around, he didn’t care a bit. He was in a position to do this thing. But it was suffering to us. Each man waited, with anxious heart, for his turn to come, for old Close to “pass upon his condition.” Those whom he approved, were pleased to death, and those whom he didn’t, hated him from that time.

I honestly believe that old Irishman gave me the worst scare I had in that campaign, and I am sure that a compliment, on the field, from General Longstreet himself, would not have pleased me more, than that snuffy old fellow’s verdict, after feeling my pulse that I “would do all right.” It was quite a curious scene altogether!

Where the Fight Was Hottest

In a few minutes Lieutenant Anderson came down and ordered us forward. He told us “the sharp-shooters were making it a little warm” up there. When the guns got to the top of the rise, they must go at a trot to their positions, the sooner to get the horses from under fire. Twenty or thirty steps brought us to the top of the sharp little ascent. Here we found a few of our sharp-shooters exchanging compliments with the enemy, and the balls were knocking up the dirt, and whistling around. I was interested in watching one of our fellows. He was squatting down, holding his rifle ready. A Federal sharp-shooter, whom we could not see, was cracking at him. Three times a ball struck right by him, and came whizzing by us. He kept still, and patiently bided his time. Suddenly, he threw up his rifle and fired, and then exclaimed “Well! I got you anyhow.” The balls stopped coming. This man said that the concealed Federal sharp-shooter had been shooting at him for some time and he had been waiting for him. At last, catching sight of a head rising from behind a bush, he got his chance, as we saw, and dropped his man. Our guns were placed in their position, selected for them on the line, and the horses sent back to the rear.

Our position here was right on the infantry line of battle. That is, on that line the infantry afterwards took. For when we got on the spot, there was no infantry there,—nothing except the sharp-shooters, already referred to. The line was traced by a continuous pile of dirt thrown up, I don’t know by whom, before we got on the ground. I suppose the engineers had it done as a guide to the troops, in taking position.

The position our guns now took, grew to be very familiar ground to us, and remains very memorable. On this spot we stayed, and fought our part in the Spottsylvania battles. On this spot we saw many bloody sights, and witnessed many heroic scenes, and had many thrilling experiences. The incidents of those days spent there, in nearly all their details, are indelibly impressed on my memory, and are as fresh as if they happened yesterday.

We stood on a low ridge which rose gradually to the right. To the left, after running level for fifty yards, the ground fell rapidly away, until it sank down into the valley of a little brook, one hundred and fifty yards from us. Off to the left, in front, stretched a large body of woods. To the right, in front, stood a body of thick pines coming up to within two or three hundred yards of us, its edge running along to the right about that distance parallel with our line. Directly in front of us, the ground,—cleared fields about three or four hundred yards wide,—sloped gently away down to a stream, and beyond, sloped gently upward to the top of the hill, on which stood a farmhouse, and buildings. That hill was considerably higher than our position, and commanded it. That hill-top was about one-half to three-quarters of a mile from us.

All along our front, in the bottom, ran a little stream; the ground, on either side, in our immediate front, was swampy, and thickly covered with low swamp growth. That soft ground saved us a good many hard knocks we had plenty as it was! Behind us, our cleared ground ran back, very gently sloping, almost level, some thirty or forty yards, and then, the hill fell sharply down, some twenty yards to the little brook, which ran along the hollow! This sharp bank, facing away from the enemy, and this stream, protected by it, and so near us, proved a great comfort to us. It also was of great service as a covered way, by which troops and supplies (ammunition, while there, it did not seem to be considered necessary for us to have any other supplies) were able to approach the line. Once it proved of vital use as a cover behind which a broken Brigade was able to rally, and save the line.

Exactly back of us, forty yards off, and covering that steep bank at this one point, stood a body of large, tall trees,—pines and others,—occupying half an acre. And in that wood, under the bank, some of the fellows dug holes, and in them they built fires which, by one or another, were kept up all the time. At these fires,—quite effectually protected from shot and shell and bullets, though within forty yards of the line of battle, a fellow could cook anything he happened, by accident, to have, or slip back from the works, now and then, when not engaged at the guns, warm himself and stand up straight, and stretch his legs and back, without the imminent risk of being bored by a sharp-shooter; which makes a stretch unsatisfactory.

Just at the point where we were posted, the line left the ridge, and dipping a little, on the front face of the slope, ran along about parallel with the ridge. My gun, “Number Four,” stood exactly at the point where the line declined in front of the ridge, and so, was exactly in the infantry line. The “3d gun” was some ten yards to our left, on the ridge seven or eight yards back of the line, and could fire over it to the front. It had its own separate work.

It was about sunset when we got to our position. We unlimbered our guns, and ran them up close to the bank of dirt, about two feet high, which we found there, thinking that in case of a row, that would be some little protection. However, things seemed quiet. We couldn’t see any enemy from where we stood, didn’t know whether any force was near us. And after we placed our guns, we strolled around, and looked about us, and were disposing ourselves for a quiet night, and a good sleep, which we needed badly.

Just then somebody, I think it was Lieutenant Anderson, who had walked to the left, some distance, where he could see around the point of pine woods to our right, up on the hill, came back with some news very interesting to us, if not to our advantage. He said that, just beyond these woods up on the hill, not over five or six hundred yards from us, there was a lot of Federal artillery. He saw them plainly. They were in position. He counted twelve guns, and was sure there were others, farther around, which he could not see for the woods. At least six of those, in sight, he was certain were twenty-pounder Parrotts. These guns, he said, commanded our position, and while the enemy had not yet seen us, for the treetops between, they soon would; and anyhow, the moment we fired a shot, and disclosed our position, we would catch it. There were enough heavy guns bearing down on us to sweep us off the face of the earth, unless we were protected. If daylight found us unfortified we couldn’t stay there, so we had better go to throwing dirt.

Against Heavy Odds at “Fort Dodge”

Here was nice news! Our two Napoleons, right under the muzzles of twelve or more rifled cannon, and six twenty-pounder Parrotts, and with no works! This was pleasant advice to tired and sleepy men, who wanted to go to bed. But such were the facts, and as we never had left a position under fire, and had come to stay, and were certainly going to stay, we went to throwing dirt.

We went to work, to raise and thicken the little bank already there, in front of our gun, and to build a short “traverse” to the right, for protection from enfilade fire. We worked all night, six of us, and by morning we had a slight and rough artillery work, with an embrasure for the gun; the whole thing about four feet high, and two and one-half feet thick, at the top. It was the best that could be done by six, tired, and hungry fellows, all young boys, working with two picks and three shovels through a short night. Such as it was, we fought behind it, all through the Spottsylvania battles, and it stood some heavy battering. This gem of engineering skill,—by reason of the pretty constant courtesies we felt it polite to pay to the unceasing attentions of our friends, the enemy, for the next six days, in the shape of shells and bullets, we called “Fort Dodge.”

Just here, I take occasion to correct a very wrong impression about the field works, the “Army of Northern Virginia” fought behind, in this campaign. All the Federal writers who have written about these battles, speak of our works as “formidable earthworks,” “powerful fortifications,” “impregnable lines;” such works as no troops could be expected to take, and any troops could be expected to hold.

Now about the parts of the line distant from us, I couldn’t speak so certainly, though I am sure they were all very much the same, but about the works all along our part of the line I can speak with exactness and certainty. I saw them, I helped, with my own hands, to make them. I fought behind them. I was often on top of them, and both sides of them. I know all about them. I got a good deal of the mud off them on me,—(not for purposes of personal fortification, however).

Our “works” were, a single line of earth, about four feet high, and three to five feet thick. It had no ditch or obstructions in front. It was nothing more than a little heavier line of “rifle pits.” There was no physical difficulty in men walking right over that bank! I did it often myself, saw many others do it, and twice, saw a line of Federal troops walk over it, and then saw them walk back over it, with the greatest ease, at the rate of forty miles an hour; i. e., except those whom we had persuaded to stay with us, and those whom the angels were carrying to Abraham’s bosom, at a still swifter rate. Works they could go over like that couldn’t have been much obstacle! They couldn’t have made better time on a dead level.

“Sticky” Mud and Yet More “Sticky” Men

Such were our works actually! And still, they seemed to “loom largely” to the people in front. I wonder what could have given them such an exaggerated idea of the strength of those modest little works? I wonder if it could have been the men behind them? There were not a great many of these men. It was a very thin gray line along there, back of a thin, red line of clay. But these lines stuck together very hard, and were very hard indeed to separate. The red clay was “sticky” and the men were just as “sticky.” And, as the two lines stuck together so closely, it made the whole very strong indeed. Certainly, it seems they gave to those who tried to force them apart, an impression of great strength!

Yes, it must have been the men. A story in point, comes to my aid here. A handsome, well-dressed lady sweeps with a great air, past two street boys. They are much struck. “My eye, Jim, but ain’t that a stunning dress?” Says Jim, with a superior air, “Oh get out, Bill, the dress ain’t no great shakes; it’s the woman in it that makes it so ‘killing.’” That was the way with our Spottsylvania earthworks. The works “wa’n’t no great shakes.” It was the men in ’em, that made them so “killing.”

The men behind those works, such as they were, had perfect confidence in their own ability to hold them. And this happy combination of “faith” and “works” proved as strong against the world and the flesh, here, as it does against the devil. It was perfectly effectual! It withstood all assaults!

This day, May 10th, to whose dawn we have now come, broke dark, and lowering, very typical of the heavy cloud of war that was impending, and soon burst upon us, in a fierce tempest, that was going to thunder, and howl, and beat upon us, all day, and for days to come. This day was to be an eventful, and memorable day to us,—crowded full of incident.

Some time during the night, while we were working like beavers on “Fort Dodge,” infantry had come in, on the line. Soon as they got there they set in to do what we were doing, to raise, and thicken the line against the coming of day, and the equally certain coming of battle. When the day came they also, were ready.

Gregg’s Texans to the Front

We had been too busy to think about them, at the time, but when we had gotten done,—and had a little time to look about us, and day had broken, and the fighting time, as we knew, was drawing near,—we took an interest in that infantry. Artillerymen are always concerned in their “supports,” in a fight, and we wanted to know who these fellows were, on whom we had to depend, as battle comrades, in the approaching struggle. Our minds were quickly made perfectly easy on that score. We found we had alongside of us “Gregg’s” Texas Brigade,—the gallant, dashing, stubborn fellows who had, as they jocularly said, “put General Lee under arrest and sent him to the rear,” and then, had so brilliantly, and effectually, stopped Hancock’s assault on Hill’s right, at the Wilderness. Better fellows to have at your back, in a fight, couldn’t be found! We knew that part of the line was safe! We mingled together, and chatted, and got acquainted, and swapped yarns about our several adventures. We told them how particularly glad we were to have them there, and our personal relations soon grew as cordial as possible.

Our service together on this spot, and our esteem of one another’s conduct in battle, made the Texans and the “Howitzers” ardent mutual admirers, and fast friends, to the end. Never afterwards did we pass each other, during the campaign, without hearty cheers, each, for the other, and friendly greetings and complimentary references to the “Spottsylvania lines.” Gregg’s Texans! Noble fellows! Better soldiers never trod a battlefield. I saw them fight; I saw their mettle tried, as by fire. They live in my memory as “the bravest of the brave.” I hope Texas is growing more like them!

Breakfastless, But “Ready for Customers”

Having got our Fort in shape, and refreshed ourselves a little with a wash, at the stream back of us, and thinking how nice some breakfast would be, if we had it, (which we didn’t, not a crumb!) we got ready for the business of the day. We sloped the ground downward to the works, so that the guns would run easily; placed the gun, and saw that it could poke its muzzle well over the dirt, and look around comfortably in every direction; got some rails, and chocked her tight, so that she couldn’t run back. Then we got a lot of cartridges, and piled them down safely behind the works, and in front of the guns, so that we could do very rapid firing. Lieutenant Anderson called attention to the fact of these pine woods, in front, which came up to within two or three hundred yards, and that the enemy could get up very near us, under cover, before they started to charge, and we would have to put in our work while they were charging across the narrow open ground. “So,” he said, “Have plenty of ‘canister’ by your guns. Break loose some canisters from the powder, so you can double-shot; you’ll need it.” We cannoneers had already thought of this; the edge of that wood was in canister range, and we had put little else but this short range missile in our pile; only a few case-shots to make it lively for them in the woods before they came out, and to follow them into the woods, when they were broken, and keep them going. We were now all ready and waited for customers. They soon came!

It was still early in the morning, about five or six o’clock, and, as yet, all was quiet in our front; we hadn’t even seen a Federal soldier. Suddenly! out of the woods to our right, just about five hundred yards in front, appeared the heads of three heavy blue columns, about fifty yards apart, marching across the open field toward our left. Here was impudence! Infantry trying to cross our front! That’s the way it seemed to strike our fellows. I don’t know whether they knew our guns were there, but we took it for an insult, and it was with a great deal of personal feeling, we instantly jumped to our guns and loaded with case-shot. Lieutenant Anderson said, “Wait till they get half way across the field. You’ll have more chance at them before they can get back into those woods.” We waited, and soon they were stretched out to the middle of the field. It was a beautiful mark! Three, heavy well closed up columns, fifty yards apart, on ground gently sloped upward from us, lovely for ricochet shots,—with their flanks to us, and in easy range. Dan McCarthy went up to Ned Stine, our acting gunner, who was very deaf, and yelled in his ear, loud enough for the Federals to hear, “Ned, aim at the nearest column, the ricochet pieces of shell will strike the columns beyond.” “All right,” he bawled back, with his head on one side, “sighting” the gun. “I’ve got sight on that column, now. Ain’t it time to shoot?” This instant Anderson sung out, “Section commence firing! and get in as many shots as you can before they get away.” “Yes,” shouted Dan, “Fire!” “Eh?” said Ned, putting his hand up to his ear, “What did you say?” “I said Fire! you deaf old fool—Fire!” the last, in a tone calculated for a mile and a half. This fetched him. Ned threw up his hands (the gunner’s signal to fire) and we let drive. All Ned wanted was a start, he was only slow in hearing. He jumped in now, and we kept that gun blazing almost continuously. It was the first time Stine had acted gunner, and he did splendidly here, and until Dibbrell, our gunner, got back.

Our first shot struck right in the nearest column, and burst, and we instantly saw a line opened through all three columns, and a great deal of confusion. The shot from the “Third Piece” struck at another point, and burst, just right for effect. I am sure not a single shot missed in that crowd, and we drove them in just as fast as we could. The columns were pretty badly broken, and in two minutes, they were rapidly crossing back into that woods, out of which they had come, and disappeared. The Texans were greatly pleased with this performance. Having nothing to do, as the enemy was out of effective rifle range, they stood around, and watched us work the guns, and noticed, with keen interest, the effect of our shots upon the blue columns, and they made the welkin ring, when the Federals turned to retire.

Parrott’s Reply to Napoleon’s Twenty to Two

In a minute or two we received notice of our work from another quarter. That artillery, up there on the hill, beyond the woods, woke up. They got mad at our treatment of their infantry friends, furiously mad. “Boom” went a loud report, over the way, and, the same instant, a savage shriek right over our heads, of a twenty pounder Parrott shell. Another followed, another, and another. They began to rain over. We could detect the sound of different shells, three inch rifle, ten pounder Parrott, and twenty pounder Parrott.

Some fifteen or twenty guns joined in, and they hammered away most savagely. Most fortunately the treetops of that wood, out in our front, came up just high enough to conceal us from the enemy. They could see our smoke, and knew just about our position, but they could not exactly see us, and correct their aim by the smoke of their shells. So they could not get the exact range. And that makes a great difference, in artillery firing, as it does in a great many other things. To know just about and to know exactly, are two very different things in effect, and in satisfaction to the worker. If those people could have seen our two guns, I suppose they could have smashed them both, and killed, or wounded every man of us, and their columns could have moved across our front, in peace, and accomplished this movement they were trying to get across them for, and about which they seemed very anxious. As it was, neither man, nor gun, of ours, was touched, though it was hot as pepper all around there; and our guns stuck there a thorn in their sides, and broke up that movement altogether.

It seems that those columns were a part of Warren’s Corps, and were trying to push into an interval between our Corps, and A. P. Hill’s Corps, which, under command of General Jubal Early (Hill being very sick) began just on our left, our position being on the left of Longstreet’s line, near its junction with Hill’s. This infantry was pushing across our front to get into that gap, and make it hot for “Old Jubal” over there in the woods. But, in order to get to that gap, they were forced to pass close to us, and across that open field.

Now, at once, to insult us, and to hurt our friends, was a move that we didn’t at all approve, and were not going to stand. And as soon as we discovered the meaning of this move, we were very earnest to stop it.

Well! we had stopped it once, and driven back the Federal columns of attack. It remained to see what they were going to do about it. The Federal artillery thundered at us through the trees. We quietly sat and waited to see.

In about half an hour, (I suppose they thought we were pulverized by the fire their guns had been pouring upon us,) we saw those three infantry columns pouring out of the woods again, at a quick step. We manned the guns, and waited as before, till they reached the middle of the field. Then we began to plow up the columns with shrapnel. This time some of our infantry tried and found it in range for their muskets and they adjusted their rifle sights and took careful aim, with a rest on the top of the works. Soon, the columns faltered, then stopped, then broke, and made good time back to their woods. We could see their officers trying to rally them, but they refused to hear “the voice of the charmer.” Soon they disappeared!

Then the artillery began to pour in their shells on us more furiously than ever! The air around us was kept in a blaze, and a roar of bursting shells, and the ground, all about, was furrowed and torn. We quietly sat behind our works, and interchanged our individual observations on what had just taken place, and waited for further developments.

The two rifled pieces of our Battery, and the other rifled guns of our Battalion, “Cabells,” had been laced in position, on a hill half a mile back of, and higher, than the low hill on which we were. The plan was for these long range guns to fire over our heads, at the enemy. We suspected that when that Federal infantry next tried to pass us, they would try to make a rush. So Lieutenant Anderson sent back to the other guns, calling attention to this probability, and suggesting that they should be on the lookout, and reinforce our fire, and try, also, to divert the Federal artillery, a little. We thought that with eight or ten rifled guns, added to the fire of ours, and what the infantry could do, we could sicken that Federal infantry of the effort to get by.

Presently we noticed the fire of the Federal guns increase in violence to a marked degree. At this savage outburst, Lieutenant Anderson said, “Boys, get to your guns, that infantry will try to get across under cover of this.” We sprang to the guns, and sure enough, in a minute, those blue columns burst out of the woods at a double quick. “Open on them at once men. We can’t let them get a start this time,” shouted Anderson. Both guns instantly began to drive at the head of their columns.

The sound of our guns started our rifle guns on the hill behind. They opened furiously, and we could hear their shells screeching over our heads, on into this enemy’s columns. We did our best, and the Texans did what musket fire they could. The enemy still advanced at a run, but this storm was too much for them. Their columns were torn to pieces, were thrown into hopeless confusion. They had, by this time, gotten half way or more across the field, and they made a gallant effort to keep on, but torn and storm-beaten as they were, they could not stand. The crowd broke and parted. A few ran on across to the farther woods, and were captured by Hill’s men. The rest, routed and scattered, ran madly back to the cover they had left. This gave them enough! They gave up the attempt, and tried it no more.

We thought that Hill’s Corps “owed us one” for this job. We certainly saved them a lot of trouble by thus protecting their flank. They had to stand a heavy assault by Hancock’s Corps, and had very hot work as it was. If these strong columns, that we were taking care of, had gotten into that gap, and taken them at disadvantage, they would have had a hard time, to say the least. Our work left them to deal with Hancock’s Corps alone, which they did to their credit, and with entire success, as will appear.

That little scheme of our long-range guns on the hill behind, firing over our heads at the enemy acted very well, for a while. It came to have its very decided inconvenience to us, as well as to the enemy. When the Federal infantry had retired, those guns turned their fire on the Federal artillery which was hammering us. They meant to divert their attention, and do us a good turn. They had better have left us to “the ills we had.” Their line of fire, at that artillery, was exactly over our position. Very soon their shells got tired travelling over, and began to stop with us. Our Confederate shells were often very badly made, the weight in the conical shells not well balanced. And so, very often, instead of going quietly, point foremost, like decent shells, where they were aimed, they would get to tumbling, that is, going end over end, or “swappin’ ends” as the Tar Heels used to describe it, and then, there was no telling where they would go, except that they would certainly go wrong. And, they went very wrong, indeed, on this occasion, in our opinion.

The sound of a tumbling Parrott shell in full flight, is the most horrible noise that ever was heard!—a wild, venomous, fiendish scream, that makes every fellow, in half a mile of it, feel that it is looking for him particularly, and certain that it’s going to get him. I believe it would have made Julius Cæsar, himself, “go for a tree,” or want to, anyhow!

Well! these blood-curdlers came crashing into us, from the rear, knocking up clouds of dirt, digging great holes, bursting, and raining fragments around us in the field. We were not firing, and had leisure to realize the fix we were in. With the enemy hotly shelling us from the front, and our friends from the rear, obliged to stay by our guns, expecting an infantry assault every minute, we certainly were in a pretty tight fix, “’Tween the devil and the deep sea.”

It was the only time I ever saw Lieutenant Anderson excited under fire, but he was excited now, and mad too. He said to one of the fellows, “Go back under the hill, get on a horse, ride as hard as you can, and tell those men on the hill, what confounded work they are doing, and if they fire any more shells, here, I will open on them immediately.” In a few minutes it was stopped, with many regrets on the part of our friends.

The Narrow Escape of an Entire Company

In the midst of all this, an incident took place that created a great deal of amusement. Along the line, just back of and somewhat protected by the works, the Texans had pitched several of the little “shelter tents” we used to capture from the enemy, and found such a convenience. One of these stood apart. It had a piece of cloth, buttoned on the back, and closing that end up to about eighteen inches from the top, leaving thus, a triangular hole just under the ridge pole. In this little tent sat four men, a captain and three privates, all that were left of a Company in this Texan Brigade. These fellows were playing “Seven-up” and, despite the confusion around, were having a good time. Suddenly, one of the shells from the hill behind, struck, tumbled over once or twice, and stopped, right in the mouth of that tent, the fuse still burning. The game stopped! The players were up, instantly. The next moment, one fellow came diving headforemost out of that triangular hole at the back, followed fast by the other three—the captain last. It only took “one time and one motion” to get out of that. Soon as they could pick themselves up, they, all four, jumped behind a tree that stood there; and then, the fuse went out, and the shell didn’t burst. Everybody had seen the shell fall, and were horror stricken at the apparently certain fate of those four men. Now, the absurdity of the scene struck us all, and there were shouts of laughter at their expense. Despite their sudden, hasty retreat through that narrow hole everyone of the scamps had held on to his “hand,” and they promptly kicked the shell aside, crawled into the tent again, and continued their little game; interrupted, however, by jokes from all sides. It was very funny! The smoking shell, in front, and those fellows shooting through that hole at the back, and alighting all in a heap, and then the scramble for that tree. As the shell went out, it was a roaring farce. If it hadn’t, it would have been a tragedy. The Captain said that these three men were his whole company, and when that lighted shell struck, he thought that his company was “gone up” for good and all.

Such was about the size to which some of the companies of this Texan Brigade was reduced.

Well! after we got rid of those shells from the rear we didn’t so much mind the artillery fire from the front, which kept up more or less through the morning.

What with the wet, cheerless weather, and the mental discomfort of staying in a place where they were “shooting cannons” at us, and other kind of shooting might soon be expected, two of our men got sick, and went back to the position of our guns on the hill in the rear. The Captain appealed to them to go back, but their health was bad, and they didn’t think the place where we were, a health resort. So Captain McCarthy called for volunteers to take their places, and instantly John W. Page, and George B. Harrison, of the First Detachment, offered, and came over to us.

Successive Attacks by Federal Infantry

Up to this time we had seen no infantry since their columns had tried to cross our front. No attack had been made on us and all seemed quiet out in front, except that artillery. But, out of our sight, over behind the woods, the enemy was conspiring to break up our quiet in the most decided manner. About ten o’clock we suddenly caught sight of a confused appearance down through the woods on our right front. It quickly defined itself as a line of battle, rapidly advancing. Our pickets fired upon it, then ran back over the works into our line. The Texans sprang into rank, we jumped to our guns, and sent a case-shot tearing down through the woods. Next instant, the Federal line dashed, cheering, out of the edge of the woods, and came charging at us. As they dashed out, they were met by a furious storm of bullets, and cannister, which at two hundred yards tore their ranks. They got about a hundred yards under that fire, then began to falter, then stopped, tried to stand for a moment, then with their battle line shot all to pieces, they turned and broke for the woods in headlong rout. We did our best to help them along, shooting at them with case-shot as long as we could catch any glimpse of them, moving back through the trees. Then that Federal artillery got savage again. We lay low and waited for some more infantry.

Very soon, here they came again! another line charging on, only to meet the same fate; shattered lines, hapless disorder, bloody repulse, and rapid retreat. Several times they tried to reach our lines, and every time failed, then gave it up for the time.

These various assaults took up the time, I should say from ten-thirty to twelve o’clock. When they were over, the field, and wood in front of us displayed a most dreadful scene. The field was thickly strewn with the dead, and wounded. And just along the edge of the wood, where the advancing lines generally first met our full fire, in the several assaults, the dead lay so thick and in such regular order, that it looked to us like a line of battle, lying down. And the poor wounded fellows lying thickly about! It was frightful to see and to hear them. It was a bloody business, their oft-repeated effort to take our line. Their loss was very severe, ours was almost nothing. The Texan Brigade in all their assaults had several wounded, none killed; at our guns not a man was hurt.

One thing that struck me in that fighting was the utter coolness of the Texan infantry. I watched the soldier next to my gun, and can never forget his bearing. The whizzing bullets, the heavy storming columns pouring upon us, the yells and cries of the combatants were enough to excite anybody, but this fellow was just as easy and deliberate as if he had been shooting at a mark. He would drop the butt of his musket on the ground and ram down a cartridge, raise the piece to his hip, put on a cap, cock the hammer, and then, slowly draw the gun up to his eye, and shoot. I really don’t think that Texan fired a shot that day until the sight on his gun covered a Federal soldier, and I think it likely he hit a man every time he shot. It was this sort of shooting that made the carnage in front so terrible.