An interval of time, a march through mud and water almost waist deep, brought us to Fair Oaks, within sight of Richmond. Heavy rains had made it almost impossible to ford the Chickahominy River which divided McClellan’s army. Seeing an advantage in this, General Lee ordered General Longstreet to attack the part of our army that had succeeded in crossing the river. General Casey’s division received the brunt of this attack. General Kearny’s division was held in reserve to support General Casey. We ate our dinner and then lay on our arms for some little time, just out of range, tracing the course of the action by listening to the firing and watching the increasing number of wounded making their way to the rear. To be thus held in reserve, expecting every moment to be called into action, is the supreme trial of a soldier’s courage. In those moments my heart became faint. But, when the bugle call was sounded calling us into action, all thought of self vanished. As eager as an eagle in pursuit of its prey, we went forward. Longstreet’s division was making a final charge. Casey’s men passed through our ranks as we formed a line between the contending forces. My Company had the regimental colors, defended by a detailed color guard of sixteen corporals. I was not of this guard, but was a corporal then, on the left of my Company next to the color guard. Our line was hardly formed when we received the Confederate charge. Firing was at short range. Fourteen out of the sixteen corporals composing the color guard were shot almost simultaneously; some killed; some wounded, but the colors did not fall.
I was on my knees in the front rank. The corporal on my left was shot in the head and fell across my legs. He spoke to me. I turned to look at him, and said—“I cannot stop work now to help you.” As I said this I was shot, the bullet entering squarely on my breast, cutting off the first shirt button below the collar. It passed through the bone, which turned its course to the right, and passed out between the ribs. I was in the act of loading my gun at its muzzle. I had the powder in. When hit my right arm fell. I tried three times to put the bullet in and finish loading, hoping to give the enemy one more shot. Finding I could not do it, I dropped my gun, unstrapped my cartridge box and crawled to the rear until I came to a cleared field where a battery was stationed firing over the heads of our men into the Confederate ranks. As I raised up to walk, a gunner motioned to me to step aside out of range and then continued firing. I walked around back of the battery and stopped to see it work and listen to the music of its roar.
The Confederate charge was stopped. My regiment lost about one hundred and fifty men in killed and wounded within the few moments the engagement lasted.
That night I lay on the ground under a large tree. Noting that every breath sent bubbles of air through my wound, I called a soldier who was trying to care for the wounded and told him I could not live long on half-rations of air. He looked at my wound, tore some square pieces off a bandage roll, placed them over the wound and punched them into it with his finger and poured some cold water on the cloth. This caused the blood to congeal about the cloth and enable me to get the benefit of the air I was breathing.
The next morning I was taken back to Savage Station where I was placed on Dr. Bliss’ dressing table (he was then Medical Director of the Division) to have my wound dressed. As he cut my shirt off I looked up at him and said, laughingly, “Doctor here is a wound you cannot amputate.” As soon as he had uncovered it, he said, “It would be much better for you, my boy, if I could.”
When my shirt was cut off, I discovered another wound on my left arm about half way between the shoulder and elbow. The bullet had chipped off a spot as large as a silver dollar but had not buried itself in the flesh. The arm was black and very much swollen. My wounds were soon bandaged and I was laid on the ground beside the railroad track to await transportation to Fortress Monroe. From there I was sent to Long Island College Hospital in Brooklyn, N. Y. When convalescent I was ordered to the Invalid Camp at Alexandria, Va. I did not relish the idea of becoming a “condemned yankee” as the members of Invalid Corps were then called. In going through Washington we passed by the Armory Square Hospital, then in charge of Dr. Bliss. I “fell out” and went into his office. Fortunately I found him at his desk. When he looked at me he recognized me at once and said, “See here, young man, this will never do. You will ruin my reputation. I reported you mortally wounded at Fair Oaks and have had you dead and buried in the Chickahominy swamp for six months.” I said, “I will improve your reputation by giving you an opportunity to resurrect me.” I then told him I did not want to be a “condemned yankee” and wanted him to find a way to save me from going to the Invalid Camp. He immediately called the hospital steward, ordered him to put me in bed and keep me there four days, I protested, saying I was perfectly able to be about. The Doctor said to me in an undertone, “You stay in bed four days; by that time I will have an order assigning you to duty in my office.”
I was given charge of making out the papers for the soldiers discharged from the Hospital. I frequently urged the Doctor to order me to my regiment, but he refused, saying I could never serve as an enlisted man since receiving my wound. Being convinced there was no hope of ever being permitted to join my regiment, I made out my own discharge paper and placed it in a package I submitted to the Doctor for his signature. After he had signed all of the papers, I took mine out of the package and showed it to him. He endorsed it, “Able to serve as an officer, but not as an enlisted man.”
I will stop my story here, only adding that after returning home I re-enlisted as a private in Company B. 21st Michigan Infantry, then with the Army of the Cumberland at Chattanooga. I was commissioned as a Second Lieutenant before I left the State to join that regiment. By chance, that commission was dated on January 26, 1864, my twenty-second birthday.
Such memories as these are among the most precious products of my life.
The gains of life are various. Some objects we pursue disappear as we grasp them. We are children, chasing with excited delight beautiful bubbles floating free in air. We touch them and they vanish. Some objects are as enduring as the eternal truth of God. We pursue them with the stern courage of men upborne by the strength of a moral conviction. Though, in the hour of trial and triumph, a crown of thorns be pressed upon our brow, the memory of a right act, courageously done, will enrich the soul forever.