As I have suggested, the foregoing quotation is a somewhat florid account of desperate, prolonged fighting.
The following account of the 61st’s fight at Glendale is taken from the Portland Daily Press. It is the narration of a leading actor in the battle, and was given at the annual meeting of the Maine Commandery of the Loyal Legion held at Riverton, May 3d, 1899.
“This paper will deal chiefly with my personal experiences as subaltern and Captain in the Sixty-first N. Y. Volunteers during the first and last days of June, 1862, in the Peninsular Campaign, Virginia.
“Omitting the narrative of the regiment’s participation in the battles of Fair Oaks, Peach Orchard, Savage Station and White Oak Swamp, we come to the battle in which the writer received the wound which crippled him for life.
“As we drew near to the battlefield of Glendale, we came to a place which tried the courage of us all. I shall never forget that scene. The road ran through an open field which was dotted here and there with dead and wounded men. There were all the grim tokens of the rear of a desperate battle, straggling men, cannon without horses and with broken carriages, battle smoke in the air, and the sound of a gun which was out of sight in front accompanied by the howl of grape shot. We halted here a few moments to give the stragglers time to come up, and to give all a chance to breathe after our exhausting march. Besides the men that were lying around us wounded, others were coming out of the woods in front limping and bleeding. They greeted us with such cheering assurances as “You’ll get enough in there,” “Better throw away them knapsacks, you won’t want ’em in there.”
“Before us there was a dark forest of great hemlocks, and I can see yet the lurid light of the setting sun through the trees and the powder smoke; and I remember that the question came into my mind, “I wonder if I shall ever see another setting sun.” I did not, of course, give any outward sign of such thoughts. I had enough to do to inspire my men with courage, telling them we must sell our lives at a high price. But I have heard some of the regiment, who went through many subsequent battles, say that that was the dismalest battle they ever saw.
“Down into the narrow road, through the dark hemlocks we passed. It was full of powder smoke, which with the dark foilage, shut out most of the daylight that remained. There was a solitary gun away off on our right, whose occasional boom sounded like a knell.
“We came out of the woods on the right side of a clear field where a portion of the afternoon battle had raged, and lay down by the side of the road, conscious that we were in a ticklish place. There was occasional firing over us into the field, and once in a while a bullet dropped near us. But this soon ceased and the battlefield, as a whole, was quiet, and I began to hope that the battle was over. But our colonel was of another mind. He had reported for orders to Gen. Robinson of Kearney’s division. The twilight was deepening and the stars were out, when the order came, “Get up men, Steady Now, Forward, March!” Every man sprang to his feet. Quickly we were over the fence with bayonets at a charge, and when we were well in the field the regiment made a half right wheel towards a piece of woods on the other side. I was neither depressed nor elated, but it was a relief to be in motion with my company. I was simply in the line of duty, responsible for myself and my company. I remember how finely the regiment marched across that field through the shadows and the smoke to unknown horrors beyond. We advanced to within two or three rods of the woods and lay down. It was too dark by this time for us to see whether the woods were occupied or not, but after a brief interval we learned all about it. While we were all on the qui vive, wondering what would come next, a voice broke forth from the woods clear and distinct, “What regiment is that?” Every heart stood still. Who would answer? And what would he say? To my astonishment and dismay one of our men piped out, “Sixty-first New York.” Then came the blustering reply, “Lay down your arms, or I’ll blow you all to hell.” Instantly we were on our feet, and by the time the orator in the woods had finished speaking his little piece our men had poured in a volley before they were ready for us. This must have seriously damaged them, for their return volley was lighter than I expected. There was nothing for us to do however, but to fall back a few rods, loading and firing. We soon halted however, and settled down to the grim game of give and take in the growing darkness. The flashes of their muskets were all that our men had to guide their aim. It was dismal business. Our line grew thinner, and I noticed that my company was melting away before me. Anxious to hurt somebody I drew my revolver and emptied one barrel into the woods, but then considered that I might want the rest for closer work before we got through, and put it up again. Soon I felt a smarting pain in my left knee and sat down a few paces apart to see what made it. Finding it only a buckshot I hastened back to my company, but it took that buckshot wound six weeks to heal. It seems to me now as if I had not been back with my company more than a minute when crash came a blow on my right leg, just above the knee, like the blow of a huge club. There was no mistaking that. I dropped because I had to, and I lay flat on my back so as to avoid other bullets, and waited for further developments. Those were solemn moments for me, and yet not so terrible as one might suppose. They were not at all dreadful. I was just waiting to see if I was going to die from loss of blood, not knowing but an artery was severed. I distinctly remember thinking that I would hardly turn my hand over for the choice, whether to rise presently to a new heavenly home, or to struggle back through unknown sufferings to my old earthly home. But after a few moments the instinctive desire to live in the body prevailed. I saw that I was not going to bleed to death, so I called a couple of men to carry me back to the road away from the firing line. In doing this, one of them put his arms under my knees, and the pain in the wound soon became so frightful that I begged them to lay me down and let me die. They carried me to the road however, a short distance, and there left me.
“So there I lay on my back, looking up to the quiet stars and listening to the combat which was still going on. This is a narrative of personal experiences and feelings, designed for family use, and so it is in order for me to tell how I felt as I lay there. It might be expected that I should say that I was longing to be back in the fight impatient to be leading my brave men up to the muzzles of the enemy’s muskets. But if I were to say so I would lie. As I lay there, I was not all smitten by a fit of the heroics nor anything of that kind. I was tired, almost exhausted by the exertion and excitement of the day, two days in fact. And it felt fine to just lie still there and rest. As long as I kept still my wound did not pain me much. I hated bullets and had no appetite for glory or promotion, and it was a relief to lie there out of range of the detestable mines. Moreover, I had full confidence that my men would give a good account of themselves, whether I was with them or not. There was satisfaction too, in feeling that I was through, that I had kept in the line of duty until I was shot and disabled, and that I had given to my country all that she asked of me in the shooting line of endeavor, and could now take up life again on a new basis. To be sure there were some chances against my getting safe home again, but I had a cheerful confidence that I should be able to pull through somehow. I have often been amused while thinking of my feelings as I lay there across the middle of the road. The prevailing sensation was one of relief. I was no cow-boy or rough-rider. I was just an ordinary patriot and student, ready to bleed and die if need be for my country, but never spoiling for a fight. And I know that many of my bravest comrades were made of the same stuff.
“My greatest want just then was water, and that I couldn’t get it until a rebel supplied me next morning. Even when our regiment came back to the road where I lay, or what was left of it, no one could get a drop for me. Colonel Barlow came to me after the fighting was over, and showed all the tenderness of a brother, letting me see a side of his nature that I had never known anything about before. He deplored the fact that there was no way by which he could have me carried off and kept within our lines. And so, after having me moved to the side of the road, and after my friends had come and talked with me and bade me good-bye, that splendid little regiment marched away about two o’clock in the morning, and left me to reach home, nearly dead, after about twenty-four days, by the way of Libby prison.