I met Barlow in New York in LaFayette Post Room, at the time Sixty-first Regimental association was formed. I made this remark to him: “I never went into a battle without an effort of my will, and always expected to be wounded or killed.” He said in his quiet way, “I never felt so, I never had an impression that I was to be hurt.” In the address at Hamilton, N. Y., in 1897, before referred to, Gen. Howard said that Gen. Barlow was one the bravest and coolest men he ever saw in battle.
After a while our brigade was moved forward and about half way up a rise of ground—it was hardly a hill—at the top of which were an old house and barn. We were ordered to lie down in support of a battery in front that was doing a lively business. I remember that before getting down I spread my rubber blanket to lie on. The fragments of the exploded shells came showering down upon and about us, presently a chunk large enough to have laid me out a harmless corpse came tearing through my blanket, but in a spot not covered by my body. Every now and then along the supporting line a man was knocked out. It was at this time that Ralph Haskell, a Hamilton boy, and another lying beside him had their brains knocked out by these shell fragments. They were but a few feet from me and I saw the whole bloody business.
About this time a remarkable freak was perpetrated on the body of Capt. Broady. He was standing, when in an instant he was thrown to the ground with great force, and he lay there quivering as if life were the same as extinct. Col. Barlow saw him fall and ordered his body taken to the rear. This was done by a number of men, who remained by the body to observe the passing of the last breath, when to their surprise the captain opened his eyes and, with his slightly Swedish brogue, inquired if he was much hurt. The men replied, “Why yes, you’re all knocked to pieces.” The captain wiggled about some and then asked, “How do you know men, do you see the blood run?” They had to answer “No.” By this time his consciousness had fully returned. He directed the men to help him onto his feet and soon came back with his old-fashioned nippy gait. Barlow had regarded him as ticketed for the “happy hunting ground” and when he saw him walking back to the line, he was quite surprised. He looked him over for a moment, and then said to his regiment, “Men, give Capt. Broady three cheers, he’s a brave man.” This we did with a will. When we got to a place where an examination could be had, it was found that Broady had been so struck by a piece of shell that it went through his overcoat, and then rotated in such a manner as to cut the tails off from his dress coat, so that, after we got to Harrison’s Landing the captain went about dressed in that frock coat with the skirts cut off. In other words he was supporting a jacket.
Shortly after this episode we were ordered forward up the slope to the level ground and where the before mentioned old house and barn were. We again lay down. The enemy were shelling these buildings at a terrific rate, the rattle and crash of the shells into that woodwork made the hair fairly stand on end. As we first lay down, it was found best to have the men face about. This was done without getting up and countermarching, but by facing around and bringing the rear into the front rank. The officers crawled back as best they could, and the sergeants did the same. I was making my way to the rear when one of the officers turned up his head and said to me, “Where in the devil are you trying to get to?” The tone indicated that he thought I was trying to sneak off. This made me mad, and I snarled out, “I’m trying to get into my place. If you think I’m afraid, I’ll go to the front as far as you dare to!” Within the following year this officer came to know me well, and had, I believe, confidence that I would not seek to avoid a place of danger.
After a time this artillery attack on our position ceased, and we were ordered forward to the brow of the hill on the other side. Here we had planted the greatest continuous row of cannon I ever saw set for work in a battle. I would not be surprised to have it said by authority that fifty of them crowned the brow of this elevation. Our position was immediately on the right flank of this line of guns.
The Seventh New York, a German regiment, was formed on the left of the Sixty-first N. Y., and in the rear of the artillery as a support. This German regiment joined our brigade after the battle of Fair Oaks. It came to us from Fortress Monroe, about one thousand strong under Col. VanShack. He had, I believe, served in the German army and was a fine appearing officer, but a full blooded German organization was not, in this country in those days, on a par with “Yankee” troops. A sprinkling of Dutchmen was all right. We had in the Sixty-first Germans and Dutchmen, who were the peers as soldiers, of any in the regiment, but this Seventh regiment when it went into action jabbered and talked Dutch to exceed in volubility any female sewing society ever assembled. As they came up and got into position the volume of jabber almost overcame the rattle of musketry and the roar of artillery. I am certain their conduct did not favorably impress our men. If the German Emperor’s army is not made of grimmer stuff than I saw exhibited in pure German regiments in our army, I would not fear the result in matching them with Americans from the North or the South.
It was said, and I suppose it was so, that in front of us was Magruder and the story was current that he had served his men with gun-powder and whiskey. Many stories are on the wind at such times that are no nearer the truth than lies. I do not believe the rank and file very often had their courage braced up with whiskey.
The battle of Malvern Hill was a splendid fight for our side, and I firmly believe if we had been commanded by a brave and confident man like Grant, Sherman, Sheridan, Thomas or by some of the corps commanders of the Potomac Army, Gen. Lee might have been pushed at least into the defences of Richmond. But McClellan was on the James protecting the gun boats, and composing a scolding letter to the president—probably.
From our position on the brow of the hill, it was open ground for a distance and gently sloped off to the woods. Time after time the enemy formed for the purpose of making a charge on us, but no sooner did they appear than this immense line of artillery opened fire, which no troops in the world could withstand. In aid of the artillery fire, the infantry posted so as to have a chance, poured in volley after volley. Col. Barlow practiced here that which I never saw before or after in battle—volley firing by ranks. Then he changed it to firing by files and then to firing at will which is as often as you please. This tremendous storm of missiles held the confederates at bay. They did in a feeble way reply to our fire, and we lost in killed and a large number wounded. At times our firing was so rapid that the gun barrels became heated to the point that they could not be grasped and the men held their guns by the sling strap. I had some personal experiences in this battle that were unique in my service. Our muskets were the Enfield rifle, an English gun, much like the Springfield. They were, of course, muzzle loaders, breech loaders then were the exception. The Minnie bullet had no device for cleaning out the barrel, and after a dozen shots it would become foul, and often it was difficult to ram the bullet home. After I had fired my gun a number of times, in attempting to load, the bullet lodged half way down. I made desperate efforts to send it home but to no purpose. I found a stone large enough to pound on the end of the ramrod, but the only effect seemed to be to set it the snugger. It was the wrong place to hesitate in. I capped the tube, drew up the gun and pulled the trigger expecting an explosion. The kick was strong but I did not discover any damage to the gun—doubtless the barrel was injured. I picked up another gun left by some dead or wounded man and resumed my work. After exhausting the cartridges in my cartridge box, I had my hand in my haversack for a fresh package, when I felt myself severely hurt in the arm. The sensation was, it seemed to me, as if a red hot rod had been run over it. I supposed I was badly damaged and brought up my arm so as to examine it in the growing darkness. I found that a bullet had taken the skin off from my wrist, a piece as large as a cent, and only to the depth to allow the blood to slowly ooze through. The momentary hurt of this slight flesh, or skin wound was more severe than I experienced a year later when the bones of my leg and arm were shot through. The next day on the march to Harrison’s Landing, where we halted long enough for lunch, I discovered that this bullet had gone through my haversack, cutting off a piece of the rim of my tin plate, and, in its passage had journeyed through my bags of coffee and sugar and had compounded them considerably.
In this fight George Joyce of Co. C was seriously wounded through the arm, so that he was obliged to go to the hospital. He was a singular person—small in stature, illiterate, and until he became known for what he was, regarded by all as a braggadocio. I do not remember that his remarkable qualities were observed until the night before at Glendale. It was during the second attack, while I was off on my flank movement, that Barlow ordered the men further forward. A man spoke out, “We will follow the colors.” Joyce had them, or took them as a volunteer—as he was but a private—went to the front with them, jabbed the staff into the ground and said, “There’s your colors! Come up to them!” and the men obeyed. For this act Barlow complimented Joyce, and then and there promoted him to an orderly sergeancy in another company. I shall mention Joyce again, when he next appeared with the regiment at Fredericksburg.