Pickett was defeated. Grant, Sherman, Sheridan or Thomas, if in command at the time, would have plunged the fresh Sixth Corps on to the rear of Lee’s routed men, and effectively crushed him. Meade was new to the place and preferred a respectable certainty to possible disaster. Things quieted down, and that night,
“Mr. Lee who had come to see
What he could do about going through,
The North, turned South.”
The boys who were toting me came to a stone house with a wide piazza clear around it. I was laid on the floor of it, which made a hard bed. I ached in every bone, but there was nothing to do but “grin and bear it.” After a while Frank Garland of Co. G was brought and laid on the floor near me. He could raise upon his elbow, but his breathing was painful to hear. A bullet had gone through his lungs and every time they filled a portion of the air went through the wound with a ghastly sound. I said to him, “Are you badly wounded, Frank?” He replied, “Oh, yes!”
I had eaten nothing since the morning of the day before, and was faint. Some of our drummer boys found a bin of ground oats, and they made a gruel that tasted good, and I made quite a meal of it. That evening about 10 o’clock, an ambulance came for me, and I was taken to the ground selected for the 2d Corps hospital. It was another rough ride across lots. Once there I was taken out of my stretcher, the one Phil Comfort took me off the field on, and taken at once to the operating table. A napkin was formed into a tunnel shape, a liberal supply of chloroform poured into it and the thing placed over my nose and mouth. I was told to take in long breaths. To me it seemed a long time before the effect came, probably it was a short time, but at last my head seemed to grow big and spin around. At this stage I remember a doctor had his fingers in the wound in the shoulder and said to the others “Here is a fine chance for a resection.” I did not know what that meant, but learned afterwards. When I came to myself, I looked down far enough to see a quantity of bandage wound about a stump of a leg eight inches long. My shoulder was bound up, but otherwise not operated on. Failure to resect may have been due to the great amount of work pressing upon the surgeons. They were worked as many hours continuously as they could stand, and still many a man had to be neglected. I was taken off the table and put back on my stretcher, which was set down in a wall tent, this tent was as full as it well could be of amputated cases. For the most part the men bore their suffering without a groan. Among the number was a young Confederate officer, that had lost an arm. He probably felt that he was a good way from home, and he “took on,” bemoaning his fate as a cripple and a sufferer. He wore out the patience of every other man in the tent. At last I yelled out to him to shut up, or I would get up and kick him out doors. My bark was effective, we heard no more from him. All of us were amputates, or seriously wounded. During the night a doctor came, and gave every man a dose of morphine, which produced a happy state of mind and body. As I was taken from the table one of my doctors said, “Fuller, you may drink all of the whiskey you can get, and want.”
The day of the 4th we had a drenching rain. Some men out lying in low places and who could not move were, it was said, drowned. On the whole, I presume the rain was a benefit to the wounded.
It took a number of days for the large hospital tents to be put up. All of the sound part of the army that could be spared followed up the enemy. Of course, it took a large number of soldiers detailed for the purpose, to partially care for the thousands of wounded from each army. The surgeons were continuously engaged upon new cases that had received no attention. Those of us that had been treated knew this, and we found no fault at what otherwise would have been terrible neglect. I think it was six days after my amputation before a doctor could be found to look at my stump. The night before I had been made very nervous by crawley feelings on that side of me, just where I could not tell. It is, I think, the rule with amputations, that the patient cannot from the feeling put his hand on the place of amputation. It takes a good while for the nerves to realize where “the end” is. They were made to carry the news to the brain from the extremities, and, until the new arrangement has become somewhat acquainted with the change, these lines of communication are doing duty for parts of the body not there. My bad feelings were not at the end of the stump, but down in the foot and ankle, where there were constant beats, and pulls and cramps. I think this is the foundation for the many fairy stories to the effect that an amputated leg or arm buried gave the owner of it great pain, as if something pressed on it, or it was cramped in its box, and when it was opened up there was found a stone between the fingers, or the cover jammed upon the foot, and that when the cause of discomfort was removed then the stump of the arm or leg was easy. As in the various phases of faith cure, the imagination has a powerful effect. So it has in these cases. It is never that there is a real feeling connected between the severed part and the body, but the belief in it creates a supposed reality.
It was the good fortune of our tent that a civilian surgeon from Ohio visiting the field came along and offered his services to any of us that wanted him to do for us. I told him how I had felt through the night, and I would be glad to have him dress my stump. He took the bandages off and found that there were a large number of full grown maggots in the wound. This discovery for the moment was horrifying to me. I concluded if all the other things did not take me off the skippers would, but the good doctor assured me that the wigglers didn’t amount to much in that place, and he would soon fix them. He diluted some turpentine, took a quantity of it in his mouth and squirted it into the wound, and over the stump. It did the business for the intruders, and I had no more trouble of that sort.
The morning of the 4th of July Capt. Keech came to me and said he was to have a short leave of absence on account of the wound he received in the neck, which came near effectually cutting it. He wanted to know what word he should convey to my people. I said tell them I am doing as well as one can under the circumstance. He replied, “Don’t you want them to come down here?” I said, “No!” “They can do no good here, and will be in the way.” When he got to New York he wired to Sherburne: “Garland mortally wounded. Fuller dangerously wounded. Plumb all right.” That night my father started for Unadilla Forks to see Dr. King, his brother-in-law. The doctor was one of the best surgeons in Otsego Co. My father told him he wanted him to go to Gettysburg and look after me. They were in Utica the next morning ready for the first train East. From a newsboy they got a Herald, which gave a long list of New York casualties. Finally they struck “Lieut. C. A. Fuller, Co. C. 61st N. Y., leg and arm amputated.” The doctor said, “If that is true there is not much chance for Charley, but we will go on and bring him home alive or dead.” And so they went on.
All this is very tame and personal, and, in many ways, I know can be of but small interest. There is this to be said of it: It shows what was going on in thousands of families the land over—North and South—and it is the kind of matter that does not get into books on war subjects. The reality of war is largely obscured by descriptions that tell of movements and maneuvers of armies, of the attack and repulse, of the victory and defeat, and then pass on to new operations. All of this leaves out of sight the fellows stretched out with holes through them, or with legs and arms off.
At Baltimore my father had to turn back on account of acute illness. From New York my father and Uncle were accompanied by my cousin Edward Snyder. He was a grand man. He had tried several times to enter the service, but was rejected. For years he had been in the employ of the American Express Co. and knew how to push his way through a crowd. The jam was so great to get to the battlefield, and the transportation so inadequate, they might have been delayed several days, but for the steering qualifications of Snyder. He elbowed and managed in such a way that he and the doctor got onto an open flat bottomed car headed for Gettysburg the same day. On their arrival it was no small job to find me, but a half day’s search and inquiry brought them to my tent, a large hospital tent holding some sixteen men, everyone of whom had, I believed, sustained an amputation. They had found the Chaplain of the 64th New York, a thoroughly good man, qualified for the office, as many chaplains were not. This Chaplain had been of great service since the battle; his work in behalf of the men was tireless. Earlier in the day he had talked with me, trying to brace me up and make me hopeful. I remember saying to him, “If I were where I could have the best of care, I might pull through, but that is impossible.” I knew that my chances were few and scant. About noon he came to me and said, “Fuller, can you stand some good news?” I said, “Yes, if ever I could I can now.” He said, “Some one has come to see you?” I asked, “Is it Dr. King?” He said, “Yes.” I looked to the other side of the tent, and there in the doorway stood my uncle, and just behind him Edward Snyder. The doctor was short and thick and Snyder was tall and thin, so I had a view of both of their faces at once. It was a sight so photographed in my memory that it is as fresh to-day as when it was taken. The doctor remained at the field hospital for about ten days. During that time he took charge of about a dozen amputated cases, and while he was rather squatty for an Angel, the men regarded him as one of mercy. By the end of ten days from his coming the doctor told me that I was making no progress and ought to be moved where I could get better air. He got permission for my removal into the village. Two men carried me on a stretcher. When the doctor left the boys he had been caring for, there were few dry eyes on their faces. I was taken to the house of Mr. Carson, cashier of one of the banks. On the approach of Lee’s army, Mr. Carson had taken the cash and valuables to Philadelphia. At this time every house in town was at the service of any wounded, or their friends. When I was deposited at his house, Mr. Carson was in Philadelphia to get and return the bank’s property, but Mrs. Carson was there, and, if I had been a near relative, she could not have done more to make my stay tolerable. As an instance of the romance in war the following occurred. Mrs. Carson’s brother was an officer in a Maine battery. He was in the first day’s engagement and was quite badly wounded. He managed to get to his sister’s house, I believe he was not disturbed by the Rebels, and left for his home the day before I came.