General Franklin, in vindicating himself from censure for not attacking with a larger force and more vigorously, falls back on the clause in Burnside's order, "to attack with one division at least, and to keep it well supported." It would have been better if Burnside had given explicit instructions. There must be some latitude allowed to subordinates, but there are very few men who, without particular instructions, can enter fully into the plans and intentions of the commander-in-chief. Franklin was constitutionally sluggish in his movements. The attack on the left required boldness, energy, and perseverance. Sumner was the man for the place. Burnside was peculiarly unfortunate in the selection of commanders to carry out the particular features of his plan; but Sumner having been first to arrive at Falmouth, and having taken position, it was not easy to make the change.
While the battle was raging on the left I rode over the plain. The cavalry under General Bayard was drawn up in rear of the grove surrounding the fine old Bernard mansion. General Bayard was sitting at the foot of a tree, waiting for orders, and watching the advancing columns of Meade and Gibbon. There was a group of officers around General Franklin. Howe's and Newton's divisions were lying down to avoid the Rebel shells, hurled from the heights beyond the railroad. All of Franklin's guns were in play. The earth shook with the deep concussion. Suddenly the Rebel batteries opened with redoubled fury. A shot went over my head, a second fell in front of my horse, and ploughed a furrow in the ground; a third exploded at my right, a fourth went singing along the line of a regiment lying prostrate on the earth. McCartney's, Williston's, Hexamer's, Amsden's, Cooper's, Ransom's, and a dozen other batteries were replying. Meade was driving up the hill. Wounded men were creeping, crawling, and hobbling towards the hospital. Some, slightly wounded, were uttering fearful groans, while others, made of sterner stuff, though torn and mangled, bore their pains without a murmur.
A soldier, with his arms around the necks of two of his comrades, was being brought in. "O dear! O Lord! my foot is torn all to pieces!" he cried.
There was a hole in the toe of his boot where the ball had entered.
"It has gone clear through to the heel, and smashed all the bones. O dear! O dear! I shall have to have it cut off!" he cried, moaning piteously as his comrades laid him upon the ground to rest.
"Better cut off your boot before your foot swells."
"Yes,—do so."
I slipped my knife through the leather, and took the boot from his foot. The ball had passed through his stocking. There was but a drop or two of blood visible. I cut off the stocking, and the bullet was lying between his toes, having barely broken the skin.
"I reckon I sha'n't help lug you any farther," said one of the men who had borne him.
"Wal, if I had known that it wasn't any worse than that I wouldn't have had my boot cut off," said the soldier.