Hardly had we arrived on the field, when with almost the rapidity of lightning it passed from one to another that Sergeant George E. Randolph was wounded. He was a great favorite with the entire company, his personal qualities being such as to win the respect and love of all. Although every one felt that a dark cloud had thrown its shadow over us, still there was no faltering. Captain Reynolds, who had marked affection for Sergeant Randolph, sacrificed the impulses of his nature and stuck to his command to look out for the interests of all.
A great many amusing incidents occurred during the first hour of the action, that, undoubtedly, have afforded many hours of enjoyment to the partakers. Two of the corporals seemed to find great relief in getting behind a limber-chest with its cover opened, though they pluckily performed their duties, and I confess that I experienced a similar relief myself when I was obliged to go there once or twice to examine the ammunition, though I fully realized that it was like a quail running his head into a snowbank to escape the hunter.
The firing was exceedingly rapid, every one appearing to feel that the great object was to make as much noise as possible, and get an immense quantity of iron into the enemy’s line in the shortest possible space of time, without regard to whether it hit anything or not. The firing was principally directed towards the smoke of a rebel battery, posted near what is shown as the “Henry House” on the map accompanying General McDowell’s report of the action, but was really the “Lewis House,” which house served as the headquarters of General Beauregard. But very little attention was paid to the effect of the shot for some time. Considerable of the fire was directed into a clump of woods in our immediate front, in which was quite a force of rebel infantry, and I have reason to believe that this fire was very effective; for, upon visiting the spot during the action of the Second Bull Run I found the trees thickly scarred at the height where the shot would be likely to do the most execution.
We had with us a young man, who was hardly more than a mere boy, by the name of Henry H. Stewart, who had been taken out from here by Captain Reynolds to act as an orderly and guidon, who, while nearly every one else was excited and everything was in confusion, preserved, apparently, the utmost coolness, moving from point to point as calmly as if performing the ordinary duties of parade, and it was not until I ordered him so to do that he dismounted from his horse. But the coolest one of our number, and, I believe, the coolest man on the field that day, was Sergeant G. Lyman Dwight. When the storm of bullets was thickest and the rebel artillery was delivering upon us its heaviest fire, Dwight would step aside from the smoke from his gun, and seemed perfectly absorbed by the sublime and magnificent spectacle. Once or twice he called my attention to the glorious scene, but I was too much engaged and my mind was too much occupied in thinking how we were to get out of the “glorious scene” to take much pleasure in the observance of it. Dwight was associated with me, more or less, during the whole war, and I found in his character more admirable qualities than I ever found possessed by any other man, and the objectionable qualities of his nature I could never discover. War had no terrors for him, and his æsthetic taste found beauties to admire even under the most adverse circumstances. When the leaden rain and iron hail were thickest, I have known him to muse upon philosophy, and to repeat a quotation from some favorite author applicable to the situation and circumstances. He was quick and unerring, and no emergency could arise that would deprive him of his full self-possession. This is digressing from my subject, but my admiration for him was such, that I feel justified in thus alluding to a life that was practically lost in the war, though his death did not take place until within the past year.
About one or two hours after the engagement began, Captain Reynolds, with Lieutenants Tompkins and Weeden, went off to the right of our position with two guns, which were placed in position near the Doogan House, I think, where they went earnestly at work. During their absence, Sergeant John H. Hammond, of my section, reported to me that he was entirely out of ammunition, and as I knew that there was no reserve supply for the James gun within available distance, I directed him to take his piece to the rear, to some safe place and wait for orders. I remained with my other piece and the pieces of Lieutenant Vaughn. Either before or after this, a shot from the enemy struck the axle of one of the pieces, which entirely disabled it.[1] The gun was dismounted and slung under its limber and immediately taken from the field. The mechanical maneuvres that the men had been exercised in before they left home, for the first time now found opportunity for practical application, and the slinging of the piece was performed as thoroughly as upon the floor of the drill-room.
Sometime after mid-day Governor Sprague, accompanied by Captain Reynolds, rode up to me and said, “Monroe, can’t you get your guns over on the hill there, where those batteries are?” The batteries referred to were those of Captains Ricketts and Griffin, which were then in position near the “Henry” or “Lewis” House. Without any thought, except to take the pieces to that position, I ordered my remaining piece and one of Lieutenant Vaughn’s forward, and accompanied by Captain Reynolds proceeded across the turnpike and up the road leading to the place where the two batteries were in position. The day was a very hot one, and I remember that my thirst, at this time, was almost unendurable. Crossing the turnpike, I saw a pool of muddy water which appeared like the watering places beside our New England country roads, where they are crossed by rivulets or brooks. Although the water was muddy and the dead bodies of a man and a horse were lying in it, so great was my thirst, I could not resist the inclination to dismount to slake it, and did so. Quickly remounting, I went forward with the section through what appeared to be a lane, on a side hill, which was completely filled with infantry, who had been hotly engaged in the fight since the opening of the battle. Just as we diverged to the right in order to secure the ground between the two batteries, a shot came very near to me, and turning my head, I saw Captain Reynolds go off his horse. I supposed, of course, that he was hit, and started to his assistance, but to my surprise he jumped up nimbly and remounted, saying, “That about took my breath away.” The shot must have passed within a few inches of him, and was what afterwards was known in soldier’s parlance, as “a close call.”
We pushed forward and got the pieces in position between Ricketts’s and Griffin’s batteries, but before a single shot could be fired, the fatal mistake of the day occurred, the mistake of supposing a rebel command to be a portion of our own forces. Thick and fast their bullets came in upon us, and they were fast approaching in their charge, when with almost superhuman energy, and with a rapidity that I never saw excelled and I think I never saw equaled, our cannoneers limbered to the rear and we withdrew with a loss in material of only a caisson, the pole of which was broken in the endeavor to turn on the side hill, and there was no time then to stop for repairs. Here private Bubb (Frederick) lost his life, and private Vose (Warren L.) was wounded and taken prisoner. A bullet went through my cap and ploughed a little furrow in my scalp. Jumping from my horse to assist Sergeant Wilcox (G. Holmes) in limbering his piece, the animal dashed off frightened by the confusion, and I was obliged to ride to the rear on the stock of the gun carriage.
Arriving on the northerly side of the turnpike, we were joined by Captain Reynolds near the “Doogan” House, and shortly after by Lieutenant Weeden. Captain Reynolds said that he had just seen Arnold, (Captain of the regular artillery) who had lost his battery. I hastened with the two guns off to the left, to the position that we first occupied in the morning, and, going into battery, commenced firing. The men worked steadier and cooler than they had at any time during the day. All at once there emerged from the timber in our front, a regiment or brigade of the enemy, evidently preparing for a charge upon us, and simultaneously came an order, from Captain Reynolds, I believe, to limber to the rear. I could not resist the temptation, in spite of the order, to give them one more shot before parting, and I directed the left piece to be loaded with canister. As the piece was fired, the enemy, apparently, was just ready to move forward on their charge. It appeared to me that a gap of full twenty feet was made in their line, which completely staggered them. This, I think, was the last shot fired on the field that day. The first one was fired by Sergeant Dwight.
Leaving the field on foot with this piece, I found the remainder of the battery a short distance away on the road, moving toward Centreville. Procuring a horse from one of the sergeants, I returned to the field in search of the horse that I had lost, for which I had great affection. The scene was one of indescribable confusion, although there appeared to be no fright or terror in the minds of the men who were leaving the field. Officers seemed to have lost all identity with their commands, subalterns and even colonels moving along in the scattered crowd as if their work was over and they were wearily seeking the repose of their domiciles. The scene was such as to remind one of that which can be seen daily in any large manufacturing town or village, when the operatives, let loose by the expiration of their hours of labor, all set out for their respective homes. During working hours the system for work is maintained, but upon the ringing of the bell, all depart according to their respective bents and wills. So upon this field, the general impression seemed to be that the day’s work was done and that the next thing in order was repose. There were a few notable exceptions. I remember well a large and powerful man, a field officer of what I took to be a Maine regiment—at any rate he and his men were uniformed in gray—using the most strenuous exertions to get his men together. He coaxed, threatened and applied to them every epithet that he seemed capable of, but all to no purpose. The idea of the men seemed to be that their work was over for the day, and that they were going home to rest, not realizing apparently, that whether on or off duty, they were subject to the orders that their officers deemed best to give.
The bullets began to whistle uncomfortably thick, and I gave up the search for my horse, and rejoined the battery, then moving along the road in good order, in which condition it continued until the head of the column reached the foot of the hill at the base of which flowed what is known as Cub Run. Here was a bridge rendered impassable by the wrecks of several baggage wagons. In the ford at the left was an overturned siege gun, completely blocking up that passage, and the right ford was completely filled with troops and wagons. Of course the leading team of the battery had to halt, and it was impossible to stop the rear carriages on the steep hill, so that the column became only a jumbled heap of horses, limbers, caissons and gun carriages. To add to the confusion, just at this moment a rebel battery in our rear opened fire, and it seemed as if every one of their shots came down into our very midst. The men immediately set to work taking the horses from their harnesses, after doing which they mounted upon them in the most lively manner. Some horses carried only a single passenger, others had on their backs doublets and some triplets. Still, notwithstanding all this confusion, there did not seem to me to be what has been almost universally reported, “a perfect panic.” It appeared to me only that confusion which of necessity must arise from the sudden breaking up of organization.