I only knew that I was on Pennsylvania soil, my native State, and within a day's ride from my birthplace, and hoped that I should find myself among friends. There was certainly enemies where the firing was going on. I had not gone far until I met a farmer's wagon loaded, apparently, with every member of his family, and, no doubt, all their worldly goods that they could pile into it.
When I stopped them to ask about the racket down the road, all of them began to talk at once, in broken Pennsylvania Dutch, about "the war down below town." I learned further from some scared natives and some stragglers in blue, that were scurrying along the road, and were becoming thicker the nearer I got, as they put it, "The Rebels are fighting with our men on the other side of town."
That was enough for me. I was young and active, and, as a Pennsylvania boy, I was most anxious to participate in some way in fights that were to take place in my own State. I made that old horse dash along the road to the battlefield of Gettysburg, for about four miles that morning, in a way that would have put to shame General Sheridan's ride down the Valley. If my celebrated ride could have been done up in poetry and set to music, it would, as a parody on Sheridan's ride, go down into the literature of the century after the style of John Gilpin's famous ride at the sound of artillery. I'd give the old nag the spurs and make him jump ahead as if the cannon-balls were after instead of ahead of us.
That beautiful morning of July 1st, as I rode along that old pike, the one fear uppermost in my mind was that the battle of Gettysburg would be all over before I could get there. I felt that I should never be able to meet my Pennsylvania friends again if it should unfortunately happen that Buford would drive the Rebels out of the State without my assistance. That's what made me in such a hurry.
I was delayed a little on the road by an accident. I had noticed, while tearing along, that there was an awful bad air in that part of the country, but I had, as a soldier, become accustomed to bad smells hovering about an army in Virginia, that I didn't take much account of it—rather satisfying myself with the reflection that the smell simply indicated the presence of the Rebel Army in the neighborhood. But it became so oppressive that I checked up my Mad-Anthony-Wayne gait long enough to look around me. It was the eggs in my haversack. In my excitement, I had forgotten all about them, and, of course, every time my horse galloped the haversack, being strung loose to my saddle, tried to keep time, but couldn't always do it, with the result of beating the eggs up into a soft mess, and mixing shell-dry coffee, hard tack and cold meat into a fancy omelette.
When I discovered the horrible condition of things, the eggs were dripping down my horse's flanks, and when the horse stood still the odor wafted itself around me. I got one good whiff and then cut the thing loose, boldly sacrificing my expected breakfast of eggs and also all the good coffee and other nice things my kit was packed with. I have always believed that there must have been more than one bad egg in the dozen. In writing up this ride in poetry, after Buchanan's Sheridan, this incident should not be made too prominent. I record it simply as one of the necessary ingredients of a true story.
I had a double incentive after this to hurry me along; the awful stench clung to the flanks of my horse and I tried to ride him out of the range of it. When I reached the top of the hill, now so widely known as Cemetery Ridge, on the morning of July 1st, it was as quiet and restful as the old graveyard probably is this July 1st, 1889. Beyond the town, to the west, which was visible from this point, were to be seen in the air over the tops of the trees the too-familiar little curls or puffs of white, steamy-looking smoke, that I knew were from exploding shells. For the moment there seemed to be a lull in the proceedings—only an occasional gun and the more frequent sharp, hammer-like sound of infantry firing on a skirmish line.
But I'm not going to attempt a description of the battle of Gettysburg; that has already been done too thoroughly and well. I'll tell only what I saw that day, in as few words as I can put it.
When I rode through the town the people were gathered in groups in the street; ladies were at the windows talking in a whining, half-crying way to other nervous neighbors, who were, perhaps, at an up-stairs window, praying at intervals, or asking in a beseeching way, "What is to become of us all?" During all this time the soldiers inside of the town, in a sullen, quiet, business way, peculiar to old coffee-coolers, were moving about, indifferently, amidst the excitement that must have struck the inhabitants as being very unconcerned for soldiers.
I remembered one fellow in blue loitering where I had halted for a drink, while the lady of the house was kindly dishing out glasses of water. She appealed to him for something encouraging or hopeful. He looked up at her, and then, turning around in the direction of the occasional musketry, as if he had just discovered that there was something going on, assured her in an easy-going way: "Oh, that's all right; that's only a little squabble. Our army isn't out there."