XIII MY WOUNDED SOLDIER
For months "On to Richmond" had been the war-cry of the Federals, and the battle of Gaines's Mill, June 27, 1862, was the turning point of the seven days' battles around our Capital. No event of the memorable campaign which had followed that slogan was more important in its results than this desperate conflict.
McClellan in his retreat had burned and destroyed everything that could be carried away until he reached Watts's Farm, known also by the names of Gaines's Mill and Cold Harbor, and there was fought the greatest battle of the war, up to that time. The great stage painter, Nature, had never arranged a more picturesque scene for a battle than that which was set for Gaines's Mill, one of the most awful contests of the war. It was an undulating plain gracefully rising into gentle swells, crowned by a dense growth of trees. It terminated in a tall cliff, a great rounded mass of rock which had been hurled from its native bed so many centuries ago as to be now covered with a large forest. Directly in front of the cliff, separated by a deep gorge, was a low level field partly covered by a heavy crop of oats which, together with a natural growth of broom-sedge, afforded concealment to McClellan's sharpshooters and lines of skirmishers. The cliff was defended by three tiers of field artillery and a heavy infantry support.
Pickett's Brigade formed in line of battle under the brow of the hill, and my Soldier, leading and cheering on his men in ascending the cliff, was shot from his horse. His shoulder was pierced by a minie ball and his medical director wanted to take him off the field, saying the ball must be removed at once.
"My men need me," replied my Soldier. "Take the bullet out here and fix me up quick, doctor, I must go back—see, they need me."
The surgeon extracted the ball and my Soldier continued to give orders until, weak from pain and loss of blood, he was carried from the field. For some weeks he was on furlough at his home in Richmond and in July I was permitted to make my first call. Here I met for the second time Jefferson Davis, now President of the Confederacy. I had just taken my seat by my wounded Soldier when the President was announced and, to my inexpressible vexation, I saw the precious minutes slip away while he occupied my chair and I sat in a corner with Mrs. Burwell, my Soldier's only sister.
In spite of my green glasses I could not help forming a mental picture of the man who had been chosen as our political head. He was tall and extremely slender, but of indescribable dignity and grace. He was a type of the Old South, cultivated, refined, a brilliant conversationist. His eyes were clear and of a blue-gray color. He had a high forehead, straight nose, thin, compressed lips, pointed chin, prominent cheek bones, and deep lines around his mouth. His face was thin, features long and sharp, expression intense. There was no pomp in his movements, neither was there anything uncertain. His walk was wonderful; just what a President's walk ought to be but seldom is. When he rode, the beautiful unaffected harmony and grace of every motion were fascinating.
He pressed my Soldier's left hand, laying it gently down on the arm of the chair to avoid jarring him.
"How soon will you be able to go back?" he asked. "We need you in the field."
"I should like to go to-morrow," was the reply.