“I took his place, and he was soon asleep, or seemed to be. At half-past one o’clock the order came to move. I went to awake Trowbridge, but had no answer, except that he groaned heavily once and again. I tried to soothe him, and awake him gently, but he turned aside his head, groaned once more, and was gone. I struck a match, and looked upon his features; they were set, and ghastly in death. I placed his hand on my cheek, and asked him if he was still conscious to press it. There was no response; life was evidently extinct.
“I made an attempt to find the surgeon, or chaplain, but they had both gone forward with the army. So I searched his pockets, and taking from them six dollars for his mother, and a letter directed to himself, I replaced the envelope, that his name, at least, might be known to those who should find the body. Several days after this, I was one of the number detailed to go back to that spot and bury the dead. On searching near the place where Trowbridge died, I found a grave with a wooden tablet, bearing his name. Not far distant was a house at which I called, and asked the inmates if they knew anything of that grave. The woman of the family then brought forward an envelope, (the very one that I had replaced), and said they had buried a soldier there, from whose pocket it was taken. It was a relief to know what had become of the body. Of course I wrote to his mother, sending the money, and giving an account of her son’s last moments, and his burial.”
This is only a solitary instance of the bravery and faithfulness of the men who fought those terrible battles, day after day, many of whom died with their muskets in their hands, and without receiving a wound, died from hunger, thirst, and fatigue.
There was a farm-house near the battle-field, to which the wounded were carried, and the surgeons of the Union Army made it their headquarters during the battle. I will not attempt to describe the scenes which I witnessed in that building, for it beggars all description. The poor fellows seemed to know that they could not be removed, and would inevitably fall into the hands of the enemy. One man asked a surgeon, who had just performed an operation on one of his arms, “Doctor, is there no alternative—must I be taken prisoner?” The doctor was only a boy in appearance, a little Scotchman, and as noble-hearted a man as ever amputated a limb. He replied, in broad Scotch, “No, my man, there is no alternative; but keep up a good heart, I am not going to leave you, I shall be a prisoner for your sakes, and will take care of you as long as I can.” He did so, and was really taken prisoner, but was not permitted to do much for those for whom he had made such a noble sacrifice. He was Doctor Cleland, of Detroit, Michigan.
When the order was given to retreat that night, I started with my colt, having a good saddle and bridle on him now, which I had taken off a dead horse on the battle-field, and reached Malvern Hill about two o’clock in the morning. After hitching my horse, and unstrapping a small bag of oats and my blanket from the saddle, I fed him, and proceeded to take a glance around, to see how things looked. The artillery was already in position, and the weary troops were in line of battle, but flat on the ground and fast asleep—all except the guards, who were pacing backward and forward in front of the line, ready to arouse the sleepers at any moment. Feeling safe to consign myself to the arms of Morpheus after this reconnoissance, I returned, wrapped myself in my blanket, and slept until the thundering of cannon awoke me in the morning.
Malvern Hill is an elevated plateau, about a mile and a half by three-fourths of a mile in area, nearly cleared of timber, and with several converging roads running over it. In front there are numerous ravines. The ground slopes gradually toward the northeast to the wooded plain beyond, giving clear ranges for artillery in different directions.
The batteries were advantageously posted on those hills, while the reserve troops were sheltered as much as possible by the ravines. The artillery of the reserve was placed in position so as to bring the concentrated fire of sixty guns to bear upon the enemy’s front and left, approaching from Richmond or White Oak Swamp. The brave Colonel Tyler, First Connecticut, with great exertion succeeded in getting ten of his siege guns in position on the highest point of the hill; the men having to haul many of them up by hand. Commodore Rodgers, commanding the flotilla on James river, placed his gun-boats in position to protect the left flank and to command the approaches from Richmond.
The battle commenced about nine o’clock in the morning, and raged all day with terrible fury. At three in the afternoon the enemy attacked our right and center with tremendous force both of artillery and infantry. The artillery was replied to with good effect, but our infantry lay upon the ground and withheld their fire until the advancing column was within short musket range, when they sprang to their feet and poured in a deadly volley which entirely broke the attacking force, and drove the rebels back some eight hundred yards in great confusion.
The battle raged most furiously hour after hour, the enemy advancing in massive column, often without order, but with perfect recklessness; and the concentrated fire of our gun-boats, batteries and infantry mowing down the advancing host in a most fearful manner, until the slain lay in heaps upon the field.
At four o’clock the firing ceased along the rebel line, and it was supposed the battle was over; but it proved only a calm before a more terrible storm.