When in less than one hundred yards of the timber, the enemy concealed behind the ridge of earth thrown up by long-ago plowing around the field, and also favored by the descent of the ground, let loose upon them one of the most deadly fires of musketry it was my fortune to witness during the war.
In visions now I sometimes see those brave fellows falling like leaves of autumn before the northern blast, but no man faltered except the stricken ones, before that fearful fire.
Colonel Burt was riding close up to his regiment in rear of the line and I rode beside him on his right, giving us good view of our own men as well as the position of the enemy as marked by the flaming line of the deadly volley.
The gallant Burt was mortally wounded[9] and as two of his men were taking him from his horse he turned to me, and in a tone as calm as if in ordinary talk, said, “Go tell Colonel Jenifer I am wounded and shall have to leave the field.” Starting to obey, I found myself in that most trying situation for a soldier—having to turn my back to the foe while my comrades were facing him. We were all “green” then, and had a horrid dread of being shot in the back, much more particular than later, when experience had done its perfect work, and the “ear became more Irish and less nice.”
Turning in my saddle, face to the enemy, I rode rapidly and found Colonel Jenifer in a small cleared spot, half way through the woods, along the path to the island.
Quickly delivering my message I hurried back to the Eighteenth, finding it had driven the enemy from his position and been joined by the Seventeenth under Colonel Featherstone and moved further to the left, nearly connecting with Hunton’s right, about the edge of the woods.
Colonel Hunton’s people, including Captain Upshaus’ company of the Seventeenth and Captains Kearney and Welborn’s companies of the Eighteenth, had made their attack practically without ammunition—in fact, just prior to the charge the Colonel had ordered “Cease firing!” for a moment, and had the remaining cartridges equally distributed among the men, so that all could have a round, and then, relying almost solely upon the bayonet, they dashed forward, driving back a heavy column of the enemy just landed, and captured the two howitzers. After having driven them thus far into the woods, at which point General Baker was killed (pierced with four balls, no one knowing really who did it, although there was much romancing at the time), Colonel Hunton halted his men, who were completely broken down—nature and ammunition both exhausted—and rode over to Colonel Featherstone, saying, “Colonel, charge the enemy on the Bluff.” Featherstone replied, “I do not know the ground,” and Hunton exclaimed, “Come on, I will lead you.” But the Colonel demurred, saying: “No, sir; I will lead my own men, but want a guide who knows the ground,” when Hunton turned to me and said, “Lige, my boy, won’t you go with them?”
I was thoroughly acquainted with the country, having fox-hunted over it many times, and now, at sunset of a busy day, I rode to the front, shouting, “Follow me; I’ll show you the way.” The two regiments moved promptly a short distance, when they were met with a galling fire to which they heartily responded, and in a rushing charge drove the enemy headlong over the steep, rugged bluff, capturing three hundred prisoners, among them Colonel Coggswell of the Tammany Regiment,[10] but now acting brigadier general in place of the gallant Baker, and Col. U. R. Lee, Twentieth Massachusetts,[11] together with the rifle cannon; and now we had plenty of artillery of our own right on the ground.
During this part of the engagement an incident, not to be omitted, but a little out of the regular order of military science, occurred. Lieut. Chas. B. Wildman of Evans’ staff came on the field, and mistaking a part of the Federal line for our people, galloped to the front of the Tammany Regiment, and in the most peremptory and commanding manner ordered them to “Charge the enemy,” which they promptly did, supported by the Fifteenth Massachusetts, with disastrous results to themselves, losing about 25 men, killed and wounded. Among the latter was a captain to whom Captain Jones, Seventeenth Mississippi, shouted, “Who are you, and what do you mean?” whereupon the Federal officer rushed up to Jones and, grasping him by his long beard, exclaimed, “Who in the h—l are you?” when instantly one of Jones’ men struck the Federal captain on the head with his clubbed gun, killing him on the spot. By way of reminiscence for a bit, I will relate a little story. Thirty-two years after these things a party of Twentieth Massachusetts people came to Leesburg and requested me to guide them over the battleground where they and their comrades had fought so gallantly a generation before, and upon reaching the point of Featherstone’s attack, one of them called attention to an oak and said, “I was behind that tree when an officer on a white horse rode out there, leading a line of troops upon us, waving his hat and shouting, ‘Come on, follow me.’ I took aim and fired at him and then threw down my gun and ran for the river, for they were close on us. I don’t know whether I killed him or not.” I said to him, “No, thank God, you did not.” When he asked, “Are you the man?” and I replied, “I surely am,” he threw his arms around me and exclaimed, “I thank God, too.”
After the Federals had been driven over the Bluff and darkness had spread its pall over the bloody scene Colonel Hunton instructed me to ascertain if there was any organized force up river to our left, directing Captain R. H. Carter[12] to support me with his company; and now my intimate knowledge of the country stood us in good stead. As we moved to execute the order I requested Captain Carter to hold his command about a hundred yards in my rear so that I could use my ears to better advantage, and I was to whistle if I needed help.