At any rate they conducted the war in harmony with such a belief.
One battle only did I witness from the vantage ground of a non-combatant, the first Fredericksburg fight, and I found it vastly more interesting and conducive to personal ease and safety, if less glorious. But this is not what I started out to tell the readers of this Magazine. I am to relate my experience during that memorable episode referred to in my opening paragraph. I must say at the outset that it was an exceedingly checkered episode, so far as my memory serves me, for within the time outlined I ran the gamut of a soldier’s emotions—anxiety, uncertainty, fear, hope, the thrill of victory succeeded all too quickly by the blackest despair; for success was followed by repulse, and from an elated victor I became almost in a twinkling, a captive in the hands of as ragged and as dirty a lot of Johnny Rebs as ever fought with a courage worthy of a better cause,—a part of Wilcox’s Alabama brigade, McLaw’s division. But I must not anticipate.
During the winter of 1862–63, our brigade lay encamped near White Oak church, a locality about equi-distant, if my memory serves me, between Falmouth on the Rappahannock and Belle Plain on the Potomac. It had had ample time to recuperate from the fatigue of the “mud march,” as Burnside’s second futile attempt to dislodge Lee from his entrenchments about Fredericksburg, was facetiously termed, and as spring opened the routine of life in cantonment was relieved by parades, reviews, inspections, drills, and, occasionally, target practice. Meantime Hooker had superceded Burnside in chief command, and a new and more vigorous life had been infused into all branches of the service. This was particularly true of the cavalry, which had fallen into general disfavor. Under Hooker’s discipline it became very effective. The high-sounding grand divisions had been broken up, and the over-cautious, phlegmatic Franklin, relieved. With other changes, came Sedgwick to the command of our corps—a great improvement in some respects on Franklin. The cool and sagacious Slocum, so long at the head of the red-cross division, had been promoted to the command of a corps, and Gen. Brooks, as brave, perhaps, but a far less skilful soldier, had succeeded him, having been promoted from the Vermont brigade. Gen. Joe Bartlett of New York, commanded our brigade—a fine officer, and a lion in battle. A brave man, too, was our Colonel, but deficient in tactical skill. He might not “set a squadron in the field,” but he could face the enemy’s line of battle without flinching. In action he was the embodiment of pluck, and at such times he looked as if he might be the very
“——Colonel
Who galloped through the white infernal powder cloud.”
in continental days. But he did not appear to advantage on parade, being undersized and awkward gaited, with a shrill, piercing voice, not unlike that of the late Isaac O. Barnes, or the irrepressible Mel. Weston, and totally indifferent to all the niceties of drill so pleasing to the holiday soldier. On one occasion he forgot his place at a Brigade dress parade, and was then and there rebuked sharply by the general. Meeting the latter at headquarters the same evening, where a “reception” to the officers of the brigade was in full career and good fellowship, aided by copious draughts of “commissary,” abounded, the Colonel extended his hand and piped out in a high key which attracted the attention of all present: “Gineral, I’m not much at drill I confess, but I’ve got a hell-fired stomach for a fight!”
On the morning of the 28th of April, 1863, our regiment was ordered on picket duty, but scarcely had we relieved the old picket guard when orders came to return to camp, strike tents, and prepare to move at once in heavy marching order. This meant work, but was an agreeable change. I had only joined my regiment the day previous, after a brief leave of absence, and was resplendent in a new uniform, sword, etc. Of course I packed the uniform away, and left it in care of the sutler, while I donned a knit blouse, and with a due regard for sharpshooters of which the Confederacy had, as it always seemed to me when on the skirmish line, more than its share, put myself in condition for serious work, having nothing in the way of wearing apparel save my side-arms to indicate military rank. Meantime a great change had been effected in our winter quarters. The tents had been removed from the log huts to which they had served as roofs and windows, and now the bare interiors, with the debris strewn about, and broken chimneys and blackened walls alone remained. A more dismal or melancholy sight than a deserted cantonment cannot be conceived. “Warm work ahead, boys,” gaily and cheerily remarked our jovial, stout-hearted adjutant, as he rode up to the head of the regiment. It proved to be particularly hot for him, for he received a wound in his head, in the charge on Marye’s Heights, that he will carry to his grave, and which ended his military career, but not his usefulness; for he is now a popular clergyman, a true soldier of the cross, settled in Philadelphia, I believe. Our progress was slow, and darkness intervened just as we reached a ravine leading down to the narrow valley which skirts the river on that side. We bivouacked in our tracks, not being allowed to kindle fires. Back over the route we had come could be heard the rumble of artillery wagons and the tramp, tramp, of marching columns. In front, silence reigned. Orders are issued in a low tone; and that stern composure which soldiers assume when about to encounter the enemy was apparent in the bearing of all. The officers gather around their adjutant, who is a favorite at brigade and division headquarters, to learn his views touching the movement. He thinks we are in for a fight, and gives his opinion as to Hooker’s intentions. He is sanguine of success.—We have hardly closed our eyes in sleep, when some one calls out in a voice seemingly loud enough for the rebel pickets to hear, “Where is Colonel Blank?” “Here, sir,” responds that officer, rubbing his eyes. “What’s wanted?” “Gen. B. directs me to say that you are to march your regiment to the bank of the river, form in line of battle, and await further orders. You are to move expeditiously, with as little noise as possible, following the pontoons.” The order is obeyed; the regiment marching away in almost spectral silence. Debouching from the ravine, the darkness deepens, for a dense fog hangs over the valley of the Rappahannock like a pall. We file past the pontoon train, from which the engineer corps are detaching the boats, silently and with all the celerity possible—and stand upon the river’s brink. In our rear come other regiments, until our whole brigade is closed in line five regiments deep.—It was a critical time. I recall it well. The silence was almost oppressive; orders were given in low tones, and nothing but the rattle of accoutrements broke the silence. The fog resembled a mirage. Objects a little way off took on gigantic proportions. I remember that a pontoon boat, borne on stout shoulders to the river’s brink, resembled the immense hulk of a ship as it loomed into view, while at the distance of a few feet men took on colossal dimensions. Meantime we are tolled off in detachments to occupy the pontoons, along with the engineers who are to do the navigation, and our orders are to form instantly on reaching the other shore, dash forward and capture the enemy’s picket line, or whatever force may be there to oppose us. At length there are sounds of commotion on the other side. The Johnnies suspect something. Splash! goes a pontoon into the water, followed by a deep curse from the officer in charge, brave old Gen. Benham, who cannot restrain his rage over the carelessness of his men. Meanwhile the fog has been gradually rising, and the gray of dawn appears. More stir on the other side, a rattling of equipments, hurried commands—then a sharp challenge, (some of our scouts are nearly over), followed by a single musket discharge, then a volley, and the whistle of bullets. Instinctively we do them low obeisance; the lines waver for an instant, then firmness and silence. So heavy a fire was not anticipated. It told of a large reserve which must have been brought up in expectation of an attack. All hope of a surprise was over. “Will the pontoons never be launched?” Yes, Benham has done his duty, and into them we scramble and push off, each boat for itself. The stream is narrow at this point, but we are not swift enough to check another volley, which being better directed than the first, killed and wounded a number of our boys in the boats. Almost at the same instant our pontoon touches the shore. There is a rush, a charge, a brief struggle, and that picket guard is hors du combat. Quickly deploying on the bank we advance, but the enemy retires more quickly;—and we have established a firm foothold, the pontoon bridge is laid, and the whole corps is streaming across as the morning sun rises above the horizon. The fog still clings, however, to the rising ground on which Franklin fought at the first battle of Fredericksburg, and we move with due caution, skirmishers well out, not knowing what sort of a reception Stonewall Jackson, whose corps is known to occupy the wooded heights beyond, may have in store for us. But no serious opposition is offered after the affair of the pickets, and gradually we occupy most of the ground previously held by the centre of Franklin’s grand division. The fog lifts at last, and the sight revealed is a picturesque one. Before us, a level plain, extending on the right to the suburbs of Fredericksburg, and on the left, cut with ravines and hillocks somewhat, for a long distance. Back of us, the river; fronting, on either hand, the plain ending in a range of wooded hills, semicircular in shape, and dotted with fortifications. The enemy’s picket line is well out upon the plain but touching the river above us near the city. Extending our left it soon came in contact with Reynolds’ corps, which had effected a crossing a mile or two lower down, after a sharp artillery fight in which the enemy showed superior metal, but was obliged to retire after the infantry got over. Midway from the river to the range of hills, and parallel with the former, is a deep ravine where partial shelter from the concentric fire from the artillery posted on Marye’s Heights on the right and on the hills in front, was afforded Franklin’s troops in the previous battle. A few artillery shots are fired, soon after establishing our lines, and then all becomes quiet. What does this inaction portend? Evidently, Lee is acting on the defensive, and waiting for the development of Hooker’s strategy. He does not have long to wait. Before us is the whole rebel army. Will it swoop down upon us before Hooker can develop his left and crush us? This is the conundrum with which we wrestle, as the hours wear away, varying it with a conjecture as to whether we shall be ordered to assault the enemy, in his chosen position, against which Burnside had thrown the flower of his army only to be hurled back discomfited. Another artillery duel between Reynolds and Jackson later in the day closes the fighting, and a night of repose follows. The succeeding day proved to be one of quiet, also, but there was a constant movement of troops in our rear on the heights of Falmouth, the line of march being directly up river.
“You see them on their winding way,
About their ranks the sunbeams play.”
That night our regiment went on picket. Never shall I forget it. Strict orders had been received, prohibiting fires, or conversation above a whisper, and requiring the most vigilant watchfulness to prevent surprise, as the enemy in heavy force was directly in our front. Our eyes were kept constantly on the rebel sentinels moving ghost-like upon their beats. A dense fog settled down, cold and damp. The hours seemed leaden. The suspense became intense, unbearable. Suddenly a tremor sweeps along the line. Our boys are doubly alert. What does it mean? A message comes down the front line—“The enemy are advancing. Hold your ground until the reserves are formed, then rally upon them!” With muskets firmly grasped the Union pickets await the onset. A night attack is always dreaded by soldiers, and nothing is more trying to the nerves of veterans than the expectation of a conflict with an unseen foe. But our boys do not flinch; they feel the responsibility imposed upon them and resolve to do their duty. Minutes go by, and still no advance, although the weird line of sentinels has been succeeded by a line of battle. Momentarily we expect to see a sheet of flame burst from that compact mass, the components of which are indistinguishable in the fog and darkness, although hardly six rods distant. But it comes not. The mass recedes and fades out, leaving the sentinels pacing their posts, and we now know that the movement was only a reconnaissance. Morning dawns at length, and we are relieved without firing a shot. As we gain the shelter of the ravine near the bank of the river, we notice that Reynolds has recrossed with his whole corps and is marching in the direction taken by the main army. Looking toward the rebel position on our left, dark masses of men are seen moving over the hills, as if in retreat. Here again we have food for speculation. Has Hooker, whose guns are now heard on the right, outflanked the enemy? Later on we learned that these troops were Stonewall Jackson’s rear guard, that intrepid commander being then in the process of executing that famous flank movement which put the 11th corps to rout and turned a Union success into a Confederate victory, the most signal ever achieved by its armies. About noon our troops made a demonstration, driving back the enemy’s pickets, and later in the day rifle-pits were dug under cover of army blankets hung up as if to dry—a device so simple as to deceive the Confederates, for otherwise, being commanded by their guns, it could not have been effected without serious loss.