We were called away from this ghastly scene by the guns starting again, and we moved on rapidly to the front. As we went, at a trot, one of the men, John Williams, who was sick with the heat and exhaustion of the trying march, and was sitting on the trail of the gun, suddenly fainted, and fell forward under the wheel. He was, fortunately, saved from instant death by a stone, just in front of which he fell. The ponderous wheel, going so rapidly, struck the stone, and was bounded over his body, only bruising him a little. It was a close shave, but we were spared the loss of a dear comrade, and good soldier.
An Infantry Battle
When we got up pretty close to the line of battle, we halted and then were ordered to pull out beside the road and wait for orders. Here we found a great many batteries parked, and we heard that it was, as yet, impossible to get artillery into action where the infantry was fighting. In fact, the battle of The Wilderness was almost exclusively an Infantry fight. But few cannon shots were heard at all during the day; the guns could not be gotten through the thickets. We heard, at the time, that we had only been able to put in two guns, and the Federals, three, and that our people had taken two of them, and the other was withdrawn. Certainly we hardly heard a single shot during most of the fight. But we didn’t know at the time the exemption we were to enjoy. It was a strange and unwonted sight, all those guns, around us, idle, with a battle going on. For the way General Lee fought his artillery was a caution to cannoneers. He always put them in, everywhere, and made the fullest use of them. We always expected, and we always got, our full share of any fighting that was going on. And to be idle here, while the musketry was rolling, was entirely a novel sensation. We were under a dropping fire, and we expected to go in every moment. A position which every old soldier will recognize as more trying than being in the thick of a fight. It was very far from soothing.
When we had been waiting here a few minutes, Dr. Newton, since the Rev. John B. Newton of Monumental Church, Richmond, Va., afterwards Bishop Coadjutor of Virginia, but then the surgeon of the 40th Virginia Infantry, rode by our guns, and recognizing several of us, boys, his kinsmen, stopped to speak to us. After a few kind words, as he shook hands with us very warmly at parting, he pointed to his field hospital, hard by, and very blandly said, “Boys, I’ll be right here, and I will be glad to do anything for you in my line.” To fellows going, as we thought, right into battle, this was about the last kind of talk we wanted to hear. A doctor’s offer of service in our situation, was full of ghastly suggestions. So his well-meaning proffer was met with opprobrious epithets, and indignant defiance. It was shouted to him in vigorous Anglo-Saxon, what we thought of doctors anyhow, and that if he didn’t look sharp we’d fix him so he would need a doctor, himself, to patch him up. The Doctor rode off laughing at the storm his friendly remarks had raised. Never was a kind offer more ungraciously received. I suppose, however, if any of us had got hurt just then, we would have been glad enough to fall in with the Doctor, and to have his skillful care. Fact is, soldiers are very like citizens—set light by the doctor when well, but mighty glad to see him when anything is the matter.
The Doctor, and all his brother “saw-bones” soon had enough to do for other poor fellows, if not for us. Numbers of wounded men streamed past us, asking the way to the hospitals, some, limping painfully along, some, with arms in a sling, some, with blood streaming down over neck or face, some, helped along by a comrade, some, borne on stretchers. It was a battered looking procession; and yet, I suppose that people will be surprised to hear, it was as cheerful a lot of fellows, as you can imagine. Wounded men coming from under fire are, as a rule, cheerful, often jolly. Being able to get, honorably, from under fire, with the mark of manly service to show, is enough to make a fellow cheerful, even with a hole through him. Of course I am speaking now of the wounded who can walk, and are not utterly disabled.
Eagerly we stopped those wounded men to ask how the fight was going. Their invariable account was that it was all right. They spoke about what heavy columns the enemy was putting in, but they said we were pressing them back, and every one spoke of the dreadful carnage of the Federals. One fellow said, after he was shot in the advancing line, he had to come back over a place, over which there had been very stubborn fighting, and which our men had carried, like a hurricane at last, and as he expressed it, “Dead Yankees were knee deep all over about four acres of ground.” The blood was running down and dropping, very freely, off this man’s arm, while he stood in the road and told us this.
These accounts of the wounded men from the line of battle put us in good heart, which was not lessened by a long line of Federal prisoners being marched to the rear, and the assurance by one of the guard that there were “plenty more where these came from.”
And so at last this long exciting day wore away. As dark fell the firing ceased. We got some wood and made fires, and, pretty soon after, “old Tom Armistead,” our Commissary Sergeant, rode up. His appearance was hailed with delight, as the promise of something to eat. These transports were destined to be moderated when Tom told what he had to say. He had ridden on from the wagons, far in the rear, and all he could get was a few crackers, and a small bag of wet brown sugar. This he had brought with him, across his horse.
Each man got two crackers and one handful of sugar. This disappeared in a twinkling. And then we sat around the fires discussing the events of the day. One subject of general anxiety, I remember, was when Longstreet would be up. As well as things had gone this day, we all knew well, how much his Corps would be needed for tomorrow’s work. It was generally regarded as certain that he would get up during the night, and we lay down to sleep around our guns confident that all was well for tomorrow.
Next morning we were up early. I don’t remember that we had anything to eat, and as the getting anything to eat in those days made a deep impression on our minds, I infer that we didn’t. However we got a wash, a small one. We did not always enjoy this refreshment; then had to be content with a “dry polish” such as Mr. Squeers recommended to Nicholas Nickelby at “Dotheboys Hall,” when the pump froze. But on this occasion we had, with difficulty, secured one canteen of water between three of us, wherein we were better off than some of the others. The tin pan in which we luxuriated during winter quarters had been relegated to the wagon, both as inconvenient to carry, and as requiring too much water. It always took two to get a “campaign wash.” One fellow poured a little water, out of the canteen, into his comrade’s hands, with which he moistened his countenance, a little more poured over his soaped hands, and the deed was done. On this occasion when one canteen had to serve for three, and no more water was to be had, our ablutions were light; in fact, it was little more than a pantomime, in which we “went through the motions” of a wash. But we were afraid to leave the guns a minute, after daylight, for fear of a sudden movement to the front, so we had to do with what we had.