Читать книгу: «Roster and Statistical Record of Company D, of the Eleventh Regiment Maine Infantry Volunteers», страница 6

While these operations were going on, Gregg's cavalry, supported by General Miles with a brigade from the Second Corps, had moved up the Charles City road, driving the enemy's cavalry before them, until our cavalry had reached White Tavern, only seven miles from Richmond. Reenforcements reaching the Confederate cavalry, Gregg was in turn forced back upon Miles, both finally falling back to Deep Creek, a tributary of Deep Run, fighting as they retreated, holding one position until a portion of their men had taken a second one a half mile or so back of their advance one, then the advance line would fall back behind the new line and take up a position about half a mile or so further in the rear in their turn, all this time carrying their dead and wounded with them, the dead strapped across the led cavalry horses or in front of the troopers. Finally the hard pressed men reached the creek, behind which Gregg reestablished his line, Miles returning to Fussell's Mill to take position on the right flank of our corps. And Mott had been threatening the enemy along Bailey's Creek with a strong skirmish line to learn their force, finding their works strongly held everywhere.

General Birney, "Old Mass and Charge," proposed that we assault at five o'clock that afternoon, but the force the advance of his skirmish line developed made him abandon this idea. Besides, about then Gregg's line before Deep Creek was so strongly attacked as to compel him to cross the creek to the bank nearest us to sustain himself, it seeming clear enough that an advance would only bring us disaster. General Grant gave up the idea of pressing the movement further, determining though, as in July, that we must hold a threatening position for a few days longer to keep the heavy force of the enemy in our front while he launched a force from the other flank at the Weldon Road.

The night of the 16th we took position close to the enemy's works and began to throw up intrenchments. By morning, working in relays, we had a strong line of works thrown up right under the enemy's nose. Our position, that of the Eleventh, lay along the side of a steep hill, so that the battery crowning it could fire directly over our heads. Here we lay the 17th, so near the enemy that we could see into his works from the crest of the hill. The picket lines, really heavy skirmish ones, kept up a steady fire all along the line until in the afternoon of the 17th, when General Grant allowed a flag of truce to be sent out and a truce arranged to continue from four to six o'clock. Perhaps, springing from this truce, there was an almost voluntary cessation of firing between the pickets until a little after five o'clock in the afternoon of the next day, the 18th, when it broke out with a fury that indicated a pending assault on us.

The skylarking and frolic of the men ceased as the fire of the skirmishers increased in rapidity and volume, and every man went to his post sober and alert. Suddenly the battery behind us opened with a roar, our skirmishers came flying out of the woods and over our works, while behind them sounded the wild yell of a rebel charging column. As soon as our skirmishers were over our works, the herculean form of our Sergeant Young bringing up the rear, to be struck by a bullet as he leaped the parapet. As soon as they were out of the line of fire we opened a terrible fire, every man loading and firing for his life, but steadily, swiftly the heavy columns of the enemy poured from the woods, yelling and firing wildly, those behind pushing those in front, until it seemed as if the pandemonium of shrieking, rushing demons would roll over our works, by sheer weight of numbers, in spite of the fire mowing their front lines down. And just then, as if to complete our destruction, for to lose our line and be driven back into the tangled woods just at night, chased by a superior foe, far from a supporting column, meant the loss of our batteries and Andersonville for hundreds of us. Just then the 100th New York, on our right, broke and left their part of the works in spite of shrieking officers, General Foster himself dashing among them, yelling like a madman and brandishing his sword in a vain attempt to hold them. But the old 10th Connecticut had been held on reserve and was just rushing to the support of the Eleventh, and the men of the two regiments confident of each others support, strung along the gap like lightning until they had filled it after a manner, every man redoubling his efforts to hold the enemy, now surging at the rough abatis planted in the front of our hastily built line.

They had stood our terrible fire well until now, but they could not stand the cold steel we were ready to meet them with should they persist in crossing the works; they wavered, broke and fell back into the heavy woods between us.

That this was one of the most stubborn assaults of the war is shown by its lasting for twenty minutes, during which time General Walker of the Second Corps notes in his history of that corps, that the fire of musketry was tremendous.

Scarcely had we breathed ourselves, when word was passed that we were to retire at dark, and that we must do so very quietly, without noise or gun rattling, even the tin cups and plates of the men must be so placed in their haversacks as not to give out the monotonous clinking that usually tells that a line of troops is on the march. Then a little latter we stole through the dark woods, leaving Colonel Plaisted with a thousand men of various commands to cover our retreat to a new position. This change of position, or "contraction of the line" as the military historians call it, was rendered necessary to let Mott's division march away to Petersburgh to take the place of the Ninth Corps in the intrenchments there, so that Corps could support Warren's movement on the Weldon road. Nothing of interest took place in the remainder of the movement, and finally, after a few days spent in skirmishing and reconnoitering in the unrealized hope that a weak spot might be discovered in the enemy's line, we fell back to the river; the Second Corps and Gregg's cavalry went to Petersburgh, and we returned to our camp at Deep Bottom.

We had been away from it a week, a week of disaster to the regiment, and especially to D, for nineteen of the best men of the company had been killed or wounded during it – one half of its available duty members – and as its thin line filed into the familiar company street those that remained behind gave it a sober greeting, looking sadly for the many familiar faces they would never see again, it is no wonder the eyes of all were dimmed, or that emotional tenderhearted Sergeant Francis should break into tears of manly mourning. We slept the deep sleep of exhaustion in our rude canvas homes that night, but the next night, in the early darkness, the regiment was suddenly ordered to fall in and the men soon found themselves across the ponton bridge and on the road to Bermuda Hundred. Then it was whispered that we were on our way to take part in an assault to be made on the Howlett House Battery at daybreak. It is not strange that we were more surprised than gratified at this proof of confidence in our assaulting abilities, nor is it to be wondered at that the men murmured wrathfully at the idea of assaulting so strong an intrenched position as they knew the Howlett House one to be, armed with heavy guns, and always strongly supported. But for all their hopelessness they would have dashed forward none the less gallantly at the word of command, for they had seen too many dead men lately to fear death greatly, or to hope that if Richmond was to be taken they could long escape him; in short, had about adopted the philosophy of the old Confederate Colonel, who, in Magruder's desperate charge at Malvern Hill, was heard to shout to his shrinking men, "Forward men, Forward! Do you expect to live forever?" But we were not put to the test, for while we were yet en route a galloping aid brought us word that the idea of the assault had been abandoned, and we returned to our camp.

BEFORE PETERSBURGH

The brigade broke camp at Deep Bottom the 26th of August and marched to a position in the lines before Petersburgh, pitching the camp near the Jerusalem Plank Road. The routine of our duty as closely investing troops ran thus: one day of twenty-four hours we would be on the picket line in our front, placed along a run that intersected an exposed field, the enemy's picket line lying on the other side of the run. Here in the head-high holes some of our predecessors had dug, we shivered through the night, and broiled through the day, not daring to lift our heads above our rude earth-works until dark; firing and observing through the rude embrasures the banks of earth before our picket-holes were pierced with. When relieved, always at night, and just after dark, we would only fall back into the front line of works, (batteries connected by infantry parapets,) to remain there forty-eight hours. Then relieved by in-coming pickets we would fall back to our camp and remain until morning, the next day being spent on fatigue duty, strengthening the lines of works. Then after another twenty-four hours spent in camp we went on picket again. All this time in camp and out of it, we were under fire, the bullets of the enemy ever singing around our ears, whether we were on the picket line, the main one, the reserve one or in camp, an invested one lying behind a parapet and flanked with batteries of field pieces and gatling guns. And often in camp, in the night, a sudden commotion would take place, to tell that some poor fellow had been severely wounded or perhaps killed, while curling up to his tent-mate under their blankets. But we dreaded the picket line the most, especially the day hours of it, not on account of its danger, for it was a comparatively safe one, all knowing the danger of exposure and conforming to the necessity of keeping closely covered, but to lay for so many hours under a hot sun in a hole in the ground, with only "hard tack" and greasy boiled pork to eat, and the warm water of our – the night before filled – canteens to drink was very disagreeable. Then the certainty that a rush of the enemy meant death or imprisonment for all pickets on the line of attack was not a quieting one.

It was on this picket line that First-Sergeant Bassett was killed the night of the 15th of September. It was a bright, moonlight night, we had just relieved the 1st Maryland, our men crept forward, each squad well informed of its assigned position, and all suddenly hurried for their positions, getting under cover as speedily as possible, the relieved pickets stealing as quietly away for the main line. This was the method of relieving here, but this night some of the relieved pickets moved up the hill somewhat carelessly, their plates and cups clanking noisily and themselves visible in the bright moonlight, so drawing a sharp fire from the enemy's pickets, by which several of the careless fellows were wounded.

Sergeant Bassett was to enter the extreme left picket hole to be occupied by our regiment. Lieutenant Maxfield returned from leave, and commanding D again, was assisting in placing the line, and was in the picket hole when Sergeant Bassett came running to it, in a crouching position, just as the enemy opened fire on the careless Maryland men. Reaching it, Captain Maxfield says, the Sergeant thoughtlessly stood erect on the edge of the pit, while saying, "Well, boys, I'm here," then fell forward into the Lieutenant's arms, a bullet having pierced his throat. Sergeant Bassett was my friend and tent-mate as well as my comrade. Only the night before his death he had talked long of the soon coming end of his term of service, a service he considered already ended by the law of right, he having enlisted on the 7th day of September three years before. But the constituted authorities considered that the three years he had enlisted for must date from October 19th, the date of his muster into service. The point was acknowledged to be a debatable one and Bassett was told that it was his privilege to stay in camp if he chose not to expose himself to the chances of the front line. But Frank was too high spirited a man to split hairs with his honor; he was either a soldier or a civilian, and if held would be as a soldier and not as a prisoner, declaring that until he was free to go North he would be with D wherever its lot was cast. And with D our bright, brave, true-hearted comrade died, heaping the measure of his duty with his life. The tour of duty in the main line, although affording more liberty of movement, was a dangerous one, especially for those stationed in front of the "Elliott" salient of the Confederates. It was under this salient that the mine had been exploded in the dim of a July morning. From its protruding point hundreds of men had been hurled from sleep into eternity, and for its mutilated possession hundreds more had died. From this grim point of the Confederate line, the hillside before it rough with hillocks of bare earth and rugged with yawning chasms, the result of the explosion, the enemy kept up a sharp and almost continuous night fire, for it was so close to our line that pickets were not thrown out before it by either side. And on dark nights their artillery at this point of the line would be frequently fired to throw a flashing light over the rough ground between the lines of works. Our heavy artillery was not averse to trying its weight with the Confederates at any time. General Humphreys praises the proficiency attending the gunners of this branch of artillery service in silencing the fire of the batteries of the enemy. They had an especial fancy for every now and then opening just at sunrise with every gun they had a roaring, shrieking salute to his rising majesty. Sometimes they did it for practice, sometimes to disconcert and alarm the enemy, sometimes to jubilate over some advantage some one of our armies had somewhere gained. One morning at daybreak, when a detachment of the regiment, including D, was in the little horseshoe shaped outwork we had before "Fort Hell," a messenger came along the line to let us know that at sunrise all our heavy guns would open. I was awake and in charge of a line of guards along the line of D, while the rest of the men, tired with a sleepless night watch, were dozing and napping here and there, crouching, lying, leaning in all possible positions but an erect one, but every man with his rifle clutched by a hand. It was my duty to awaken them and acquaint them with the coming bombardment, but I thought it would be a good joke to let the roar of the guns do the awakening. In a few minutes it came, a sudden roaring of batteries and the shrieking and bursting of shells just as the first ray of sunlight flashed from the east. The men of D not awake, awoke promptly, every man after his nature, some plunging for the bomb-proof, some springing for the parapet, and some just jumping to their feet and whirling around and around during a minute or so of desperate bewilderment. The men who leaped to the parapet to repel any coming enemy thought it a very good joke indeed, the momentarily bewildered ones had seen better jokes, but the ones that plunged for the bomb-proof were loud in expressing their indignation at the severest joke of their experience. It was on this line that the informal election was held by the regiment, Lincoln or McClellan, and the only vote cast for McClellan in D was by stout old Private Maddox. When rallied on his "disloyal" choice, as many preferred patriots thought it, Maddox wrathfully shouted, "My grandfather was a democrat, my father was a democrat, and by the Almighty, I'll not go back on either of them." If his argument did not convince his questioners of the soundness of his logic, his blazing eyes and stalwart form gave it a respectful consideration.

Private Maddox was not a conventional thinker anyway. On Strawberry Plains when a bullet went zipping through his cap, instead of raising a loud thanksgiving for his narrow escape, just by the hair of his head, he boiled over with rage at the injury to his cap, vowing that if he could get his hands on the rebel who fired the damaging shot, he would whip him within an inch of his scoundrelly life.

The twenty-four hours passed in camp gave us time for necessary domestic labors – washing, mending, gun and equipment cleaning. Though still under fire, we were released from the necessity of bearing guns and accoutrements, for which reason these few hours were looked forward to as a sort of turning out to grass, and as gladly as any old horse ever scuttled out of harness to roll in the clover, did we strip off our galling belts to stretch ourselves and enjoy our short space of comparative liberty, those of us not so unfortunate as to lose it in some detail of fatigue or other detested duty. Thus time ran in the entrenchments before Petersburgh until the 24th of September, when we moved back to a distance from the line of fire, making a new camp and giving an opportunity for the commanding officers to gratify their passion for drills, they revelling, according to Captain Maxfield's diary, both the 26th and the 27th in Company and Battalion drills.

THE NORTH SIDE OF THE JAMES

In the afternoon of the 28th of September we left this camp and marched for Deep Bottom, arriving there in the early morning very tired and sleepy. This was a hard march, so hard a one that when the Second Corps made it on their return from Deep Bottom in August, General Hancock considered it a very exhausting night march for troops to make that were to attack in the morning. Night marches are particularly weary ones. The monotony of plodding through silent darkness, hour after hour, is as wearing to the men as is the distance.

It is rarely that a gleam of enjoyment illumines the dullness of such a march; but as we plodded along through the darkness of this night and were passing a half slumbering camp, the fires were low and the lights were few, a voice rang out from it calling, "What regiment's that?" At the answer "The Eleventh Maine," a wild yell came from the quiet camp, dark forms rising from it in groups and companies, to shout in stentorian volleys "Who stole the butter?" It was the 98th New York, the regiment that sailed in the old Cahawba with us from Yorktown to Morehead City, on which cruise the sutler of the 98th lost his never to be recovered tubs of butter, and the question now waking the echoes of the dark night was the one to which even a drum-head court-martial failed to find the answer. The expedition we were a part of was intended to surprise the Confederate works on the north side of the river, where they were known to be thinly guarded. It was hoped that our unexpected onslaught would not only force their covering lines, such as the works before Deep Bottom and along Bailey's Creek and the works centering on Fort Harrison, near Chapin's Bluff, but would enable us to get possession of Fort Gilmer, of their main line too, really the key to the position of Chapin's Bluff.

General Ord, now commanding the Eighteenth Corps, was in immediate command of the expedition, consisting of all of the Tenth and Eighteenth Corps that could be spared from the investing lines and of Kautz's cavalry division. Ord was to cross the river from his Bermuda Hundred front, crossing by a ponton bridge laid down at Aiken's in the darkness of the night, we were marching through, was to gain the Varina road, here abutting on the river, move up sharply in the early morning and assail the enemy, taking such works as he could, at all events was to prevent the enemy from crossing troops by the ponton bridge between Drury's and Chapin's Bluffs, to attack Birney's Tenth Corps. Birney's Tenth Corps was to cross the river at Deep Bottom in the early morning, gain the New Market and Darbytown roads – lying beyond the Varina road in the order named and running along the river and parallel with it – the infantry to move along the New Market road with Kautz's cavalry moving on their flank by the Darbytown road, the line to overrun the Confederate outworks before Deep Bottom and sweep forward towards Fort Gilmer's flank, while Ord attacked its front. We moved through Deep Bottom, crushed the light force found before it and moved rapidly up the New Market road, driving the enemy before us. Ord had followed the river road and attacked so strongly with Burnham's brigade as to carry all before him, capturing Fort Harrison with sixteen guns and a large number of prisoners. General Burnham was killed in the assault on the fort. General Ord then moved his forces to the right and left of Fort Harrison, capturing two batteries of three guns each. He then endeavored to sweep down from the captured intrenchments and take the works on the river bank that covered the enemy's ponton bridge, but the Confederate gunboats opening the attempt was unsuccessful.

General Ord was severely wounded in directing this movement, and General Heckman took command of the Eighteenth Corps, but scattered his brigades in the woods so that he could not concentrate them on Fort Gilmer until it had been so heavily reenforced that he was repulsed with a heavy loss. In the meantime, we of the Tenth Corps had captured the enemy's outworks lying across the New Market and Darbytown roads, and were making ready to move on his main line a little over a half mile to their rear. General Grant was now on the ground. Sending our division over to the Darbytown road, about a mile across from the New Market one, to support Kautz, he directed Birney to move forward with his other brigades. Then Ames' division and Brigadier-General William Birney's colored brigade moved on Fort Gilmer by the New Market road, but they were forced back by the grape and musketry when so close to the works that some of the colored brigade jumped into the ditch and tried to climb to the parapet of the fort by each other's shoulders. We of Terry's Division were now pushing through the captured works, Kautz on the right, all moving under a heavy fire and in momentary expectation that the assault on Gilmer would be successful, when we proposed to force our way into Richmond. So vigorously did we move forward that when the announcement of the failure of the assault reached us we were actually less than four miles from Richmond, and it required rapid movement and severe fighting on our part to get out of the precarious position our own sanguine advance had placed our inadequate force in. Rejoining our line, light works were thrown up in the night.

The next day was one of heavy skirmishing only, until the afternoon, when a heavy force of the enemy assaulted Fort Harrison and were beaten back three times before abandoning their attempt to recapture it. General Stannard who so gallantly held the fort for us, lost his arm in the second assault. While these north side operations where going on, General Meade was moving on the left, partly to keep reenforcements from the north side, where so much was hoped for, and partly to try to gain ground on that flank. The results of his movements were desultory, although rather in his favor. We held our now well intrenched position on the north side of the James with only heavy skirmishing, while threatening demonstrations were made by brigades of both sides from day to day, but without a real collision until the 7th of October. The right flank of our force on that side of the river – our brigade held the extreme infantry position on that flank – was covered by Kautz's cavalry. His position was across a swamp from us, on the Darbytown road at the Confederate line of intrenchments we captured the 29th of September. Here he had 1700 men and two batteries. So threatening was this position that two divisions of Confederates moved out the night of October 6th, and at sunrise of the 7th attacked on his front and his right flank. He could not stand up against such an attack as this, and in falling back through the swamp, by the narrow road crossing it, found the rebel cavalry there before him. Leaving them his eight guns, his men made desperate attempts to get under the wing of our division, scouting through the woods in flying groups. About as soon as the roar of the enemy's sudden attack on Kautz came to our ears the advance of his broken cavalry squadrons came dashing through the woods on our flank, riding recklessly through tearing brambles and matted copses. Almost immediately our division left its intrenchments at the double-quick for a position at about right angles to the one left, quickly forming front to intercept the enemy's advancing force, now closely following Kautz's flying men. But as the enemy swept through the woods he fell on the heavy skirmish line we had thrown out, and his immediate advance was halted until assaulting columns could be formed. At last his heavy columns were ready for the assault and his skirmishers began to press ours in an attempt to break them, their columns hoping to get close to our line under cover of an advancing skirmish line.

But our men were stubborn. I remember that Colonel Plaisted sent me with orders to Lieutenant Dunbar, in command of the skirmishers of our regiment. The fire was furious, and the lines lay close on each other, it was a murderous one, but neither Dunbar nor his men were inclined to yield an inch. "We can hold a line of battle" yelled one bold Yankee. But they couldn't, for when the roar of the assault came rolling through the dense woods in which the fight took place, we had to hold the fire of our line until the flying skirmishers should get behind us, in this way getting the shrieking, dingy lines of the enemy within short rifle range before we opened on them. The grey lines pressed forward through the hail storm of bullets our brigade was pouring on them, when suddenly from our left broke out the volley roar of the seven-shooters of the New Hampshire men. Seven volleys in one. Flesh and blood could not stand such a cyclone of lead; and they stopped, broke and fled, leaving the woods piled with their dead and dying. Just as our victory was assured, reenforcements came up the road on the double-quick, to protect our extreme right. Panting and exhausted as they were with their efforts to reach us in time to be of service, they had breath enough left to give hearty cheers for our stand-up victory. We are particularly proud of this victory, as we won it without the protecting works so necessary to break the headlong impetus of an assaulting force, and in beating off the enemy's heavy charging columns stood in about single rank, having to stretch our line to a length that would oppose any flanking movement the enemy might combine with his front attack. And curiously enough our right regiment, the 10th Connecticut, just lapped the enemy's lines. I can see the 10th now as it stood on our immediate right, every man of it fighting with impetuous vigor to protect our flank, even its Chaplain, Henry Clay Trumbull, vying with the rest of its officers in encouraging their men, not only by his words but by flourishing a most unclerical looking revolver. It was here that Chaplain Trumbull won the name of "Fighting Chaplain" and high honors as he has since won in his chosen calling as Editor of the Sunday School Times, I'll venture that he is prouder of the title he received from the rank and file on that day of mortal warfare than of any theological one his service in the spiritual army has brought him. In this affair of the New Market Road, of D, its Commander, Lieutenant Maxfield and Corporal Horace Whittier of the Color Guard, were wounded.

The 13th of October our regiment was part of a force that moved out on the Darbytown road on a reconnoissance in force. We found the enemy's works of the most formidable character and strongly held. A brigade of Ames' division assaulted a promising part of them, but was beaten back, and a movement of ours made in conjunction with that of Ames, failed, we falling back under a very heavy artillery and musketry fire. While we lay in the woods before these inhospitable works, this storm of war sweeping over us, the cooks of D, then John Day and Prince Dunifer, appeared with camp kettles filled with hot coffee, and persisted in serving it to the men in spite of the great danger they had to expose themselves to in doing so. Cook Day, always excited in action, was none the less so that he was running the risk he then was, and as some slow member of the company lying flat upon the ground would fumble for his tin cup as John stood over him, John's ire would boil till he would shout in that stentorian voice of his, "Hurry up, hurry; do you want me to be killed?" And so amusing was John's tribulations to Prince Dunifer, walking behind John to carry the reserve kettle, that he forgot all about his own danger in laughing at John. But neither John nor Prince ever shirked a duty or a danger – both good cooks and good fighters, John only excelling in the intensity with which he performed every duty, whether it was to cook, fight or to run away. Who is more worthy of honor than are these comrades? They followed our marching column day after day, loaded with kettles, spades and provisions, at every opportunity making hot coffee and taking it to the men on the line of skirmish or battle; at night preparing a fiery bean hole in which to bake their beans, standing guard all night if need be over the simmering delicacies, that in the morning their men might have something tangible for their belts to tighten over. And what welcome did a rushing reenforcement meet with at some desperate moment of a raging battle, equal to the one that used to greet old John Day as he came plunging through the woods to our hungry, shivering line on some gray morning, his broad shoulders sturdily bearing a yoke from which depended kettles of steaming coffee and smoking beans. Of D, Private Woodbury was the only man wounded on this expedition.