Читать книгу: «A Boy Trooper With Sheridan», страница 5
“Attention, company!”
“Prepare to mount!”
“Mount!”
“Form ranks!”
“By fours, march!” and we were en route to the Rapidan. It was the last taste of home-made grub that we enjoyed till the campaign was over. We secured the makings of a square meal now and then while raiding around Richmond, but the territory had been foraged so often that it was considered mighty poor picking the last two years of the war.
As we rode forward, we found that everybody was on the march or getting ready to leave. Lines of tents were disappearing on all sides as the long roll sounded through the camps. Supply trains were moving out, and everything was headed about due south. As we rode by the bivouacs of the infantry, the foot soldiers, imitating the Johnnies, would sing out:
“Hay, there! where be you all goin’?”
“Bound for Richmond.”
“But we all are not ready to move out yet.”
“Then we’ll drive you out.”
“You all can’t whip we all. Bob Lee will drive you all back as he has done before.”
Then there would be a general laugh all along the line at the expression in this semi-serious way of an idea that had gained a strong lodgment in the minds of many “peace patriots” at the North. The soldiers at the front who were doing their best to crush out rebellion did not share in the feeling that the Jeff Davis government would carry the day. The veterans of Gettysburg and of Antietam knew that the Union army was in no respect inferior to the chivalry of the South – man to man. All the Army of the Potomac needed to enable it to fight Lee’s army to the finish, and win, was a commander that knew what fighting to a finish meant. Would the new commander fill the bill?
President Lincoln, in presenting Grant’s commission as lieutenant-general at the White House, March 9, 1864, assured the modest hero from the West that “as the country herein trusts you, so, under God, it will sustain you.” A few days after the lieutenant-general remarked: “The Army of the Potomac is a very fine one, and has shown the highest courage. Still, I think it has never fought its battles through.” The Army of the Potomac was waiting for a general who would give it an opportunity to “fight its battles through.” All eyes were fixed on the lieutenant-general. The result is recorded in history.
As we pressed toward the Rapidan there were evidences all about us that the Army of the Potomac was stripping for the fight. All superfluous baggage and trappings were left behind. The army was ready to strike a powerful blow at its old adversary, and the conflict was at hand. Sheridan was at the head of the cavalry corps. As we came in sight of the Rapidan and made preparations for swimming the river with our horses to cover the laying of the pontoon bridges, so that the infantry and artillery could cross, we felt that a few days would determine whether the Army of the Potomac would go “on to Richmond,” or, bleeding and shattered from an unsuccessful onslaught upon Lee’s veterans, fall back to its old quarters, as it had done on other occasions.
CHAPTER VII
The very Man Grant Wanted – Sheridan at the Head of the Cavalry – Lively Times in the Wilderness – Falling Back – Little Phil to the Rescue – A Close Call for the Doctors – The First Night After the Opening of the Fight – A Town in Mourning.
PHIL SHERIDAN never led his men into a ticklish place and left them to get out by themselves. He never sent his soldiers on a dangerous expedition without arranging to have assistance at hand if there was a suspicion that help would be needed. And he never asked his men to go where he was not willing to go himself.
I wish I had known all this on the morning of Thursday, May 5, 1864. It would have saved me from a great deal of worry about the fate of the cavalry corps in the Wilderness, and also from no little anxiety as to what was to become of the youngest trooper in Company I, First Massachusetts cavalry. But Sheridan was new to the Army of the Potomac. He came East with Grant. The old soldiers in our brigade had done considerable kicking because a number of cavalry generals who had raided around in Virginia, had been jumped by Sheridan.
Gen. Grant in his “Memoirs,” says, referring to his assuming command of the Army of the Potomac: “In one of my early interviews with the President, I expressed my dissatisfaction with the little that had been accomplished by the cavalry so far in the war, and the belief that it was capable of accomplishing much more than it had done if under a thorough leader. I said I wanted the very best man in the army for that command. Halleck was present, and spoke up, saying, ‘How would Sheridan do?’ I replied, ‘The very man I want.’ The President said I could have anybody I wanted. Sheridan was telegraphed for that day, and on his arrival was assigned to the cavalry corps of the Army of the Potomac.”
Grant was right – he was always right – and Little Phil not only proved a thorough leader of the cavalry corps, but he demonstrated his ability to command an army in one of the most successful campaigns of the war.
“Where are our hosses?” demanded a Berkshire boy, who was one of the first to come up with the sergeant and two men left to guide us to the reserve, as stated in the last chapter.
“In the woods back up the turnpike about a mile.”
“This is a nice way to treat American soldiers!” exclaimed a corporal, who had left both his boots in the mud in the plowed field. “I can’t run through blackberry brush barefooted!”
“I’m going to camp here till they bring back my horse and something to eat. I didn’t enlist to caper around on foot in such a place as this,” said another.
I volunteered to take the sergeant’s steed and go and see that the horses were sent to meet us, but at that moment there was heard the noise of the rebel cavalry coming in on our flank crashing through the bushes.
“You couldn’t manage my horse – he’s so fiery,” said the sergeant. “I can’t hold him when he takes it into his head to go where the other horses are.”
Away went the sergeant and the two men who had been left with him, on a gallop up the road.
“Follow me!” shouted the sergeant, as he put spurs to his charger.
We followed.
As the sergeant and his two companions turned a bend in the road, rebel cavalrymen, who had penetrated the jungle almost to the turnpike, opened fire on the three troopers. It was a race for life. The bullets whistled close to the ears of the Federals as they dashed by the Johnnies in ambush. Then the saddle girth of one of the privates gave way, and the terrified trooper was left sitting on his saddle in the middle of the road, his horse going on with the procession. He shouted, “Whoa!” The “rebel yell” went up as the Yankee went down. It stimulated him to the greatest effort of his life. Springing to his feet he held the saddle between his head and the Confederates to shield off their bullets, and darted into the bushes to the left of the turnpike. As he reached the thicket he threw the saddle back into the road and shouted defiantly at his would-be executioners:
“Take the old saddle, you infernal asses. I’ve got no use for it without a horse!”
Then he bounded away through the forest, keeping well to the left of the road. He was a pitiable sight when he rejoined the company that night. His clothes were literally torn off. He would not have been presentable at all if an artilleryman had not given him a spare shirt. It may be stated that several others reported to their company commander in about the same fix.
Some of us had taken such a deep interest in what was going on up the turnpike, that we almost forgot the rebels who were looking for us. I remember that I laughed, tired and concerned for my own safety though I was. The ludicrous figure cut by our comrade as he glanced around him when he landed in the road and yelled “Whoa!” – as if a runaway horse would stop under such circumstances – was too much for my risibility. But I did not have my laugh out. It was interrupted by one of our sergeants shouting:
“Streak it, boys – here they come!”
We made nearly as good time in getting away from that place as the mounted troopers had scored, and for the same reason. The butternut-clad cavalrymen fired their carbines almost in our faces at the first round. We needed no further notice to take to the woods. It was entirely unnecessary for “our six-footer corporal” to urge us to “remember Lot’s wife,” as he led the retreat over the brow of the hill and bounded down the slope out of range.
As I halted after crossing the divide to catch my breath, a terrible racket broke out in the woods to the right. As near as I could judge, not having paid much attention to the points of the compass, there was trouble somewhere in the vicinity of the turnpike where we had parted with the Confederates. There was no mistaking the sounds. There was fighting out there in the woods, and the cheering of Federal cavalrymen was heard above the yell of our late pursuers.
“We’re licking ‘em out o’ their boots!” said my bunkey, who had kept neck and neck with me through the woods.
“That’s what we’re doing.”
“I’d go back and take a hand if I had a horse.”
“So would I.”
Several of our boys ventured to the top of the hill, and then along the ridge toward the turnpike. They soon came to a rail fence, and on the other side of it was a squadron of Federal cavalry drawn up in line.
It did not take us long to introduce ourselves. We ascertained from the troopers who belonged to the Tenth New York that our regiment was on the other side of the road about a quarter of a mile north. By this time the firing on our front had dwindled down to irregular skirmishing.
As we were getting over the fence to go in the direction pointed out, Sheridan rode up. He came from the front, and was greeted with a hearty cheer that was echoed by cavalry posted away to the left, and also by those of us who had breath enough left to shout. “Little Phil” waved his hat, which he was holding in his hand.
“Our line is all right, boys,” and he galloped up the turnpike to report to Grant, who was at Meade’s headquarters.
Sheridan had inflicted severe punishment on the rebel cavalry that had come in on our flank. He was informed of the condition of affairs at the front, and at the time our battalion was ordered to fall back, a line had been formed further up the turnpike ready to receive the rebels. The road was left clear, and as Hampton’s “critter companies” followed the dismounted Union troopers, they fell into the trap. Then they went back faster than they had come. Sheridan’s troopers charged, and the chagrined gray-coats were driven way beyond the ravine where our battalion had held the line of the rail fence before our ammunition failed.
As the memory of that day’s events comes to me now, there is a sprinkling of regret that I was forced to “streak it” through the Wilderness. It completely destroyed my confidence in the ability of our regiment to put down the rebellion single-handed at one fell swoop. And, moreover, a good many of us were almost naked when we reached the horses after our run through the forest. Yet it was necessary that sacrifices should be made. Sheridan was fishing with live bait, and it was part of the programme that the bait should be kept moving.
When I reached my company, which was waiting orders near the turnpike leading to Todd’s Tavern, I was informed that my horse had been killed by a shell while the animals were being led to the rear. I felt the loss of my horse keenly. And then my saddle-bags were gone, with the picture of my best girl and other memories of home.
Orders came for the regiment to move a little further to the left. An infantry brigade was forming on our right. There had been serious business on the other side of a strip of woods to the right of the line occupied by the cavalry. Wounded men were carried to the rear on stretchers. Several army surgeons had ventured to establish a field hospital well up to the front line. The Johnnies may have had a hankering for the medical stores in the hospital chests that were unpacked so temptingly near the enemy, for they made a dash for the wagons. But this time the Confederates made a mistake. The infantry holding the line in front of the “doctors’ den” peppered the gray-coats until the would-be consumers of United States spiritus fermaiti were glad to turn and get back out of range as fast as their legs could carry them.
The narrow escape of the medical men showed that they had spread out their operating instruments too near the enemy, and the base of operations was removed over a hill to the rear. There was a stampede when the rebels charged to break the line in front of the field hospital, and a horse belonging to one of the surgeons dashed down the turnpike. The infantrymen made no effort to stop the animal – the average foot soldier was afraid of a horse – and it occurred to me that the horse was just about what I needed to complete my outfit. My heart beat a double tattoo as I attempted to spread myself across the road to intercept the runaway. He came on at full speed, but as he shied toward the fence to pass by me, I was fortunate enough to catch the bridle rein, and that horse was mine – till further orders.
I examined the saddle girths and found everything in good shape. After I had taken up the stirrup straps – the doctor’s legs were considerably longer than mine – I mounted the prize, and once more felt there was a possibility that the Southern Confederacy might be conquered! Then I took an inventory of the contents of the doctor’s saddle-bags. There was a bottle of hospital brandy in one of the bags. It was the “genuine stuff,” as Sergeant Warren remarked that night when I allowed him to sample it. I investigated further and found a field glass, several boxes of pills, a few rolls of bandages and lint, with a small case of instruments. There were two six-shooters in the holsters on the pommel of the saddle, and a surgeon’s regulation sword fastened on the left side. A canteen, and a haversack containing a couple of ham sandwiches, a piece of cheese and a can of condensed milk were included in the outfit. I whistled dinner call at once, and made an excellent meal on what the medical man had provided for his supper. Then I rejoined my company.
The Wilderness was full of terror when night came on and spread its mantle of darkness over the scenes of bloodshed. On every hand could be heard the groans of the wounded and dying. The gathering of the unfortunates went on all night, and the poor fellows were borne to the field hospitals. There was heavy firing at intervals. Here and there the bivouac fires lighted up the otherwise Egyptian darkness and served to make the shadows all the darker, and to give the surroundings a weird and dismal aspect. It seemed as if daylight would never return. When it did break we hailed it joyfully, although we knew that the light of the newborn day would witness a renewal of the conflict.
We did not unsaddle our horses that night, but along about midnight we were given an opportunity to feed our chargers and make coffee for ourselves. Preceding the feed the company rolls were called by the first sergeants. In Company I not more than fifty per cent, of the number on the roll responded – I mean of the number that had charged down the turnpike Thursday morning. A majority of the boys who failed to show up at the first roll-call in the Wilderness put in an appearance later on.
It was the same with other regiments. In a battle like that of the Wilderness there was a good deal of the go-as-you-please, especially if there were charges and retreats and frequent changes in formations. Details would be made from companies for skirmishes and other duties, and the men so detailed when they returned were unable to find their companies, their regiments having been transferred to another part of the field. I recall an incident of the Battle of the Wilderness that was the cause of a whole town going into mourning: Company B of the One hundred and twenty-fifth New York Volunteers contained many Berlin boys. In one of the movements in the Wilderness that regiment marched past the First Massachusetts. I was on the watch for Company B. I think it was after the second day’s battle. The One hundred and twenty-fifth had been fighting furiously somewhere near the Brock road, and the slaughter had been great. The ranks of the regiment were depleted, and when I spotted the Berlin boys I saw that B Company had suffered badly. There were only two or three faces that I recognized. Rube Fry was one, I think.
“Halloo, Company B!”
“Halloo! – there’s Alex Allen’s boy.”
“Where’s the rest of the company – the Berlin boys?”
“All killed but six.”
“It will be sad news for Berlin.”
“Yes; and it will be a wonder if any of us escape if we don’t get out of the Wilderness pretty soon.”
“It will indeed.”
“Good-by.”
“Good-by, Rube. I’ll write home if I get a chance.” I got the chance the day that we started on Sheridan’s raid – May 8. I wrote the news just as I had received it. There was mourning all over the town when that letter reached Berlin. The news from the front was contradicted, however, soon after by letters from several of the boys who had been included in the list of casualties I had sent home. It seems that a part of the One hundred and twenty-fifth was sent on picket duty to the left, and a charge had been made by the men not included in the detail. Lieut. – Col. A. B. Myer and thirty-four men out of one hundred and four who made the charge were killed. Somehow the report had been started that all the rest of the regiment had been killed or wounded or taken prisoners. I was rejoiced to learn when I next met the One hundred and twenty-fifth, after Sheridan’s raid, that the report of the casualties in Company B sent home in my letter after the Battle of the Wilderness was exaggerated.
I find in the roster of B Company as given in the history of the One hundred and twenty-fifth New York Volunteers by Chaplain Ezra D. Simons of that regiment, that none of B Company was killed in the Wilderness, and only five were wounded.
But B Company did not escape so luckily in the battle of Spottsylvania, following close on the heels of the Wilderness. Several were killed outright and a number wounded. The company lost twenty-four men, killed and died, during its service – a number far above the average of companies throughout the army. The One hundred and twenty-fifth made a splendid record.
I was always glad to run across the regiment at the front, and to compare notes with the Berlin boys in Company B.
CHAPTER VIII
A Council of War – Observations at Daylight – The Second Day in the Wilderness – Not to Fall Back – The Rebel Yell – The Third Day – Custer at Work – An Ideal Cavalry Officer.
AT daybreak we expected to renew the Battle of the Wilderness – if the rebels did not pitch into us again during the night. The enlisted men of our company held a council of war before any of them availed themselves of the privilege of turning in for a snooze.
“I wonder if the Johnnies will skedaddle before morning?” said one of the boys who had been back at Ely’s ford and had not participated in the first day’s fight.
“You had better take a sleep. We’ll call you if the enemy shows up before reveille.”
“All right, here goes. I can sleep one night more with a clear conscience, for my hands have not been stained with the blood of a single enemy.”
Of course, these remarks were made jokingly. No matter how serious the situation might be, there was always a disposition among the soldiers to make light of it. After the “re-enforcement” had retired the council was continued.
“I don’t think it’s fair to ask the cavalry to fight on foot as we did yesterday.”
“But what else could we do when we come to that high fence?”
“We might have stopped and waited for the Johnnies to charge us.”
“Well, I guess Phil Sheridan knows how to fight his men better’n we know ourselves.”
“We’ll have another fight in the morning.”
“Certainly.”
“And there’ll be more of us killed and wounded.”
“Yes.”
“I wonder whether we’re whipped, or the rebels have got the worst of it?”
“Can’t tell till daylight, we’re all mixed up so.”
“But Grant must know.”
“That’s so – but where’s Grant?”
“He’s with Meade back near that old quartz mill where we had dinner the day we crossed the Rapidan.”
“The lieutenant told me that Grant’s orders are for our side to make an attack at three o’clock.”
“Then we’re not whipped.”
“Not if we’ve got orders to open the ball in the morning. Let’s get what rest we can.”
“All right.”
About three o’clock Friday morning – we were taking turns in sleeping – I called upon my bunkey to “get out of bed and let me get in.”
“I haven’t been asleep yet.”
“That’s your own fault; you’ve had time enough.”
“I was just getting good and sleepy – but I’m not piggish. Take the bed.”
I stretched myself on the piece of tent, and tried to go to sleep. But it was no easy thing to settle down. The events of the day – the attack on our picket line, charging down the turnpike, exciting experiences at the rail fence, fighting on foot, charging across the plowed field, holding the enemy in check, falling back when flanked by the rebels, Sheridan’s punishment of our pursuers – all crowded themselves to the front, and it seemed a year since we broke camp at Warrenton. I had never been in a pitched battle before, and I tried to remember the events in their order that I might be able to write them down as a basis for a letter to friends at home. The more I tried to straighten things out the more I got mixed. I dropped to sleep, but just as I was describing the battle to a group of villagers at Berlin, I was brought suddenly back to the front by a sergeant who was poking me with his saber scabbard.
“Private Allen, turn out for picket.”
“But I’ve only just turned in. There’s my bunkey; can’t you take him? he’s already turned out after a good long nap – ”
“No back talk, out with you!”
I was on my feet as soon as I awoke sufficiently to realize the situation.
“Mount your horse, and report to Sergeant Murphy out there in the road. Is your cartridge box full?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Hundred rounds extra in your saddle-bags?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Mount at will, and go ahead.”
Sergeant Murphy took charge of a detail from several companies. We rode down the road a few rods, and a staff officer then assumed command of the detachment.
“We’re to go out beyond the picket line and watch the movements of the rebels at daybreak,” the lieutenant informed Sergeant Murphy.
In fifteen minutes we were at the last picket post out toward Todd’s Tavern.
“Detail a man to ride ahead, Sergeant,” the officer directed.
I had ridden close up to the officer to hear all I could about the prospects of a fight, and the sergeant detailed me.
“The object of keeping a man well to the front,” the officer said to the sergeant, “is to draw the enemy’s fire should we run into the rebel pickets, and thus prevent the detachment from falling into an ambush.”
“Very proper, sir,” assented the sergeant.
“You will ride down the road, keeping a hundred yards or so from the head of the column,” the lieutenant said to me. “Load your carbine and keep it ready for use, but don’t fire unless the enemy opens on you, for it is desired to secure a favorable position for watching the movements of the rebels as soon as it is light enough.”
It was quite dark down there in the woods. I did not take kindly to the thought that I was to be used as a target for the rebel pickets. This riding to the front to draw the enemy’s fire was a new experience to me. But I tried to comfort myself with the hope that we were so far out on the left that we would not encounter the Confederates.
The advance business was as new to the doctor’s horse as it was to me. I had to use my spurs freely to induce him to go down the road ahead of the other horses. We got started after a while, and the still hunt for Lee’s right and rear was begun.
It was lonesome work for man and beast. Suddenly, and without any intimation of what he intended to do, the horse began to neigh. It may have been in the animal’s “ordinary tone of voice,” but to me it seemed to be loud enough to be heard way back to the Rapi-dan. I expected the Johnnies would open fire at once. The staff officer rode up to me – after waiting long enough for me to draw the enemy’s fire if they were close at hand – and said:
“What’s the matter?”
“Morse ‘whickered,’ sir.”
“What made him?”
“Can’t tell, sir; he broke out without any notice.”
“Ever do it before?”
“Don’t know. I only got him yesterday afternoon. He belonged to an infantry doctor who was shot.”
“That accounts for it; a doughboy horse don’t know anything about this kind of work! Take your place at the rear of the detachment, and if that horse neighs again, break his head with your carbine.”
“All right, sir.”
Another man was sent to the front, and we moved on. We did not run into the rebel pickets, and the officer said we must be further to the left than the right of Lee’s line. We halted on the top of a hill where the road turned westward and waited for daylight.
As soon as it became light enough for the officer to take observations with his field-glass, he rode to the highest point he could find and surveyed the broken country in our front. He could not see far in any direction, us the woods were thick and there was little cleared land.
“Come here, Sergeant,” the lieutenant called to Murphy, after looking off to the west for a few seconds through his glass. “Look over there.”
“Rebels, sir,” said the sergeant.
“Yes; cavalry moving over this way. We will return at once.”
We went back up the turnpike at a gallop.
“What’s up?” inquired the officer in charge, of the outposts when we reached our pickets.
“The rebels are up and moving around to get on our left flank. Keep a good lookout and be ready to move at once. I will report to Gen. Sheridan, and there will soon be lively work.”
Sheridan’s cavalry was in the saddle and en route to Todd’s Tavern within twenty minutes after our return from the reconnaissance in that direction. The cavalry was to connect with the left of the infantry commanded by Gen. Hancock. The staff officer’s prediction that there would be lively work on our left was fulfilled. Sheridan was in time to intercept Stuart’s advance along the Furnace road, a few miles northwest of Todd’s Tavern. It was hot work.
There was desperate fighting as the troopers came together at the intersection of the Brock and the Furnace roads. Jeb Stuart’s attempt to get around in our rear to make a dash on the wagon trains of the Army of the Potomac, and to smash things generally, was a complete failure. He was driven back from the Furnace road, and after a stubborn stand at Todd’s Tavern the rebel cavalry leader was forced to call off his troops and fall back from Sheridan’s immediate front.
In the afternoon, having been re-enforced, and after being ordered by Lee to turn Grant’s left, Stuart again attacked the Federal troopers. He was assisted by infantry, but Little Phil refused to budge an inch from the position held at Todd’s Tavern. The rebels were driven back with heavy loss. In the meantime the entire army was engaged, and the fighting was continued all day.
A rebel trooper of Fitzhugh Lee’s division, taken prisoner the evening of May 6, inquired:
“Who’s you all fightin’ under this time?”
“Grant.”
“I reckoned so; but who’s overseer of the critter companies?”
“Sheridan.”
“He’s a doggoned good ‘un. Fitz Lee knew what he was talkin’ ‘bout, when he told Wade Hampton that we all would be ‘bliged to take care of our own flanks this trip.”
“You’re right, Johnny.”
“Be you all headed for Richmond, sure ‘nough?”
“That’s where we’re going.”
“But what be you all to do with me?”
“We’ll send you North, and let you live on the fat of the land till we gobble up the rest of the rebel army.”
“Stranger, do you mean it?”
“Certainly.”
“Hallelujah! I’m ready to be fatted. Where’s you all’s commissary department?”
He was sent to the rear with the other prisoners.
At the close of the second day’s battle in the Wilderness, the report was current among the troopers of Sheridan’s cavalry corps, that the Army of the Potomac would retire from the front of Lee’s army in that Virginia jungle and fall back to Fredericksburg, which would be occupied as a new base of supplies pending the re-organization of the army to again move “On to Richmond!”
There is no denying the fact that the Army of the Potomac was seriously crippled. An order to fall back to the north bank of the Rapidan would have been accepted as a matter of course had the new commander directed such a movement. But if some of the soldiers had known Grant better, they would have spent less time that night in speculating whether the line of retreat would be by the Germania plank road or over the route to Ely’s ford.
It turned out that Grant did not discover that the “Yankees were whipped in the Wilderness” until he read an account of the “rout of the Federal army” in a Richmond paper at Spottsvlvania a few days later. Of course, it was then too late for the Union commander to use the information to any advantage. It may be remarked also, that Lee had not heard of Grant’s defeat until he received the news via the rebel capital.
There was a disposition on the part of a few brigades on the Union right to get back across the Rapidan without waiting for orders Friday night. Gen. Gordon of Georgia made a desperate effort to demoralize the Federals by charging Grant’s right, coming in on the flank. He gobbled up a brigade or two, and sent a good many blue-coats flying back toward the river. But the fugitives could not find their way out of the Wilderness, and they halted before going far, for fear they would get turned around and run into the enemy. The gallant Sedgwick again demonstrated his fighting qualities. He did not intend that the colors of the sixth corps – the banner with the Greek cross – should go down. Sedgwick brought order out of chaos. He drove back the Confederates and saved the day – or the night, as Gordon’s charge was made after darkness had set in.
