Chapter III: Battles of Spottsylvania Court House (1)

It was just ten o'clock and each man was looking around for the dryest spot to spread his blanket on, when a courier rode up, with pressing orders for us to get instantly on the march. In a few moments, we were tramping rapidly through the darkness, on a road that led, we knew not whither. We were, as we found out afterwards, leading the great race, that General Lee was making for Spottsylvania Court House to head off Grant in his efforts to get out of the Wilderness in his "push for Richmond." We were with the vanguard of the skillful movement, by which Longstreet's Corps was marched entirely around Grant's left flank, to seize the strong line of the hills around Spottsylvania Court House and hold it till the other two Corps could come to our aid.

We marched all night, a hard, forced march over muddy roads, through the damp, close night. Soon after the start from our bivouac, a brigade of infantry had filed into the road ahead of us, and we could hear, behind us on the road, though we could not see for the darkness, the sound of other troops marching. The Brigade ahead of us, we soon found, to our gratification, to be Barksdale's Mississippi Brigade, now under command of General Humphreys, since the gallant Barksdale fell at the head of his storming columns at Gettysburg. This was the Brigade to which we had belonged in the earlier organization of the artillery. It was a magnificent body of men, one of the most thorough fighting corps in the army, as they had showed a hundred times, on the bloodiest fields, and were soon, and often to show again. There was a very strong mutual attachment between the First Richmond Howitzers and Barksdale's Brigade, and we were much pleased to be with them on this march. We mingled with them, as we sped rapidly along, and exchanged greetings, and our several experiences since we had been separated.

The morning of the 8th of May broke, foggy and lowering, and found us still moving swiftly along. The infantry halting for a rest, we passed on ahead, and for some time were marching by ourselves. I well recall the impressions of the scene around us on that early morning march. Our battery seemed all alone on a quiet country road. The birds were singing around us, and it seemed, to us, so sweet! Everybody was impressed by the music of those birds. As the old soldiers will remember, the note of a bird was a sound we rarely heard. The feathered songsters, no doubt, were frightened away, and it was often remarked, that we never saw birds in the neighborhood of camp. So we specially enjoyed the treat of hearing them, now and here, in their own quiet woods, where they had never been disturbed. All was quiet and still and peaceful as any rural scene could be. It seemed to us wondrous sweet and beautiful! All the men were strangely impressed by it. They talked of it to one another. It made our hearts soft, it brought to the mind of many of those weary, war-worn soldiers, other quiet rural scenes, where lay their homes and dear ones, and to which this scene made their hearts go back, in tender memory, and loving imagination. All the eyes did not stay dry as we passed along that road. We talked of this scene many a time long afterwards. And I expect some of the old "Howitzers" still remember that quiet Spottsylvania country road, winding through the woods, on that early Sunday morning, when the birds sang to us, as we hurried on to battle.

Well! the morning wore on, and so did we. By and by, the sun came out through the fog and clouds, and began to make it hot for us. The dampness of the earth made this an easy job. The sun got higher and hotter every minute. The way that close, sultry heat did _roast_ us was pitiful. We would have "larded the lean earth as we walked along," except that hard bones and muscles of gaunt men didn't _yield_ any "lard" to speak of. The _breakfast_ hour was not observed, _i. e._, not with any ceremony. "Cracker nibbling on the fly" was all the visible reminder of that time-honored custom. We were not there to eat, but, to get to Spottsylvania Court House; and _steps_ were more to that purpose than _steaks_, so we omitted the steaks, and put in the steps; and we put them in very fast, and were putting in a great many of them, it appeared to us. At last, just about twelve o'clock our road wound down to a stream, which I think was the _Po_, one of the head waters of the Mattaponi River, and then, we went up a very long hill, a bank, surmounted by a rail fence on the left side of the road, and the woods on the other.

=Stuart's Four Thousand Cavalry=

Just as we got to the top (our Battery happened just then to be ahead of all the troops, and was the first of the columns to reach the spot), the road came up to the level of the land on the left, which enabled us to see, what, though close by us, had been concealed by the high roadside bank. A farm gate opened into a field, around a farmhouse and outbuildings, and there, covering that field was the whole of Fitz Lee's Division of Stuart's cavalry. These heroic fellows had for two days been fighting Warren's corps of Federal infantry, which General Grant had sent to seize this very line on which _we_ had now arrived. They had fought, mostly dismounted, from hill to hill, from fence to fence, from tree to tree; and so obstinate was their resistance, and so skillful the dispositions of the matchless Stuart, that some thirty thousand men had been forced to take about twenty-six hours to get seven or eight miles, by about forty-five hundred cavalry. But, it was incomparable cavalry, and J. E. B. Stuart was handling it. It was some credit to that Corps to have marched any at all! Thanks to the superb conduct of the cavalry, General Lee's movement had succeeded! We had beaten the Federal column, and were here, before them, on this much-coveted line, and meant to hold it, too.

I note here in passing, that this Spottsylvania business was a "white day" for the cavalry. When the army came to know of what the cavalry had done, and _how they had done it_, there was a general outburst of admiration,--the recognition that brave men give to the brave. Stuart and his men were written higher than ever on the honor roll, and the whole army was ready to take off its hat to salute the cavalry.

And, from that day, there was a marked change in the way the army thought and spoke of the cavalry; it took a distinctly different and higher position in the respect of the Army, for it had revealed itself in a new light; it had shown itself signally possessed of the quality, that the infantry and artillery naturally admired most of all others--_obstinacy_ in fight.

As was natural, and highly desirable, each arm of the service had a very exalted idea of its own importance and merit, as compared with the others. In fact the soldier of the "Army of Northern Virginia" filled exactly the Duke of Marlborough's description of the spirit of a good soldier. "He is a poor soldier," said the Duke, "who does not think himself as good and better than any other soldier _of his own army_, and _three times as good_ as any man in the army _of the enemy_." That fitted our fellows "to a hair;" each Confederate soldier thought that way.

It was not an unnatural or unreasonable conceit, _considering the facts_. It must be confessed that _modesty_ as to their quality as soldiers was not the distinguishing virtue of the men of the Army of Northern Virginia, but, it must be considered, in extenuation that their experience in war was by no means a good school for humility. An old Scotch woman once prayed, "Lord, gie us a gude conceit o' ourselves." There was a certain wisdom in the old woman's prayer! The Army of Northern Virginia soldiers had this "gude conceit o' themselves," without praying for it; certainly, if they did pray for it, their prayer was answered, "good measure, pressed down, shaken together, and running over." They had it abundantly! And it was a tremendous element of power in their "make up" as soldiers. It made them the terrible fighters, that all the world knew they were. It largely explains their recorded deeds, and their matchless achievements.

For instance, here at the Wilderness! What was it that made thirty-five thousand men knowingly and cheerfully march to attack one hundred and fifty thousand men, and stick up to them, and fight them for twenty-four hours, without support or reinforcement? It was their good opinion of themselves; their superb confidence. They felt _able_ with thirty-five thousand men, _and General Lee_, to meet one hundred and fifty thousand men, and hold them, till help came; _and didn't they do it_?

Well! they did _that kind of thing so often_ that they couldn't get humble, and _they never have been able to get humble since_. They _try to_--but--_they can't_!

But I return from this digression to say, that the different Arms of the service had something of this same feeling, this good opinion of themselves, as compared with one another. Each one had many jokes on the others, and whenever they met, all sorts of "chaffing" went on. In all this, the infantry and artillery felt closer together, and were rather apt, when the occasion offered, to turn their combined guns on the cavalry.

The general point of the jokes and gibes at the cavalry was their _supposed_ tendency to be "_scarce_" when _big fighting_ was going on.

It wasn't that anybody doubted the _usefulness_ of cavalry, but their usefulness was imagined to lie in other respects than fighting back the masses of the enemy. And, it wasn't that anybody supposed that the cavalry did not have plenty of fight in them, _if they could get a chance_. We knew that when they were at home they were the same stock as we were, and we believed, that if they were along with us, they would do as well; but in the cavalry, well! we didn't know!

The leaders of the cavalry, Stuart, Hampton, Ashby, Fitz Lee and others, were heroes and household names to the whole army. Their brilliant courage and dare-deviltry, their hairbreadth escapes, and thrilling adventures, their feats of skill, and grace were themes of pride and delight to us all. These cavaliers were the "darlings of the army." _Still_, the army would guy the cavalry every chance they got.

It was said that Gen. D. H. Hill proposed to offer a "reward of Five Dollars, to anybody who could find a dead man with spurs on." And Gen. Jubal Early once, when impatient at the conduct of certain troops in his command threatened "if the cavalry did not do better, he would put them _in the army_."

One day, an infantry brigade on the march to Chancellorsville had halted to rest on the pike, near where a narrow road turned off. A cavalryman was seen approaching, in a fast gallop, plainly, in a great hurry. The infantry viewed his approach with great interest, prepared to salute him with neat and appropriate remarks as he passed, by way of making him lively.

Just before he got to the head of the brigade he reached the narrow road and started up it. Instantly a dozen "infants" began to wave their arms excitedly, and shout in loud earnest voices--"Mister, stop there! don't go a step farther; for heaven's sake _don't_ go up that road." The trooper, startled by this appeal, and the warning gestures of the men, approaching him, pulled in his fast-going horse, and stopped, very impatiently. He said in a sharp tone, "What is the matter, why mustn't I go up this road? Say quick, I'm in a big hurry." "Don't go, we beg you; you'll never come back alive." "Humph! is that so?" said this trooper (who had been near breaking a blood vessel in his impatience at being stopped, but cooled off a little, at this ominous remark)--"But what's ahead? what's the danger? The road seems quiet?" "Well, Sonny, _that's_ the danger. Haven't you heard about it?" "Now, Sonny," was a term of endearment, which from an "infant" always exasperated the feelings of a cavalryman to the last degree; turned the milk of kindness in a horseman's breast into the sourest clabber; and it instantly stirred up this trooper. "Look here men, don't fool with me. Tell me what is the danger up this road," "Well! we thought we ought to let you know, before you expose yourself. General Hill has offered a reward of Five Dollars for a dead man with spurs on, and if you go up that lonesome road some of these here _soldiers_ will shoot you to get the reward." "Oh pshaw!" cried the disgusted victim, clapping spurs to his horse, and away he rode, leaving the grinning and delighted "infants" behind, and leaving, too, his _opinion_ of them, and their joke, in language that needed no interpreter.

This sort of thing was going on, all the time. The infantry and artillery _would_ do it. With many, particularly the artillery, who knew better, it was _only joking_, the soldier-instinct to stir up _any_ passer-by. But with many, especially the infantry, who were not as much "up to snuff" as the artillery, these gibes at the cavalry expressed a serious, tho' mistaken idea, they had of them. Upon the advance of the enemy, of course, we were accustomed to see cavalrymen hurrying in from the outposts to the rear, to report. So the thoughtless infantry, not considering that this was "part of the large and general plan," got fixed in their minds an association between the two things,--the advance of the enemy, and, the rapid hurrying off to the rear of the cavalry, until they came to have the fixed idea, that the sight of the enemy _always_ made a cavalryman "hungry for solitude." They reasoned that, as a mounted man was much better _fixed_ for running away than a footman, it was, by so much, natural that he _should_ run away, and was, by so much, the more likely to do it.

Also, our orders to move and to go into battle were always brought by horsemen; so the horsemen were thought about as _causing others to fight_ instead of _doing it themselves_. So, in short, it came to pass, that this innocent infantry had a dim sort of notion that the chief end of the cavalry was, in battle time, to run away and bring up other people to do the fighting, and in quiet time, to "range" for buttermilk and other delicacies, which the poor footmen never got. Hence the soubriquet of "buttermilk ranger" universally applied to the cavalry by the army.

But, I assure you, that all this was dispelled at once, and for good and all, at Spottsylvania. Here had these gallants gotten down off their horses. They hadn't run _anywhere at all_; didn't want anybody else to come, and fight for them. They had jumped into about five or six times their number of the flower of the Federal infantry. They met them front to front, and muzzle to muzzle. Of course they had to give back; but it was slowly, _very slowly_, and they made the enemy pay, in blood, for every step they gained. They had worried these Federals into a fever, and kept them fooling away nearly twenty-six hours of priceless time; and made Grant's plan _fail_, and made General Lee's plan succeed, and had secured the strong line for our defence.

It was a piece of regular, obstinate, bloody, "bulldog" work. We knew, well as we thought of ourselves, that not the staunchest brigade of our veteran "incomparable" infantry, or battery of our canister-shooting artillery, could have _fought_ better, _stood_ better, or _achieved more_, for the success of the campaign. We felt that General Lee,--that the whole army,--"owed the cavalry one," "_several_," in fact. The army, even the infantry, had come to know the cavalry, at last. Obstinacy, toughness, dogged refusal to be driven, was their test of manhood, and this test the cavalry had signally, and _brilliantly_ met. Everybody was satisfied, the _cavalry would do, they_ were "all right." We couldn't praise them enough, we were proud of them. The remark was even suffered to pass, as nothing to his discredit particularly, that our "Magnus Apollo," General Lee, himself, had once been in the cavalry, and no one resented it _now_. We knew that it was when he was _younger_ than now. We, of the "Howitzers," knew very well what arm of the service, and what corps of that arm, the experienced old General would join, if he was enlisting in the Army of Northern Virginia, now, when he knew more than he did. Still! he had been a cavalryman; admit it!

And we all _admired_ the cavalry; _honored_ the cavalry; _shouted_ for the cavalry, from that time! Occasionally, from force of habit, the infantry (the artillery never) would fall from grace at sight of a passing cavalry column, and let fall little attentions, that sounded very like the old-time compliments, but they were not _meant that way_. It was the soldier-instinct to salute pilgrims. Just as, on a village street, if a dog, of any degree, starts to run, every other dog in sight, or hearing, tears off after him in pursuit, and if he can catch up, instantly attacks him,--not that he has anything against the fugitive, but, simply, because he is running by. The act of running past makes him the enemy of his kind. So, I think, the Confederate infantry assailed, with jokes and gibes, _anybody in motion_ by their camp, or column. They had nothing against him; they attacked him because he was passing by. "It was their nature to." Of all living men, General Lee, _alone_, was sacred to them in this. The cavalry _always_ had their full share, and never suffered for want of notice.

This account of the false idea that prevailed, the fun that came of it, and the way it was dispelled, is part of the history of the time. It went to make up the life in the Army of Northern Virginia; it lives in the recollection of that good old time. No record of that old time would be complete without it. So I make no apology for falling into it, in this informal reminiscence.

At one o'clock on Sunday, the 8th of May, we reached the top of the hill near Spottsylvania Court House and suddenly came upon Stuart's cavalry massed in the yard and field around a farmhouse. They had finished their splendid fight, the van of the army was on the spot to relieve them. They had been withdrawn from confronting the enemy, and were now drawn up here, preparatory to starting off, to overtake Sheridan's raid toward Richmond; which they did, and, at "Yellow Tavern," two days after, many of them, the immortal Stuart at their head, died and saved Richmond.

=Greetings on the Field of Battle=

I have lingered at that farmhouse gate, at the top of the hill, in this story, very much longer than we did in reality. In fact we didn't linger there at all. Didn't have a chance! For, the moment we came in sight, at that gate leading into the farmhouse, an officer came dashing out from amongst the troops of cavalry, and galloped across the field toward us. The instant this horseman got out of the crowd, we recognized him. That long waving feather, the long auburn beard, that easy, graceful seat on the swift horse,--that was "J. E. B." Stuart, and nobody else! He rode up to the foremost group of us, and pulled up his horse. With bright, pleasant, smiling face, he returned our hearty salute with a touch of his hat, and a cheerful, "Good morning, boys! glad to see you. What troops are these?" "Richmond Howitzers, Longstreet's Corps." "_Good!_ anybody else along?" "Infantry close behind." "Good! Well, boys, I'm _very_ glad to see you. I've got a little job for you, right now, all waiting for you." Just then the Captain rode up and saluted. "Captain," said the General, saluting pleasantly, "Draw our guns through the gate and stop. I'll want you in ten minutes." And, away he galloped, back toward the cavalry. The guns pulled in through the gate and halted as they were, on the road leading to the house, close by the cavalry.

We seized this sudden chance to see our old friends among the troopers. In every direction our fellows might be seen darting in among the horses, in search of our friends. Loud and hearty were the shouts of greeting as we recognized, or were seen by, those we sought or unexpectedly lighted on. Brothers, met and embraced. Friends greeted friends. Old schoolmates, who had, three years ago, parted at the schoolroom, locked eager, and loving hands, and asked after others, and told what they could. It was a delightful and touching scene, that meeting there on the edge of a bloody field! they coming out, we going in. There were jokes, and laughs, and cheerful words, but, the hand-clasps were very tight, the sudden uprising of tender feelings, at the sight of faces, and the sound of voices, we had not seen nor heard for years, and that we might see and hear no more. The memories of home, or school, and boyhood, suddenly brought back, by the faces linked with them, made the tears come, and the words very kind, and the tones very gentle.

I had several pleasant encounters. Among others, this: I heard a familiar voice sing out, "William Dame, my dear boy, what on earth are you doing here?" I eagerly turned, and in the figure hasting toward me with outstretched hand,--as soon as I could read between the lines of mud on him,--I recognized my dear old teacher, Jesse Jones. I loved him like an older brother, and was delighted to meet him. I had parted from him, that sad day, three years ago, when our school scattered to the war. I had seen him last, the quiet gentleman, the thoughtful teacher, the pale student, the pink of neatness. Here I find him a dashing officer of the Third Virginia Cavalry, girt with saber and pistols, covered with mud from the crown of his head to the soles of his feet, and just resting from the bloody work of the last two days.

Just here, I had the great pleasure of falling in with my kinsman, and almost brother, Lieut. Robert Page, of the Third Virginia Cavalry, the older brother of my two comrades, and messmates, Carter and John Page. "Bob" was one of the "true blues" who had followed Stuart's feather from the start, and was going to follow it to the bitter end. I remember how, at the very first, he rode off to the war, from his home, "Locust Grove," in Cumberland County, Virginia, on his horse, "Goliath," with his company, the Cumberland Troop. He had stuck to the front, been always up, and ever at his post, all the way through those three long, terrible years. He had deserved, and won his Lieutenancy, and commanded his regiment the last days of the war. He made an enviable record as a soldier for courage, faithfulness, and honor. None better! At Appomattox he was surrendered. And having been forced to cease making war on mankind with the saber, he mended his grip, and continued to make war, with a far deadlier weapon of destruction, the spatula.

All this was very pleasant, but it was very short. Time was up; ten minutes were out! We caught sight of General Stuart cantering across the field toward our guns, the bugle rang, and we tumbled out from amidst the cavalry, in short order, and took our posts around our respective guns.

="Jeb" Stuart Assigns "A Little Job"=

Stuart was in front of the column of guns talking to Captain McCarthy; next moment we moved. That is, the "Left Section" moved, the two twelve-pounder brass "Napoleons," the "Right Section" had two ten-pounder "Parrott" guns and stayed still. We did not rejoin them for several days. It was our "Napoleons" that moved off, we took note of that! Also, we took very scant gun detachments,--all our men, but just enough to work the guns, stayed behind,--we took note of _that_ too! These two circumstances meant _business_ to old artillerymen. We _remarked_ as much, as we trotted beside the guns. "The little job" that General Stuart had alluded to, with his bland and seductive smile, and the merry twinkle of his eye, was, plainly, a very _warm_ little job; however, away we went, "J. E. B." Stuart riding in front of the guns, with the Captain,--apparently enjoying himself; _we reserved our opinion_ as to the enjoyableness of the occasion, till we should _see more_ and be better able to judge. Two guns of "Callaway's" and two of "Carlton's" Batteries of our Battalion,--which had come up while we were disporting with our cavalry friends, back there,--had pulled in behind our two.

The six guns followed the road which turned around the farmhouse, and ran on down toward the back of the farm. There were pine woods about, in different directions, the fields lying between. We saw nothing as yet, and wondered where we were going. We soon found out! About half a mile from the house, the farm road, which here ran along with pine woods on the left and a stretch of open field on the right, turned out toward the open ground. As we passed out from behind that point of woods, we saw "the elephant!" There, about six hundred yards from us were the Federals, seeming to cover the fields. There were lines of infantry, batteries, wagons, ambulances, ordnance trains massed all across the open ground. This was part of Warren's Corps, which had been pushing for the Spottsylvania line. They thought they had left the "Army of Northern Virginia" back yonder at the "Wilderness," and had nothing before them but cavalry, and they were halted, now, resting or eating, intending afterwards to advance, and occupy the line, which was back up behind us, where we had left the cavalry and our other guns. That line, so coveted, so important to them, that they had been marching, and fighting to gain, was not a mile off, in sight, in reach, _secure now_, as they thought. That thought was not only a _delusion_, it was a _snare_. They were never to reach it! and the "snare," I will explain very soon.

As we thus suddenly came upon that sight, we stopped to look at the spectacle. It looked very blue, and I dare say, we looked a shade "blue" ourselves; for we could not see a Confederate anywhere, and we supposed we had no support whatever, though we were better off in this particular than we knew. And the idea of pitching into that host, with six unsupported guns, was not calming to the mind. Coming out from cover of the pines, back of a slight ridge that ran through the field, with a few sassafras bushes on it, we were not seen, and the Federals were in blissful ignorance of what was about to follow. We pulled diagonally across the field to a point, just back of the low ridge, and quietly went into position and unlimbered the guns. We pushed them, by hand, up so that the muzzles just looked clear over the ridge, which thus acted as a low work in our front, and proved a great protection. The field had been freshly plowed for corn, the wheels sunk into it, and the minute we tried to move the guns, by hand, with our small force, we saw what it was going to be, in action, with the sun blazing down.

When all was ready,--guns pointed, limber, and caisson chests opened,--General Stuart said, waving his hand toward that swarming field of Federals, "Boys, I want you to knock that all to pieces for me. So go to work." And this was the last time we ever saw the superb hero. He rode, right from our guns, to his death at "Yellow Tavern" a day or two after. We have always remembered with the deepest interest, that the very last thing that glorious soldier, "J. E. B." Stuart, did in the Army of Northern Virginia was to put our guns into position, and give us orders; which _we obeyed_, to his entire satisfaction, I know, if he had seen it.

The minute General Stuart had given his order, and turned to ride away, Captain McCarthy, sitting on his horse, where he sat during the whole fight, looking as cool as the sun would let him, and far more unconcerned than if he had been going to dinner, sung out, "Section ---- commence firing." It was ours, the Fourth gun's turn to open the ball. We were all waiting around the guns for the word.

The group, as it stood, is before my mind as vividly as then. Dan McCarthy, Sergt. Ned Stine, acting gunner (vice Tony Dibrell absent, sick, for some time past, who came tearing back, _still sick_, the moment he heard we were on the warpath) Ben Lambert, No. 1; Joe Bowen, No. 2; Beau Barnes, No. 3; W. M. Dame, No. 4; Bill Hardy, No. 5; Charlie Pleasants, No. 6; Sam Vaden, No. 7; Watt Dibbrell, No. 8! The three drivers of the limber, six yards back of the gun, dismounted, and holding their horses. Ellis, the lead driver, had scooped out the loose dirt, with his hands, and lay down, on his back, in the shallow hole, holding the reins with his upstretched hands.

The third gun was just to our right, the cannoneers grouped around the guns, each man at his post. Travis Moncure, Sergeant, known and loved and honored among us as "Monkey," always brave and true and smiling, even under fire, Harry Townsend, gunner; Cary Eggleston, No. 1; Pres Ellyson, No. 2; ---- Denman, No. 3; Charlie Kinsolving, No. 4; Charlie Harrington, No. 5; ----, No. 6; ----, No. 7; ----, No. 8; Captain McCarthy sitting his horse, just behind, and between the two guns. The other guns were a little to our left.

All was ready; guns loaded and pointed, carefully, every man at his post,--feeling right solemn too,--and a dead stillness reigned. The Captain's steady voice rang out! As an echo to it, Dan McCarthy sung out "Fourth detachment commence firing, fire!" I gave the lanyard a jerk. A lurid spout of flame about ten feet long shot from the mouth of the old "Napoleon," then, in the dead silence, a ringing, crashing roar, that sounded like the heavens were falling, and rolled a wrathful thunder far over the fields and echoing woods. Then became distinct, a savage, venomous scream, along the track of the shell. This grew fainter,--died on our ear! We eagerly watched! Suddenly, right over the heads of the enemy, a flash of fire, a puff of snow-white smoke, which hung like a little cloud! We gave a yell of delight; our shell had gone right into the midst of the Federals, and burst beautifully. The ball was open!

The instant our gun fired we could hear old Moncure sing out, "Third detachment, commence firing, fire!" and the Third piece rang out. The guns on the left joined in, lustily, and in a moment, those six guns were steadily roaring, and hurling a storm of shell upon the enemy.

And now the fun began, and soon "grew fast and furious." Over in the Federal lines, taken by surprise, all was confusion, worse confounded. We could see men running wildly about, teamsters, jumping into the saddle, and frantically lashing their horses,--wagons, ambulances, ordnance carts, battery forges, tearing furiously, in every direction. Several vehicles upset, and many teams, maddened by the lash, and the confusion, and bursting shells, dashing away uncontrollable. We saw _one_ wagon, flying like the wind, strike a stump, and thrown, team and all, a perfect wreck, on top of a low rail fence, crushing it down, and rolling over it.

This was the only time I ever saw a big army wagon, and team, thrown over a fence.

All that lively time they were having over among the enemy was very amusing to us; we were highly delighted, and enjoyed it very much. Laughter, and jocular remarks on the scene were heard all about, as we worked the gun, and we did our best to keep up the show.

Meanwhile, we were not deceived for a moment. Wild and furious as was the confusion, and running, over the way, we knew, well, it was the wagoners and "bomb-proof" people, who were doing the running, and stirring up the confusion. We knew they were not _all_ running away. We had seen a good deal of artillery in that field, and we knew that we should soon hear from them. And we were not mistaken!

In a few minutes the sound of our guns was suddenly varied by a sharp, venomous screech, clap of thunder, right over our heads, followed by a ripping, tearing, splitting crash, that filled the air; a regular blood freezer. We knew _that sound_! It was a bursting Parrott shell from a Federal gun! And they had the range.

The enemy had run out about eighteen, or twenty guns, and they let in, mad as hornets. Another shell, and another, and another, came screaming over us. Then they began to _swarm_; the air seemed full of them,--bursting shells, jagged fragments, balls out of case-shot,--it sounded like a thousand devils, shrieking in the air all about us. Then, the roaring of our guns, the heavy smoke, the sulphurous smell, the shaking of the ground under the thunder of the guns,--it was a fit place for _devils_ to shriek in.

And how _hot_ it was! Twenty guns, in full fire, can make it hot at the foot of the North Pole, and this was _not_ the North Pole! quite the reverse. In addition to the battle heat, the sun was pouring down, hot as blazes; and the labor of working a rapidly firing "Napoleon" gun, with four men, in deeply plowed ground, and the strong excitement of battle--altogether, it was the hottest place I ever saw, or hope I shall _ever_ see, in this world, or in the world to come. It nearly melted the marrow in our bones!

A persimmon sapling stood near our gun. It was trimmed, and chipped down, twig by twig, and limb by limb, by pieces of shell, until it was a lot of _scraps scattered over the ground_. Sam Vaden, as he passed me, with a shell, said "Dame, just look back over this field behind us. A mosquito couldn't fly across that field without getting hit." It looked so! The dirt was being knocked up, wherever you looked, literally, by _shower_ of balls, and shell fragments. It had the appearance of hail striking on the surface of water, only it wasn't cold.

Well! for three mortal hours this battle raged. They hammered us, and we hammered them. Occasionally, we saw a Federal caisson blown up, which refreshed us, and several of their guns ceased firing--disabled or cannoneers cleared out, we thought--and _this_ refreshed us. We wished they would _all_ blow up, and stop shooting.

After we had been under fire sometime, with nobody hurt as yet, a case-shot burst in front of us, and Hardy, who had just brought up a shell, and was standing right by me, said, in his usual deliberate way, "Dame, I'm hit, and hit very hard, I am afraid." "Where are you hit?" I asked. He said, "I'm shot through the thigh, and the leg is numbed." I fired the gun, and jumped down to see what I could do for him. I found the place, and it looked ugly. There was a clean-cut hole right through his pants, to the thickest part of the thigh. I put my finger into the hole, and tore away the cloth to get at the wound, and found to my great, and his _greater_ delight, that the ball had struck, and glanced. It had made a long black bruise and the pain was much greater than if it had gone through the leg. It had struck the great mass of muscle on the outer thigh, and the leg was, for the time, paralyzed and stiff as a poker. He was completely disabled. I said, "Bill, you must get right away from here." "But I _can't_ walk a step." "Well crawl off on your hands and your good foot, not a man could leave the gun, to help you, and go out to the side so as to get soonest from under fire." So the poor fellow hobbled off, as best he could, all alone, amidst the laughter of the fellows at his novel locomotion. We could see the bullets knocking up the dirt all around him, as he went slowly "hopping the clods" across the plowed fields. But he got off all right. Shortly after Hardy was struck, Charley Pleasants, of Richmond No. ------, at the Third gun, was shot through the thigh. A long and tedious wound which kept him disabled some months. Bill Hardy was back to duty in a day or so. One of the horses, the off horse of the wheel team of our limber, was hit, also. A piece of shell went into his head, between the right eye and ear, cutting the brow band of the bridle. The old horse, a character in the Battery, didn't seem to mind it; and he wore that piece of shell, in his head, until the end of the war.

And, strange as it seemed, these were all our casualties, under that hot fire; one man, seriously, and one slightly wounded and a horse slightly hurt.

=Wounding of Robert Fulton Moore=

No! I forgot! There was one other casualty,--Robert Fulton Moore was mortally wounded, _in the hat brim_. And this gave rise to a most amusing scene. Robert Fulton was a driver to the limber of the third gun. He was a large, soft, man, and was, by no means, characterized by soldierly bearing, or warlike sentiments. On the contrary, he was something of a "butt," and was always desperately unhappy under fire. He could dodge lower off the back of a horse at sound of a shell, than any man living. His miraculous feats, in this performance, afforded much diversion, whenever the guns went under fire, to us all, except his Sergeant, Moncure, who was very much ashamed of it. Still, in a general, feeble sort of way Robert Fulton had managed to keep up without any flagrant act of flinching from his post. On this occasion he had stood up better than usual. He stood holding his horses, and we noticed, with pleasure, that he was behaving very well under fire. But, it seems, his courage was only "hanging by the eyelids" so to speak.

Presently a piece of shell came whizzing very close to his head. It cut away part of his hat brim, and alas! this was too much! Poor Robert Fulton went all to pieces, instantly. Completely demoralized, panic-stricken and frantic with terror, he dropped his reins, and struck out wildly. It seems, he had seen Ellis, our lead driver, scooping out the hole that has been referred to, and as this was the only hole of any kind in reach, he instinctively struck for it. Ellis was lying down in it, flat on his back, with his arms stretched upward, holding his horses. Robert Fulton rounded the limber, and threw himself down with all his weight, right upon, and completely covering up, Ellis, and stuck his face in the dirt over Ellis' shoulder, effectually pinning him down. Ellis was a fiery, ugly-tempered fellow, but as brave as Julius Caesar, and of all men in the battery he had the greatest contempt for Moore, and especially for his present conduct. Ellis, upon finding Moore on top of him, was in a perfect blaze of fury. The breath was nearly knocked out of him by Moore's weight, and he was mashed into the narrow hole, and embarrassed by the reins of his horses. He tried to throw Moore off, and couldn't. Then he broke loose! He yelled, and swore, and bit, and pulled Moore's hair, and socked his spurs into him, with both feet. He would have broken a blood vessel if McCarthy, assisted by Moncure, who had come to look after his driver, had not pulled Moore off, and taken him back to his post.

Our attention was drawn to this scene by the noise. The terrific combat going on in that hole, the sight of Ellis' legs and arms, tossing wildly in the air, Moore not moving a muscle, but lying still, on top, the dust kicked up by the fray,--it was more than flesh and blood could stand, even under such a fire, and we could hardly work the guns for laughing. After the fight, when Moore had time to look into his injuries, he found that Ellis had nearly skinned him with his spurs. Some days after, we heard Robert Fulton exhibiting his torn hat brim to some passing acquaintance from his own neighborhood, as a trophy of his prowess in this fight. No doubt he preserves it as a sacred relic yet.

=A Useful Discovery=

In this fight, necessity, the mother of invention, put us up to a device that served us well here, and that we made fullest use of, in every fight we had afterwards. When we had kept up that rapid fire, with a scant gun detachment, in plowed ground, and under a hot sun, for an hour, we were nearly exhausted. After Hardy was wounded, and left us, it was still worse. The hardest labor, and what took most time, was running up the guns from the recoil. We had stopped a moment to rest, and let the gun cool a little, and were discussing the difficulties, when the idea occurred to us. There was an old rail fence near by. Somebody said "let's get some rails and chock the wheels to keep them from running back." This struck us all as good, and in an instant we had piled up rails behind the wheels as high as the trail would allow. The effect was, that when the gun fired it simply jerked back against this rail pile, and rested in its place, and so we were saved all the time and labor of running up. We found that we could fire three or four times as rapidly, in this way. So that a chocked gun was equal to four in a fight. We found this simple device of immense service! We were told by the knowing ones that we ran the greatest possible danger. The ordnance people said that if a gun was not allowed to recoil it would certainly burst. But we didn't mind! A device that saved so much labor, and enabled us to deliver such an extraordinarily effective fire on the battlefield, we were bound to try. We found it acted beautifully. We then _knew_ the guns _wouldn't_ burst for we had tried it.

We used it afterward in every fight. The instant we were ordered into position, two or three cannoneers would rush off and get rails, or a log or two, to chock the guns. And on two or three very desperate emergencies, during this campaign, this device enabled us to render very important service. It made a battery equal to a battalion, and a good many other batteries took it up, and used it. I believe it added greatly to the effectiveness of our artillery in the close-range fighting of this campaign.

Well! even with this relief, the labor of working our guns in this furious and prolonged fight was fearful! At last the welcome order, "Section cease firing" was given. We limbered up, and drew the guns a short distance to the side, out of the line of fire, and utterly exhausted, we cannoneers, threw ourselves right down on the plowed ground beside the guns, and slept like the dead.

In the meantime, while we had been fighting out in that field, events were taking place near us, of which we, absorbed in the work before us and deafened by the roar of our guns, had taken little notice at the time. As had been described, there was a body of woods some distance off to our right, and another, to our left. When we went into position we had not seen any of our troops, and did not know of the presence of any, near us. We thought we were without support, but as I intimated some time back, we were better off than we knew.

=Barksdale's Mississippi Creeper=

It seems, that before we came on the ground, Barksdale's Mississippi Brigade, which had been marching behind us, had filed off the road, and while we were up on the hill with the cavalry, had quietly, and silently passed into that body of woods to our right, unseen by the enemy. Along the front edge of that wood ran an old rail fence, covered all over with the luxuriant vine known as "Virginia Creeper." Wide open fields extending in front. Soon, the ground behind that fence was covered with another sort of "creeper," not as good a "runner" as that on the fence, nor as "green," but just as tough of fibre, and as hard to "hold on" when it had once fixed itself,--the "_Mississippi_ Creeper." Silently, as ghosts, the Brigade glided in behind that fence, and lay low, and waited. Right here, was where the Federals' idea of _quietly_ occupying the Spottsylvania line was going to prove a snare. They had not the dimmest suspicion that we were ahead of them, and between them and that line. They came on, with guileless confidence, and walked right into trouble. Presently, a line of battle with columns of troops behind came marching across the fields upon the concealed Mississippians. Nearer and nearer they came, unsuspecting any danger, till they got nearly up to the fence. One man had actually thrown his leg over the rail to mount. Suddenly! as lightning out of a clear sky, a blinding sheet of flame flashed into their very faces. Then, after one volley, swiftly came the dreadful, venomous roll of musketry, the Mississippians loading and firing "at will," every man as fast as he could. It was just as if "the angel of death spread his wings to the blast and breathed in the face of the foe as he passed."

That withering fire tore the ranks of that Division to pieces. It didn't take those fellows half a second to decide what to do. With yells of dismay, they charged back, out of that hornet's nest, as if the devil was after them. In headlong rout, they rushed wildly back across the fields, and disappeared in the woods beyond.

They left four hundred and two of their number in front of that fence, and before the fugitives got out of range, their General of Division, General Robinson, was seriously wounded.

Some of our men went out among the Federal wounded to do what they could for their relief. An officer of a Mississippi Regiment came upon a Federal Colonel who lay to all appearance mortally wounded, and gave him a drink of water, and did what else he could for his comfort. The Federal took out a fine gold watch, and said, "Here is a watch that I value very highly. You have been very kind to me, and I would like you to have it, as I am going to die. If I should get over this, and send to you for it you will let me have it, if not, I want you to keep it. But," he said sadly, "my wound is mortal, I am obliged to die." The Mississippian left him, and went back to his post, supposing him dead.

Many years after the war, the Mississippi officer was in Baltimore at Barnum's Hotel. One day, he got into casual talk with a gentleman, at dinner, and, as he seemed to be a good fellow, they smoked their cigars together after dinner, and continued their conversation. By and by they got on the war. It came out, that both of them had served, and on opposite sides. Finally, in telling some particular incidents of his experience, the Federal soldier described this very fight, his being, as he thought mortally wounded, the kindness shown him by a Confederate officer, and his gift to him, of his watch. The Southern man said, "What is your name?" "Col. ----, of Robinson's Division," he replied. "Can you be the man? Have I struck you at last?" cried the ex-Confederate. "_I've_ got your watch, and here it is, with your name engraved in it."

=Kershaw's South Carolina "Rice Birds"=

It was a singular incident, that these two should meet again so! The meeting was most cordial; the Federal was delighted to get his watch again, made doubly valuable by so strange a history.

While this bloody episode was enacting by the Mississippi Brigade, in the woods to our right, an almost exactly similar scene was going on, in the woods to our left. A portion of Kershaw's South Carolina Brigade was unwittingly stumbled upon by "Griffin's" Division in the pines. Another complete ambuscade! The South Carolinians suddenly sprang up before the Federals, let them have it, broke and routed them, and killed, and wounded eighty-seven of them. Our loss was one man. Things were so sudden, so close here, that one of Kershaw's men killed a Federal soldier, and wounded another with an axe he happened to have in his hand.

These first efforts of "Warren's" Corps that had gotten up near the Spottsylvania line, "just in time to be too late," are thus described by Swinton, the admirable historian of the "Army of the Potomac." (Swinton's "Army of the Potomac," p. 443):

"Finally," he says, "the column (Warren's) emerged from the woods into a clearing, two miles north of Spottsylvania Court House. Forming in line, Robinson's Division advanced over the plain. Thus far, only Stuart's dismounted troops had been encountered, and no other opposition was anticipated; but when half way across the field, and on the point of rising the crest, the troops were met by a savage musketry fire from infantry. Owing to their severe experience in the Wilderness, and the night march, without rest, the men were in an excited, and almost frightened, condition, and the tendency to _stampede_ was so great that General Warren had been compelled to go in front of the leading Brigade. When, therefore, they received a fire in front, from the redoubtable foe they had left in the Wilderness, the line wavered, and fell back in some confusion. General Robinson was at the same time severely wounded, which left the troops without their commander at a critical moment, and they were with some difficulty rallied and reformed in the woods back of the open plain. Griffin's Division, which advanced on the right of Robinson, soon afterward received the same fire with a like result."

It seems then, that it was Robinson's Division that the little Mississippi Brigade sent to the right about, and it was Griffin's Division, who scared themselves nearly into fits, by flushing Kershaw's "rice-birds," in the pines. It was a little hard on these "excited and almost frightened" men of Warren's. The memory of the fearful shaking up they had got, day before yesterday, was so fresh in their minds that "General Warren himself, the _Corps Commander_, had to go in front of the leading Brigade" to quiet their nerves, even when they thought they were advancing upon a few dismounted troops. They thought,--a little comfort in this,--that, at least, all those terrible fellows of the Army of Northern Virginia were far behind them. And--to meet them _here_, still, in front! It must be confessed it was hard! It was a very sad surprise.

It is said that General Grant's strained relations with General Warren came of Warren's conduct of this move, to seize the Spottsylvania line. He found great fault with his failure. But, perhaps he was a little hard on Warren. What could Warren do? His men were demoralized, "excited, almost frightened, tending to stampede, needing the Corps General to go in front," and stopping to dine, instead of pushing on to seize the line. They had to meet men who were not _particularly excited_, were not _at all frightened_ and had not _the least tendency to stampede_; in fact, were in the best of spirits, perfectly confident of victory, and did not need _a corporal to go in front of them_, gaunt, hungry, cool fellows, who never counted noses--in a fight!