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.

HIL 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.