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.

T 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.

Original Size

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.

Every hour or so during the night, the Johnnies would give us the rebel yell. These outbreaks occasioned alarm on our side at first, but after the terrible din had died out several times without the appearance of the boys in butternut, we concluded that the enemy was shouting to keep up courage for a general attack in the morning.

We had no opportunity to sleep—I mean to go into camp and stretch our weary bodies at full length on the ground for a season. About the time we would begin to congratulate ourselves on the prospects of a nap we would be ordered into the saddle, ready to repel an attack. There were any number of false alarms. Old soldiers will remember how exasperating it was to be hustled out at the dead of night, marched here and there—“up and down and through the middle”—only to find that somebody had made a bull. We marched several times during the night, sometimes going a hundred yards. When daylight came Saturday morning we found ourselves within three hundred yards of the spot where we bivouacked Friday night. We had been moved around like men on a checker-board—one man trying to catch another in the double corner, so to speak; “hawing and geeing,” as a Berkshire boy expressed it.

The Battle of the Wilderness ended Friday night, from an infantry standpoint, but Sheridan's cavalry had fighting enough Saturday to prevent them from getting-rusty. We were given to understand early in the morning that the army was to go on. While the infantry were cutting the pegs out of their shoes, and burying the dead Saturday, the troopers were feeling the enemy over on the left toward Spottsylvania. There was a good deal of trouble in locating Lee's line of battle. The rebels had not felt safe outside their breastworks after Gordon had failed to double up our right. When they were found by our pickets Saturday morning, they seemed to have lost their thirst for Yankee blood so far as coming outside to rebuke our curiosity was concerned. A reconnaissance by Gen. Warren of the Fifth Corps occasioned a suspicion that the infantry were at it again, as the firing was lively in Warren's front for a few minutes. Lee did not accept the challenge, and no general engagement was brought on.

There was a sharp set-to between Stuart's cavalry and the first brigade of the first division of Sheridan's corps, commanded by Gen. G. A. Custer, early Saturday morning. The rebels found Custer an ugly customer. They skedaddled to Todd's Tavern, after vainly trying to check the advance of the boys in blue.

Gen. Custer was an ideal cavalry officer. He was something like six feet in height, and sat his horse perfectly. He was one of the youngest generals in the army, having won the star of a brigadier before he was twenty-four years old. His pleasant blue eye seemed to fire up with the first intimation of battle. His appearance was all the more striking because of his long wavy hair and his dashing make-up, which included a large red necktie. His brigade adopted the red tie as a part of their uniform, and Custer's troops could be distinguished at long range. It was a common saying in the cavalry corps that the rebels preferred to have nothing to do with Custer's brigade except at “long range,” and therein the Confederates exhibited excellent judgment.

Custer was a favorite in the regular army after the war, and his death—in the Custer massacre in 1876—was mourned by soldiers and civilians throughout the United States.