I now continued my search for information as to the whereabouts of the regiment. I had almost reached the little flat by the Ny, at the point where I had last seen my comrades the evening before, when, to my astonishment, the roar of cannon broke forth again, and the shells came hissing over my head and bursting all around me. There was not even a stump or stone for shelter from the pelting storm of iron, and in the woods just over the stream, the trees were being torn and rent asunder as if by thunderbolts. This was more of a joke than I had bargained for. Reflecting a moment, I concluded to take my chances among the trees. A slender foot-log over the stream afforded means of crossing. When about the middle of the log a shell howled close to my head and dashed through a tree with a fearful crash. Nothing deterred, I sat down at the root of a sturdy oak which would shelter me from fragments, at least, and waited for something to "turn up." The rebels evidently thought that troops were concealed in the woods, and were determined to make it hot for them. They made it lively for me; but unless that afforded them some satisfaction, they might have saved their ammunition.

Later I learned that the Reserves had moved to the left. Passing along in that direction, I came to a hill on which a battery was planted. The men were standing by their guns, ready for action. Close behind these, on the face of the hill were the caissons, and back of these, men holding the horses, the men themselves sheltered in holes which they had dug in the hillside. Things looked decidedly breezy about that hill. My curiosity to witness an artillery fight had been fully gratified some time before; so I passed on without delay, and soon found the object of my search some distance further to the left.

Late in the afternoon of the 17th an orderly galloped to headquarters, the bugle sounded "fall in," and we were moving toward the right at a rapid pace. Heavy firing could be heard in the direction of our right flank, and we were hurrying toward the scene of action, to strengthen the threatened point. We arrived about dark. The fighting had almost ceased, and the enemy were handsomely repulsed. The attack had been made on a body of inexperienced troops, mostly heavy artillery, who were marching from Fredericksburg to join the Army of the Potomac. They were well-drilled and disciplined, and made a gallant and successful fight, though with heavy loss. In their first fight they had faced Lee's best veterans, and defeated them. The old soldiers were inclined to regard it as rather a joke—the lively manner in which the rebs welcomed them to the front. This disposition to see a bright, a laughable side to every thing, may be set down as one of the peculiarities of the Yankee soldier. In victory or defeat, success or disaster, ease or hardship, some one of a group of soldiers could find something from which to extract a jest or on which to found a pun.

The next morning I went out over the field. Details of men were engaged in burying their fallen comrades. The dead were collected in groups, a trench sufficiently wide and deep was dug, and they were laid side by side as decently as possible, and covered with two or three feet of earth. When it could be done, the graves were marked. I have seen this done by our men for the rebel dead, when there was time and leisure for such care.

Under an apple tree lay a rebel who had been shot in the forehead, a little above the center. He must have been shot before sunset of the previous day. It was about noon when I saw him, and strange to say, he was still alive. He was unconscious, and probably had been from the moment he was struck.

In a negro cabin lay a young rebel soldier, a fair-faced, handsome boy, shot through the right lung. I inquired after his wants, and made him as comfortable as might be. He said he had not suffered for want of care. Soldiers had been in frequently during the day, and all had been very kind. He spoke of this with great satisfaction. I notified Dr. Lyon of the case, and he was taken care of.

The next day we advanced some distance toward the enemy. Skirmishers were thrown forward, but no serious fighting took place. As the skirmishers were going out, Chaplain Delo dryly inquired if he might not accompany them, giving as his reason that he would like to get Captain Coder's horse killed if it could be done conveniently. He had charge of a horse belonging to the captain, who had displeased him about something in connection with the horse. There was no opportunity of gratifying the worthy chaplain's wishes.

Again the army was in motion, leaving behind now as useless what before had been fought for so tenaciously. As we moved away, the Eleventh was in the rear, nothing between us and the enemy, but some cavalry, to cover the rear of the column, as the army moved off to strike Lee from a new position. We were passing over a wide, open piece of country. The rebel cavalry and our own had become hotly engaged, and a spirited fight was in progress clear across the open ground behind us.

About this time Daniel Graham became quite ill, and was compelled to fall out of the ranks. I remained with him to help him along. The undertaking proved to be rather a serious one. He would struggle bravely on for a while, and then sit down panting and exhausted. I carried his gun and knapsack, and finally took him by the arm to keep him up.

Meantime the battle going on behind us drew nearer and nearer, and the bullets were whistling around us with uncomfortable frequency. At last Daniel became utterly discouraged; and, as he dropped upon the ground to rest at one of his frequent halts, he declared it was no use, he could go no further. He urged me to leave him, and make my escape.

"There's no use of talking that way. After you rest a few minutes, we'll try it again."

"But I'm clear used up, and there's no use of both of us being prisoners."

"We're not prisoners yet by a good deal. We are going to come out all right. You are worth two dead men yet."

But notwithstanding my brave words, I was almost of his opinion, though not convinced that the time had come to give up all hope. It was my duty to stay with him as long as there was any prospect of getting him off.

Our cavalry was now nearly up to where we were, and I announced that he must come along. Helping him to his feet, we started. Courage and strength now seemed to revive. We made good progress, and were soon out of danger. In the course of an hour or two he was able to take his gun again, and in the evening we came up with the regiment.

In trying to recall the scenes of this period, there are some that seem like the fragments of a half-forgotten dream, distinct in themselves, but without any definite connection as to time or place. They are but pictures, some of them becoming faded and indistinct; others bright and fresh, as if they had come from the painter's hand but yesterday. I see a long column of weary soldiers, winding along over hill and valley, in the night, gliding past a stately mansion, with beautiful grounds and shaded walks, and everywhere the freshness and fragrance of Spring. Again I see a line of battle stretching out across an open field, the men resting lazily in their ranks. A little to the left, near some shade trees, stands a battery, ready for action, the guns pointing toward some unseen enemy beyond. It is noon, and the sunlight is pouring down upon the scene, bright and clear.

May 23d we came to the North Ann. We halted in open ground, before we reached the river. Fighting was in progress at the front, where the rebels were disputing the passage of the river. While we waited here, a battery came thundering past at full speed, and soon the roar of their guns told that they had found something to do.

While this was in progress, we were ordered to move. The column was headed, first to the rear, then toward our right. By a rapid march we reached a ford, higher up the river. Without delay we waded right through. The water was swift, and three or four feet deep in places. The bottom of the river was stony, and the stones were slippery. This, with the swiftness of the stream, made the footing of the most active rather precarious. A German, named Moreland, a teacher by profession, and a man of fine qualities, had joined the company but a little while before. He was not very active at best, and at this time had very sore feet. As we were hurrying across, suddenly a wonderful splashing and floundering were heard toward the rear of the company, and Moreland's feet were discovered twinkling above the surface of the water, while with his head he seemed to be making a critical examination of the bottom of the stream. At last he regained his footing, puffing and blowing like a porpoise, amid the cheers and horse-laughs of his comrades.

Once across, no time was to be lost. We had stolen a march on the rebels, and if we would use our advantage we must be about it. The movement was not long unknown to the enemy. As fast as the troops reached the high ground on the other side, they formed line of battle, keeping the left flank covered by the river, and facing down stream. As the remaining troops crossed, they formed on the right, the line as it formed advancing downward and outward from the river, in a curve.

The Eleventh was not far from the left. They moved down the stream some distance, and halted in the midst of a beautiful farm. Before them was a valley, across which the Bucktails were advancing as skirmishers, and beyond this the ground rose again, and curved off toward woods in the distance. Scarcely had our line reached this point, when the enemy "came down like the wolf on the fold." Judging from the promptness and vigor with which they assailed us, they evidently counted on making our enterprise another Ball's Bluff affair.As the Bucktails advanced, their rapid firing warned us that they had discovered the advance of the enemy. Dust was seen rising on the high ground beyond, and horses were dimly seen. We judged that batteries were coming into position. We were not long in doubt. Suddenly a perfect volley of artillery burst forth. The air seemed filled with the shrieking shells and whizzing fragments. The men could do no more than lie down and let the storm rage. For some time we had not a single gun in position to reply, and the rebels poured in their fire without hindrance. Soldiers who had been through all the battles of the Potomac army, affirmed that they never experienced such a noisy onset, except at Gettysburg. As quickly as possible our batteries came into position, on both sides of the river. Now the tumult was doubled. The earth seemed to shake. When our artillery opened in reply, the rebels turned their attention in that direction; but on account of the awkwardness of their gunners, we were annoyed almost as much as when under their direct fire. On the right there was severe infantry fighting. Of this we could hear little, on account of the terrible cannonading going on around us. The losses of the regiment were slight, owing to the fact that the rebels overshot us. A few were wounded, but I think none were killed. The loss of the corps was about 350. The rebel loss was reported at 1,000, including General Brown, who was in command.

May was now drawing to a close, and with it would close the history of the Pennsylvania Reserves. The 30th found us in the vicinity of Bethsaida Church. We were moving on with those stops and starts which indicate that the head of the column has met with some obstruction. Skirmishing was going on in front, and from time to time the boom of cannon came rolling up from the left. We were moving along a road which led through open farm country, and through a strip of woods, beyond which skirmishing was heard. During one of the frequent halts, while the men were resting, some standing, others sitting or reclining at ease, a rifle ball came whistling through the air, and struck with a sharp snap in the rail-pile on which myself and others were sitting. It struck between Jim Shaffer and myself. We both naturally squirmed a little at the unpleasant nearness of the malicious little messenger. The affair called forth laughter and jocular exclamations from those around: "How are you Johnnie!" "Hit 'em again!" "Go in!"

The incident would not have caused any special notice, had it not been so unexpected, on account of our distance from the scene of action.

Forward now through the woods, out upon the open ground beyond, where the division is forming for its last battle. Their left now rests not far from where their right was when they fought at Gaines' Mill, nearly two years before. They advance some distance. "Some one has blundered." They have no support on either wing. They are flanked, and, after a brief struggle, are driven back. Some noble men were lost here. Parks, of Company D, is mortally wounded; Daniel Graham is made prisoner. In the retreat, two men carry back John Stanley, wounded in the arm and side. At the wood they rally. A fence is torn down, and with this and whatever is nearest at hand a breastwork is hastily improvised. A few of the Bucktails have rallied on their right, and thrown up a similar defense of logs, rails, any thing that can stop a bullet. Here the line seems to terminate; but just beyond and a little back, is a brass battery, concealed by bushes, every gun charged with grape and canister. A house stands close behind the line, in a recess of the woods.

Now the enemy is seen advancing. Line after line comes swinging out. Shells come screaming over. One explodes in front of Company D. Its fragments sever the flagstaff close to Jim Shaffer's head, rip open Mike Coleman's cap, tear off Culp's arm near the shoulder. Another bursts in the house, and sets it on fire. A woman, bearing a baby in one arm and leading by the hand a little child, comes out of the house, still unharmed. Frightened and bewildered, she is passing along the rear of the line instead of hastening away from it. A kind-hearted soldier directs her toward a place of safety. But now the rebel lines are within rifle range. Volley after volley is poured into them, and their ranks melt before the terrible fire. In our front they falter; but toward the right they see a chance for victory. They will swing around our flank, and crush us as they did but an hour before. With exultant yells, their left comes sweeping on, wheeling to envelop our right. But now there bursts from the underbrush a blast as if from the pit, crashing, tearing, grinding, enfilading their lines, leaving in its track a swath of dead and dying. This is decisive, and the battle is won.

Over a hundred dead were counted in front of the Eleventh and the few Bucktails on their right. One man was struck with a charge of grape, or by a bursting shell, and his body from the knees to the neck was crushed and torn into an indistinguishable mass.

John Stanley, who was wounded in this action, was a brave, noble boy. Looking along the company line, with its veterans of so many battles, the remnant of a hundred as brave men as ever followed a battle flag, you would not have guessed that this boyish face could be the calmest in the hour of trial. During that month of battles, he was always in his place, without bravado, but with unflinching courage, doing his duty. I saw him at the woods, as they were taking him from the field. His pale face was as calm as ever. He never returned to us, nor did I learn the result of his wounds.

The next morning the Reserves were withdrawn from the front. Their term of service had expired. The veterans and recruits were reorganized, forming the One Hundred and Ninetieth and One Hundred and Ninety-first Pennsylvania Volunteer Infantry. The others started on their homeward march.

Of Company D, fourteen men returned—five non-commissioned officers and nine privates. Eleven had re-enlisted. Thirty-five were dead, of whom twenty-three had been killed in battle or mortally wounded; and six were prisoners in the hands of the enemy, of whom two died.

Of the eleven veterans, only seven were present, the others being wounded or prisoners. By the close of the war, forty of the original one hundred and one had died in the service. During the first three years, twenty-four were discharged for wounds or sickness. Such is the record of these heroic men. Mingled feelings of joy and sadness were in the hearts of all, as good-byes were spoken, and they marched away. The war-worn veterans, who now turned their footsteps homeward, and those who stood there, watching their going that day, knew too well how certainly these "good-byes" might be "farewells." I think I saw tears in a certain brave colonel's eyes; and perhaps strong hands were clasped with a little more than usual fervor, as friend looked into the face of friend; but there was no "scene." These men were too much in earnest for that.