I need not detain my readers with a
narrative of the events and skirmishes immediately preceding
the great battle of Gaines's Mill. The three or four days
previous were mainly occupied in bringing the army to the
situation which brought on this battle. Leaving all this, I
beg my young reader's company while I transport myself back in
memory to the morning of that bloody day. At 12 o'clock, A.
M., our army was advancing by three roads. The immortal
Jackson commanded on the left, Longstreet in the centre, A. P.
Hill on the right. When our forces had approached to within a
mile of the Mill, they were deployed in line of battle,
skirmishers thrown forward to feel the enemy and the whole
line moved slowly but steadily on. Lightly and joyously did
those gallant men advance. Instead of the sober faces and
silent mien that one might have expected would be worn on so
solemn an occasion, everything was gay and joyous. This was
owing in part to the fact that all knew that the enemy was
retreating in great confusion, and few, if any, anticipated
the fearful strife and bloody scenes that would take place in
the next few hours. The enemy was posted in an apparently
impregnable position, about half a mile beyond the Mill, which
is situated on a small creek and from which the battle-field
takes its name. Defiling over the little bridge that spanned
the creek, our little army was again drawn out in the long
line of battle, and with the same light indifference that host
of gallant hearts moved on. A noble band were they. There
mingled the sons of every State in our country. The orange
groves of Florida and Louisiana had sent forward their
offering, and the broad prairies of Texas had given their
noblest hearts. The Arkansas boys, with their famous big
knives, with the trusty Mississippi riflemen by their sides,
were there. Stalwart forms from the grain clad hills of
Tennessee, and the white cotton fields of Alabama, were there;
while from Georgia, the Carolinas, and the Old Dominion, warm
hearts and true, were on that fatal ground. Alas! how many of
those hearts were soon to beat their last throb in death! But
little thought they of that. Nerved by the justice of our
cause, and cheered by bright thoughts of the loved ones at
home, for whom they were to battle, that mighty band of
brothers marched on. At 2 o'clock, P. M., the firing became
quite heavy between our advance guard and the enemy, and at
half past two it became general all along the line. The rattle
of the musketry was terrible and incessant, while the roar of
at least three hundred guns formed a bass at once grand but
appalling. The idea that any one man can form of a battle,
from participating in it, is necessarily faint and imperfect.
He sees what is going on immediately about him, but the
flashing of guns, the roar of artillery, the whizzing of
bullets and screaming of exploding shells, all combine to
throw him into a state of excitement not the most favorable
for accurate observation. In this battle our line extended
from the Chickahominy on the right, across the country more
than two miles to a junction of roads called Coal Harbor.
Being in General Hill's division, I was on the right and in
full view of the ground occupied by Hood's brigade and over
which they fought. In order that my readers may the better
understand and appreciate the heroic deeds of the Texans on
that day, I will give a short description of the ground. There
were two hills of considerable height facing one another, the
one occupied by Hood's brigade and some other regiments, and
the other by the enemy. The hills were about four hundred
yards apart and separated by a valley of considerable depth.
Through the valley flowed a small brook and along the brook
ran an old snake fence. The side of the hill occupied by the
enemy and confronting our line, was covered with large oak
trees, which sheltered and screened them from our view. You
will see the magnitude of the deeds of the Texas Brigade when
I state that the enemy were drawn up in three lines of battle.
The first was in the valley and immediately behind the fence;
the second was posted half way up the hill and hid from view
by logs and the thick foliage; the third line was very near
the summit and behind a small breastwork of earth and logs.
Just in the rear of this last line, and on the highest point,
were planted their batteries of artillery which played over
their heads on our troops stationed on the opposite hill.
General Hill, seeing the havoc made by these batteries, and
knowing the importance of gaining that position, had ordered
brigade after brigade to storm it, but in vain. Our troops had
dashed down to the brook several times in the face of the
concentrated fire of the three lines and the batteries, but
decimated and broken, had been compelled to retreat, followed
each time by showers of bullets and the shouts of the exultant
enemy. At last came the order, at about 5 o'clock, P. M., for
Hood's brigade to move forward to the attempt. It was the last
brigade of A. P. Hill's division, and with their failure,
would end the success of our attack on the left wing of the
enemy. Never shall I forget that scene. It was a little after
5 o'clock. The sun was declining with that brilliancy peculiar
to the early summer, but even his rays could scarcely
penetrate the sulphurous clouds of smoke that floated here and
there over the field. Amid the smoke and dust I could just
catch glimpses of the line as it pressed forward into the very
"jaws of death." Over the brow, down the bare sides
of the hill they poured with cheers that rent the very
heavens. Heedless of the leaden shower that rained upon them,
the living mass sped on. The brook was reached, but they
waited not. Through it they plunged, and scaling the fence,
leaped right amidst the first line of the enemy. Amazed and
panic stricken, the foe broke and fled up the hill with the
brave Texans at their heels. The second line, confused at
seeing their own men thus rushing headlong among them, and
unable to fire from fear of killing their comrades, broke also
and joined in the flight. Pell mell they came plunging upon
their third and last line drawn up on the summit. Little time
had they for explanations. With wild shouts of victory our
gallant boys came on, but the Yankees waited not for the
bayonet. Their whole left wing gave way, and terrified, fled
down the rear side of the hill towards the Chickahominy. Then
followed a fearful scene of slaughter. Between the bullet and
the bayonet many a Yankee found a grave that evening. The
pursuit continued until long after dark that night, and the
next day, on walking over the track of the flying foe, I saw
terrible proofs that the pursuit had not been a bloodless one.
Well were the gallant men who fell that day, avenged. Almost
simultaneous with the rout of the enemy's left wing, old
Stouewall pounced upon their right, and flanking them, drove
them headlong before him. Thus was won the battle of Gaines's
Mill.
Of all sad and mournful days, there is
none that can compare with the day after a battle. On the
morning after this fight I arose early and walked forth to
view the scene of carnage. The portion of the field I visited
was that over which the Texas Brigade made this memorable
charge. Our victory had been dearly bought. The slope from the
summit to the brook was literally strewed with the dead, while
the ground from which the wheat had just been cut, looked as
if ready for planting again, so tern and ploughed was it by
balls. Men lay in every conceivable position and with every
shade of expression on their countenances. Old and young, the
hardy son of the prairie and the gentler youth of the city,
were lying side by side in the sleep of death. Some, with
upturned faces and clenched teeth, still grasped their
muskets, as if again preparing for that bloody charge, while
others reposed as easily and gracefully as if merely resting
after labor. As I walked among them, gazing first at one poor
fellow and then another, an inexpressible sadness stole over
me. I thought of their homes in the far away West, and the
dear ones who longed for their return. Perhaps some mother,
some sister, or a dearer one yet, was even then breathing her
morning prayer for the loved form that now laid cold in death
at my feet. Alas! fair one, that form shall never meet thy
eyes again; his welcome footstep never greet thy ear.
"The whizzing bullet sung his sudden requiem," and
the earth shall soon clasp that form in its cold embrace.
Weeks, perhaps months will pass, and a letter from a comrade,
or perhaps the newspapers coldly and without comment, will
announce his death. With such thoughts and feelings I wandered
over the bloody field. More than a year has now passed since
that day; the forms then scarce cold, have now mingled their
dust with the sod of the Old Dominion. The grass is fresh and
green on their graves, but not so fresh and green as the
memory of their noble deeds. That grass will wither when the
cold blasts of winter sweep over it, but there comes no winter
for the memory of the gallant dead. Eternal spring will bloom
around the names of the brave patriots who perished in the
glorious charge of Gaines's Mill. When peace shall again smile
on our land, let some fair monument arise within the borders
of Texas to hand down their names to posterity and stimulate
those who shall come after to like deeds of daring and
self-sacrifice.
