If I tell you that I heard many wish that they might receive a wound in the impending fight you may think me "yarning," but it is true nevertheless, for the men were so utterly worn out that they would have willingly risked a wound for the sake of the rest it would give them.

The troops were placed in position during the day and all instructions issued to the various commanders preparatory for the a.s.sault that was to take place at 4.30 the morning of the 3d.

A BUGLER'S GRIEF.

Pardon a little digression while I tell you about a bugler who was a bugler from "way back." There were hundreds and thousands of buglers in the army, but I never heard one who could touch a note to George Gracey of our regiment. One blast of his trumpet would indicate the location of the 2d New York, among a score of regiments. There was music in every sound he made, and I have seen officers of other commands stop and listen when the little Swiss was trumpeting the calls.

At Cold Harbor he was selected by Gen. Hanc.o.c.k to sound the charge which sent 20,000 of his men into action, because his bugle could be heard clearer and farther than others. It was a proud moment for our little bugler, but the story is not complete without telling you how the tender-hearted fellow sat down and wept like a child, when, a few moments later, he saw the ghastly procession of mangled and bleeding comrades coming back.

He was afterwards bugler for Gen. Nelson A. Miles at division headquarters and served until the close of the war. For many years he was bugler at the Bath Soldier's Home.

I last saw him at a reunion of our regiment at Frankfort, N. Y., and, although he was bent over with the weight of three score years and ten, he had not forgotten his cunning with the bugle and when he alighted from an early morning train and let off a few blasts from his old war-scarred trumpet the citizens of that peaceful Mohawk village must have thought that Gabriel had come.

TAPS!

George Gracey has long since been "mustered out," and he who had trilled that sweet, sad and long farewell at the graves of thousands of his comrades has had "taps" sounded for him.

THE BATTLE.

When the rays of the rising sun lifted the mists from the Chickahominy lowlands on the morning of June 3, 1864, Cold Harbor was scarcely known beyond the sound of a rifle shot. When that same sun was dropping behind the western horizon in the evening of that day the name was on the tongues of millions all over the land.

Promptly at 4.30 a. m. the attack was made by the 2d, 6th and 18th corps.

Gen. Francis B. Barlow (after the war attorney general of New York) led our division and forced the enemy to retreat from a sunken road.

Gen. Nelson A. Miles was our brigade commander at the time.

Beyond the road was a hill from which the enemy's artillery were enabled to do frightful execution. Barlow again ordered a charge and led his men with a rush, carrying everything before them, capturing several hundred prisoners, a stand of colors and three pieces of artillery. Gen. Gibbons'

second division on the right did some magnificent fighting. Gen. Birney's third division were in reserve and not actively engaged.

The vigorousness of the contest may be inferred from the fact that the losses of the two divisions were over 2,200 and the a.s.sault was over inside of one hour.

The casualties of the other commands engaged brought the losses of that a.s.sault up to nearly 6,000 men.

Think of it! Quite one-fourth of the population of Watertown put out of action in less than one hour's time.

The musicians of our regiment were not with the a.s.saulting column this day, but the writer had a father with the force and can a.s.sure the reader that it was a mighty anxious time until he found him unharmed.

BRAVERY OF THE WOUNDED.

We had plenty of work to do in a.s.sisting the surgeons. Acres of ground were covered with bleeding, mangled men with the dust and smoke of battle upon them. It was touching to notice how bravely most of them endured suffering while needing attention and comforts that could not be given them.

I recall how little Will Whitney, one of the "ponies" of our company as the boys were called, lay there on the ground shot clear through the body, patiently waiting his turn, while a big fellow with a wounded hand was dancing around and making a terrible fuss until Whitney, thoroughly disgusted, spoke out. "Shut up, there, old man, you're not the only one that got scratched in this fight."

I a.s.sisted to the rear another of the lads of Co. H, Henry C. Potter, a former schoolmate at Carthage, and as bright and promising a young man as any who went to the war. His left arm was badly shattered, necessitating an amputation. There was not a murmur; not a regret. He was glad it was not his right one, for with that saved he could be of some help to his father in the store. He made me promise to stay by him during the operation, and after it was over I a.s.sisted him into an ambulance and bade him a last good-bye, for he did not live to see Jefferson county again.

IN INTRENCHMENTS.

After the fighting of June 3 Gen. Grant instructed the commanding officers to have the troops intrench themselves as best they could.

In many places the lines were only forty or fifty yards apart. The ground all about was low and marshy, which caused chills and fever.

Our regiment occupied a sort of angle so that we were exposed to bullets from the flank as well as front. The sharpshooters got in lots of their deadly work at Cold Harbor, and if a head was shown above the earthworks several "minies" would go whizzing past. Just for fun the boys used to elevate their caps on a bayonet for the "Johnnies" to shoot at.

The men on the picket line dug holes or trenches to protect themselves and could only be relieved at night under the cover of darkness. All day long they would lie there in the broiling sun with little food or water, and between the lines were dead men and horses which polluted the atmosphere.

Some of the wounded from the fight of the 3d were on the field up to the 7th, completely covered by the fire of the enemy's pickets and sharpshooters, although the men made heroic efforts every night to bring their comrades in.

A TRUCE.

"Let us bury our dead: Since we may not of vantage or victory prate; And our army, so grand in the onslaught of late, All crippled has shrunk to its trenches instead, For the carnage was great; Let us bury our dead."

"Haste and bury our dead!

No time for revolving of right and of wrong; We must venture our souls with the rest of the throng; And our G.o.d must be judge, as He sits over head, Of the weak and the strong, While we bury our dead."

Gen. Grant made overtures to Lee the 5th for a truce, but no cessation of hostilities took place until the evening of the 7th, the hours being from 6 to 8.

The dead were buried where they fell and, strange as it may seem, quite a few men were found alive after lying there about four days without any food or water except what they may have had when wounded.

The case of a man I a.s.sisted in bringing in our lines who had five wounds on his body was a sad one, but the surgeons thought his life could be saved.

I wish I might find words to portray to the reader something of the impressiveness of the scene at Cold Harbor that night.

Imagine, if you can, two mighty armies--that for weeks had been grappling with each other in deadly contest, each doing its utmost to slay and destroy the other, laying aside their implements of war as the day draws to a close, and with the sun casting its last red glare over all, as out from the ranks on either side came the men of war on their errand of mercy; the blue and gray intermingling, looking for friends and comrades that had fallen; permitted to carry them back into their own ranks to live or die among those with whom they served.

The picture will never be effaced from my memory, and all who witnessed that or a similar scene, will heartily endorse the saying of the late General Sherman that "War is h.e.l.l."

REFUSED TO BE BURIED.

The burial of the dead on the battlefield had to be done so hurriedly many times that more than one poor fellow who perhaps had been stunned and left on the field had a "close call" to being buried alive. A case in mind was that of one at Cold Harbor who had been picked up as dead, and as the men dropped their burden by the open trench the shock resuscitated the man and he faintly asked:

"What's going on, boys?"

The response was, "We were going to bury you, Shorty."

"Not if I know myself," he replied. "Get me a cup of coffee and I'll be all right; I won't be buried by that country clodhopper."

The "clodhopper" referred to was the sergeant in charge of the squad, who belonged to a company of our regiment that came from the central part of the state, while the man who had been so near the "dark valley" was a member of a New York City company.

TO ARMS AGAIN.

At 8 o'clock sharp the white flags were furled, and the buglers from either side sounded the "recall." The men returned to their commands, the swords were unsheathed, the muskets reloaded, the cannon unmuzzled and hostilities were resumed--such is war.