For obvious reasons, I did not intend to be made prisoner, if my horse's legs could keep me out of the grip of the encircling Rebs.

While I was making my way back to the road I ran against General Hancock, who had just come up in search of Howard. Hancock--brilliant, dashing, glorious Hancock--rode across the way to Howard, who had been standing silently biting his finger-nails, evidently as much rattled as it was possible for a good soldier to be.

"Howard," said Hancock, in a voice and with an emphasis that attracted the attention of the crowd that had gathered there, "let's get them behind that stone fence; they can never get us out of that."

Howard looked surprised, and said something in a low voice, trembling with excitement, which I took to be an acquiescence with Hancock's suggestion. There were some other words between them that were not heard, but we all knew that Hancock, from his fiery, almost blustering manner, was urging Howard to the importance of this step. Hancock's very presence seemed to inspire the men, who had now begun to gather on the hill in great crowds, attracted by the excitable manner of the General.

Just then Doubleday reached this point. Hancock, upon seeing this fighting General, abruptly leaving Howard, turned to Doubleday and began to explain with excited gestures the importance of securing this position. Doubleday, at a glance, seemed to take in the importance of this step. He and Hancock talked together for a moment only, when Hancock, without again referring to Howard (who still sat silently in his saddle, looking over toward Culp's Hill, his back now turned to the crowd), said to Doubleday:

"Now, you put your men behind that fence, and don't let another man go back of it." Then, turning to the Staff of assembled officers that were there, he said: "Don't allow another ---- man to go over that hill; drive them all up behind that stone wall."

Some one asked if they--the Staff--should use force indiscriminately.

Doubleday retorted, violently: "Yes; shoot any ---- man that refuses to obey."

Some officer whom I can not locate turned to all of us, took command, and ordered every officer and soldier to draw his pistol and saber and prevent another man from going down the hill. For the first and only time during the four years of the war I used a saber on our own men of the Eleventh Corps. No more men went back, thanks to Hancock. Howard and Hancock, standing together, were having some further animated conversation. I was close enough to hear only these words, spoken petulantly by Howard in answer to something that had been said to him: "Hancock, you cannot command here to-day."

Hancock rode over to Doubleday; they exchanged a few words in private, heated talk; Doubleday took charge, and it was he who executed Hancock's commands and saved the position. Howard received the credit and the thanks of Congress for having selected this position, but I assert here, as if it were a dying statement and my hopes of eternity hung on it, that Howard did not, until Hancock forced him to act, take any steps to hold the place.

Hancock's arrival upon the field, in obedience to General Meade's command, turned defeat into victory. His imposing presence, together with the admirable disposition of the First and Eleventh Corps and Buford's Cavalry, created in General Lee's mind the impression that we had been reinforced. In proof of this fact I will refer to the official reports of General Lee, lately published, in which he states that he had "restrained pursuit" because of the belief that we had been reinforced.

Much has been written upon the subject of this battle of Gettysburg, but this point has been little touched upon by any writer who is a wholly disinterested witness. My testimony is not of a regimental kind, for I am simply trying to tell of my own personal observation and experience.

As a Headquarters-Staff man, I went everywhere I considered it safe to go. I only knew such regiments as contained Pennsylvania friends, and especially those of the Pennsylvania Reserves, while I knew certain other commands in the Second and Fifth Corps. I generally knew where to find them when we were in camp, but would only meet them on the march accidentally.

There was one little incident that occurred, however, in the presence of Hancock, Howard, Doubleday, and the crowd which had gathered around them on Cemetery Hill, that some of the survivors who may read this article will remember, and may thereby establish the identity of the men or regiments which were "going up the hill and down again." After it had been decided by Hancock and Doubleday to try and stop the rout of the Eleventh Corps, Howard "caught on," as we say nowadays, but only awakened to the importance of holding the place after Hancock had bulldozed him into it. One big, tall fellow, with side-whiskers (I give his description because I do not know his name or regiment), who was carrying the regimental colors, rolled up, stalked over to where Howard was spurring his horse around at a lively waltz, issuing his orders to everybody who would carry into effect Hancock's suggestions.

This Color-Sergeant, in a wild and dramatic way, stood beside Howard's frisky horse and made his little speech, which was listened to with more apparent deference than had been accorded to Hancock. I am not conscious of having any personal feeling or prejudice against General Howard--in fact, I am politically the other way--but think, as a chronicler of events, that I can be perfectly fair now in my estimation of men and events which occurred twenty-five years ago. This Color-Sergeant and Howard had a little scene up on the hill to which almost everybody else was oblivious, having as much as they could attend to at the time themselves. But I heard the Sergeant say, in quite a loud voice: "I'll take the flag down there," pointing to the stone wall just below, "if these men will stand by me." Howard replied in a low voice, tremulous with excitement, at which the color-bearer and a few men started down toward the stone wall, which was the last I ever saw or heard of them, although I have little doubt, if this man lived through the battle, he was favorably mentioned in Howard's report, and got his commission, as it was a brave act on the part of the color-bearer; but I can't help but think it would have looked better (to my eyes at least) if he had stopped with his colors at the wall on his way up, and not have made his little speech for apparent effect.

Perhaps some person will ask why Generals Hancock and Doubleday did not lay claim to the credit of this manoeuver at the time. Probably they did, but of this I know nothing. Howard was Hancock's senior, and, as such, was entitled to the command during Meade's absence. But through some hocuspocus Howard received the vote of thanks by Congress for doing that which he did not do, and so the matter stands to-day.

Hancock was a noble-looking soldier. There was something in his appearance during a fight, while on his large horse, that was wonderfully impressive. Sheridan's ride up the Valley, in which his presence is credited with turning a disastrous defeat into a victory, was no more important in its results, in my estimation, than Hancock's dashing and well-timed arrival on Cemetery Hill on the afternoon of the first day of Gettysburg. There can be little doubt but that his prompt action secured the position, and his very presence, while talking with Howard, served to check the fugitives who were passing over the hill in droves.

It may also be asked why I bring this subject up at this late date, and after Hancock's death? For years I have avoided all talk on the subject of army experience. I would have sooner asked Hancock to take a drink in a public-bar-room than to have broached this matter to him. He was not the sort of a man who invited everybody's opinion. He always impressed me, and I was near him often, with the feeling that he was the ideal Regular soldier, and could only be approached through official channels. It was probably to this disposition, to leave everything to official reports, that can be attributed the fact that he did not always obtain through the newspapers the credit to which he was clearly entitled.

I therefore contend that Hancock is the hero of Gettysburg, not only of the third, but of the first day; and had he been in supreme command, and remained unharmed, General Lee would not have gotten away so easily; the war might have ended a year sooner than it did, and more than likely Gettysburg would have been in history what Appomattox now is, while Grant would have equally divided honors with Hancock. I sometimes think that, like a great many other good Generals in the East, Hancock became soured by the promotion of Grant's Western men to the best position in the Army of the Potomac.

Grand old Army of the Potomac! Noble, patient, long-suffering Army of the Potomac. Its greatest battles were fought while Meade and Hancock were subordinates--before Grant came out of the West to lead it to the Wilderness and Cold Harbor.

Everybody on Cemetery Hill did their utmost to check the shattered column, which had been doubled back from the right and the officers and men thrown into confusion; and the few men of the Staff had a hard time to rally these demoralized soldiers, for, as is well known to everybody who has had any connection with the army, a body of men once broken are about as hard to control as is a resistless mountain torrent.

I became so much engaged in this work, personally, that for a while I neglected to look around to see what was happening elsewhere. The men had come up from the town, and all stopped on the hill behind the wall, their guns cocked and lying across the top.

I was seated on my horse by the side of the big arched fancy gate of the old Cemetery, and, before I suspected that the Rebels were near, a minie-ball struck the brick-work of the gate, which I found, upon examination, was but a few feet above my head.

I had turned briskly around in search of some of my recent companions, to tell them that evidently the Rebel sharpshooters had secured places on the roofs, when I was almost paralyzed to discover that they had disappeared--scarcely anybody to be seen, save a lot of infantry, who were hugging the ground all around. Not being under the orders of any particular officer, I was, of course, like "nobody's child," and had to look out for myself. I hurriedly got behind the hill, when, to my consternation, I heard the rapid, sharp, hammer-like firing over on Culp's Hill, which seemed to me to be directly in our rear. It is a geometrical fact that the Rebels were almost in the rear of our position on Cemetery Hill. A glance at a map will explain this. Cemetery Hill projects like the point or promontory of a peninsula out into the sea of the Rebel Army, which was apparently on three sides of it.

The first thing I did was to look around for Hancock, thinking, if he was somewhere about, I would attach myself to him, as a means to get me out safely. But he was nowhere in sight; neither was Doubleday, Howard or any of the big guns I had just left on the hill; and, glancing down the Baltimore road to the rear, I saw such signs of general commotion that it gave me the impression that we were going to be surrounded.

I thought then that Hancock had made an awful big mistake in allowing the men up there to be caught in the rear while lying behind the stone wall looking in the opposite direction. I was not the only one who entertained this opinion at that juncture, by a large majority. But future events proved that Hancock was right and we were all wrong.

I went back over the same old road, along which I had dashed so gallantly in the morning, and did not stop until safely established near General Pleasonton, and so far to the rear that the sound of guns did not disturb my rest that night.

One day of Gettysburg should be enough. It was for me. The battle has been fought over so often in the newspapers that there is scarcely anything new to be said. Of course, my experience was peculiar in this--that I went as I pleased. Regimental history relates only to the observations from one fixed point.

The evening of the first day it looked badly enough to me, and if I had been Commander-in-Chief, I think I should have changed the base to a point a little farther away from the Rebels. I was defeated.

I was on hand bright and early the morning of the second day. I was not in so much of a hurry to save the day as I had been the first day. I rode down the same road I did the morning before, but I went along more cautiously. There was no booming of guns to be heard. Though nearly two hundred thousand men had been gathered there in the night, the surroundings the second morning were decidedly peaceful--unusually quiet--ominously as compared with the first morning and the evening of the first day.

I had slept in the same haymow from which I had been awakened the previous morning.

I came down the road straight toward Cemetery Hill to find headquarters--at least, that is what I started out to reach. I was stopped before I got up the hill, by an order from somebody to "Get out of the road." I got off as directed, and went into a little grove to the left, and almost in the rear of the Cemetery, where I had seen a group of officers on horseback. I do not remember who they were, but, seeing that they did not know any more than I about the "prospect," which was just then the important question, I tied my horse to a tree, that I might reconnoiter on foot, and find out something for myself. I proceeded to climb up the crest of the hill on my hands and knees, with all the humility, respect and caution that I felt was due to the Rebels.

I wanted to see them all once more very much, indeed, but I did not care to have any of their sharpshooters discover me first. There were batteries upon batteries, the horses of which were down on the hill to the rear, in care of their riders. The artillerymen were, of course, around their guns, but most of them were hunting places not too much exposed. I did not see the line at first; you know the artillery is always behind, or to the rear of a line of battle, supported by infantry. Bound to see the shape of our advance of that line of battle, I went as far out as the very crest of the hill nearest the Cemetery gate. When I got that far I was paralyzed by another yell, from some unseen quarter, to "Get down, there!" I got down, and in that abject position heard the voice explain, in not very gentle tones, "The sharpshooters are on the tops of those houses." The houses referred to were so close that I could almost count the bricks in the chimney-tops.

There was another curious fellow--an officer--some distance ahead of me, standing behind a tree, looking for all the world as if he was having lots of fun playing hide-and-seek with someone. I concluded to play, too, and crawled up to the base of another tree close beside him. When I got behind the tree, I felt perfectly safe from an attack of the whole Rebel army. I was feeling so secure in this position that I became bold enough to stand to one side, that I might get a good view of our fellows. I saw them lying down or silently moving about behind that old stone wall.

[Illustration: A CLOSE CALL AT GETTYSBURG.]

While I was yet intently gazing over the valley in hopes of seeing the Rebels, there was a little "ping" noise near me, a sharp sting on my face, as if some one had thrown a handful of gravel at me. It was only some of the bark of the tree, which had been dusted into my face by a minie-ball.

I got behind the tree. I stayed there, too, standing up against it as stiff as a post, and hugging it as close as its own bark. I was afraid to turn my head either to the left or to the right. I had seen enough, and slid down to the ground and crawled back on all-fours, after the manner of the harlequin on the stage. I found the headquarters, which was located not very far from that spot, but out of reach of any hiding sharpshooters on the house-tops at the upper end of the town.

During all that morning I was about headquarters, trying to find out what in thunder was up; everything was oppressively quiet.

In the early afternoon I sent a note addressed to General Meade into the dingy little old shanty where he had his headquarters. They were having a prolonged caucus. I proposed to send a detail of men to try to open up telegraph communication with Baltimore and Washington. I had discovered that the wires were down at some point on the railroad, and wanted to rebuild the line. In reply to this suggestion, which may be on file some place, as it was a written communication, General Meade sent me out to see General Gregg. This officer, who is a native of Pennsylvania, and at present is residing at Reading, greeted me most courteously, saying: "General Meade directs me to say to you, sir, that he appreciates the importance of securing the telegraph service, and desires you to be prepared to act upon it."

I was at the headquarters later on, when all the Generals who had been attending the Council of War came filing out, with their swords rattling, their faces wearing a determined, if not anxious, expression.

Each of the officers, without uttering a word, but acting as if he had an important business engagement on hand and was behind time at the appointment, quickly mounted their horses, all darting off in different directions.

I took the liberty of propounding a question to General Gregg. I should consider it impertinent, at my present age, for any one to ask me such a question.

But these were war times, which is the apology I now tender to General Gregg publicly. He will get a copy of this book with the author's compliments.

I asked the General, bluntly, if there "was anything up." He answered by significantly pointing over his shoulder to General Meade, who was at the moment in big boots, strutting off to his horse, which an orderly held near the assembled Staff.

"It looks as if something was up, don't it?"

I thought it did;--and as everybody else was mounting their horses I followed the example; that is, I followed General Meade, who was my example, over toward what was then the front of the Round Tops or Sickles' salient.

I can not go into Sickles' fight at Gettysburg. I know nothing more about it than has been published, except the impression that I gathered at the headquarters, and throughout the army at the time, in the days that immediately followed, which in effect was, that General Sickles had played a big card in hopes of accomplishing something on his own account that would give him the command of the Army of the Potomac. As all know, it was a continual fight between our Generals as to who should be the Chief. Sickles lost his opportunity and his leg at the same time. It was the common talk then, and few cared to dispute it some years ago, when Meade and Hancock were yet alive, that, if Sickles had not lost his leg, he would have lost his commission.

I was at Gettysburg with General Sickles in July, 1886 and 1888, and interviewed him for the press on this subject. He showed considerable feeling over the hostile attitude of other distinguished officers toward his absurd claim of having won the battle of Gettysburg, by being defeated the second day.

At the time, it looked to me like another first day, and, as I was anxious to be on the safe side, I retired to the valley between the Round Tops.

While riding out toward the rear, from between the Round Tops, I met a double line of battle slowly advancing. It was so long a line that I could not see either end of it through the undergrowth. In endeavoring to find a break, or hole, to get through, I asked some of the officers what troops these were, and my recollection is they were the Pennsylvania Reserves. I have often wondered since why some mention is not made of this reserve being on hand there to receive Longstreet if he had come through Sickles.

The appalling fear before me, as I faced those fellows advancing, with their guns loaded and bayonets fixed, pointing at my horse's breast, was that they wouldn't let me through, but might drive me ahead of them. I was not ambitious to lead them down through that valley, where so much noise was being made by Rebel yells and musketry.