I will never forget that double row of dirty faces. They had been on a forced march all day, perhaps, to reach the field. The dust of the roads had adhered to their perspiring faces, presenting a war-paint effect that was ludicrous even at so serious a time.

"How does a man feel in battle?" is a question often asked, or "Were you frightened the first time?" My answer is: "Yes, and every other time." I never heard a shell screech, or a minie-ball whistle or whiz, that I wished, with all my soul, that I had not come. I was scared when I went in the first and the last battle.

At the end of every fight I felt, somehow, as if the war was a failure, and we might as well go home, we so seldom had the satisfaction of seeing the Rebels run.

A majority of people have formed an idea that a battle is a continuous uproar, from daylight until dark, or during all of the day on which it occurs. As a matter of fact, the real fight is soon over, one way or another; that is, the actual contest of the larger bodies ends about as suddenly as a collision on a railroad.

It is a long time beginning; may be the picket-firing of the night previous is the first indication; then will come the more frequent clattering from the skirmish-line, with an occasional shot from a battery; perhaps it ends with this.

I have nearly always noticed that the officers and men thought it had ended, and were only suddenly awakened to the fact that it had not, by a tremendous boom from some battery, that would nearly always be discovered to be at some point they did not expect a hostile shot to come from.

It may not be an agreeable thing to print, but it has been my experience in battle, that it was always the unexpected that happened to our officers.

The first time I was under fire, I happened to be near a battery, and became so much excited by the booming of the guns, and the action of the men and officers, that I did not realize my danger.

A battery pounding shot into an enemy is the most inspiriting music a soldier can hear. Of course, you can not tell whether the shot hit any one or not, as they go so far, but you instinctively feel, from the big noise and fussy kick the thing makes every time it is fired, that something must get hurt at the other end.

As a rule, it is not the artillery that does the damage; the shells most frequently go entirely over the heads of a line of battle and drop far to the rear, where they stampede the mules about the wagon-trains and scare the skulkers.

_The wounds are not always received at the front._ It is the nasty _little_ bullets that do the greater damage to the men in line.

On this occasion I felt, from the way this battery had been pounding into the woods, a mile or so away, that they had killed everybody over there, so I boldly advanced on my horse to the front or skirmish-line.

On my way out, I saw coming toward me two fellows carrying, or rather supporting, a third between them; getting closer, I discovered that the man they were carrying had his leg off; indeed, it seemed as if his whole lower body had been torn off at the hip, leaving his bleeding flesh hanging in shreds to his light-blue pantaloons.

I naturally stopped when they got nearer, when I discovered, to my horror, that the poor man's bowels were actually trailing on the ground.

He was yet alive; his eyes were fixed upon me in a sorrowful, longing way that I shall never, never get out of my mind.

While paralyzed by this sight, I was so sick that I almost fell off my horse, by seeing one of the men accidentally tread on his bowels, which served to draw more of his entrails from his torn and bleeding body. The poor fellow was then past all pain. I hurried forward to get away from the horrible sight, only to come on a boy in blue, who was lying flat on his face, as if he had been literally biting the dust, all choked up--dead.

You will notice in all the pictures of battles that the dying are usually represented as throwing up their hands and falling backward gracefully.

As a matter of fact, the men usually fall forward, unless they are struck by a missile so large that its weight will carry them backward by the momentum. I have observed that a wounded man's head drops forward; this, I presume, has a tendency to cause the body to fall forward with the weight of the head; and the fact that the dead, who die on the field, are nearly always found with their faces down, burrowed, has created the expression, "biting the dust."

As it generally rains after a battle, I have noticed the wounded and dying nearly always crawl to a pool of water, and their dead faces are often found as if they had died in an effort to wet their parched tongues.

Every person I have talked with for five minutes about Gettysburg, asks the question: "Were you there when Pickett charged?" as if that famous incident comprised the whole of the battle, whereas it was only the fire-works at the end of the three days' meeting.

When Pickett's charge was made I was behind the stone wall, about three miles away, and, consequently, did not see it.

At the "supreme moment," I was quietly picking blackberries in an old field where the reserve artillery had been parked.

When the tremendous firing began and the reserve artillery were ordered down, I stopped my blackberrying, out of season, and went down to the front to see what the fuss was all about.

Pickett's charge has been done--and over-done--so very thoroughly by both sides, that I shall not even attempt to add a word to the mass of stuff that has already been printed about it.

There is, however, a little story about a charge of Pennsylvanians in the Virginia "burg," led by the glorious but unobtrusive Meade, that the _old_ Army of the Potomac should not themselves forget, nor allow their old-time enemies to obliterate, or snow under. I refer to the charge of Meade on the left at Fredericksburg, December 11th, 1862, where, with fewer numbers, he accomplished greater results than Pickett against greater odds:

With the Rappahannock River in the rear, Meade led his Division over a mile of plain under a heavy artillery fire, and _broke the celebrated_ Stonewall Jackson line, and penetrated 600 yards beyond their line. If he had been sustained, the slaughter at Marye's Heights would have been avoided.

It was also at Marye's Heights, where greater heroism was shown, where not one grand attempt was made, but where charge after charge was made against an absolutely impregnable position, yet one never hears of these charges.

The gallant Allabach, the veteran of two wars, led the last final onslaught on Marye's Heights, at the head of a small brigade of Pennsylvania troops of Humphrey's Division that had never before been under fire, and this handful comparatively, went into the very jaws of death, and, though they did not reach the stone wall, they got nearest to it and kept their ground, within a few rods of it till dark, when they were ordered to fall back.

_No prisoners were taken_ at Fredericksburg as there were at Gettysburg.

The snake, Secession, had its back-bone broken at Gettysburg to be sure, but boys of the dear old Army of the Potomac--patient, noble, long-suffering old Army of the Potomac--remember the early, the dark days, when Meade, Hancock, Reynold, Warren, Humphreys, etc., were our immediate commanders; do not forget the _old_ Army of the Potomac and its numerous general officers when the proper praises are so freely being given to its later chiefs.

Though the final charge of Pickett, preceded and attended as it was by peculiarly dramatic surroundings, has furnished a subject for more speeches, historical essays, paintings, poems, than any other event which ever occurred in America, yet, in point of fact, history is wrong in ascribing the credit to Pickett.

The charge was not led by Pickett, neither were the troops who did the most gallant fighting Virginians.

It is reserved for these Spy papers to record, on the testimony of reliable, Confederate officers, that Pickett did not get within a mile of our lines.

The _best_ fighting was done by the North Carolinians and Tennesseeans, led by Pettigrew; therefore, it should be _Pettigrew's_ charge. In this, as in many other matters, the historians of the war are at fault.

May we hope that the humble efforts of the "Boys" in these pages, will, at least, call attention to some of those inaccuracies, with a view of getting at the truth.

As I have intimated, I have endeavored to collect some recent testimony from the Southern side, having spent some time on the old war-trail, which I hope to be able to put in shape soon. The time must come when the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, will be known, and then, perhaps, future generations may be taught to see that to the Pennsylvania Reserves is due some of the honor, valor, gallantry and patriotism that is now being so freely offered to the Pickett survivors.

No one will question their bravery at Gettysburg on July 3rd, 1863; but since then, and on July 4th, 1887, the survivors have left themselves open to attack, in assuming their positions in reference to monuments.

There remains among the Southern people an ignorant, deep-seated belief, which is being taught the "New South," that, if Longstreet had properly supported Pickett, they would have been successful, and the country would have become a Confederacy. There is a great deal of "if" in all the survivors' talk in the New South, so that we may indulge in the use of the little word, and propose a few conundrums--possibilities.

What would have been the result, _if_ Meade had been supported by Franklin, when he broke Stonewall Jackson's line at Fredericksburg? And _if_ Sedgwick had been properly supported by Hooker, at Chancellorsville, when he drove Early from behind the "impregnable"

works on Marye's Heights? Once more: _If_ Pickett had succeeded and had broken into our line, and had been supported by Longstreet, then _if_ the Sixth Corps, which had scarcely been engaged in the great fight, had turned in on them on the flank, _if_ any of them had gotten back at all it would have been a miracle. _If_, on the other hand, General Meade had taken Hancock's advice and turned the Reserves and the Sixth Corps loose after Pickett the war might have ended. _If_ they were to try it again they would be whipped worse. _If_ they don't believe it, fire on Fort Sumter. _If_ we had never been born we would not have to die.

There was one little episode I have never seen recorded. After the charge of Pickett--on the third day--had failed, everything had quieted down. Meade, accompanied by his Staff, went over the wall and rode along our entire front, from Cemetery Hill to the Round Tops, receiving the cheers of the whole army, or all that was left.

That was the only time I ever heard music on a battlefield; then it was from a band in the woods at Little Round Top, that played "Hail to the Chief."

I never hear that old tune, nowadays, on these fancy parades, but it brings up the recollection of that great day and causes the cold chills to creep up and down my spine.

I rode with General Meade this day; to prove which, I will ask some of the survivors who witnessed that event to recall a smooth-faced boy on a lame horse that brought up the rear of the dashing cavalcade. My nag got hurt the first day, and I did not have a chance to steal another, and, as I was bound to be on hand, I had to ride my lame horse.

The General and Staff always go at a break-neck gallop, the Staff tearing along in the rear, like a tail to a comet, so that, in this case, I "got left" about a gunshot to the rear; and, because I so energetically spurred the lame horse, to catch up, our boys, behind the stone wall, gave me the laugh and some cheers of derision. They were all feeling pretty good just then, and were excusable.

One of the Staff-officers told me that we had captured General Longstreet, and when I got over among the Reserves I told this bit of news, where it created a sensation.

I have never seen an account of that ride along the lines in print. It is correct, though it may have been the fourth day instead of the third.

You will find in the Rebel reports of the battle, that General Lee states that, on hearing these shouts and cheers from our army, he thought it meant an advance on his line, and he made preparations to meet it. I think it was the cheers for General Meade that he heard, even so distant as his headquarters.

But we will leave Gettysburg. I want to say something about Kilpatrick and the Corn Exchange Regiment of emergency men, that came out of Philadelphia at that time to repel the invasion.

It is not for me to criticise General Meade for not closely pursuing Lee's shattered army. We all know that, when a rattle-snake is chased into his hole, he don't leave his tail exposed, but at once presents his head to the entrance. I remember that some days after Gettysburg, while we were at Emmittsburg, or between there and Frederick, Maryland, General Kilpatrick and some of his associates had an animated conversation about it, which everybody in the neighborhood heard, as Kilpatrick was a free talker when he became very much interested in a subject. On this occasion he freely expressed his disgust with the slow proceedings, but no one who knew Kilpatrick well paid much attention to his bluster. He was nick-named "Kill Cavalry," because of his recklessness and apparent disregard of his own and the lives of his men.

I will relate a single incident illustrating this General's character, that occurred in my hearing at Hagerstown. At the time of the Gettysburg campaign there had been quite a lot of emergency troops called out by the Governor of Pennsylvania--"ninety-minute men" we called them. On our march from Gettysburg we met with these home-guards at different points.

I remember that just outside of the town of Frederick, Maryland, there was a regiment of these men doing guard duty. As we marched by, and these citizen-soldiers, who were fresh in their picturesque, zoo-zoo uniforms, or, as they are sometimes called, "Night-drawers Cadets," the dirty-looking, old, blue-bloused veterans chaffed them most unmercifully. It was wet weather, and the roads were muddy, as is always the case after a battle. Wherever these ninety-minute men were stationed on guard duty, they were to be found perched as sentries on top of a pile of cracker-boxes or fence rails, to keep their feet out of the mud, the boxes giving them the appearance of a statue on a pedestal.

"Pretty boys," "Nice little sogers," "Don't get your feet wet, sonny; you might take cold," "Let me kiss him for his sister," are mild specimens of the expressions hurled at them from the marching columns of old vets.