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oin boys, one the first adjutant of the 20th. Here passes steadily to the front as of yore the 7th Maine Battery, Twitchell, my late college friend, at the head: splendid recessional, for I saw it last in 1864 grimly bastioning the slopes above Rives' Salient, where darkness fell upon my eyes, and I thought to see no more. Following, in Dwight's Division of the Nineteenth Corps, other brave men, known and dear: a battalion of the 1st Maine Veterans, under Captain George Brown; the brigadeng still to-day! But where are my splendid six regiments of them which made that resolute, forlorn-hope charge from the crest they had carried fitly named Fort Hell, down past the spewing dragons of Fort Damnation into the miry, fiery pit before Rives' Salient of the dark June 18th? Two regiments of them, the 121st Pennsylvania, Colonel Warner, and 142d Pennsylvania, Colonel Warren, alone I see in this passing pageant,--worn, thin, hostages of the mortal. I violate the courtesies of the augus
a soldier, with the unspoiled heart of a boy. Three of these, college mates of mine. What far dreams drift over the spirit, of the days when we questioned what life should be, and answered for ourselves what we would be! Now passes the artillery, guns all dear to us; but we have seen no more of some, familiar and more dear: Hall's 2d Maine, that was on the cavalry front on the first day of Gettsyburg, grand in retreat as in action, afterwards knowing retreat only in sunset bugle-call; Stevens' 5th Maine, that tore through the turmoil of that tragic day, and gave the Louisiana Tigers another cemetery than that they sought on the storied hill; roaring its way through the darkness of 1864, holding all its ancient glory. Most of the rest we knew had gone to the reserve. The pageant has passed. The day is over. But we linger, loath to think we shall see them no more together,--these men, these horses, these colors afield. Hastily they have swept to the front as of yore; cross
Phil Sheridan (search for this): chapter 11
cavalry, until our infantry overtaking the horses, force the flag of truce to the front, and all is over! Fighters, firm, swift, superb,--cavalry-chivalry! Sheridan is not here. He is down on the Rio Grande,--a surveyor, a draughtsman, getting ready to illustrate Seward's diplomatic message to Napoleon that a French army casomething more. Something the best in us would be passed in review to-day. The military prestige of this corps was great, and its reputation was enhanced by Sheridan's late preference, well-known. The city, too, had its special reasons for regard. The Sixth Corps had come up from its proud place in the battle lines in days Antietam and the twice wrought marvels of courage at Fredericksburg, and the long tragedy of Grant's campaign of 1864; then in the valley of the Shenandoah with Sheridan in his rallying ride, and in the last campaign storming the works of Petersburg-losing eleven hundred men in fifteen minutes; masters at Sailor's Creek, four day
Longstreet (search for this): chapter 11
where he was severely wounded; Smyth's at Cold Harbor, killed at Farmville. Into this brigade Owen's, too, is now merged. They are a museum of history. Here passes, led by staunch Spaulding, the sterling 19th Maine, once gallant Heath's, conspicuous everywhere, from the death-strewn flank of Pickett's charge, through all the terrible scenes of Grant's campaign, to its consummation at Appomattox. In its ranks now are the survivors of the old Spartan 4th, out of the Devil's Den, where Longstreet knew them. Heads uncover while passes what answers the earthly roll-call of the immortal 5th New Hampshire, famed on the stubborn Third Corps front at Gettysburg, where its high-hearted Colonel Cross fell leading the brigade,--among the foremost in the sad glory of its losses, two hundred and ninety-five men having been killed in its ranks. What is that passing now, the center of all eyes, --that little band so firmly poised and featured they seem to belong elsewhere? This is what
Charles Griffin (search for this): chapter 11
n turn they bore. Now rises to its place the tried and tested old Ninth Corps, once of Burnside and Reno, now led by Parke, peer of the best, with Willcox and Griffin of New Hampshire and Curtin leading its divisions, --Potter still absent with cruel wounds, and Hartranft detached on high service elsewhere,and its brigade comma valleys; rich in experiences, romantic and Roman! And now it is the Fifth Corps. The signal sounds. Who is that mounting there? Do you see him? It is Charles Griffin. How lightly he springs to the saddle. How easy he sits, straight and slender, chin advanced, eyes to the front, pictured against the sky! Well we know him was shy of girls-sharp eyes out for soft eyes — I dare say for his master's peace and safety! All the way up the Avenue a tumult of sound and motion. Around Griffin is a whirlpool, and far behind swells and rolls the generous acclaim. At the rise of ground near the Treasury a backward glance takes in the mighty spectacle: th
Wainwright (search for this): chapter 11
y-one out of every hundred of that morning roll-call answering at evening, otherwhere. One passing form to-day holds every eye. Riding calmly at the head of the 7th Wisconsin is Hollon Richardson, who at Five Forks sprang to take on himself the death-blow struck at Warren as he leaped the flaming breastworks in the lurid sunset of his high career. Pass on, men, in garb and movement to some monotonous; pass on, men, modest and satisfied; those looking on know what you are! And now, Wainwright, with the artillery of the corps, guns whose voices I should know among a hundred: D of the Fifth Regular, ten-pounder guns, which Hazlett lifted to the craggy crest of Little Round Top, its old commander, Weed, supporting; whence having thundered again his law to a delivered people, God called them both to their reward. L of the 1st Ohio, perched on the western slope, hurling defiance at deniers. I see not Martin of the 3d Massachusetts, whose iron plowed the gorge between Round Top and
t which holds fast its loyalty and faces ever forward. This is the division of Mott, himself commanding to-day, although severely wounded at Hatcher's Run on the sixth of April last. These are all that are left of the old commands of Hooker and Kearny, and later, of our noble Berry, of Sickles' Third Corps. They still wear the proud Kearny patch --the red diamond. Birney's Division, too, has been consolidated with Mott's, and the brigades are now commanded by the chivalrous De Trobriand andKearny patch --the red diamond. Birney's Division, too, has been consolidated with Mott's, and the brigades are now commanded by the chivalrous De Trobriand and the sterling soldiers, Pierce of Michigan and McAllister of New Jersey. Their division flag now bears the mingled symbols of the two corps, the Second and Third,--the diamond and the trefoil. Over them far floats the mirage-like vision of them on the Peninsula, and then at Bristow, Manassas, and Chantilly, and again the solid substance of them at Chancellorsville, and on the stormy front from the Plumb Run gorge to the ghastly Peach Orchard, where the earth shone red with the bright facing
cross, of equal arms. Symbol of terrible history in old-world conflicts-Russian and Cossack and Pole; token now of square fighting, square dealing, and loyalty to the flag of the union of freedom and law. These are survivors of the men in early days with Franklin and Smith and Slocum and Newton. Later, and as we know them best, the men of Sedgwick; but alas, Sedgwick leads no more, except in spirit! Unheeding self he fell smitten by a sharpshooter's bullet, in the midst of his corps. Wright is commanding since, and to-day, his chief-of-staff, judicial Martin McMahon. These are the men of Antietam and the twice wrought marvels of courage at Fredericksburg, and the long tragedy of Grant's campaign of 1864; then in the valley of the Shenandoah with Sheridan in his rallying ride, and in the last campaign storming the works of Petersburg-losing eleven hundred men in fifteen minutes; masters at Sailor's Creek, four days after, taking six thousand prisoners, with Ewell and five of hi
to surrender. We know them well. So it seems do these thousands around. These pass, or rather do not pass, but abide with us; while crowd upon our full hearts the stalwart columns of the Second Division--the division of the incisive Barlow, once of Sedgwick and Howard and Gibbon. These men bring thoughts of the terrible charge at the Dunker church at Antietam, and that still more terrible up Marye's Heights at Fredericksburg, and the check given to the desperate onset of Pickett and Pettigrew in the consummate hour of Gettysburg. We think, too, of the fiery mazes of the Wilderness, the deathblasts of Spottsylvania, and murderous Cold Harbor; but also of the brilliant fights at Sailor's Creek and Farmville, and all the splendid action to the victorious end. Here is the seasoned remnant of the Corcoran Legion, the new brigade which, rushing into the terrors of Spottsylvania, halted a moment while its priest stood before the brave, bent heads and called down benediction. Webb
rcely recovered from dangerous wounds. It was a hard place for brigade commanders — the Fifth Corps, in those all summer battles-and for colonels too. So they pass, those that had come to take the place of the regulars; they pass into immortal history. Oh! good people smiling, applauding, tossing flowers, waving handkerchiefs from your lips with vicarious suggestion,--what forms do you see under that white cross, now also going its long way? But here comes the Third Division, with Crawford, of Fort Sumter fame; high gentleman, punctilious soldier, familiar to us all. Leading his brigades are the fine commanders, dauntless Morrow, of the Iron Brigade, erect above the scars of Gettysburg, the Wilderness, and Petersburg; resolute Baxter, and bold Dick Coulter,--veterans, marked, too, with wounds. Theirs is the blue cross,--speaking not of the azure heaven, but of the down-pressing battle smoke. And the men who in former days gave fame to that division,the Pennsylvania Reserves
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