During the attack upon Fort Sumter by the ironclads in April 1863, the regiment to which I belonged—Sixth Connecticut volunteers—formed part of a force on light-draught vessels lying in Stono Inlet, at the south end of Folly Island, South Carolina. From the mastheads we saw the ironclads as they passed up the coast to the attack. After the repulse we were landed on Folly Island and encamped about the middle of it. Two companies were detached to the inlet, where they remained until they had constructed two batteries commanding the approach by Stono River, and toward the end of June rejoined the regiment.
From various signs the knowing ones among us began to predict lively times ahead. [Colonel Edward W.] Serrell’s engineers were making roads and doing work which was hardly needed unless something of importance was in view at headquarters. Schooners laden with heavy ordnance and ammunition came into Stono Inlet, and details of men were sent to unload them. Presently large details were sent to the north end of the island to dig, returning in the morning, so that between one and the other the men were on heavy fatigue duty every other night, which, in addition to the usual guard and picket duty, made the service active service indeed. Reinforcements arrived and landed quickly and quietly, and about the beginning of July the paymaster made his appearance, which, if anything else was wanting, was sufficient to convince the most skeptical among us that we were about to smell powder in earnest, for it seemed a most singular coincidence, during our service in the Department of the South, that a paymaster arrived just previous to us going into an engagement. Witness James Island and Pocotaligo, 1862, just before each of which affairs we were paid.
About this time we made the acquaintance of Brigadier General George C. Strong, an officer who, though but a short time with us, endeared himself to all his command, especially those with whom he came in personal contact. They seem but little when we recall the influences which he exerted—a word of commendation here and there, and reproof, when deserving, given kindly. Possessing a manner and bearing most gallant and ingratiating, he won the hearts of the men instantly; if after-talks of him go for anything, they would have followed him anywhere. He was an officer whose short command of us is remembered with pleasure and whose untimely end added much to the depression of the men at their defeat. Our colonel, John L. Chatfield, and our lieutenant colonel, [John] Speidel, both of whom had been severely wounded at the Battle of Pocotaligo, South Carolina, in October 1862, rejoined us, Chatfield to assume command of the regiment in the coming engagement. Speidel was still too feeble for active service. Extra duty men were ordered to rejoin their regiment, and as far as possible the requisite preparations for a probably sharp affair were made.
On July 7 or 8 we received orders to prepare for a night attack on the enemy. Bands of white cotton cloth, to be sewed around the sleeve of the left arm, were issued to the men; the musicians and ambulance men having an additional piece of red flannel to be placed across the white band. Surf boats, bateaux, and boats of various kinds were collected in the stream on the west side of the island, near our camp, and about sundown on the eighth, we began to embark in them. The boats were filled as full as they would safely hold and rowed slowly up the stream toward the north end of the island. Some of the boats manned with Germans, of whom there were two companies in the regiment, got around either on the bars or mud flats several times, greatly delaying the other boats, throwing them into some confusion, and eventually preventing the contemplated attack from being carried out.
The night was dark, the stream full of boats, and despite the efforts of General Strong and other officers, the Germans’ boats would get aground, and as they were large and heavy would be seemingly stuck fast. A babble of jabbering and Dutch profanity would ensue, which ceased only by the imperative orders of the colonel or the general. The boat would be got off after much pushing and pulling, and then we would move along a little farther nicely, when another boat would come to a full stop and the performance repeated. Before dawn we were ordered to return, and shortly after sunrise got into our tents fagged out and feeling vicious enough for anything. In fact an officer of the Regular army [Lorenzo Meeker], who was forcing his way on horseback through the regiment as it was in the narrow road leading to the camp from the boats, heard something repeated which set him to hunting excitedly through the files for the “man who said that.” He deserved the remark and there had been no love lost between him and the regiment while under his command.
Early in the evening we were in the boats again, and as the Germans were placed in lighter boats, long before daylight next morning we were at the upper end of the island, ready to pull out into Lighthouse Inlet, when the signal would be given without any further mishaps. We kept back in the stream under shelter of the island, out of sight of the enemy in case we would have to remain after daylight and waited with the patience we had left after two nights’ vigil in leaky boats what daylight would bring forth.
The day came clear and beautiful, and just as the sun’s first beams were touching the treetops above us the silence was broken by the roar of heavy guns, the firing being rapid and continuous, and almost immediately the orders “give way,” “pull out,” etc. were passed, and we moved out into the inlet, and turning, rowed toward the ocean as though racing. The lightest boats got ahead, and soon all semblance of the company formations which were intended to be kept were lost. The colonel stopped the boats in the stream opposite the landing place chosen, and under a rapid and well-directed fire from the heavy guns which the guns had mounted on the sand hills of Morris Island got some of them into line and dashed for the shore. One boat was struck, but, being made with airtight chambers at each end, sank only to the gunwales. The men jumped out into the water and held onto the boat outside until picked up. Two or three of them were nearly drowned and were caught hold of barely in time to save them. I was in the major’s boat, and, it being lightly laden, was soon among those leading. The major ordered us to pull over under the shelter of the marshes of Morris Island, where he could control the rear boats without much exposure and could see almost everything that occurred. The line of boats formed in the stream soon touched the shore. The men jumped out and formed rapidly and charged. The Rebel guns belched out at them, but not being depressed enough the line was not checked, but sprang at and over the Rebel entrenchments and began a chase and picking of prisoners. The grape which missed the charging line did some damage among the men landing, who were forming and following quickly. The wounded were placed under the shelter of the rifle pits and the emptied boats used to bring over from Folly Island the troops waiting there.
Meanwhile, there was some accurate gunnery. A boat containing a signal officer and oarsmen was lying in the inlet close to the ocean, and the officer busily waving his flag, when a discharge of grape from the gun on the hill nearest the inlet was thrown across the boat, dashing up the water on both sides against it. We looked to see the boat sink, but the officer kept the flag going, and the men sat as unconcernedly as though nothing had come near them. Almost immediately after a shell from a howitzer on a navy boat, close beside us, which was rapidly firing into the rear of the Rebel batteries on the hills, struck one of the men most active in serving the Rebel gun, and bursting, destroyed him. Upon going into the battery shortly afterward we saw only fragments remaining of what but a little before had been a gallant soldier. These were given a decent burial during the day.
Eager to follow the boys, I asked permission to jump ashore, which the major, an amiable, easy-going old gentleman, granted, and after wading through the mud quite a distance, I reached the rifle pits facing the hard beach, and passing through an opening in the entrenchment connecting the rifle pits and the lower hill battery, and beside which a most beautiful English Whitworth field gun was standing, soon came out upon the ocean beach. Heavy shells from Wagner, Sumter, and the batteries on James and Sullivan’s islands were bounding and bursting here and there along the island, the shore, and sometimes in the water. I returned inward from the shore, and passing some tents, saw in them a number of Rebel prisoners. They were mostly of the First South Carolina Regiment, many of them Irishmen, and were clothed in excellent uniforms of cadet-gray cloth.
Not seeing anything of the regiment excepting a few stragglers, seeking what they could find worth picking up, I climbed up into the battery on one of the higher hills and saw many of the men clustered near the beacon house, some distance farther up the beach; while beyond, here and there, parts of a skirmish line were popping away at the last in sight of the fleeing enemy, who were rapidly disappearing toward Wagner. A lieutenant and private of the Seventh Connecticut Volunteers came up the hill and began to load the gun there and were soon followed by [Major General Quincy A.] Gillmore and another officer. The lieutenant asked permission to fire at Wagner, but the general seemed to think the range too far for the gun and directed him to try at some obstructions which the Rebels had placed in the stream beyond the marshes, near James Island. The lieutenant, who was eager to fire at something, fired two shots when the general said, “That will do,” and left the battery. While on the hill I saw our regimental colors put out of a window of the cupola of the beacon house and one of them soon after sent to the ground by a shot from Wagner. Indeed, the accuracy of the Rebel gunnery in general was remarkable.
Early in the afternoon our regiment was relieved by the Ninth Maine Volunteers, and, excepting a few who remained at the front sharpshooting, returned to the landing place under the impression that they were going back to camp on Folly Island, but before sunset the cooks who had remained in the camp came over to us with plenty of coffee and “house comforts for Yankee soldiers,” as one of the men aptly termed them; doughnuts, in abundance, were what the cooks of our company produced for supper. Details for guard were made, and dispensing with “tattoo,” our tired fellows lay down in the softest places they could find in the limits of the camp guard. It was the first real success we had met with. The men felt elated because they had been given a chance to see the enemy as well as feel him, which had [not] been our fortune heretofore.
After sunrise next morning, in returning to my sleeping place from a dip in the surf, I passed by the tent occupied by our colonel. General Strong was sitting on his horse, appearing as neat and dainty as though, to use a familiar expression, he had stepped out of a band box, and was talking to Colonel Chatfield, who stood in front of his tent, bareheaded and in his shirt sleeves, and as I passed I heard the general say, “Those Connecticut men were heroes; yes, sir, every one of them.” I could hardly think he had reference to the affair of yesterday, but was soon after told of the gallant assault on Fort Wagner before daybreak, led by a “forlorn hope” of four companies of the Seventh Connecticut Volunteers under Lieutenant Colonel [Daniel C.] Rodman, supported by the Seventy-sixth Pennsylvania and the Ninth Maine regiments, and its bloody repulse. We had slept so soundly that though less than three miles away, few of us knew anything of it until passed from mouth to mouth, as it were. We learned of the gallant leading of the “forlorn hope,” the misunderstanding of orders by the support, and the failure of the attack despite the bravery of all engaged. One would not have thought from the appearance of General Strong that he had passed through such an experience as commander of such an affair. We now settled down to the usual routine of siege duty, the men being busy at digging night and day, while the Rebels kept things lively by throwing shells at all hours. They had one Barbette gun on the southeast corner of Fort Sumter, whose range covered the whole island. Many were the imprecations given it by the poor tired fellows, whose rest would be rudely broken by a shell from that gun bursting near or over them. But one night we saw it flash; the shell exploded far short of the usual distance, and as they never reached us again, we judged that the gun had burst. After that we had comparative rest. Thus things went on until the morning of July 18, when the men coming in from the trenches reported everything ready and that Wagner would be bombarded that day.
During the morning the New Ironsides and monitors lying opposite Wagner opened fire, while farther off, nearly abreast of us, were three or four gunboats, which kept moving in a circle and firing their bow guns. Our batteries had got steadily at work, throwing up the sand and making a din about the Rebel guns which must have confused them, to say the least, but who replied, using their guns vigorously until towards the afternoon, when their firing slackened, and about 4:00 P.M. ceased. The Rebel flag was shot away several times, but was soon replaced, the Rebs in the meantime sticking up a regimental flag on the parapet.
The sight at times was a most inspiriting one. The day was clear and a fine breeze blowing. From Sumter and the batteries on James and Sullivan islands the shells were coming and bursting in every direction near our batteries and ironclads. Over Wagner was a cloud of white, vaporous smoke from their own guns and the shells exploding in, over, and beside it. Now and then a great mass of sand would rise high in the air and then settle down. The regularity of the outlines of the fort were soon destroyed, but the sand, falling as it did, left it still serviceable for defense. The fire of the New Ironsides and batteries was generally directed at the parapets and guns of the fort. The gunboats being much farther off, their guns were elevated considerably. The ponderous shot of the monitors were thrown so as to strike the beach in front of the fort and then, bounding up, burst right at the edge of the parapet. In the afternoon especially the firing would almost cease; then Wagner would try a shot, generally at the vessels. The New Ironsides in an instant would reply with a full broadside, the shells bursting like flashes of lightning nearly together. A burst of smoke and flame from a monitor would be followed by an upheaval of sand above the fort, and then, excepting a shot from a gunboat as it came to the firing point of the circle in which they were moving, and the scream of the shell as it flew on its way or the bursting of a shell from the Rebel batteries beyond the marches on the west or from behind Sumter, a quiet would follow.
Thus the day wore on until about 4:00 P.M., when the Rebel fire from Wagner was completely silenced. “We’ll sleep in Wagner tonight,” said some of the men as they were getting ready to fall in, which was being called out by the orderly sergeants of the different companies. Poor fellows, many of them did “sleep the sleep that knows no waking.” Some in Wagner, some in the ditch, some on the sands beside the beach, and others, God alone knows where; for neither as “Killed at Fort Wagner,” nor “Died of wounds received at Fort Wagner,” either in Charleston or our own hospitals; nor “Died in Richmond,” have they ever been accounted for. “Missing at the assault on Fort Wagner, July 18, 1863,” was the record for them, and missing has it been ever since; for though through official sources we had records from the Rebels of many of those who “returned not to us again,” yet of many of “ours” who passed by the batteries at sunset that evening we have no tidings; among their comrades some are believed to have fallen in the water as they charged up the beach, and as the tide was well up, were carried out by the sea, or killed in the ditch, on the parapet, or in the fort, and [were] disfigured beyond all recognition, so that all chances of knowing anything concerning them were lost.
Sometime before sunset our regiment was formed on the beach in the rear of the batteries, in a column of eight companies, “closed at half distance,” the other regiments of the brigade, taking similar formation farther in the rear; as the men were standing in “place rest” a general discussion of the plan of attack was going on among them. The Sixth Connecticut was to lead and attack the southeast or salient angle of the fort. The Forty-eighth New York were to pass along the sea front, extending inward towards the marshes on the west. Of the success of the assault there appeared to be no doubt. “Weren’t the guns silenced? Hadn’t the Rebs been well hammered all day? There’s not over five hundred men in that fort.” As for the other brigades who were to support the attack, what they were to do was not considered.
Where the men got their plan of attack from was very uncertain. Possibly something was said by someone who was supposed to know, and when the tale reached the end of the column it was fully elaborated. In the meantime, the Fifty-fourth Massachusetts Volunteers, a regiment of colored men with white officers, came toiling along slowly and wearily. They had been over on James’s Island for some days, had given the enemy there “a taste of their quality,” and from all accounts had acquitted themselves most creditably. They had been brought over from Cole’s Island and landed on Folly Island that morning, and after a warm day’s march had been ferried across on a small steamer to Morris Island, and came along through our camps. The cooks who had any coffee ready gave it to them as they passed. There was no time to make any, and the poor fellows seemed nearly “used up.” They came out upon the beach and, after a short delay, moved up past the right of our regiment with some other drummers, who had assumed charge of the only stretcher that I saw with any of the regiments. I was attracted by the appearance of Colonel [Robert Gould] Shaw of the Fifty-fourth Massachusetts as he walked slowly by us, smoking a cigar, his sheathed sword hanging low and trailing on the ground beside him. He seemed under the medium height, of a neat figure, wore a short jacket, and had long light hair, which fell low on his neck, nearly to his shoulders, giving him a very boyish appearance. A feeling of pity for him filled me as I gazed after him, for somehow I felt that the last of daylight he would ever see was fast passing away.
The evening ration of whiskey, which the men there generally received when on heavy fatigue duty, was rolled out on the beach in a small barrel and served to the men as they stood in line without the doctoring with quinine which it usually received. Some of the officers ran over when the order “attention” was given, plunged their canteens in the barrel, got what they could, and hurried back to their places. Just before we moved forward we were much amused at the very virtuous indignation exhibited by a couple of civilians dressed in a semi-military way, whom we took to be “special correspondents” of some newspapers, who had ensconced themselves at the foot of one of the sand hill batteries, secure from all danger. Two fellows of some regiment, who had no stomachs for what was before them, had slipped from their ranks and, attracted by the open whiskey barrel or perhaps by the evident security of the place, squatted down by the “specials.” “Get away from here,” “Clear out,” “What in hell are you doing here?” “Go to your regiment,” were the mildest expressions used. The poor skulks, amazed at the tempest of wrath they had aroused, or thinking, perhaps, that they had intruded upon the privacy of some great moguls, slunk away, looking sheepish enough, while the specials settled their backs closer against the sands of the hill, as though conscious of a noble action well performed.
The batteries and vessels reopened their fire most vigorously, ceasing only when the head of the assaulting column had gone a little beyond our outer lines, upon reaching which “You little fellows with the stretcher” were ordered to “wait a little.” So we sat down on the platform of the gun nearest the water and watched the troops as they passed by us. The sun had set and darkness [was] rapidly settling down over the scene, for the twilight is very short in that latitude, and we were picking up our stretcher to follow the troops when the officer in command of the battery, which was manned by a company of the First United States Artillery, excitedly exclaimed, “My God! They are coming back! Stop them; turn them back!” His men pulled the field gun from the embrasure and placed it at the end of the battery, pointed up the beach. Amazed and startled, for the defeat of that column seemed hardly possible to us, and knowing there was plenty for us to do, and that the sooner we began the better, we started out towards the fort on a run. Pushing our way through the crowds of troops who were thronging back in seemingly confused masses, we kept on until we had passed a long boat which was lying across the beach and partly on the sands farther in, and then began to look for our own wounded.
We had passed many wounded men, but as they were nearer our lines and [there were] plenty of stragglers to help them in we let them alone. The crash of bursting shells, the flashes of which lighted up for an instant everything around, leaving a deeper darkness; the whistling of bullets; the hum and whir of grape, canister, and other missiles; the roar of the heavy shot as they flew past and burst behind; the rushing of men as they hurried to the rear, the ceaseless beating and dashing of the surf as it broke upon the beach; the anxious fears for comrades, old and dear friends, some of them schoolmates or play fellows before we ever thought of the possibilities of such experiences; and, through all, that all this sacrifice of life was useless, make up a remembrance of that night which is as vivid now as though it was an affair of yesterday. Wounded men hobbling along singly or supported on both sides by comrades bearing them up were hastening by, anxious to reach the shelter which, but a little while before, they had left in high hopes and spirits. We had got beyond the rear of the mass of retreating troops, and those who were hurrying back were in small groups of couples, often a wounded man able to walk and companion, carrying the muskets of both, beside him.
Close Combat at Fort Wagner (Deeds of Valor)
A patter of hasty footsteps and a demoralized soldier rushes past as if running a footrace. We stumble over a man crawling on his hands and knees and recognize one of our own boys. “Hello old fellow, hurt much?”
“Hope not; hit in the feet; got any whiskey?” A canteen is handed him and a hearty drink taken. “All right; some behind there pretty bad; the Johnnies have given us hell this time; never mind me, I’ll get along bully,” and he toils along cheerfully. A groan is heard close beside us. On the sands above the tide line lie a couple of figures. “Hurt much?”
“Yes; this little fellow here’s pretty badly hit. I’ve helped him along, but I’m played out,” said the larger one, “and I’m hit here,” placing his hand near his shoulder. “What regiment? I’m Forty-eighth New York. This is a Connecticut feller.”
We place the Connecticut “feller” on the stretcher carefully. His face is blackened with powder and dirt; he is bareheaded and his clothing saturated; give the New Yorker a good pull at the canteen; give the other a little one; lift up the stretcher upon our shoulder and hasten back.
Sparks of light, like myriads of fireflies, show that something very much like a fight is going on at our lines. Running and walking we soon reach them and learn the cause of the commotion. The Regulars are preventing the retreating troops from passing behind the entrenchments, and are using their revolvers freely, but as far as I saw, more to frighten than to hurt, for in the little time we were trying to pass through with our load one frantic Regular discharged several shots, pointing his revolver downwards. “Make way for wounded,” we called as we tried to push along near the water.
“You can’t pass here,” and a Regular with a drawn saber sprang before us.
“Get out of the way! Don’t you see we’re ambulance corps?” showing the white and red bands which we still wore.
“Don’t give a damn! You can’t pass here!” And he pushed against one of us with his saber in a way that left no doubt of his meaning.
“What’ll we do with this wounded man?”
“Put him down here,” said he, pointing in front of the battery; there, farther away from the water, upon the loose sands, the wounded were lying thickly. Beyond them, stretching into the darkness, were masses of troops whose officers were getting them into some serviceable shape. Leaving our poor groaning burden carefully down beside the others, we started back up the beach again. Keeping on until we passed the stranded boat, we looked back and knew by the steady darkness in our rear that order reigned once more.
The firing from the batteries beyond Wagner was slowly ceasing. At Wagner the sparkling lights of musketry firing and now and then the flashing of artillery gave evidence that the struggle was not yet ended. Going farther we picked up another of “ours,” and as we hurried back with him, saw that others with stretchers were actively at work. We left our load with the other wounded, who were now being fast carried back to the surgeons, and here heard that General Strong had just been brought in badly wounded, and that Colonel Chatfield was lying on the parapet of the fort. Two privates of our regiment volunteered to go with us and try to bring him in, and relieved us of our stretcher. We had gone beyond the boat again and over what seemed to be rifle pits, and were close to the fort when we met one of our regiment making his way on all fours, not feeling safe enough to get up and run. He said that he had helped to bring Colonel Chatfield from the parapet and had left him a little farther back in a big hole right at the edge of the ditch. A few steps farther on and we met a man running at the top of his speed. He told us that the Rebs were throwing out skirmishers outside the fort and that we had better “git.” A hurried discussion between the men decided them to return and not go any further and be “gobbled.” Another wounded man is hurriedly placed on the stretcher. The men picked it up and soon disappeared in the darkness. Another drummer and I got hold of a little bugler of the Forty-eighth New York and between us bring him along until, meeting some of his own regiment with a stretcher, we got rid of our charge most willingly, and after hesitating a little go back toward the fort again. We meet a man now and then who is generally “the last man to leave the fort,” and question them concerning those “skirmishers” we heard of and of whom we are feeling very dubious, having no strong desire to form any acquaintance with them. A captain of our regiment with two or three of his men come along, the captain carrying one of our flags in his hand on a fragment of its staff.
Excepting a spark of light now and then all is dark at Wagner. The firing from the Rebel works has ceased, and, saving the beat and fall of the surf or the voices of the men bearing the wounded to succor and safety, all is silent. A little further on and we meet a group having among them on a rubber blanket the form of our colonel. A big soldier of the Seventh New Hampshire Regiment, whose strength was equal to his courage, in making his way from the fort had come across our colonel in the hole where he had been placed and, taking him upon his back, carried him along until meeting the others. They had placed him on the blanket and so brought him. A small dirt-cart, drawn by a mule, is soon met. The colonel is carefully placed in it, and is taken in charge by the chaplain, and soon is under the surgeon’s care. It was now past midnight. The fighting was over and the assault abandoned. Troops were in position out in front of our lines and a picket line established. Groups of men were still busy here and there bringing in the dead and wounded. Weary and depressed, we follow the cart inside our lines. The surgeons and their assistants are getting the wounded in some condition to bear transportation to the hospitals at Port Royal and Beaufort. A little helping here, and we seek in sleep to forget the horrors of that night.
Next morning found our company under the command of a sergeant, and, being in his quarters, I assisted him in making out his morning report. From memoranda made then and from a “soldier’s memorial” printed some time afterwards I present the following data, giving the losses of the company, which was one of the left or rear companies of the regiment in the charge. The morning report of the company on the eighteenth gave a total of present for duty of one officer and forty-five men. Of these, three men were on duty at the landing and, not including musicians, two officers and forty men were in the line of the regiment on the beach. Of these, the first lieutenant commanding the company was taken prisoner and was not released until near the close of the war. The second lieutenant was on detached duty as acting adjutant of Major [Loomis L.] Langdon’s battalion of the First United States Artillery. On that evening he fell in line with his regiment and was killed. The orderly sergeant and one private were mortally wounded and died in our hospitals—the orderly on a hospital steamer and was buried at sea; two privates, who died of their wounds in Charleston two days after the assault; two privates missing, who died in Richmond during the month of November following; one corporal and four privates missing, of whom nothing has been heard of since, and nine noncommissioned officers and men more or less injured, making a total of two officers and twenty men, of whom all but nine were an absolute loss to the company.
I have not the exact losses of the rest of the regiment, but the proportionate losses of the other companies averaged about the same, and from the published reports the other regiments of the First Brigade must have lost heavily. Digging and toiling under fire with an occasional drill on the beach near the landing were now the regular duty of the men, several being killed or wounded at their labor by shells exploding among them until about the end of August, when we returned to Hilton Head and there remained until the following spring. Of the cause of the defeat among the men of the First Brigade there was but one opinion. If the supporting brigades had gone ahead and attacked like the leading one, instead of halting at the ditch and firing at the fort before falling back, there would have been a much different ending. Perhaps this deplorable conduct may be explained by the heavy and rapid casualties among the leading officers of each brigade early in the charge and the consequent loss of directing minds at a time when most needed. That such was the action of the rear brigade may be disputed by those who composed them, and excepting the narratives of the men “fighting their battles o’er again,” I have no evidence to offer, for I did not see it.
The heaviest losses, if I remember rightly, were in the First Brigade. That Colonel [Haldimand S.] Putnam of the Seventh New Hampshire Regiment, commanding the Second Brigade, and many of his men were killed and wounded in and on the fort shows that portions of the Second brigade tried to do their whole duty. But the fact that such numbers of troops returning so soon to our lines after passing out to the assault is proof enough that they did not equal the leading brigade in their endeavors, and, besides, many of our men were wounded from the rear while lying on the parapet or on the slopes of the fort firing into it. But the assault has passed into history, and who is to blame will not change the result. Many of those who participated in it and returned safely to our lines “have passed from earth away,” and to the survivors the events of that night are recalled with interest and perhaps with thankfulness that they were spared in their charge through the fire that laid so many low before they had gone even as near to the enemy as did the writer.