Chapter 13

Reams Station

The siege of Petersburg continued from the spring of 1864 into summer. Throughout the summer and fall, the pickets of the 155th and soldiers all along the Union line witnessed a welcome sight. Confederate soldiers were crossing in the dark and surrendering in increasing numbers.

Pat and PM walked seven rebels to the quartermaster’s station. As they returned to picket duty, the two talked about how important it was to be alert.

“Their army is showing signs of falling apart,” offered Pat. “The war could soon be over.”

“We’re most vulnerable to a rebel sneak attack when we’re on picket duty. Don’t forget, we got to expose ourselves as little as possible, even if it means refusing to advance,” said PM.

On August 23rd, Meade and Grant decided to rip up a stretch of the Weldon Railroad around Reams Station, twelve miles south of Petersburg, to remove that railway from Lee’s supply system altogether. The Weldon was one of two remaining railroads supplying both Richmond and Petersburg.

Lee, as usual received reports from his commanders and scouts on the likely intention of this Union Army thrust. He realized that, should Grant succeed in destroying the Weldon that far from Petersburg, Confederate government and military operations concentrated at the two cities would have to retreat south to North Carolina.

Three miles from Reams Station, the 2nd Corps began tearing up the Weldon tracks and continued right up to their destination. About 7:00 a.m. on August 24th, the 155th, with three hours’ rest over two days, staggered into Reams Station, not much more than a hamlet on the line.

John and Pat were in Tipping’s squad, building defenses. “Pat, don’t you wonder when this goddamn war will end? The rheumatism has every limb of mine aching.” He paused and then walked to a rise from which he could better see their line. “I’ve a sinking feeling the Johnnies will catch us right here at the railroad where we’re weakest.”

Pat grabbed his bedroll, kepi cap, and rifle and walked out to the line of rifle pits. He dug himself a pit and dragged a good-sized log in front of it. Pat lay in his pit, rarely raising his head. Snipers might be in the woods beyond. Union pickets were spaced twenty-five yards apart. Bushes, clumps of trees, and undulations in the land blocked their views of one another. Pat was feeling alone and vulnerable.

Suddenly, a shot grazed the log and dug deep into the earth a few inches beyond his feet. Pat jerked his knees up as far as he could and slowly moved his head to the left, one eye scanning the field before him. He gauged from the way the bullet had kicked up the ground that the sniper was not far off, but Pat could not see him.

It was hot and humid, not a breath of air circulating. Pat cursed the wool uniform he was still wearing after months of summer weather. A few ants climbed busily out of the ground and crawled into his clothes. They moved over his back and stomach and tickled him. He shook reflexively and tried to crush them against the earth. Every minute or so he peered around the log lest the secesh descend from his position and bayonet him before he looked up. They were bold and sneaky and survived because they knew the territory like their own barnyards and camouflaged themselves well.

Anxiety fogged and distorted his thinking. Beads of sweat rolled down his side under his uniform. By noon, he had no more water and his body began to crave it. Only fear kept him in his pit.

A bullet split the log in front of him, which told him his enemy had a bead on him, hoping to flush him out and send him running toward his line. It would then be a rabbit-shoot or even easier. He looked around the log with one eye again, panning a small stand of trees 100 yards in front of him for any movement. As his eye grew accustomed to the blend of limbs, leaves, and sky, he saw a patch of brown shake a large branch ten feet in the air. He reached down, pulled his rifle to his head, and looked around the log again.

A scrawny, motley-dressed man in a floppy hat slid down the backside of the tree and started toward him, bent low, stepping lightly in bare feet. He waited until the man was less than twenty-five yards off, then rose quickly to his knees and fired. The minie bullet sliced through the man’s right side and sent him crashing to the earth. Pat moved quickly to reload his rifle. As he did, the wounded rebel got up and in slow motion began to square around to fire. He raised his rifle, fumbling to place the cap over the pin and to pull the trigger. Pat froze.

As the secesh readied to fire, a shot rang out from Pat’s right side and blew the man into a motionless heap. Pat sank back to the ground, sweating and faint. He turned right and squeaked, “Thanks, brother,” to John, who waved back with a smile.

At about 2:00 p.m. on August 25, rebel skirmishers appeared and traded fire with 155th and 164th pickets. A half hour later, several lines of Confederate troops in full attack formation came out of the woods. Lieutenant Wilson, in command of Union pickets, passed the word down the line to fire on order and then take fifty steps to the rear before firing again. Within two minutes, however, the pickets were racing back to their lines as fast as they could as the rebels commenced their eerie screeching and attacked on the run.

Pat was the first to reach the breastworks, 100 yards west of the Weldon. He fell in line with Company K.

Major Byrne was running back and forth across the backside of the earthworks, yelling to his men, “Only the front line fire! The rest of you wait until the rebs run into the dry creek bed below us. Fire together on command and fire low! Make every shot count.”

The rebel lines burst into the field 200 yards from the earthworks, yodeling their high-pitched howl. Union artillery grape shot swept the field. The brigade’s front line poured in a volley of rifle fire. Men fell, some without a sound, some screaming as limbs blew apart. Rebel soldiers scrambled for whatever cover a stump or a culvert provided. An officer called retreat. Rebels rose and ran to the rear.

Union soldiers let out a cheer that resounded down their lines. The field was littered with dead and wounded rebels pleading for help and water. No one ventured out from either line. Pat rose up and joined his company.

At 4:00 p.m., Major Byrne watched the rebel soldiers re-form west of where they first attacked at the edge of woods. “Right fifty yards,” he yelled.

With the precision of a drill team, the Union line re-formed. The compact rebel formation, taking advantage of a forested rise, broke out yelling 150 yards from the Union line and threatened to breach it. Byrne spread the order to hold fire. Too long, it seemed to Pat. As the enemy reached within 100 yards, the major shouted, “Ready, aim . . . fire.” The noise of artillery and 2,000 rifles drowned out every sound and thought. Fire from all across the Union line visibly thinned the rebel force in the same moment.

Their shattered line continued to advance, but then, as if hands from the earth were reaching up and pulling down struggling prey, the line wavered and fell to the ground. Pat stared blankly into the contorted face of a soldier who lay over a pointed stake not twenty yards off. He was just a boy, the red marks of scurvy plainly visible beneath the grey of his skin. Blood spurted over his blue jacket.

Then the rebel lines rose and ran back across open space, sped by bullets and canister shards from behind. Several more fell before they reached their lines.

At 5:00 p.m., mounted rebel scouts appeared on a hill overlooking the Union line. Pat could see two of them carefully scanning the length of Union fortifications. An hour later, Confederate cannons opened up concentrating fire on one section of the Union line, just west of the railroad track.

Two shells exploded five yards away and shocked Pat into a fetal position. He lay moaning quietly at the base of mounded earthworks, unwounded but cowering and crying like a newborn. The shelling continued for fifteen minutes.

The rebels attacked a third time. Lee packed most of his reserves, two regiments, at a single point just opposite the west side of the Weldon. This attack met the same fate as the first two and it seemed it would surely fail. Soldiers fell before the onslaught of canister and rifle fire. Then, a second mass of rebels held in reserve swarmed toward the Union position alongside the rail line.

The 164th and the 36th Wisconsin cracked and began running wildly to the rear. Hundreds of rebel soldiers pushed through the breach, and turned right and left across the unprotected rear of Union lines. More blue-clad soldiers threw their knapsacks and rifles on the ground and rushed chaotically to the rear or surrendered. Within seconds, the 8th Heavy Artillery Regiment came under rebel rifle fire and every man was killed or threw up his arms. Rebel soldiers trapped the left flank of the 155th. Colonel Murphy, running before his troops, saw the panic as it developed and ordered the 155th and the 170th to face left and fire on the rebels—but too late.

After a single volley, Murphy saw that his firepower was too light to stop the horde and shouted a retreat. Retreat became a mad rush to the rear. The vanguard escaped. The rear formation of the 155th stood and fired one more volley before being overrun. A few men attached bayonets and started to stab at the ragged mass, but then all were pushed to the ground, like pins before a giant bowling ball. For these men, there was nothing to do but release rifles and throw up arms.

John was in the forward formation. He ran to the rear, into the midst of the 61st New York Volunteers, led by its commander, General Nelson Miles. John joined them in fighting to recapture the 8th Artillery battery. Within minutes, however, Miles, too, saw they were about to be cut off, so he ordered a disciplined retreat down the Jerusalem Plank Road. The rebel attack slowed to take control of 2,000 Union prisoners, which accounted for the rather unmolested escape of the balance of the Union force.

With the end of the shelling, as screaming rebels advanced toward him, Pat regained his senses. He rose, still in a daze, and fired. A wave of grey overran his position and buried him in a pile of blue soldiers. All was darkness. Panic seized him. He could hardly breathe. As he was fading into unconsciousness, the weight of the pile eased and the sun spread across his face. He felt a rush of relief as he drew a shallow breath and then breathed faster and deeper.

A butternut-coated corporal kicked him to his feet and began running him back at the point of a bayonet to rebel lines. Pat frantically cast his eyes right and left. He knew the first minutes were crucial when the chaos of battle afforded an opportunity for escape, but none appeared. They moved farther and farther into enemy lines. They joined other grey and blue on a quick march in the same direction.

He fell out, hoping the prisoners and guards would run by, but he had barely hit the ground when a bayonet sliced into his right shoulder, deep enough to start blood but not seriously wound. He got up and ran for a while, then slowed to his captor’s pace.

He felt peering eyes behind him. He looked back and saw PM. As his panic subsided a little, he slowed enough to let him catch up, but not enough to draw another bayoneting. They had plenty of company, half the 155th and 164th, it seemed. In a separate group were officers, including Major Byrne, Captain Kelly, and Captain McConvey. McConvey had been shot through the chest and was gasping for breath. Supported by his fellow officers, the captain was struggling to walk. Pat picked up his pace so that he wouldn’t hear McConvey’s wheezing. Finally, the rebel guard, equally uncomfortable, ordered the other officers to carry the captain.

Pat looked up. Before them was Petersburg. Prodded by a bayonet, he walked down the main street between a gauntlet of civilians and militia, who were spitting and yelling, “Welcome to Virginia . . . Goddamn nigger lovers . . . Starve to death, yuh Yankee bastards.” Spit flew across his left eye and cheek.