June 23, 1864
All were up at an
early hour and ready for an advance, which had been ordered. On the right,
towards the Gregory house, we were already against them, and I suppose my
friend there, Major Crow, had seen us under more hostile circumstances. . . . By 4.30 General Meade started for
General Wright's Headquarters at the Williams house, where he ordered me to
stay, when he left at seven. . . . I
rode about with General Wright, who visited his line, which was not straight or
facing properly. That's a chronic trouble in lines in the woods. Indeed there
are several chronic troubles. The divisions have lost connection; they cannot
cover the ground designated, their wing is in the air, their skirmish line has
lost its direction, etc., etc. Then General Meade gets mad with the delay. The
commanders say they do as well as they can, etc. Well, Ricketts ran one way and
Russell another; and then the 2d Corps — how did that run? and were the
skirmishers so placed as to face ours? and what would General Birney do about
it? How long was the line? could it advance in a given direction, and, if so,
how? All of which is natural with a good many thousand men in position in a
dense wood, which nobody knows much about. All this while the men went to sleep
or made coffee; profoundly indifferent to the perplexities of their generals; that
was what generals were paid for. When General Wright had looked a great
deal at his line, and a great deal more at his pocket compass, he rode forth on
the left to look at the pickets, who were taking life easy like other privates.
They had put up sun-shades with shelter-tents and branches, and were taking the
heat coolly. . . .
About this time a
Vermont captain (bless his soul!) went and actually did something saucy and
audacious. With eighty sharpshooters he pushed out boldly, drove in a lot of
cavalry, and went a mile and a quarter to the railroad, which he held, and came
back in person to report, bringing a piece of the telegraph wire. . . . Some time in the morning, I don't
exactly know when, the signal officers reported a large force, say two
divisions, marching out from the town, along the railroad, whereof we heard
more anon. At noon there still had been no advance, and General Wright went to
General Birney to arrange one. There was General Meade, not much content with
the whole affair. They all pow-wowed a while, and so we rode back again,
through the dreary woods, through which fires had run. It was after two when we
returned. Now then — at last — all together — skirmishers forward! And away
they go, steadily. Oh, yes! but Rebs are not people who let you sit about all
the day and do just as you like; remember that always, if nothing else. There
are shots away out by the railroad — so faint that you can scarce hear them. In
comes a warm sharpshooter: “They are advancing rapidly and have driven the working
party from the railroad.” Here come the two divisions, therefore, or whatever
they are. “Stop the advance,” orders General Wright. “General Wheaton,
strengthen that skirmish line and tell them to hold on." The remainder of
Wheaton's division is formed on the flank, and begins making a breastwork; more
troops are sent for. The fire of the skirmishers now draws nearer and gets
distinct; but, when the reinforcement arrives, they make a stout stand, and
hold them. . . . All the while the
telegraph is going: “Don't let 'em dance round you, pitch into them!” suggests
General Meade (not in those exact words). “Don't know about that — very easy to
say — will see about it,” replies the cautious W.; etc., etc. Pretty soon the
cavalry comes piling in across the Aiken oat-field; they don't hold too
long, you may be certain. This exposes the flank of the picket line, which
continues to shoot valiantly. In a little while more, a division officer of the
day gallops in and says they have broken his skirmishers and are advancing in
line of battle. But the Rebels did not try an approach through the open
oat-field: bullets would be too thick there; so they pushed through the woods
in our rear. I could hear them whooping and ki-yi-ing, in their peculiar
way. I felt uncomfortable, I assure you. It was now towards sunset. Our
position was right in the end of the loop, where we should get every bullet
from two sides, in event of an attack. General Grant, of the Vermont Brigade,
walked up and said, in his quiet way: “Do you propose to keep your Headquarters
here?” “Why not?” says Ricketts. “Because, when the volleys begin, nothing can
live here.” To which Ricketts replied, “Ah?” as if someone had remarked it was
a charming evening, or the like. I felt very like addressing similar arguments
to General Wright, but pride stood in the way, and I would have let a good many
volleys come before I would have given my valuable advice. A column of attack
was now formed by us, during which the enemy pushed in their skirmishers and
the bullets began to slash among the trees most spitefully; for they were close
to; whereat Wright (sensible man!) vouchsafed to move on one side some seventy
yards, where we only got accidental shots. And what do you think? It was too
dark now for us to attack, and the Rebs did not — and so, domino, after
all my tremendous description! Worse than a newspaper isn't it? I was quite
enraged to be so scared for no grand result.1
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1 “I look on June 22d and 23d as the two most
discreditable days to this army that I ever saw! There was everywhere, high and
low, feebleness, confusion, poor judgment. The only person who kept his plans
and judgment clear was General Meade, himself. On this particular occasion
Wright showed himself totally unfit to command a corps.” — Lyman's Journal.
SOURCE: George R. Agassiz, Editor, Meade’s
Headquarters, 1863-1865: Letters of Colonel Theodore Lyman from the Wilderness
to Appomattox, p. 173-6
