September 5, 1864,
Near Petersburg, Virginia.

A skirmish has erupted along one of the essential railroads near the James between Rebel units of Mosby’s command and our sharpshooters – the fighting is brisk and spirited, with the cracks of revolvers and carbines shattering the crisp morning air.  Some of the Rebels are fighting dismounted from a rail fence, and our cavalry has now advanced in a skirmish line to drive them off.  There is a thin screen of brush and trees which is so obscure and formidable as to screen any possible flanking movements of the enemy – none of our commanders seem to have noticed this potential weakness, and I seem to discern some movement beyond the front rank of trees.  Now the spine-tingling sound of the “Rebel yell” pierces the air, and from this very spot comes a line of regular Rebel infantry advancing in parade order formation at the quick step. 

Our infantry now rises in force to meet them, bursting forth with a manly shout and belching a volley which takes down their color bearer and falters their line for a fleeting moment.  We take relatively few casualties in their first reply, and they seem to lose their initial resolve.  By this time, their cavalry have remounted and attempt to turn our right flank, supported by a fresh brigade of Louisianans in scarlet shirts.  While striking a bold impression in their regimentals, such a color soon makes them conspicuous targets, and the red of their lifeblood mingles with that of their tunics. 

I now see Colonel Paddock join the fray with his staff, barking orders in colorful language which would have no place in Sunday conversation.  A Zouave unit from Pennsylvania moves too far forward, and is cut off from the main body.  A Rebel line surges forward and exploits this breach, and from the woods to our rear comes a hitherto unseen battalion of Virginia cavalry, opening a brisk fire upon our artillery and throwing our right flank into disarray.  Col. Paddock is wounded and topples from his horse, but he appears to be only slightly injured.  An entire battery of regular army artillery surrenders to the Rebels, and I rush to the left with the pell-mell of Union soldiers who collapse into the left front. 

A severely wounded private crawls his way toward the surgeon and stewards, but expires before he can successfully reach our rear.  The Rebel forces now seem thrice their original number, and we are completely surrounded.  Only a last minute effort by our sharpshooters averts a complete disaster, and a narrow line of infantry rushes through a breach in the converging Rebel lines.  I run with them, narrowly avoiding capture by way of my butternut trousers, which manage to persuade the Rebels that I am one of them.  I flee toward Washington and safety, unaware of the fate of those who remain behind.  I only hope that Providence will deliver me and my story to the welcoming embrace of friendlier arms.

1:30 pm.  More skirmishing as I make my way toward Washington – it would appear that Mosby’s raiders have been causing trouble much closer to the capital than originally anticipated.  Colonel Berdan’s men have cleared the meadows and other open areas of the enemy, but our forward line of skirmishers has yet to push their Confederate counterparts from the line of trees which face our front.  Now they appear to have men positioned near a barn approximately one hundred yards to our right.  Berdan’s men are rushing to counter this threat, but now another line of Rebel infantry, supported by Louisiana and Virginia batteries, is taking pieces out of our main line of battle.  The Rebel marksmen seem to be faring much better than our men.

Mr. Allan Pinkerton is on the field with the commanders, and his operatives have discovered a full regiment of North Carolinians approaching from the southeast, intent on cutting off our artillery from their caissons.  This path also cuts straight through our medical area…suddenly, a joyous sight – the fluttering colors of Pennsylvania infantry, appearing in the enemy’s rear – a covert flanking maneuver which went undetected by the enemy until it was too late.  This propitious arrival inspires a thunderous huzzah from the parched and weary throats of our main line of battle, and the brave boys in blue advance with a shout, driving the Rebels into a funnel from which there can be no escape.  The Rebel commander soon steps forward with his color guard, surrendering his sword and the remnant of his command.  This fortuitous victory should ensure clear and safe passage of the western roads approaching the capital, and earn Col. Paddock a brigadier’s star. 

Dispatch Index