Sunday, May 15, 1864, 7:00 p.m.
Gen. Barlow’s HQ, 1st Div., II Corps, near Spotsylvania Courthouse, Virginia.
M.G. Campbell, Ass’t. Editor, Harper’s Weekly, Franklin Sq., New-York.

Dear Campbell,

A heavy rain pelts the roof of my tent as I write these lines, the candlelight from my lantern illuminating the dark rivulets which descend in their irregular tributaries down the canvas walls. The staccato of the drops and intermittent thunder have provided a much-welcomed respite from the more disconcerting sounds of cannon fire and musketry, which continue to ring in my ears after ten days of almost continuous fighting, and some of the most savage I have yet witnessed in this War. It is only through the direct intervention of Divine Providence that I sit here with pen in hand and life and limb intact, as the following details of the recent days will soon make clear.

I do not know whether you received my most recent dispatch, sent from the vicinity of the old Chancellorsville battlefield, just south of Ely’s Ford on the Rapidan. Not many of us have been able to get through the thicket of Rebel guerrillas which presently infest the roads leading north to Washington, like so many rats waiting to reemerge from their dark holes after the larger beasts have passed. I know that Henry Wing of the Tribune was sent north on horseback a week past, but I have no news of his safe arrival in the Federal city. Waud and I have fallen in with the small contingent of Tribune men, led by the able Homer Byington, and have enjoyed their company capitally, particularly Charlie Page, who has a rare wit. We have also seen Mr. Forbes of Frank Leslie’s Illustrated Newspaper, an artist of exceptional talent, albeit in the service of our rival. Waud has been more prolific in his sketching than I, a situation which I hope to soon ameliorate, as I attempt to rest and drive from my mind the horrific images which have burned themselves into my memory.

On the morning of the 5th, I arose with the men of Barlow’s Division and accompanied them on their march southwestward toward Todd’s Tavern. No sooner had we organized into columns than we heard the sound of artillery to the northwest, where, as we soon learned, advance elements of Ewell’s Rebels had engaged Warren’s V Corps in the dense thickets of the Wilderness. The men were much agitated at the sounds of the guns, and milled about in confusion and anticipation as we awaited orders from Gen. Meade. A courier soon galloped toward Gen. Hancock at top speed, handed him a small parcel of paper, quickly saluting and wheeling his mount around to return northward. Hancock passed the word down to the division and brigade commanders to about-face and return towards the Wilderness at the double-quick, which we commenced to execute with as much efficiency as possible under the excitement of the circumstances. Within a few hours of hard marching we had reached the outskirts of the action, where we were welcomed by the burning smell of powder and smoke and the screams of horses and men, drowned out from minute to minute by the crashes of artillery and musket fire. The most prominent feature of the unfolding engagement which met my eyes was the utter obscurity of the landscape. As we neared the enemy, we could hear their guns and even the shouts of their officers, but could see no more than the flashes of their muskets and the rolling thickets of smoke, as we were surrounded by the most formidable entanglement of trees and brush I have yet experienced in this War. The men struggled to maintain their footing amidst the fallen branches and deteriorating trunks of trees, and their ankles were often twisted in the irregular ground, where holes and ditches were hidden by the thickness of the foliage and underbrush. Regular lines of battle were almost impossible to maintain, and the shooting, once commenced, soon resembled mere bushwhacking on a grand scale.

I do not doubt that many of our men were unwittingly killed or wounded by friendly hands, and the same true for the enemy, as it was difficult to see who was firing at whom in that infernal forest. I could hear from the volume of musketry that we were probably engaged with an entire Rebel division (which I learned later were Confederates from Hill’s and Longstreet’s Corps), but can count on one hand the number of Southern soldiers whose forms I was able to spy entirely in the trees and smoke. The light of the late morning and afternoon sun was blocked out much of the day by the white smoke of the guns and by the increasing black smoke of the burning trees and brush, this latter obstruction of a much more sinister nature, as wounded men were caught in the spreading fires and roasted alive. At one point, I had to tie a handkerchief about my mouth and nose to facilitate proper breathing. Waud and I tried to get as close to the action as we could, but could catch little for sketching other than the stewards emerging from the smoke and flames as they bore the wounded out of the maelstrom in army blankets. Such a day of battle I had never before seen, and hope to never see again in this lifetime.

The fighting continued throughout the next day, and we learned that Gen. Wadsworth of Warren’s 4th Division had been killed. When the sound of the guns began to slacken on the evening of the 6th, many of the men began to anticipate a retreat northward in the morning, as had been the unfortunate conclusion of all previous encounters with the tenacious Gen. Lee. “Grant may have won out West,” some of them muttered, “but he’s never dealt with Bobby Lee.” I found it unnecessary to correct their error, for Grant himself appeared the next morning, mounted with his staff, riding southward on the Brock Road in the direction of Richmond. The salutary effect this sight had on the morale of the men cannot be adequately described in words. Looks of utter disbelief on the faces of the soldiers were soon followed by a thunderous cheer, erupting from thousands of parched and weary throats, and caps were tossed into the air as Gen. Grant steadily made his way through the ranks, his resolute gaze fixed southward and an unlit cigar perched between his lips. My heart filled with pride and patriotic fervor as I lifted my hat to Gen. Grant and his entourage, huzzahing with the brave boys in blue. Here was the victor of Donelson, Shiloh, Vicksburg, and Chattanooga in true form, the man who now vindicated President Lincoln’s unwavering faith in his ability to put an end to the Rebellion once and for all.

Grant’s intention was to continue southward toward Richmond, thereby forcing Lee out of his defensive positions and into a general engagement, where our superior numbers would prove a decisive advantage. Not surprisingly, Gen. Lee himself seemed to anticipate this move, for we found him waiting for us in the vicinity of Spotsylvania Courthouse, hastily constructing formidable entrenchments near the farm of a widow named Mrs. Tapp. Preliminary reconnaissance of the Confederate position yielded a structural weakness in his defenses, in the form of a protrusion in the lines we began to affectionately call the “mule shoe.” After a few days of inconclusive fighting along the length of the line of battle, Gen. Hancock was given the task of attacking this salient early on the morning of the 12th. I was conversing with Gen. Smyth of the Irish Brigade in his tent when a courier arrived with these orders on the evening of the 11th, and the troops were soon formed for a night march to their new position of attack.

Waud and I proceeded with the men as close to the attack as practicable. Our boys overran the Confederate pickets without difficulty, but soon found themselves confronted with a greater series of entrenchments than the scouts had indicated (certainly not the first error of this nature I have witnessed!). As the Confederate guns awakened, Waud and I watched the green banners of the Irish catch the morning air and heard the bold shouts of the sons of Erin as they charged the Rebel salient, many of the cries uttered in the ancient language of their Celtic homeland. The first Rebel salvos were aimed too high, and the thousands of Union men soon smashed into the Rebel works, commencing a day of fighting characterized by unmitigated savagery. Men bayoneted each other, shot each other in the face at close range, strangled each other in the incessant mud, and even bit and clawed one another when rifle and bayonet gave out. From our position behind an abandoned barn, we could hear more of the battle than we could see, but the testimonies of the retreating wounded and Rebel prisoners soon confirmed what we suspected, viz., that both armies had become terrible, wild beasts, each attempting to bite out the throat of the other.

Our early morning advantage was soon stymied by disorganization in the chain of command, particularly from Gen. Burnside, who arrived with his IX Corps to reinforce us later in the day, but did not properly coordinate his movements. This gave the Rebels time to rally their defenses, and the latter part of the day became a savage hand-to-hand melee of little advantage to either side. Many brave officers and men gave their last full measure in that fight, including many prominent Irishmen whose friendship I had cultivated in the weeks since we left Culpeper. The resplendent green banners, so newly minted and embroidered at Tiffany’s, returned pockmarked with terrible holes and spattered with mud, but still held close to the breasts of those bold sons of Erin. Many captured Rebel colors also returned with the men, providing some consolation to the frustration of falling short of a complete victory. Many of the men cursed General Burnside, much as they did after the battle at Fredericksburg, and some said the General should lead the next attack in person to atone for his failure.

Then occurred the most unexpected and disconcerting incident of the day to your humble correspondent. Towards evening, Waud and I and the Tribune men began to withdraw to the camps, following the wounded and prisoners to the rear. It was my intention to find my friend Capt. Neal, to ascertain whether he was yet living, and to secure Gen. Hancock’s permission to file my dispatches and complete my sketches in his headquarters. As I made my way through the forest on the edge of the battlefield, I noticed some horsemen approaching from the southwest, and hailed their leader, assuming them to be elements of Gregg’s Federal cavalry. Instead, I found myself staring down the barrels of Colt revolvers and carbines, for I had met Virginians of Lomax’s Brigade of the Rebel General Fitzhugh Lee’s cavalry corps. My immediate thought, interestingly enough, was of poor Junius Browne, still confined in North Carolina’s Salisbury prison camp, and whether these strange circumstances would allow me to soon see him again. I raised my hands and indicated to their captain that I was a non-combatant and newspaper correspondent, but their urgency to move around our position prompted them to simply scoop me up and begin bearing me inexorably back to their own lines. Before I could organize my thoughts on what to do next, a volley of musketry erupted from the left, and a bullet caught the head of the Rebel horseman whose saddle I shared, spattering his blood and brains across the left side of my face and hurling us both to the ground. I instinctively rolled over behind some brush as the shots continued and, not waiting to see the outcome, quickly regained my footing and ran through the brush into the cover of the trees, as fast as my legs could carry me.

When my legs finally gave out from exhaustion, I found myself alone in the forest, the sounds of musket and cannon little more than the distant boom of a departing thunderstorm. I sat down beneath an oak tree and took stock of my person. Happily, I did not seem to be injured, although it took what seemed like hours to clean the blood of my captor and the grime of the march and flight from my clothing. I felt like Lady Macbeth of Shakespeare’s dark tragedy, frantically and vainly striving to remove all evidence of my horrific experience. I then sat, my hands shaking, my lips trembling, my gaze fixed on the calm leaves of the forest floor. By the time my nerves were calmed enough to begin taking my bearings, the light of day was almost completely extinguished, and the night was soon filled with the sounds of the denizens of the forest, who were now my only companions. I reached for my canteen and saw that it had been punctured with a bullet hole. My only rations were a piece of hardtack and some dried apples, which I greedily consumed. This gave me a momentary reinforcement of energy and morale which I employed to extricate myself from this place in which I was clearly lost. My only clue to a practical escape was to follow the sound of the guns, which now resembled nothing more than an intermittent popping in the far distance, but I hesitated to return in the direction whence I had come, lest I present the Rebel scouts with another opportunity to escort me to prison. Not having another alternative, however, I soon resolved to begin walking in that direction.

After what seemed like an eternity of walking, punctuated by the necessity to stop and rest my legs as my energy and consciousness gave out, I at last came upon a camp of colored teamsters, hastily organizing their harnesses and mules, and was never happier to spy the letters “U.S.” emblazoned on the canvas walls of their wagons. After scanning the scene carefully to ascertain that I was not indeed looking at a group of captured Federal wagons, I called out to the men, who met my gaze with an expression of utter terror. It took me a moment to realize that the sight of me, covered with grime and gore as I was, may have indeed given me the appearance of a specter from the regions of the undead, but I soon assured them that I was only a humble correspondent, and their leader agreed to bear me back to IX Corps headquarters, which was their ultimate destination. I spent the rough wagon ride staring into the night sky, oblivious to the incessant lurching of my conveyance, thinking only how utterly grateful I was to be spared from what could have easily been a far worse fate.

So here I sit, three days past this terrible ordeal, wearing a borrowed shirt from my friend Capt. Neal, who indeed emerged from the “Mule Shoe” fighting unscathed. I decided to save my blood-spattered shirt from the 12th as a souvenir, and am in the process of completing a sketch I began during the first day of fighting at Spotsylvania on the 9th. Campbell, if you are able, I would be forever in your debt if you could send a quick letter to my father, Mr. Benj. F. Davis of Cincinnati, who has been most anxious as to my welfare, and assure him that I am yet living and intending to write to him at the earliest opportunity. My horse was taken from me by Barlow’s artillery on the 8th, and I have since been on foot, although Andrews in the Quartermaster’s Division assures me that I shall not remain so forever. I understand that Hancock’s next move will be to follow the Ny and Mattaphony Rivers south, along the Richmond, Fredericksburg, & Potomac railroad, as part of Gen. Grant’s next attempt to flank Gen. Lee’s right. In ten days of continuous fighting, we have lost over 25,000 men, a fifth of the Army, including Gen. Sedgwick of the VI Corps, who was killed by a sharpshooter on the 9th. I do not know how many the Rebels have lost, but the numbers cannot be small, and we continue southward with the consolation that Richmond has no reinforcements to send Lee. On a final happy note, I have heard that Sheridan’s men killed the Rebel General Stuart on the 11th at Yellow Tavern north of Richmond. Perhaps this portends greater fortunes for our Army as we move south.

Dispatch Index