minutes after Forsyth rode up. It was the gallant General Frederick Winthrop who had fallen in the assault and had been mistaken for him. Sheridan did not even seem surprised when he saw Forsyth, and only said: “ There, I told you so.” I mention this as an instance of a peculiar trait of Sheridan’s character, which never allowed him to be discouraged by camp rumors, however disastrous.
The dismounted cavalry had assaulted as soon as they heard the infantry fire open. The natty cavalrymen, with tight-fitting uniforms, short jackets, and small carbines, swarmed through the pine thickets and dense undergrowth, looking as if they had been especially equipped for crawling through knot-holes. Those who had magazine guns created a racket in those pine woods that sounded as if a couple of army corps had opened fire.
The cavalry commanded by the gallant Merritt made a final dash, went over the earth-works with a hurrah, eaptured a battery of artillery, and scattered everything in front of them. Here Custer, Devin, Fitzhugh, and the other cavalry leaders were in their element, and vied with each other in deeds of valor. Crawford’s division had advanced in a northerly direction, marching away from Ayres and leaving a gap between the two divisions. General Sheridan sent nearly all of his staff-officers to correct this movement, and to find General Warren, whom he was anxious to see.
Sheridan had that day fought one of the most interesting technical battles of the war, almost perfect in conception, brilliant in execution, strik-
ming like a swarm of bees. One pierced the battle-flag, another killed the sergeant who had carried it, another wounded Captain A. J. McGonnigle in the side, others struck two or three of the staff-officers’ horses. All this time Sheridan was dashing from one point of the line to another, waving his flag, shaking his fist, encouraging, threatening, praying, swearing, the very incarnation of battle. It would be a sorry soldier who could help following such a leader. Ayres and his officers were equally exposing themselves at all points in rallying the men, and soon the line was steadied, for such material could suffer but a momentary cheek. Ayres, with drawn saber, rushed forward once more with his veterans, who now behaved as if they had fallen back to get a “ good-ready,” and with fixed bayonets and a rousing cheer dashed over the earth-works, sweeping everything before them, and killing or capturing every man in their immediate front whose legs had not saved him.
Sheridan spurred “ Rienzi ” up to the angle, and with a bound the horse carried his rider over the earth-works, and landed in the midst of a line of prisoners who had thrown down their arms and were crouching close under their breast-works. Some of them called out, “ Whar do you want us all to go to ?” Then Sheridan’s rage turned to humor, and he had a running talk with the “Johnnies” as they filed past. “ Go right over there,” he said to them, pointing to the rear. “ Get right along, now. Drop your guns; you ’ll never need them any more. You’ll all be safe over there. Are there anymore of you? We want every one of you fellows.” Nearly 1500 were eaptured at the angle.
An orderly here came up to Sheridan and said:
‘ ‘ Colonel Forsyth of your staff is killed, sir.” “It’s no such thing,” cried Sheridan. “ I don’t believe a word of it. You’ll find Forsyth’s all right.” Ten
FIRST WAGON-TRAIN ENTERING PETERSBURG.
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Pickett’s intrenched line began. . . .
Ayres threw out a skirmish-line and advanced across an open field, which sloped down gradually toward the dense woods, just north of the White Oak road. He soon met with a fire from the edge of this woods, a number of men fell, and the skirmish-line halted and seemed to waver. Sheridan now began to exhibit those traits that always made him such a tower of strength in the presence of an enemy. He put spurs to his horse and dashed along in front of the line of battle from left to right, shouting words of encouragement and having something cheery to say to every regiment. 11 Come on, men,”he cried. “Go at ’em with a will. Move on at a clean jump or you’ll not catch one of them. They’re all getting ready to run now, and if you don’t get on to them in five minutes, they’ll every one get away from you! Now go for them.” Just then a man on the skirmish-line was struck in the neck; the blood spurted as if the jugular vein had been cut. “I’m killed! ” he cried, and dropped on the ground. “You’re not hurt a bit,” cried Sheridan; “ pickup your gun, man, and move right on to the front.” Such was the electric effect of his words that the poor fellow snatched up his musket and rushed forward a dozen paces before he fell never to rise again. The line of battle of weather-beaten veterans was now moving right along down the slope toward the woods with a steady swing that boded no good for Pickett’s command, earth-works or no earth-works. Sheridan was mounted on his favorite black horse “Rienzi,” that had carried him from Winchester to Cedar Creek, and which Buchanan Read made famous for all time by his poem of “ Sheridan’s Ride.” The roads were muddy, the fields swampy, the undergrowth dense, and “Rienzi,” as he plunged and curveted, dashed the foam from his mouth and the mud from his heels. Had the Winchester pike been in a similar condition, he would not have made his famous twenty miles without breaking his own neck and Sheridan’s too. . . .
Soon Ayres’s men met with a heavy fire on their left flank, and had to change direction by facing more toward the west. As the troops entered the woods and moved forward over the boggy ground and struggled through the dense undergrowth, they were staggered by a heavy fire from the angle and fell back in some confusion. Sheridan now rushed into the midst of the broken lines, and cried out: “Where is my battle-flag?” As the sergeant who carried it rode up, Sheridan seized the crimson and white standard, waved it above his head, cheered on the men, and made heroic efforts to close up the ranks. Bullets were hum-
with Sheridan’s command, and send me a bulletin every half-hour or so, advising me fully as to the progress of his movements. You know my views, and I want you to give them to Sheridan fully. Tell him the contemplated movement is left entirely in his hands, and he must be responsible for its execution. I have every confidence in his judgment and ability. I hope there may now be an opportunity of fighting the enemy’s infantry outside of its fortifications.”
I set out with half a dozen mounted orderlies to act as couriers in transmitting field bulletins. . . . About I o’clock it was reported by the cavalry that the enemy was retiring to his intrenched position at Five Forks, which was just north of the White Oak road, and parallel to it, his earth-works running from a point about three-quarters of a mile east of Five Forks to a point a mile west, with an angle or crotchet about one hundred yards long thrown back at right angles to his left to protect that flank. Orders were at once given to the Fifth Corps to move up the Gravelly Run Church road to the open ground near the church, and form in order of battle, with Ayres on the left, Crawford on his right, and Griffin in rear as a reserve. . . .
But the movement was slow, the required formation seemed to drag, and Sheridan, chafing with impatience and consumed with anxiety, became as restive as a racer when he nears the score and is struggling to make the start. He made every possible appeal for promptness, he dismounted from his horse, paced up and down, struck the clinched fist of one hand into the palm of the other, and fretted like a caged tiger. He said at one time: “This battle must be fought and won before the sun goes down. All the conditions may be changed in the morning ; we have but a few hours of daylight left us. My cavalry are rapidly exhausting their ammunition, and if the attack is delayed much longer they may have none left,” And then another batch of staff-officers were sent out to gallop through the mud and hurry up the columns.
At 4 o’clock the formation was completed, the order for the assault was given, and the struggle for
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