"The fire had now grown terrific on both sides, but the decidedly superior advantage of the enemy, both in numbers and position, told heavy on us."
Pvt. James M. Bailey, Company C
Contents
Introduction
Official Report - Part One
Official Report - Part Two
Casualty List
Manton's Account
Related Pages:
Gettysburg Reunion
Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Part Four
Part Five
Part Six
Warren History
Part 15 - 17
The Seventeenth at Gettysburg
An account by "Manton",
AKA Private James Montgomery Bailey, Company C
J. Montgomery Bailey was the "correspondent" for the Danbury Times, contributing a vast amount of written material under such pseudonyms as "High Private Manton", "Splifkins", and others. His "Life in the Seventeenth" series ran throughout his three year enlistment. In the fall of 1863, following his capture at Gettysburg, he wrote a series entitled "Under Guard, OR, Sunny South in Slices". This series covered his capture and subsequent imprisonment. Here are the first three installments of that series, which cover his involvement in the Battle of Gettysburg.
Slice First
I well remember the night of the 30th of June. The sky was clear of clouds and filled with bright glittering stars. The moon threw a calm, mellow light over our camp, and the surrounding hills. We were lying at Emmittsburg in Maryland, near the Pennsylvania border. We felt that our marching was about done for the present, and that we were on the eve of a heavy struggle. The solemnity which always foreruns a battle, pervaded our minds, intensifying our thoughts of home, and weaving shadows of anxiety across our future. The conflict was imminent. All through the day flying rumors came on all sides. Lee had destroyed Harrisburg, routed the militia, and was rapidly advancing on us by way of Gettysburg. I stood leaning against a camp stake, gazing dreamily across the hill, with mind reverting to Chancellorsville and filled with anticipations of a second edition so soon to be issued. In imagination I was amid the carnage, surrounded by gleaming bayonets and staggering wounded, while the air resounded with the unearthly hiss and whiz of shot and shell, and piercing cries of the mangled combatants. While thus wrapt in bloody glory, I felt a hand laid on my shoulder, and a familiar whisper greeted me with the question,
"What are you thinking of --- home?"
I roused myself from the sad reverie and turning around, voluntarily grasped the inquirer's hand.
"No, Dick, I am not thinking of home, exactly, but of what is coming."
"Yes, we have got to fight, Mont," was his quiet rejoinder, "and somebody has got to die. I hope it isn't you nor me, though I don't suppose we are any better than others."
"It will be a hard battle," I said. "The boys have made up their minds that if whipped here, there will be but little peace for our army the remainder of the summer."
"We ought to fight now if ever," he energetically exclaimed. "This Corps will run, I know --- but Mont, the 17th must stand up to it and do something for Chancellorsville. I ain't much, myself, and may run equal to the best Dutchman in the crowd, but I hope to God I will do my duty even if I do get shot."
I looked at him in admiration; the moon seemed to shine brighter than before, lighting up his flushed face, and sparkling eyes, testimony sufficient of the earnest fire burning within. I was proud of him then --- proud of the Man who shone in danger as well as affliction. Oh! Dick, WELL.
For a while longer we watched Night's Queen, and her myriad of glittering attendants, and then seeking our "shelter" fell asleep, to dream of home and the uncoffined grave. We expected to be on the move at daylight the next morning, but for some reason were not. The delay offered us time to get a good breakfast, with milk in our coffee, a meal never to be forgotten by me, as after circumstances fully justified. At eight o'clock our corps was in line, taking the Gettysburg trail, left in front. My journal does not state the heat of the atmosphere, nor whether the sun shone, and it's so long since that I have forgotten, but I well remember the march was very fatiguing. We marched moderately enough for the first hour, then I noticed a perceptible quickening in the pace --- limbs began to waver, and the second hour developed some pretty evident weariness, something hitherto unknown among us. At one period while filing through a piece of forest, the low rumbling report of a heavy gun sounded afar off on our front. It had an ominous import and gave rise to many an anxious glance.
"The signal gun Mont," was the whisper by my side; "We must be up and doing."