I resolved to learn if the men were sharing in my emotions—­in brief, what effect the situation had upon them—­and rode slowly down our regimental line.  So vivid was the impression of that long array of awed, pallid faces that at this moment I can recall them distinctly.  There were strange little touches of mingled pathos and humor.  Meadow-larks were hemmed in on every side, too frightened to fly far beyond the rude alarms.  They would flutter up into the sulphurous air with plaintive cries, then drop again into the open spaces between the troops.  At one time, while we were standing at our horses’ heads, a startled rabbit ran to us for cover.  The poor little creature meant a dinner to the fortunate captor on a day when a dinner was extremely problematical.  We engaged in a sharp scramble, the prize being won by the regimental surgeon, who kindly shared his game with me.

General Bayard, commanding our brigade, was mortally wounded, and died like a hero.  He was carried to a fine mansion near which he had received his injury.  Many other desperately wounded men were brought to the spacious rooms of this abode of Southern luxury, and the surgeons were kept busy all through the day and night.  It was here I gained my first experience in hospital work.  This extemporized hospital on the field was so exposed as to be speedily abandoned.  In the morning I recrossed the Rappahannock with my regiment, which had been ordered down the river on picket duty.  Soon after we went into winter quarters in a muddy cornfield.  In February I resigned, with the purpose of completing my studies, and spent the remainder of the term at the Union Theological Seminary of New York.  My regiment would not get another chaplain, so I again returned to it.  In November I received a month’s leave of absence, and was married to Miss Anna P. Sands, of New York City.  Our winter quarters in 1864 were at Stevensburg, between the town of Culpeper and the Rapidan River.  During the pleasant days of late February several of the officers were enjoying the society of their wives.  Mrs. Roe having expressed a willingness to rough it with me for a week, I sent for her, and one Saturday afternoon went to the nearest railroad station to meet her.  The train came, but not my wife; and, much disappointed, I found the return ride of five miles a dreary one in the winter twilight.  I stopped at our colonel’s tent to say to him and his wife that Mrs. Roe had not come, then learned for the first time very startling tidings.

“Chaplain,” said the colonel, “we are going to Richmond to-morrow.  We are going to wade right through and past everything in a neck-or-nothing ride, and who will come out is a question.”