e easterly wind. Tom raised me into a sitting
posture, and administered a cup of strong coffee. The sound of battle
continued until it became unendurable, and I was put into the ambulance
by Tom and the driver, the former following with the horses. We took the
route by which the troops had marched, the din of conflict increasing
with every mile, the rattle of small arms mingling with the thud of
guns. After weary hours of rough road, every jolt on which threatened to
destroy my remaining vitality, we approached Cold Harbor and met numbers
of wounded. Among these was General Elzey, with a dreadful wound in the
head and face. His aide was taking him to the rear in an ambulance, and,
recognizing Tom, stopped a moment to tell of the fight. Ewell's
division, to which Elzey and I belonged, had just been engaged with
heavy loss. This was too much for any illness, and I managed somehow to
struggle on to my horse and get into the action.

It was a wild scene. Battle was raging furiously. Shot, shell, and ball
exploded and whistled. Hundreds of wounded were being carried off, while
the ground was strewn with dead. Dense thickets of small pines covered
much of the field, further obscured by clouds of smoke. The first troops
encountered were D.H. Hill's, and, making way through these, I came upon
Winder's, moving across the front from right to left. Then succeeded
Elzey's of Ewell's division, and, across the road leading to Gaines's
Mill, my own. Mangled and bleeding, as were all of Ewell's, it was
holding the ground it had won close to the enemy's line, but unable to
advance. The sun was setting as I joined, and at the moment cheers came
up from our left, raised by Winder's command, which had turned and was
sweeping the Federal right, while Lawton's Georgians, fresh and eager,
attacked in our front. The enemy gave way, and, under cover of the
night, retired over the Chickahominy. Firing continued for two hours,
though darkness concealed everything.

The loss in my command was distressing. Wheat, of whom I have written,
was gone, and Seymour, and many others. I had a wretched feeling of
guilt, especially about Seymour, who led the brigade and died in my
place. Colonel Seymour was born in Georgia, but had long resided in New
Orleans, where he edited the leading commercial paper--a man of culture,
respected of all. In early life he had served in Indian and Mexican
wars, and his high spirit brought him to this, though past middle age.