"Debated the Question as to Whether We Were Really Licked"

Private Frederick E. Dennis of the 8th New Jersey Infantry described his limited perspective during the Battle of Williamsburg on May 5, 1862. His regiment had been forced to retreat, and he examined his priorities while wondering if his unit had actually been defeated.

With my eyes straight to the front I paid no attention, and cared less, as to what was occurring around me. Billy Davis had stopped firing, and he perceived that a large portion of the regiment had gone to the rear. He asked me what it meant. I told him I did not know, but if he was willing to retire I would go with him. As I was gathering myself together for a retrograde movement, old man Hatch was struck and tumbled over against my legs. Hatch implored me to drag him out of the woods. I told him it would be impossible, as the rebels were flanking us, and I would be captured before we could get out. He begged of me, with tears in his eyes, to assist him, and I can see the old man now, with his hands up, stretched on the wet ground. Something hindered my pedal extremities from getting back to the rear with that agility so necessary at that supreme moment. I was quick to discover the difficulty. The buttons were lacking on my under-trousers, and they had gracefully slid down to my knees with a reckless disregard of etiquet and violation of all social rules known to civilized man. My locomotion was anything but lively under this most disastrous and distressing predicament, but I made wide strides, and I had the satisfaction of feeling the garment give way under the desperate plunges to extricate myself. I struck a bee line for my knapsack, with some of the boys on the same hunt. I wanted to secure that knapsack. It contained apparel and 40 rounds of ammunition. It also contained photo pictures of a little brother and the Captain's daughter. My affection for the originals of these pictures was about equally divided in ardor and intensity, but I am willing to swear that there was a slight balance in favor of the little lady. They had been mute companions on the weary march, and there was a grain of solace and comfort in a glance at them now and then. While tumbling over knapsacks the Johnnies had appeared at the edge of the wood and opened a fusillade of bullets, accompanying it with jeers and curses.

Lieut. Lackey stood on a stump laughing at us through the blood that ran down his face from a scalp wound, and splendid target he was for those Johnnies. I strapped on my knapsack while the bullets zipped around me in a most provoking manner. Scrambling over the timber, I met Tom Gilchrist, who wore the aspect of a very demoralized patriot. That hateful gun still belched its deadly missiles, and Tom expressed a burning desire to charge over the ramparts of that redoubt and choke the life out of the gang that worked the gun. We sat under a tree and debated the question as to whether we were really licked, and how it happened that our flank should be turned so ingloriously.

There was as yet no sign of relief, and things looked decidedly squally. Close by us, on a narrow knoll, stood a 12-pound Napoleon gun that had evidently been in action, but the gunners were not to be seen. One man ran up to the gun and yelled for us to help him load it with grape[shot]. We replied that many of the boys were crouching behind the timber, and it would be murder to fire grape. He then retired, and we tried to extract as much comfort as the circumstances would permit. The rain still beat pitilessly, and it seemed as though nature was at war with us and had determined to drown us out.

Back in the rear and advancing up the road we recognized the form of Gen. Heintzelman, who was calling out in stentorian tones through his nose for the band to strike up an air. In a few moments a miserable remnant of the tooters rallied and made a number of sickly efforts at Yankee Doodle with their bazoos, which, instead of infusing courage into our hapless systems, sent a cold chill down our backs and set our teeth aching. Each had one eye gazing toward the rear and the other eye was watching out for shells. To a disinterested spectator looking at them from the top gallery he would have instantly come to the conclusion that they were struggling with the jim-jams. They were not flattered with an encore, and they retired to the rear for repairs.