George Gracey has long since been “mustered out,” and he who had trilled that sweet, sad and long farewell at the graves of thousands of his comrades has had “taps” sounded for him. THE BATTLE. When the rays of the rising sun lifted the mists from the Chickahominy lowlands on the morning of June 3, 1864, Cold Harbor was scarcely known beyond the sound of a rifle shot. When that same sun was dropping behind the western horizon in the evening of that day the name was on the tongues of millions all over the land. Promptly at 4.30 a. m. the attack was made by the 2d, 6th and 18th corps. Gen. Francis B. Barlow (after the war attorney general of New York) led our division and forced the enemy to retreat from a sunken road. Gen. Nelson A. Miles was our brigade commander at the time. Beyond the road was a hill from which the enemy’s artillery were enabled to do frightful execution. Barlow again ordered a charge and led his men with a rush, carrying everything before them, capturing several hundred prisoners, a stand of colors and three pieces of artillery. Gen. Gibbons’ second division on the right did some magnificent fighting. Gen. Birney’s third division were in reserve and not actively engaged. The vigorousness of the contest may be inferred from the fact that the losses of the two divisions were over 2,200 and the assault was over inside of one hour. The casualties of the other commands engaged brought the losses of that assault up to nearly 6,000 men. Think of it! Quite one-fourth of the population of Watertown put out of action in less than one hour’s time. The musicians of our regiment were not with the assaulting column this day, but the writer had a father with the force and can assure the reader that it was a mighty anxious time until he found him unharmed. BRAVERY OF THE WOUNDED. We had plenty of work to do in assisting the surgeons. Acres of ground were covered with bleeding, mangled men with the dust and smoke of battle upon them. It was touching to notice how bravely most of them endured suffering while needing attention and comforts that could not be given them. I recall how little Will Whitney, one of the “ponies” of our company as the boys were called, lay there on the ground shot clear through the body, patiently waiting his turn, while a big fellow with a wounded hand was dancing around and making a terrible fuss until Whitney, thoroughly disgusted, spoke out. “Shut up, there, old man, you’re not the only one that got scratched in this fight.”