“Meagher’s brigade, advancing steadily, soon became engaged with the enemy, posted to the left and in front of Roulette’s house. It continued to advance, under heavy fire, nearly to the crest of the hill overlooking Piper’s house, the enemy being posted in a continuation of the sunken road and corn-field before referred to. Here the brave Irish Brigade opened upon the enemy a terrific musketry fire.... The Irish Brigade sustained its well-earned reputation. After suffering terribly, both in officers and men, and strewing the ground with their enemies as they drove them back, their ammunition nearly expended, and their commander, General Meagher, disabled by the fall of his horse, shot under him, this brigade was ordered to give place to General Caldwell’s brigade, which advanced to a short distance in its rear. The lines were passed by the Irish Brigade breaking company to the rear, and General Caldwell’s by company to the front, as steadily as on drill!”
Honorable mention of the Brigade is made in two other places in the report of General McClellan.
One of the members of the regiment, who was an inmate of the barn which has been alluded to in this chapter, relates the following touching incident: Among the wounded men here, was a poor soldier, both of whose legs had been amputated. He had been told by the surgeons that his case was a hopeless one, and if he had any message to send to his friends in the North, they would gladly transmit the same. Conscious of having done his duty, he spoke often of the battle, and then dictated to the surgeons a brief, but touching, letter to his wife and family. His thoughts now seemed to turn wholly upon his far-off home, and forgetting his torturing pains, his face seemed all aglow with the sweet memories which were floating before his mind. After talking a few moments, he asked those about him to raise his head from the floor. Suddenly summoning all his remaining energies, he began to sing in a clear and very melodious voice, “Home, Sweet Home.” All voices save his were quickly hushed in deep and attentive silence. The surgeons and nurses who were on duty among the wounded paused in their labors, and stood spell-bound and fascinated by the sweetness of his voice, and his rich cadences. The appearance of the dying singer, his countenance pallid and bloodless, gave the spectacle a strange, unearthly character, and the effective rendering which he gave to the tender and touching sentiment of the song fairly melted the hearts of all present; and when he finished, breathing out in the utterance of the closing words the last remnant of his strength, and sank almost senseless upon his pallet, “there was not a dry eye in the room.” The poor soldier died in the course of the day, but the incident was made a subject of conversation among the inmates for several weeks afterwards.