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- Herausgeber: Charles River Editors
- Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018
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ARMY LIFE
A Private’s Reminiscences of the Civil War
Rev. Theodore Gerrish
LACONIA PUBLISHERS
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All rights reserved. Aside from brief quotations for media coverage and reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced or distributed in any form without the author’s permission. Thank you for supporting authors and a diverse, creative culture by purchasing this book and complying with copyright laws.
Copyright © 2016 by Rev. Theodore Gerrish
Interior design by Pronoun
Distribution by Pronoun
TABLE OF CONTENTS
ARMY LIFE
INTRODUCTION.
CHAPTER I. FROM PORTLAND TO ANTIETAM.
CHAPTER II. THE BATTLE OF ANTIETAM.
CHAPTER III. FROM ANTIETAM TO FREDERICKSBURGH.
CHAPTER IV. THREE VISITS TO FREDERICKSBURGH.
THE FIRST VISIT.
MY SECOND VISIT
MY THIRD VISIT
CHAPTER V. HOOKER’S CAMPAIGN—CHANCELLORSVILLE.
CHAPTER VI. GETTYSBURGH.
CHAPTER VII. FROM GETTYSBURGH TO RAPPAHANNOCK STATION.
CHAPTER VIII. RAPPAHANNOCK STATION.
OUT ON THE PICKET LINE.
CHAPTER IX. THE WILDERNESS CAMPAIGN OPENED.
CHAPTER X. THE BATTLE OF SPOTTSYLVANIA.
CHAPTER XI. NORTH ANNA TO THE JAMES.
CHAPTER XII. IN FRONT OF PETERSBURGH.
CHAPTER XIII. THE WELDON RAILROAD.
CHAPTER XIV. FIVE FORKS.
CHAPTER XV. THE SURRENDER.
CHAPTER XVI. APPOMATTOX TO RICHMOND.
CHAPTER XVII. MARCHING THROUGH RICHMOND.
CHAPTER XVIII. “THE GREAT REVIEW.”
CHAPTER XIX. HOMEWARD BOUND.
CHAPTER XX. HOSPITAL LIFE
CHAPTER XXI. PEN PICTURES OF UNION GENERALS. ULYSSES S. GRANT.
GEORGE G. MEADE.
GEORGE B. MCCLELLAN
AMBROSE E. BURNSIDE
JOSEPH HOOKER.
OLIVER O. HOWARD.
JOHN SEDGWICK.
WINFIELD S. HANCOCK.
GOUVERNEUR K. WARREN.
JOHN F. REYNOLDS
DANIEL E. SICKLES.
CHARLES GRIFFIN
JOSHUA L. CHAMBERLAIN.
PHILLIP H. SHERIDAN
GEORGE A. CUSTER.
CHAPTER XXII. A REVIEW.
THE NATION’S PERIL.
THE SOLDIERS’ SACRIFICES.
THEIR SUFFERINGS.
LOYAL TO THE FLAG.
BRAVERY.
BRILLIANT SOLDIERS.
THE RESULTS
SLAVERY,
STATE RIGHTS.
THE NEW SOUTH
“OUR BROTHERS IN BLACK.”
RESPECT FOR THE FLAG
OUR REPUBLIC IS AT THE FRONT,
OUR DEAD
THE SURVIVORS
OUR REWARD
ARMY LIFE
A PRIVATE’S
REMINISCENCES OF THE CIVIL WAR
BY
REV. THEODORE GERRISH
LATE A MEMBER OF THE 20TH MAINE VOLS.
WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY
HON. JOSIAH H. DRUMMOND
TO
THE MEMORY
OF
My Old Comrades
THE LIVING AND THE DEAD,
THIS VOLUME
IS RESPECTFULLY
DEDICATED.
INTRODUCTION.
THE STORY OF “THE WAR” has been often told, but such were the magnitude and immense extent of the operations that every successive account of it adds much of interest that had been left untold. But while this book is no exception to the rule just stated, it has one peculiarity not found in any of its predecessors. Hitherto the story has been told only by officers, or parties not actually engaged in the military operations, but, so far as I know, this work of Mr. Gerrish is the first from the standpoint of a private.
Considering the vast number represented by the author, it is quite remarkable that, within the twenty-one years since the war began, no one has, heretofore, attempted to tell the experiences, sufferings, and noble exploits of the men who enabled their officers to gain an undying fame, and whose patient endurance, unwavering patriotism, and unsurpassed heroism, saved the union of the States, demonstrated that the United States is a Nation, and not a mere Confederation, and rescued from its sorest peril the Republican form of government.
Those of us who were in active life during the war, by personal communication with the soldiers themselves, learned much of what came within their own experience and observation; but the generation which is coming upon the stage, and those which shall succeed it, must depend upon what has been or shall hereafter be, written. But the time within which these reminiscences can be written by those actually engaged in the war, is rapidly passing away; and the day will soon come when all which has not been made a matter of record, will be found only in the domain of uncertain and unreliable tradition.
The number, too, of those who knew the events of the war, as they transpired, is already less than that of those who must learn those events from history. We, who have the daily bulletins of that terrible struggle indelibly stamped upon our memory, can scarcely realize that even now more than one-half of the community have learned the details of the contest, as we learned those of the War for Independence.
While, therefore, all will find much that is new, and very interesting in this book, it is an acquisition exceedingly valuable to those who must look to such a source in order to learn the routine of a private soldier’s life in the War for the Union.
Of the manner in which the author has performed his undertaking, it is not necessary to speak, for, whoever begins to read this work, will certainly not be content to lay it aside until the last page has been completed But one circumstance connected with its preparation should not be overlooked. It was first mainly published as newspaper articles, and read by hundreds who participated in the events of which Mr. Gerrish has written. If there were any material errors in his statements, they would have been challenged at once by those properly jealous of their own reputation, and that of their officers; so that the author has really had the advantage of the criticism and indorsement of very many, equally as familiar with the facts as himself, and, on that account, his history may be taken as unusually reliable.
In another respect, for the purposes of this work, the author is fortunate. His regiment participated in so many of the great and decisive battles of the war that his field of experience was quite exceptionally broad.
I most earnestly commend this book to all who love their country, and have faith in a government by the people. While we will not detract one iota from the credit due to the great heroes of the war, who led our forces to final victory, we must not allow the brightness of their glory to eclipse that of our soldiers, who were ready to follow wherever they were ready to lead. That we have a country, and a government by the people, is due to both officers and soldiers. Let each have their meed of honor, and let their glorious deeds, without discrimination, be kept alive in the memory of their countrymen.
J. H. D.
REMINISCENCES OF THE WAR
CHAPTER I. FROM PORTLAND TO ANTIETAM.
ON THE SECOND DAY OF September, 1862, a regiment of uniformed, but unarmed men, marched from Camp Mason, near Portland, Maine, to the railroad depot, from whence it proceeded by rail to the city of Boston. The regiment numbered “a thousand strong”; and as we marched through the streets of Boston, the sidewalks were covered with people who were eagerly looking at us.
“Where are you from?” bawled an old salt, who stood leaning his back against a lamp-post. “From the land of spruce gum and buckwheat cakes,” loudly responded a brawny backwoodsman fresh from the forests of his native state. A loud laugh rang out from the crowd. One gentleman swung his hat, and proposed “three cheers for the old pine tree state.” Hip, Hip, Hip, and a rousing volley of cheers ran along the street for many blocks.
We soon reached the wharf, where we embarked on board the United States transport “Merrimac,” a huge steamer of some three thousand tons burden.
We quickly proceeded to our new quarters “between decks,” but had barely time to stow our knapsacks away in the rough berths, before we heard the sound of music and loud cheering upon the wharf, and the 36th Massachusetts regiment, a gallant body of men, twelve hundred in number, marched on board the Merrimac, and shared our quarters with us. The two regiments numbered some twenty-two hundred men, and occupied every square foot of space that the steamer afforded.
Preparations for departure were rapidly made, and soon the plank was pulled in, the lines were cast off, the great engine began to throb with a fiery life, and we glided down the harbor,—I knew not where.
With moist eyes and heart strangely throbbing, I stood in the midst of the crowd pressed against the steamer’s rail, and looked toward the city, now fast receding from view, but I saw not the countless domes and spires of the great town. I did not notice the great business blocks, and heard not the rush and hum of traffic that fell upon my ear like the music of a distant waterfall. I was thinking of home, and seemed to see, like a picture on the distant sky, a great forest, a small clearing on the hillside, a little cottage home, and a circle of dear friends as they stood with tearful eyes to say good-by, as I thus took my departure from home. A sickly sensation came creeping over my heart, a great lump gathered in my throat, but just at that moment a sergeant, who sat on a huge pile of baggage, began to read a paper just purchased in the city: it contained the condensed telegrams of the preceding week—telegrams that had sent mourning and consternation all through the loyal North. “McClellan’s retreat from the peninsula.” “Major General John Pope assumes command of the Army.” “His headquarters are to be in the saddle.” “A terrible battle has been fought on the old battle-field of Bull Run, in which the union forces have been disastrously defeated.” “A terrific encounter between the right of Pope’s army and Stonewall Jackson at Chantilly, twenty miles from Washington, in which the Unionists are defeated.” “General Stevens and brave Phil Kearney are among the slain.” “Lee still advancing.” “Washington is in danger.” “The war to be transferred to Northern soil.”
It would be difficult to describe the emotions of the listeners as the news was read. Each man comprehended the fearful situation of the army we were hastening to reinforce, but not a cheek grew pale at the thought of coming danger. A son of the old Bay State, from the hills of Berkshire, climbed up in the rigging of the steamer, and proposed three cheers for “Old Abe,” and at least a thousand voices responded to the call. Three more were given for “Little Mac,” and then three times three for the “red, white and blue.” Men cheered until they were hoarse, the air was filled with flying caps, and the good steamer Merrimac shook from truck to keel.
Thus began my first voyage on the ocean. Everything was new and exciting to my boyish vision. The steamer’s space between the decks had been filled with rude bunks, and in these we were stowed until every square foot of space was occupied, and then hundreds of men were obliged to remain on deck.
The first night was one of unnecessary alarm. Several rumors were flying. “The lower hold was said to be filled with powder and munitions of war.” “And one of the Confederate privateers had been seen cruising in the vicinity within a short time. If we came in contact with her, we would be all captured, or blown to the stars, by their firing a shell into the magazine under our feet.” “Some wondered what we should do if the steamer should strike a rock and go down.” And thus the hours pass. The steamer rolls in the swells of the ocean. There is the sickening and monotonous roar of the machinery, and the tramp of feet overhead.
The atmosphere grows thick and foul; sleep refuses to come to my relief. At last all is still save the rumble of machinery, and the ceaseless lapping of the waves against the sides of the steamer. All are sleeping; suddenly there is a fearful crash. Fifty voices shout, “She has struck a rock.” Fifteen hundred men spring from their bunks, and with a mighty surge rush for the gangway. The panic is terrible. Men push, swear, crowd, strike, and rush on, but to our horror the hatch is fastened down, and there is no escape. Then some one for the first time discovers the cause of the alarm. The boat has not struck a rock, but a long tier of bunks insecurely fastened had fallen upon the tiers below, and all had gone down together.
A general laugh followed this discovery, all declaring they had not been frightened in the least, and we returned to our bunks wiser, and I trust, braver men.
Thus days and nights passed; the weather was beautiful, and the ocean like a sea of glass.
Through the days, we studied the ever-changing sea, dotted here and there with snowy sails. We watched the flight of birds, and the playing of the fish. At night we would dream of home and friends, or of the scenes of carnage toward which we were hastening.
On the morning of September 7th our steamer drew up to a wharf at the city of Alexandria, Virginia, seven miles below Washington. At this point the Potomac river is a mile in width, and in the harbor of Alexandria the largest vessels can find anchorage.
The landing was made; our regiment disembarked, and stood for the first time upon the “sacred soil of Virginia.”
Alexandria was a city of some twelve thousand inhabitants at the breaking out of the rebellion, and was of considerable commercial importance. At this time it was occupied by a small Union force, and the “stars and stripes” were flying from the public buildings.
We were to remain for a short time, and went forth to make our first visit in a southern town. Darkies, dirt, and demoralization met the eye in every direction. There were but few places of interest to visit, and the most important of these was the “Marshall House,” from which Colonel E. E. Ellsworth removed the secession flag, on the 24th of May, 1861. We climbed to the roof from which the flag had been torn, and stood on the stairs where the blood of the brave patriotic colonel had mingled with that of the disloyal Jackson.
As we stood on the stairs, and cut small pieces of wood from them, to bear away as relics, we seemed to draw an inspiration from the memory of the brilliant soldier who there gave his life to his country.
At night we encamped near the city. Our blankets were unrolled, and we lay down to rest. The air was balmy and scented with southern mint. We were weary with the excitement of the past week. God’s stars twinkled overhead as if to assure us of his protection and care. Amidst the falling shower of mist and dew we passed our first night on southern soil. At sunrise the reveille awakens us. Breakfast is eaten, and we embark on board a small steamer for Washington.
The capital of our country in 1862 but little resembled the capital of to-day.
It was the Sabbath day when we entered the city. At home it had been a day of quiet rest, or delightful worship. How strange the surroundings seemed to us as we marched along the streets of Washington. Every one was excited over the recent defeats suffered by the Union army, and the rapid advance of General Lee.
The demoralization of war was visible on every hand. Regiments of soldiers filled the squares, squadrons of cavalry were dashing along the streets, batteries of artillery, long lines of baggage wagons and ambulances were seen in every direction. We marched to the United States Arsenal, and here everything reminded us of war. Great piles of dismounted cannon looked grimly upon us, stacks of shot and shells surrounded them, the building itself was packed with fire-arms of every design, from the old flintlock musket of continental times to the rifle of most modern make. Our regiment was equipped and armed with Enfield rifles, and there were dealt out to each man forty rounds of ammunition. We now supposed we were model soldiers, and marched proudly away. That night we encamped near the arsenal grounds.
On the 8th we were assigned to Butterfield’s famous “Light Brigade,” “Morrell’s Division,” “Porter’s Corps,” and late in the afternoon of that day, by the way of the long bridge, we marched to Fort Craig, on Arlington heights, to join our brigade.
It was a most ludicrous march. We had never been drilled, and we felt that our reputation was at stake. An untrained drum corps furnished us with music; each musician kept different time, and each man in the regiment took a different step. Old soldiers sneered; the people laughed and cheered; we marched, ran, walked, galloped, and stood still, in our vain endeavors to keep step. We reached our destination, joined the brigade, stacked our arms, and encamped for the night. We were now a part of the army of the Potomac.
The brigade which we joined was composed of the Twelfth, Seventeenth, and Forty-fourth New York regiments, Eighty-third Pennsylvania, and Sixteenth Michigan. The army was greatly excited over the grave situation of affairs, and the soldiers were loudly rejoicing over the fact that General McClellan had again assumed command of the army.
We remained on Arlington heights until the 12th of September. The situation daily grew more serious and alarming. General Lee had advanced with great rapidity, and with a large army had crossed the Potomac river, and invaded Maryland, while another portion of his army, under the irresistible “Stonewall Jackson,” was reported as moving swiftly toward Harper’s Ferry, intending to crush and capture the Union forces of Colonel Miles, and then rejoin the main rebel army under General Lee.
On the 11th we received marching orders. A large portion of the army had already entered Maryland, and were in hot pursuit of the rebels.
Through the entire night we could hear the steady tramp of infantry, the rattle of cavalry, and the heavy rumble of passing artillery.
Early on the morning of the 12th our brigade was in line; it was a novel scene upon which we looked; long lines of blue-clad men were moving down over the slopes of Arlington, and crossing the Potomac river to Maryland. Bands were playing, bugles blowing, drums beating, and orderlies were dashing to and fro. Division and brigade commanders, surrounded by their staff officers, were moving rapidly to the front. Our brigade soon formed a part of the moving column, and we thus entered upon a forced march through “Maryland, my Maryland.”
At first the novelty of our situation made marching very easy work, but this was soon worn off, and we began to learn the hardships of a forced march.
No pen can describe the sufferings and physical exhaustion of an army of infantry marching thirty miles a day, and no one but a person who has looked upon such a scene can form an opinion of the true situation.
My readers have all read the brilliant description given by army correspondents, of soldiers upon a march, and you have looked upon pictures portraying the same, and have admired the well-dressed lines and solid columns. Each man perfectly erect, and measuring just so many inches of space at each step, his gun carried in just such a position, his knapsack and all equipments in perfect order; and you have wondered how drill and discipline could transform men into machines in so short a space of time. These things look well on paper, but they only exist in the brilliant imaginations of the correspondents.
Let us for a brief time review a passing column of the “old army of the Potomac.”
On the crest of this hill we shall have an excellent outlook, and obtain a fine view of the situation. The sun is swiftly rolling down the western skies, mantled in fleecy clouds of gold. The vision can extend for miles .in almost any direction, far out over broad acres of meadow land, up over rich, fertile hillsides, over great farms, magnificent orchards, bending low under their burden of golden fruit, and far in the distance you see Frederick City, said to be in possession of the enemy, and beyond are the heights of South Mountain, where he is intrenched.
The advanced lines of the two armies are now near each other, and there must soon be a battle.
Now we will look at these passing troops: first comes a few squadrons of cavalry, brave, sunburned fellows, covered with dust. Each man sits so naturally upon his horse that we almost imagine them to be one. The distinctive color of the cavalry is yellow. You will notice yellow stripes and straps upon the uniforms of officers and men.
Each man is armed with a saber, a breech-loading carbine, and a huge navy revolver. Men and horses are worn and jaded by long marches, but are dashing at a rapid pace to the front. They are followed by a battery of artillery. The artillery color is red, red straps and chevrons upon uniforms of dark blue. There are six twelve-pound guns in this battery. Each gun is drawn by three pairs of horses, and after each gun follows a caisson, or ammunition wagon, also drawn by six horses. Each pair of horses, upon both guns and caissons, has a single rider.
All battery officers, both commissioned and noncommissioned, are mounted on horses, while the men ride on guns and caissons as best they can. The commands of the commanding officer are all given to a bugler by his side, who repeats them in bugle calls. Each man and horse understands the orders thus given. When a battery goes into action, it advances at a sharp gallop, as nearly as possible to the position it wishes to occupy. The horses are then detached, and sent a short distance to the rear. The men seize the guns, and run them into position. Each caisson is stationed directly in rear of its respective gun. Every man has his position, and knows what work he has to do.
They are so well trained that in the most terrible battle there is no confusion, and everything moves like clockwork.
Closely following the artillery is a column of infantry, winding like a great serpent along the dusty road.
I will tell you something of the organization of the army of the Potomac, and how you can easily distinguish one portion from another. The army is divided into what is known as “Army corps,” each corps being numbered, and having a peculiar mark or badge by which it can be recognized from either of the others.
The badge worn by the First corps was a globe. This badge was placed upon the corps flags, and also upon the uniforms of the men. The badge of the Second corps was a clover leaf, or club, that of the Third corps, a diamond, that of the Fifth corps, a Maltese cross, that of the Sixth, a Roman cross, and that of the Eleventh, a crescent. Each corps was divided into three divisions. These are distinguished from each other by the color of the corps badges just referred to. The first division is always red, the second white, and the third blue.
Each division is usually divided into three brigades, and these are distinguished from each other by the color of their corps badge and the border of the brigade flag. The latter is a small triangular flag. The corps badge with division color will be in the center. If it is the first brigade, one side of the flag will have a heavy border of opposite color from the flag; if the second brigade, two sides will be thus distinguished; if the third, then the border will extend around the entire flag. Each brigade is composed of an indefinite number of regiments, depending much upon their size. Look at that passing brigade; it has a small white, triangular flag, a dark blue border extending around the entire field, and a red Maltese cross in the center. It is the Third brigade. First division, Fifth Army corps; in the army it is known as “Butterfield’s Light Brigrade,” so called in honor of its late gallant Commander General Daniel Butterfield, who at this time is filling another position.
That short, thick, gray-haired man in a colonel’s uniform, at the head of the brigade, is Colonel Stockton, of the Sixteenth Michigan regiment, now in command of the brigade.
That first regiment in Zouave uniform is the Forty-fourth New York, or the “Ellsworth Avengers,” as they are called. The next is the Twelfth and the Seventeenth New York regiments, and then the Eighty-third Pennsylvania, followed by the Sixteenth Michigan.
These regiments were all mustered in 1861, and are fresh from the peninsula campaign, and the more recent battle-fields of Bull Run and Chantilly, where they have displayed great bravery. The last regiment in the brigade is clad in a new uniform, and has nearly as many men as the rest of the brigade. It is a new regiment, and this is their first march. The colonel is every inch a soldier. He is well mounted, and his eyes flash as brightly as the silver eagles upon his shoulders. That is Colonel Adelbert Ames, a graduate of West Point, and a soldier of the regular army. He was severely wounded at the first battle of Bull Run, is a native of Rockland, Maine, and one of the bravest officers in the army. That tall, scholarly officer, riding by his side, is Lieut.-Colonel Chamberlain, late a professor in Bowdoin College: he has made an excellent record in the field of letters, and will undoubtedly distinguish himself upon the field of battle. The regiment is the Twentieth Maine, and the same whose movements I traced in the beginning of this chapter.
But look at the men of which the brigade is composed, and they are only a sample of the entire army. It is “route-step, and arms-at-will.” The ranks are in disorder, and nearly every file is broken. Every man is for himself; many have fallen out from the ranks; others are footsore and exhausted,—see them limp and reel and stagger as they endeavor to keep up with their regiments. These men were doubtless acquainted with fatigue before they entered the army, but this fearful strain in marching so many miles, in heavy marching order, for successive days, is too much for them. Brave, strong men fall fainting by the wayside, and will never see their regiment again. They had hoped to defend the old flag on the battle-field, but that is denied them; and far back in the rear of regiments and brigades, is a legion of stragglers, sick, lame, discouraged, cowardly, all grades mixed in hopeless confusion. Some are there from choice; they enlisted only to secure the pay and bounty, and are determined to “play out” as quickly as possible; others, brave and ambitious, are mortified because they are not able to keep up with their regiments.
The first class will crawl into the barns and outbuildings to sleep and escape the “Provost Guard.” The others will tramp painfully on all night long, and perhaps overtake their comrades in season to begin with them to-morrow’s march. It is a sad spectacle upon which we look, and all caused by the sinfulness of men.
But still the steel-crowned column surges on like the links of an endless chain.
Our line of march lay through the beautiful town of Frederick City, that nestled like a gem amidst the great green hills of Maryland. Its inhabitants had passed through a strange experience that week, as the two hostile armies had passed back and forth through its streets.
“Stonewall Jackson,” fresh from the siege of Harper’s Ferry, was reported to have been in command of the forces that held the town for several days. The larger portion of its inhabitants, like so many of the people of Maryland, were undoubtedly in active sympathy with the rebels, and rejoiced in all the successes they had gained. They had given the rebels a warm reception, but when we passed through in pursuit, they met us with frowns and angry words. A few were loyal to the union, and among these was old “Barbara Frietchie,” whose Spartan-like devotion to the old flag has been immortalized in the poem of Whittier.
There was intense excitement in the town, as we passed through; our troops had driven the enemy from his intrenched position at South Mountain, after a desperate struggle, and had followed him through Boonsboro to Antietam creek. The houses and yards were filled with the wounded soldiers who had been brought back from the field of battle. We were pushed rapidly forward, and soon began to see signs of the late conflict. A large squad of prisoners was being brought to the rear—the first live “Johnnies” our regiment ever saw; they were tall, lank, slouchy looking fellows, clad in dirty gray uniforms. We soon came to where the earth had been torn up by exploding shells, buildings were riddled through and through with shot, and trees were torn and twisted by flying missiles. We marched over the field and up the hillside where our troops had fought. Every house and barn was filled with the wounded; fresh mounds on the hillsides told where our dead had been buried.
Surgeons with sleeves rolled to their shoulders were busily at work around the rough tables they had hastily constructed. Legs and arms were being amputated by dozens, and the poor groaning victims upon the tables were objects of pity. Squads of men were at work caring for the wounded and burying the amputated limbs. It all looked cruel and bloody to us who were unused to such scenes.
I climbed the stone wall and rude breastwork where the enemy had made their final stand, and from which our men had driven them. There had not been time to bury the rebel dead. They lay, as they had fallen, in groups of half-a-dozen each, and single bodies scattered here and there, all through the scattering oak growth that crowned the crest of the hill. They were of all ages, and looked grim and ghastly. Old men with silvered hair, strong men in the prime of manhood, beardless boys, whose smooth, youthful, upturned faces looked strangely innocent, although sealed in a bloody death. With a hushed voice and careful tread I passed over them, wondering if the time would come in the varying fortunes of war, when the enemy would thus pass over the bodies of our own regiment, lying lifeless and cold upon some bloody field.
Ominous sounds were coming from the front. Clouds of dust hung thick and heavy over the moving columns of both armies, the roaring of artillery and bursts of musketry were frequently heard, showing that the advanced lines of the army had come in contact, and that each was endeavoring to obtain the “vantage ground.” Darkness came on and we camped. We now learned that the enemy’s line of battle was in our immediate front, that General Burnside was in command of our left wing, that extended to Antietam creek, that “Fighting Joe Hooker” commanded our right, and had already gained an important advantage, and with his usual audacity had pushed his troops across Antietam creek, close up to the enemy’s front. Everything was now in readiness, and the great battle was to be fought on the morrow.
The rattle of musketry died slowly away. All was as quiet as the grave, save a scattering firing occasionally heard from the right. The blankets were unrolled, and the tired soldiers, both blue and gray, lay down to sleep and rest. The Antietam creek rolled on its sullen course, breaking the silence of night with its murmuring waters. Thick clouds of solemn vapor seemed to hang over the sleeping combatants. The stars twinkled down sorrowfully through the gloom, and the mists came in gentle showers from the skies, as if the angels were weeping over those who were to be slain upon the morrow.
CHAPTER II. THE BATTLE OF ANTIETAM.
DAYLIGHT DAWNED UPON ANXIOUS HEARTS, on the eventful day of September 17, 1862. At an early hour the troops were in line. The battle began on our right flank, where Hooker opened a terrible fire of artillery and musketry upon the enemy.
Our division was ordered forward, as we supposed, to take a place in the line of battle, but after marching a short distance we halted under the protection of a long ridge of land, a short distance in rear of our line of battle.
We were in Fitz John Porter’s corps, and it is well known that his corps was held in reserve at Antietam.
Up to this time all had been quiet in our immediate front, which was near the center of our line of battle, but suddenly a twelve-pound gun, planted upon the opposite side of the hill from us, sent a shell screaming across Antietam creek, and far within the rebel lines. The enemy quickly responded, battery after battery joined in the combat, and in every direction we could hear the hissing, screaming shells, and see the puffs of white smoke where they exploded. Two of us obtained permission to leave the ranks for a short time, and ascended the hill in front of our regiment, hoping that from its top we could obtain a good view of the battlefield. Slowly we ascended the elevation of land. A wounded soldier who had just come over the hill, sat upon the ground in our front, and was vainly endeavoring to remove the boot from his wounded foot. Before we could reach him to lend our assistance, he was relieved from all further difficulty. A solid shot from a rebel gun came bouncing like a foot-ball over the hill, struck the poor fellow upon the shoulders, crushed them to a jelly, bounded over our regiment, dashed and rolled down the road, sending confusion among a squadron of passing cavalry, as it rattled among the feet of their horses.
From the crest of the hill we obtained a fine view of the conflict. The rebel line, we judged from the rising clouds of smoke, was some four miles in length, his right reaching to within a mile of the Potomac river, and rested upon the Antietam creek, at what was known as the Stone bridge. Their entire line was on the western bank of this creek, and occupied a very strong position on the ridges of land and among the trees.
The rebels, undoubtedly, had brilliant expectations that morning. The delay of our commanding general, on the day before, in not pressing the battle, had enabled the rebel divisions under Lawton and Jackson, fresh from the victory of Harper’s Ferry, to join the main army. General Lee, the most brilliant commander of the Confederacy, now commanded an army of one hundred thousand men; his left wing was commanded by Jackson, his right by Longstreet, and his center by Hill. To reach them, our men must cross the deep Antietam creek, and storm the heights beyond, and these were covered with rebel troops, and crowned with flaming batteries.
The only visible means of crossing the creek was upon three bridges, one on our right, at the Hagerstown road, one near the center, and the Stone bridge upon our left; and on the day before, when Lee arranged his line of battle, he so massed his infantry, and planted his field-pieces in such a manner, that he considered it impossible for our troops to carry them by assault. The rebel officers congratulated themselves that they held the key to an easy and most important victory.
Their soldiers were highly elated. A victory for them at Antietam, and the North lay defenseless and hopeless at their feet.
The battle was raging desperately on our right. Yesterday afternoon, when Hooker made his advance, he carried the upper bridge on the Hagerstown road—a most important advantage. During the night his men slept upon their arms to hold the position, and in the night the commands of Sumner and Mansfield had been pushed over to support him.
It was evident from our point of observation that Hooker was advancing; we could catch glimpses of moving columns and waving banners through the smoke and mists. Two batteries of union guns, supported by strong lines of infantry, advanced from the woods, where for a brief time our men had been concealed, into an open cornfield.
The rebels evidently did not see the infantry; they only saw the much-coveted guns, and upon them they charged with a savage yell. The guns were prepared to receive them. Bursting shells, grape shot and canister, with fearful precision, went tearing through the densely massed lines of the enemy.
Our infantry joined in the bloody reception. Back and forth the lines advanced and receded; first one and then the other was victor. We watched with suspended breath. We had never seen war before. Whole lines melted away in that terrible carnage.
For a full hour the conflict raged, and then the rebel lines began to fall back, and their fire to slacken. A cheer of triumph arose from the union victors.
“Stonewall Jackson” has found his match in desperate daring to-day. Joe Hooker’s tall, erect form on his gray horse, has been dashing for that hour through the thickest of the fight, inspiring his men by the cool and reckless exposure of his own person. General Meade, with his Pennsylvania Reserves, was then ordered to follow up the advantage gained. They charge across the cornfield plowed with bursting shells and made slippery with blood, to reach the woods in which the rebels have disappeared. We looked. Great God, what a reception! The forest seemed to yawn and vomit forth upon them a volcano of leaden fire; it checked their advance. They endeavored to return the fire; they reeled and staggered like drunken men under that fearful tempest. Brigades were reduced to regiments in a moment’s time; and soon the small remnant of that noble division retreated back across the cornfield to the woods from which they came. The enemy had been reinforced, and now from the forest once more they charge to follow up the repulse of Meade.
It was a critical moment: unless that advance is checked, all is lost. Hooker sat on his horse amidst the flying lead, as the broken brigades of Meade were hurled past him. He saw the coming lines of the foe; there was no time to lose.
A staff officer dashed away from Hooker to Doubleday, with the command: “Send me your best brigade instantly,” and Hartsuff’s brigade, composed largely of Massachusetts troops, double-quicked through the woods, out into the cornfield, past Hooker, and charged upon the enemy. We saw the wild, reckless manner in which they made the assault. They struck the rebel line with terrible force, and the latter, although fivefold the stronger, recoiled before the shock.
Hartsuff’s men threw themselves flat upon the ground, along a low ridge of land, and opened a fire upon the staggering lines of the foe, and for thirty minutes the conflict raged. Hartsuff was wounded; his men have exhausted their ammunition; no reinforcements have arrived, and he must not retreat.
The shattered line sprang to its feet, mantled in sheets of flame, and again charged upon the enemy. Like a line of withering fire they rolled on. The enemy could not withstand the shock, and once more fell back to the woods. It is now ten o’clock. The battle has been raging for four hours, and neither side has gained any decided advantage. The carnage on both sides must have been fearful.
With anxious hearts we scanned the distant field, for we knew that some movement would soon be made by blue or gray. We soon saw that Hooker’s entire command was advancing. It was a desperate movement, but a grand spectacle to behold. Our view was broken by clumps of trees and distant hill-tops, but at many points we could see the advance. Regiments, brigades, divisions, were swinging and wheeling into line, and all at a double-quick; banners waved, bayonets gleamed, officers shouted, and the men cheered. Hooker in person led the charging column. The hillsides flamed with fire. There was a fearful roar, and all were concealed by clouds of smoke. The hills shook as if with agony and fear. Anxiously we asked each other: “What will be the result?”
“Joe Hooker is wounded and carried from the field,” we heard a courier exclaim as he dashed down the road near where we were standing. The enemy received reinforcements from their center; men and officers fell thick and fast. General Sumner assumed the command when Hooker was wounded, and bravely rode to the thickest of the fight, and led on the advance. Our men began to waver; they fell back a short distance and halted, and once more the cornfield was in the possession of the enemy.
It was now past noon, and as we watched the falling back of the union lines, our hearts sank. But our artillery fire prevented the enemy from following our men a great distance. Sumner’s command must be badly shattered. We understood enough of war to know that those broken lines could not without reinforcements make another successful charge that, day. If they held their position they would do well. At this the most gloomy hour in the history of that battle, we saw a body of men marching down the Hagerstown road, cross the bridge, and form on the left of Sumner’s command. “Reinforcements!” we gladly cried, “and it must be General Franklin’s corps.” Closely we watched the developments. We saw a brigade, which we afterward learned was General Smith’s, and which was composed of troops from Maine and Vermont, charge and once more retake the cornfield, and they halted not until they had swept through the woods beyond, and sent the rebels flying back in wild disorder.
The musketry on the right died gradually away, and only the growling of artillery was heard. But while we had been so intently watching the struggle on our right, the battle had been raging from our center to the left. The artillery planted along the side of the hill upon which we stood, had been thundering at the rebels, all the forenoon, and the ground had trembled and throbbed under the fearful roar.
Down upon the left, General Burnside had been doing noble work. The Ninth corps under the command of Burnside had slept on the night of the 16th, upon a ridge of land near the Stone bridge. And there General Lee had massed his troops to prevent our crossing. His artillery was planted upon the ridge that stretched along the western bank of the Antietam creek, and raked the bridge from every point, while in three lines of rude earth-works built on the hillside was the rebel infantry. At nine o’clock in the morning Burnside led his men to storm the bridge. It was a fearful undertaking. Nowhere in the campaigns of Napoleon can we find raw troops making a more brilliant assault than was made by Burnside’s men at the Stone bridge. A single regiment dashed out as skirmishers, a brigade followed, and then divisions. They reach the bridge; five hundred bursting shells fall among their closely massed ranks; twenty thousand muskets are pouring their leaden rain upon the assaulting column. They cross the bridge, deployed right and left; a battle line is formed. They dash up the hill and are hurled back. Reinforcements that have crossed the creek at a ford below, now arrive; they charge again; back and forth they surge. It is a hand-to-hand conflict with the advantages all on the side of the enemy. The first line of works is carried at the point of the bayonet. There is another struggle, and a terrific yell rolls up the line, to tell us that our men have won. The clouds of smoke and dust showed clearly that Burnside held the hill, and that the rebels were falling back.
It is now late in the afternoon; whatever is done to-day must be done quickly. The losses on both sides have been great. The enemy having had the advantage of position, our losses are probably the greater.
Our brigade bugle calls, “fall in, fall in” There is a fearful roar of musketry on the right, where all has been so quiet for an hour. Forward at a double-quick we move, to reinforce the right; we march a mile or two, then halt; the firing has ceased, and the emergency has passed. As we halt, a mournful procession passes us, bearing the remains of brave General Mansfield, who has just been killed at the front.
In a few moments we return to our former position. The rebels have been driven back on both flanks, and are forming a new line near Sharpsburg. We listened; the battle is still raging on our left; Burnside is evidently advancing; those terrible volleys of musketry, the ceaseless din of artillery, the clouds of smoky dust, were rolling back toward Sharpsburg, where rested the rebel center. Burnside is pushing their right flank back, doubling it upon their center. If that movement succeeds the fate of the rebel army is sealed. Great interests are at stake, and with breathless interest we awaited the result.
Burnside’s men are exhausted; their ranks are sadly thinned; each regiment is but a shattered wreck. If his command could only be inspired with reinforcements! A cloud of dust is seen rolling from the rebel center to their right. Lee has seen his danger, and A. P. Hill is hastening down to reinforce Longstreet, to check and crush Burnside. And look, up the dusty highway, his horse covered with foam, dashes a staff officer from Burnside to McClellan! “Burnside says, send him men and guns, and he will sweep all before him, but without reinforcements he cannot hold the position he has gained.” Will McClellan grant his request? Fifteen thousand fresh troops are in the valley at his feet, each man impatient for a part in the day’s work, and a share in the glory of victory.
Fifteen thousand reinforcements for Burnside mean the overthrow of both Longstreet and Hill. They will be hurled back upon the center, and the rebel army will be enclosed between the forces of Burnside and Sumner. The fords of the Potomac will be in our possession, and Antietam will be the deathbed of the Confederacy.
O for one hour of Grant, or dashing Phil Sheridan! For a moment McClellan hesitates; he is loyal, but too timid and slow for a great commander. “Tell Burnside to hold on; it is the greatest battle of the war; I will send him a battery; I have no infantry to send; if he is driven back, he must hold the bridge, for if we lose that we lose all.”
The fatal mistake has been made. Burnside is overpowered, and slowly relinquishes the ground he has gained; but the rebels have been so roughly handled they do not press him far. They halt, the firing ceases, Burnside holds the bridge, and darkness conceals the situation from our view. The enemy are beaten at every point. We have Porter’s corps of troops, who have not been in the battle at all. The waters of the Potomac river are swollen to a flood tide; the fords are few and dangerous; they afford General Lee his only avenue of escape. It is not too late to redeem the blunder of the afternoon, but no advance of our troops was ordered. General Lee understands that he must regain by his own cunning what he has failed to gain upon the field of battle, and the defeated general proposes an armistice to bury his dead, and to the mortification and disgust of the army, it was granted. And under this false pretence, Lee re-crossed the river, and escaped, leaving his wounded and dead to be cared for and buried by the victors before whom he was fleeing.
The men in the ranks were all indignant that the substantial fruits of their dearly bought victory should thus slip through their fingers, through the stupidity of their dearly beloved commanding officer.
Many opinions have been given as to General McClellan’s conduct at Antietam, and many serious charges have been made against him, but I think the surviving members of the rank and file of the old army of the Potomac will with me agree that he was a loyal, brave, skillful officer, that as an engineer he has no superiors, but he was sadly lacking in the elements of energy, decision and reckless courage that qualify a man to command armies in an active campaign. But notwithstanding the escape of the rebel army, the victory at Antietam was of vast importance. It prevented an invasion of the North, and rolled the tide of war back upon the soil of Virginia.
On the 19th of September, two days after this battle was fought, there was great excitement in our regiment, as we were ordered to cross the Potomac, and follow up the retreat of General Lee. This was to be a new experience to us. Up to this time we had not been in the advance. We had seen our comrades fight and go down in the smoke of battle, but now we were to experience that which hitherto we had only seen.
The regiment quickly obeyed the order to “fall in.” Then the command “by the right flank, march,” was given, and away we went. We soon reached the Potomac river, and crossed at the Shepherdstown fords. The river was wide, the water deep, the current swift, and the ledges upon which we walked were so narrow that our crossing was necessarily very slow; but we finally reached the Virginia shore.
Not a gun had been fired, and not an enemy had been seen. Our regimental line was formed upon the bank of the river, and we began to climb the steep bluff that rose some two hundred feet above the water. Before the ascent was completed, we heard heavy firing up the river on our right, showing that those who crossed the river above us had encountered the enemy. With a desperate resolution to crush the rebellion, we scrambled to the top, and our line was quickly formed upon its crest. A dense forest was in our immediate front, the firing on our right had increased, and the roar of regular volleys of musketry came rolling down the river.
Gray forms were seen flitting among the trees before us, puffs of white smoke suddenly burst out from the forest, and the uncomfortable “zip, zip” of leaden messengers over our heads warned us that the enemy meant business. We returned the fire, and sent our first greetings to the Southern Confederacy, in the form of minie bullets, that went singing and cracking through the forest in our front; and we made a target of every gray form we could see.
Our regiment was about to make a charge upon them, when the order came for us to get down over the bluff, and recross the river as rapidly as possible, and down through the rocks and trees we ran. We reached the river, and began to make a most masterly advance upon Maryland. The enemy followed us to the top of the bluff, and would have punished us severely as we were recrossing the river, but one of our batteries went into position on the Maryland side, threw shells over our heads, and drove the rebels back. Several of the regiments on our right had sustained great losses; one of them, the 118th Pennsylvania, had been almost annihilated. Upon reaching the Maryland shore, we took possession of the Chesapeake and Ohio canal, and there formed the advanced line of the army.
One very amusing incident occurred in our retreat. In Company H was a man by the name of Tommy Welch, an Irishman about forty years of age, a brave, generous-hearted fellow. He was an old bachelor, and one of those funny, neat, particular men we occasionally meet. He always looked as if he had emerged from a bandbox; and the boys used to say that he would rather sacrifice the whole army of the Potomac, than to have a spot of rust upon his rifle, or dust upon his uniform. He was always making the most laughable blunders, and was usually behind all others in obeying any command. When our regiment went tumbling down over the side of the bluff, to reach the river, the men all got down before Tommy understood what they were doing. Then very slowly he descended, picking his path carefully among the trees and rocks, and did not reach the river until the rear of the regiment was nearly one-half of the way across. The officer who commanded our regiment on that day rode a magnificent horse, and as the regiment recrossed, he sat coolly upon his horse near the Virginia shore, amidst the shots of the enemy, speaking very pleasantly to the men as they passed him. He evidently determined to be the last man of the regiment to leave the post of danger. He saw Uncle Tommy, and although the danger was very great, he kindly waited for him to cross. When the latter reached the water, with great deliberation he sat down upon a rock, and removed his shoes and stockings, and slowly packed them away in his blanket. Then his pant legs must be rolled up, so that they would not come in contact with the water; and all the time the rebels were coming nearer, and the bullets were flying more thickly. At last he was ready for an advance movement, but just as he reached the water, the luckless pant legs slipped down over his knees, and he very quietly retraced his steps to the shore, to roll them up again. This was too much for even the courtesy of the commanding officer, who becoming impatient at the protracted delay, and not relishing the sound of the lead whistling over his head, cried out in a sharp voice: “Come, come, my man, hurry up, hurry up, or we will both be shot.” Tommy looked up with that bewildered, serio-comic gravity of expression for which the Emerald Isle is so noted, and answered in the broadest brogue: “The divil a bit, sur. It is no mark of a gintleman to be in a hurry.” The officer waited no longer, but putting spurs to his horse, he dashed across the river, while Tommy, carrying his rifle in one hand, and holding up his pant legs in the other, followed after, the bullets flying thickly around him.
Poor Tommy Welch, brave, blundering and kind, was a favorite in his company, and his comrades all mourned when he was shot down in the wilderness. He was there taken prisoner, and carried to Andersonville prison, where he died of starvation.
On forming our line at the canal, we soon found that we were in an uncomfortable position. The rebels were concealed on the side of the bluff, across the river, by trees and underbrush, so that we could not see them, but the moment that one of our men would step from the muddy canal to the bank, the air around him would be filled with bullets. Quite a number of our men were thus wounded. We soon learned to watch for the white puff of smoke, and the moment it was detected, we would send a hundred bullets at it. Thus through the day and night that followed our retreat, a constant picket firing was kept up.
On the second day the rebels seemed to grow weary of this, and almost ceased firing; but there was another and more dangerous annoyance. Down by the side of the river were the brick walls of an old mill, and in the night a company of rebel sharpshooters took possession of it, and if a soldier made his appearance anywhere on the Maryland shore, within range of their famous rifles, there would instantly be seen the little cloud of smoke, and the peculiar singing sound of the bullet would be heard, and the victim, unconscious of danger, would fall. We peppered away at the walls with our rifles, but of course with no effect.
On the afternoon of the second day a battery of artillery galloped down near where we were stationed. The bullets flew thick and fast from the brick walls. Men and horses fell. The guns were quickly unlimbered, and returned the compliment with twelve-pound shells. Whiz—bang—crash, they went into the old mill; the air was filled with pieces of bricks and mortar; whole sections of the walls went tumbling down; a thousand rifles opened upon the ruins, and the rebel sharpshooters, or the few who survived, made a dash from the ruins, amidst the wild cheering of our men, up over the steep bluff, and troubled us no more.
One of the most difficult things in the world for a genuine Yankee to do, was to settle down, and become accustomed to the experience of a soldier’s life. He was naturally inquisitive, and wanted to know all the reasons why an order was given, before he could obey it. Accustomed to be independent, the words go and come grated harshly upon his ear. At home he had considered himself as good as any other person, and in the army he failed to understand why a couple of gilt straps upon the shoulders of one who at home was far beneath him, should there make him so much his superior.
The Yankee is usually a practical sort of a man, and in all his work shows a great deal of good common sense, and when, in his loyal love for the old flag, he went South to help crush the rebellion, he expected to use the same practical common sense that he had used at home, to fight the rebels in as practical a manner as he had planted potatoes or felled the forest trees, and consequently all the red tape of army life was very distasteful to him. He could not understand how dress parades, guard mounting, reviews and grand rounds could ever crush the rebellion, and they were all regarded in supreme contempt.
While we were in the front line at the Potomac river, our picket line was extended for a considerable distance along its banks. The ground was in many places very rough, and after dark it was difficult to find the posts upon which some of the men were stationed.
