Read Ebook: War from the Inside The Story of the 132nd Regiment Pennsylvania Volunteer Infantry in the War for the Suppression of the Rebellion 1862-1863 by Hitchcock Frederick L Frederick Lyman

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On my way back to the right of the line, where I had left Colonel Oakford, I met Lieutenant-Colonel Wilcox, who told me the terrible news that Colonel Oakford was killed. Of the details of his death, I had no time then to inquire. We were then in the very maelstrom of the battle. Men were falling every moment. The horrible noise of the battle was incessant and almost deafening. Except that my mind was so absorbed in my duties, I do not know how I could have endured the strain. Yet out of this pandemonium memory brings several remarkable incidents. They came and went with the rapidity of a quickly revolving kaleidoscope. You caught stupendous incidents on the instant, and in an instant they had passed. One was the brave death of the major of this regiment that was lying idle under the tree. The commanding officer evidently was not doing his duty, and this major was endeavoring to rally his men and get them at work. He was swinging his hat and cheering his men forward, when a solid shot decapitated him. His poor body went down as though some giant had picked it up and furiously slammed it on the ground, and I was so near him that I could almost have touched him with my sword.

The inaction of this regiment lying behind us under that tree was very demoralizing to our men, setting them a bad example. General Kimball, who commanded our brigade, was seated on his horse just under the knoll in the rear of our regiment, evidently watching our work, and he signalled me to come to him, and then gave me orders to present his compliments to the commanding officer of that regiment and direct him to get his men up and at work. I communicated this order as directed. The colonel was hugging the ground, and merely turned his face towards me without replying or attempting to obey the order. General Kimball saw the whole thing, and again called me to him and, with an oath, commanded me to repeat the order to him at the muzzle of my revolver, and shoot him if he did not immediately obey. Said General Kimball: "Get those cowards out of there or shoot them." My task was a most disagreeable one, but I must deliver my orders, and did so, but was saved the duty of shooting by the other officers of the regiment bravely rallying their men and pushing them forward to the firing-line, where they did good work. What became of that skulking colonel, I do not know.

The air was now thick with smoke from the muskets, which not only obscured our vision of the enemy, but made breathing difficult and most uncomfortable. The day was excessively hot, and no air stirring, we were forced to breathe this powder smoke, impregnated with saltpetre, which burned the coating of nose, throat, and eyes almost like fire.

Captain Abbott, commanding Company G, from Mauch Chunk, a brave and splendid officer, was early carried to the rear, a ball having nearly carried away his under jaw. He afterwards told me that his first sensation of this awful wound was his mouth full of blood, teeth, and splintered bones, which he spat out on the ground, and then found that unless he got immediate help he would bleed to death in a few minutes. Fortunately he found Assistant Surgeon Hoover, who had been assigned to us just from his college graduation, who, under the shelter of a hay-stack, with no anaesthetic, performed an operation which Dr. Gross, of Philadelphia, afterwards said had been but once before successfully performed in the history of surgery, and saved his life. Lieutenant Anson C. Cranmer, Company C, was killed, and the ground was soon strewn with the dead and wounded. Soon our men began to call for more ammunition, and we officers were kept busy taking from the dead and wounded and distributing to the living. Each man had eighty rounds when we began the fight. One man near me rose a moment, when a missile struck his gun about midway, and actually capsized him. He pulled himself together, and, finding he was only a little bruised, picked up another gun, with which the ground was now strewn, and went at it again.

Directly, a lull in the enemy's firing occurred, and we had an opportunity to look over the hill a little more carefully at their lines. Their first line in the sunken road seemed to be all dead or wounded, and several of our men ran down there, to find that literally true. They brought back the lieutenant-colonel, a fine-looking man, who was mortally wounded. I shook his hand, and he said, "God bless you, boys, you are very kind." He asked to be laid down in some sheltered place, for, said he, "I have but a few moments to live." I well remember his refined, gentlemanly appearance, and how profoundly sorry I felt for him. He was young, lithely built, of sandy complexion, and wore a comparatively new uniform of Confederate gray, on which was embroidered the insignia of the "5th Ga., C. S. A." He said, "You have killed all my brave boys; they are there in the road." And they were, I saw them next day lying four deep in places as they fell, a most awful picture of battle carnage. This lull was of very short duration, and like the lull of a storm presaged a renewal of the firing with greater fury, for a fresh line of rebel troops had been brought up. This occurred three times before we were relieved.

During the fiercest of the firing, another remarkable incident occurred, which well illustrated the fortunes of war. I heard a man shouting, "Come over here men, you can see 'em better," and there, over the brow of the knoll, absolutely exposed, was Private George Coursen, of Company K, sitting on a boulder, loading and firing as calmly as though there wasn't a rebel in the country. I yelled to him to come back under the cover of the hill-top, but he said he could see the rebels better there, and refused to leave his vantage-ground. I think he remained there until we were ordered back and did not receive a scratch. His escape was nothing less than a miracle. He seemed to have no idea of fear.

A remarkable fact about our experience during this fight was that we took no note of time. When we were out of ammunition and about to move back I looked at my watch and found it was 12.30 P.M. We had been under fire since eight o'clock. I couldn't believe my eyes; was sure my watch had gone wrong. I would have sworn that we had not been there more than twenty minutes, when we had actually been in that very hell of fire for four and a half hours.

Just as we were moving back, the Irish brigade came up, under command of General Thomas Francis Meagher. They had been ordered to complete our work by a charge, and right gallantly they did it. Many of our men, not understanding the order, joined in that charge. General Meagher rode a beautiful white horse, but made a show of himself by tumbling off just as he reached our line. The boys said he was drunk, and he certainly looked and acted like a drunken man. He regained his feet and floundered about, swearing like a crazy man. The brigade, however, made a magnificent charge and swept everything before it.

Our regiment now moved back and to the right some three-quarters of a mile, where we were supplied with ammunition, and the men were allowed to make themselves a cup of coffee and eat a "hardtack." I was faint for want of food, for I had only a cup of coffee in the early morning, and was favored with a hardtack by one of the men, who were always ready and willing to share their rations with us. We now learned that our brigade had borne the brunt of a long and persistent effort by Lee to break our line at this point, and that we were actually the third line which had been thrown into this breach, the other two having been wiped out before we advanced; that as a matter of fact our brigade, being composed so largely of raw troops--our regiment being really more than half the brigade in actual number--was designed to be held in reserve. But the onslaught of the enemy had been so terrific, that by eight o'clock A.M. our reserve line was all there was left and we had to be sent in. The other three regiments were veterans, old and tried. They had an established reputation of having never once been forced back or whipped, but the One Hundred and Thirty-second was new and, except as to numbers, an unknown quantity. We had been unmercifully guyed during the two preceding weeks, as I have said before, as a lot of "greenhorns," "pretty boys" in "pretty new clothes," "mamma's darlings," etc., etc., to the end of the vets' slang calendar. Now that we had proved our metal under fire, the atmosphere was completely changed. Not the semblance of another jibe against the One Hundred and Thirty-second Pennsylvania Volunteers.

We did not know how well we had done, only that we had tried to do our duty under trying circumstances, until officers and men from other regiments came flocking over to congratulate and praise us. I didn't even know we had passed through the fire of a great battle until the colonel of the Fourteenth Indiana came over to condole with us on the loss of Colonel Oakford, and incidentally told us that this was undoubtedly the greatest battle of the war thus far, and that we probably would never have such another.

After getting into our new position, I at once began to look up our losses. I learned that Colonel Oakford was killed by one of the rebel sharp-shooters just as the regiment scaled the fence in its advance up the knoll, and before we had fired a shot. It must have occurred almost instantly after I left him with orders for the left of the line. I was probably the last to whom he spoke. He was hit by a minie-ball in the left shoulder, just below the collar-bone. The doctor said the ball had severed one of the large arteries, and he died in a very few minutes. He had been in command of the regiment a little more than a month, but during that brief time his work as a disciplinarian and drill-master had made it possible for us to acquit ourselves as creditably as they all said we had done. General Kimball was loud in our praise and greatly lamented Colonel Oakford's death, whom he admired very much. He was a brave, able, and accomplished officer and gentleman, and his loss to the regiment was irreparable.

Had Colonel Oakford lived his record must have been brilliant and his promotion rapid, for very few volunteer officers had so quickly mastered the details of military tactics and routine. He was a thorough disciplinarian, an able tactician, and the interests and welfare of his men were constantly upon his heart.

My diary records the fact that I saw Captain Willard, of the Fourteenth Connecticut, fall as we passed their line on our way to the rear; that he appeared to have been hit by a grape-shot or piece of shell. I did not know him, only heard that he was a brother of E. N. Willard, of Scranton. The Fourteenth Connecticut men said he was a fine man and splendid officer.

Among the wounded--reported mortally--was Sergeant Martin Hower, of Company K, one of our very best non-commissioned officers. I saw him at the hospital, and it was very hard to be able to do nothing for him. It seemed our loss must reach upward of two hundred killed, wounded and missing. Out of seven hundred and ninety-eight who answered to roll-call in the morning, we had with us less than three hundred at the close of the fight. Our actual loss was: Killed--Officers, two ; men, twenty-eight; total, thirty. Wounded--Officers, four; men, one hundred and ten; total, one hundred and forty-four. To this should be added at least thirty of the men who died of their wounds within the next few days, which would make our death loss in this battle upward of sixty. Of the missing, many of them were of those who joined the Irish brigade in their charge, and who did not find us again for a day or so. It may seem strange that a man should not be able to find his regiment for so long a time, when really it is so close at hand. But when one remembers that our army of about seventy-five thousand men had upward of two hundred regiments massed within say two square miles, and that they were constantly changing position, it will be seen that looking for any one regiment is almost like looking for a needle in a hay-mow.

THE BATTLE OF ANTIETAM--CONTINUED

During the afternoon of this day we were again moved further to the right and placed as supports of a battery. We were posted about two hundred yards directly in front of the guns on low ground. The battery was evidently engaged in another artillery duel. We were in a comparatively safe position, so long as the rebel guns directed their firing at our battery; but after a time they began "feeling for the supports," first dropping their shells beyond our guns, then in front of them, until they finally got a pretty good range on our line and filled the air with bursting shells over our heads. One and another was carried to the rear, wounded, and the line became very restive. We were required to lie perfectly quiet. We found this very much more trying than being at work, and the line began to show symptoms of wavering, when General Kimball, who with his staff had dismounted and was resting near us, immediately mounted his horse and, riding up and down the line, shouted: "Stand firm, trust in God, and do your duty."

It was an exceedingly brave act, and its effect was electric upon the men. There was no more wavering, and the rebel battery, evidently thinking they had not found the "supports," soon ceased firing upon us. It was now near night and the firing very perceptibly slackened in our vicinity, though a mile or more to the left it still continued very heavy. This, we afterwards learned, was the work at what has passed into history as "Burnside's" bridge--the effort of Burnside's corps to capture the stone bridge over Antietam creek, near the village of Sharpsburg, and the heights beyond. These were gallantly carried after a terrific fight quite late in the afternoon.

Our work, so far as this battle was concerned, was done. We rested "on our arms" where we were for the next forty-eight hours, expecting all the next day a renewal of the fighting; but nothing was done in our neighborhood beyond a few shots from the battery we were supporting. On the second day it became known that Lee had hauled off, and there was no immediate prospect of further fighting. Our companies were permitted to gather up their dead, and burying parties were organized.

We were allowed to go over the field freely. It was a gruesome sight. Our own dead had been cared for, but the rebel dead remained as they had fallen. In the hot sun the bodies had swollen and turned black. Nearly all lay with faces up and eyes wide open, presenting a spectacle to make one shudder. The distended nostrils and thickened lips made them look like negroes, except for their straight hair. Their limbs and bodies were so enlarged that their clothing seemed ready to burst. Some ghouls had been among them, whether from their own lines or from ours, could not be known, but every man's pockets had been ripped out and the contents taken.

In company with Captain Archbald I went over the position occupied by our regiment and brigade, the famous "sunken road,"--that is, the lane or road extending from near the "Roulette house" towards Sharpsburg. For some distance it had been cut through the opposite side of the knoll upon which we fought, and had the appearance of a sunken road. It was literally filled with rebel dead, which in some places lay three and four bodies deep. We afterwards saw pictures of this road in the illustrated papers, which partially portrayed the horrible scene. Those poor fellows were the Fifth Georgia regiment. This terrible work was mostly that of our regiment, and bore testimony to the effectiveness of the fire of our men.

The position was an alluring one: the road was cut into the hill about waist high, and seemed to offer secure protection to a line of infantry, and so no doubt this line was posted there to hold the knoll and this Sharpsburg road. It proved, however, nothing but a death-trap, for once our line got into position on the top of this crescent-shaped ridge we could reach them by a direct fire on the centre and a double flanking fire at the right and left of the line, and only about one hundred yards away. With nothing but an open field behind them there was absolutely no escape, nothing but death or surrender, and they evidently chose the former, for we saw no white flag displayed. We could now understand the remark of their lieutenant-colonel, whom our boys brought in, as already mentioned: "You have killed all my poor boys. They lie there in the road." I learned later that the few survivors of this regiment were sent South to guard rebel prisoners.

The lines of battle of both armies were not only marked by the presence of the dead, but by a vast variety of army equipage, such as blankets, canteens, haversacks, guns, gun-slings, bayonets, ramrods, some whole, others broken,--verily, a besom of destruction had done its work faithfully here. Dead horses were everywhere, and the stench from them and the human dead was horrible. "Uncle" Billy Sherman has said, "War is hell!" yet this definition, with all that imagination can picture, fails to reveal all its bloody horrors.

The positions of some of the dead were very striking. One poor fellow lay face down on a partially fallen stone wall, with one arm and one foot extended, as if in the act of crawling over. His position attracted our attention, and we found his body literally riddled with bullets--there must have been hundreds--and most of them shot into him after he was dead, for they showed no marks of blood. Probably the poor fellow had been wounded in trying to reach shelter behind that wall, was spotted in the act by our men, and killed right there, and became thereafter a target for every new man that saw him. Another man lay, still clasping his musket, which he was evidently in the act of loading when a bullet pierced his heart, literally flooding his gun with his life's blood, a ghastly testimonial to his heroic sacrifice.

We witnessed the burying details gathering up and burying the dead. The work was rough and heartless, but only comporting with the character of war. The natural reverence for the dead was wholly absent. The poor bodies, all of them heroes in their death, even though in a mistaken cause, were "planted" with as little feeling as though they had been so many logs. A trench was dug, where the digging was easiest, about seven feet wide and long enough to accommodate all the bodies gathered within a certain radius; these were then placed side by side, cross-wise of the trench, and buried without anything to keep the earth from them. In the case of the Union dead the trenches were usually two or three feet deep, and the bodies were wrapped in blankets before being covered, but with the rebels no blankets were used, and the trenches were sometimes so shallow as to leave the toes exposed after a shower.

No ceremony whatever attended this gruesome service, but it was generally accompanied by ribald jokes, at the expense of the poor "Johnny" they were "planting." This was not the fruit of debased natures or degenerate hearts on the part of the boys, who well knew it might be their turn next, under the fortunes of war, to be buried in like manner, but it was recklessness and thoughtlessness, born of the hardening influences of war.

Having now given some account of the scenes in which I participated during the battle and the day after, let us look at another feature of the battle, and probably the most heart-breaking of all, the field hospital. There was one established for our division some three hundred yards in our rear, under the shelter of a hill. Here were gathered as rapidly as possible the wounded, and a corps of surgeons were busily engaged in amputating limbs and dressing wounds. It should be understood that the accommodations were of the rudest character. A hospital tent had been hurriedly erected and an old house and barn utilized. Of course, I saw nothing of it or its work until the evening after the battle, when I went to see the body of our dead colonel and some of our Scranton boys who were wounded. Outside the hospital were piles of amputated arms, legs, and feet, thrown out with as little care as so many pieces of wood. There were also many dead soldiers--those who had died after reaching the hospital--lying outside, there being inside scant room only for the living. Here, on bunches of hay and straw, the poor fellows were lying so thickly that there was scarce room for the surgeon and attendants to move about among them. Others were not allowed inside, except officers and an occasional friend who might be helping. Our chaplain spent his time here and did yeoman service helping the wounded. Yet all that could be done with the limited means at hand seemed only to accentuate the appalling need. The pallid, appealing faces were patient with a heroism born only of the truest metal. I was told by the surgeons that such expressions as this were not infrequent as they approached a man in his "turn": "Please, doctor, attend to this poor fellow next; he's worse than I," and this when his own life's blood was fast oozing away.

Most of the wounded had to wait hours before having their wounds dressed, owing to insufficient force and inadequate facilities. I was told that not a surgeon had his eyes closed for three days after this battle. The doctors of neighboring towns within reach came and voluntarily gave their services, yet it is doubtless true that hundreds of the wounded perished for want of prompt and proper care. This is one of the unavoidable incidents of a great battle--a part of the horrors of war. The rebel wounded necessarily were second to our own in receiving care from the surgeons, yet they, too, received all the attention that was possible under the circumstances. Some of their surgeons remained with their wounded, and I am told they and our own surgeons worked together most energetically and heroically in their efforts to relieve the sufferings of all, whether they wore the blue or the gray. Suffering, it has been said, makes all the world akin. So here, in our lines, the wounded rebel was lost sight of in the suffering brother.

We remained on the battle-field until September 21, four days after the fight.

My notes of this day say that I was feeling so miserable as to be scarcely able to crawl about, yet was obliged to remain on duty; that Lieutenant-Colonel Wilcox, now in command, and Major Shreve were in the same condition. This was due to the nervous strain through which we had passed, and to insufficient and unwholesome food. As stated before, we had been obliged to eat whatever we could get, which for the past four days had been mostly green field corn roasted as best we could. The wonder is that we were not utterly prostrated. Nevertheless, I not only performed all my duties, but went a mile down the Antietam creek, took a bath, and washed my underclothing, my first experience in the laundry business.

We had been now for two weeks and more steadily on the march, our baggage in wagons somewhere en route, without the possibility of a change of clothing or of having any washing done. Most of this time marching in a cloud of dust so thick that one could almost cut it, and perspiring freely, one can imagine our condition. Bathing as frequently as opportunity offered, yet our condition was almost unendurable. For with the accumulation of dirt upon our body, there was added the ever-present scourge of the army, body lice. These vermin, called by the boys "graybacks," were nearly the size of a grain of wheat, and derived their name from their bluish-gray color. They seemed to infest the ground wherever there had been a bivouac of the rebels, and following them as we had, during all of this campaign, sleeping frequently on the ground just vacated by them, no one was exempt from this plague. They secreted themselves in the seams of the clothing and in the armpits chiefly. A good bath, with a change of underclothing, would usually rid one of them, but only to acquire a new crop in the first camp. The clothing could be freed of them by boiling in salt water or by going carefully over the seams and picking them off. The latter operation was a frequent occupation with the men on any day which was warm enough to permit them to disrobe for the purpose. One of the most laughable sights I ever beheld was the whole brigade, halted for a couple of hours' rest one hot day, with clothing off, "skirmishing," as the boys called it, for "graybacks." This was one of the many unpoetical features of army life which accentuated the sacrifices one made to serve his country.

How did we ordinarily get our laundrying done? The enlisted men as a rule always did it themselves. Occasionally in camp a number of them would club together and hire some "camp follower" or some other soldier to do it. Officers of sufficient rank to have a servant, of course, readily solved the question. Those of us of lesser rank could generally hire it done, except on the march. Then we had to be our own laundrymen. Having, as in the above instance, no change of clothing at hand, the washing followed a bath, and consisted in standing in the running water and rubbing as much of the dirt out of the underwear as could be done without soap, for that could not be had for love or money; then hanging them on the limb of a tree and sitting in the sun, as comfortable as possible, whilst wind and sun did the drying. A "snap-shot" of such a scene would no doubt be interesting. But "snap-shots" unfortunately were not then in vogue, and so a picture of high art must perish. We could not be over particular about having our clothes dry. The finishing touches were added as we wore them back to camp.

My diary notes that there were nine hundred and ninety-eight rebel dead gathered and buried from in front of the lines of our division. This line was about a quarter of a mile long, and this was mostly our work , although Richardson's division had occupied part of this ground before us, but had been so quickly broken that they had not made much impression upon the enemy. Our division had engaged them continuously and under a terrific fire from eight o'clock A.M. until 12.30 P.M. It may be asked why during that length of time and under such a fire all were not annihilated. The answer is, that inaccuracy and unsteadiness in firing on both sides greatly reduce its effectiveness, and taking all possible advantage of shelter by lying prone upon the ground also prevents losses; but the above number of rebel dead, it should be remembered, represents, probably, not more than twenty to twenty-five per cent. of their casualties in that area of their lines; the balance were wounded and were removed. So that with nine hundred and ninety-eight dead it can be safely estimated that their losses exceeded four thousand killed and wounded in that area. This would indicate what was undoubtedly true, that we were in the very heart of that great battle.

Here I wish to say that some chroniclers of battles have undertaken to measure the effectiveness and bravery of the different regiments, batteries, etc., by the numbers they have lost in certain battles; for example, one historian has made a book grading the regiments by the number of men they lost in action, assuming that the more men killed and wounded, the more brilliant and brave had been its work. This assumption is absolutely fallacious. Heavy losses may be the result of great bravery with splendid work. On the other hand, they may be the result of cowardice or inefficiency. Suppose, under trying circumstances, officers lose their heads and fail to properly handle their men, or if the latter prove cowardly and incapable of being moved with promptness to meet the exigency, great loss usually ensues, and this would be chargeable to cowardice or inefficiency. According to the loss way of estimating fighting regiments, the least deserving are liable to be credited with the best work. The rule is, the better drilled, disciplined, and the better officered, the less the losses in any position on the firing-line.

One regiment I have in mind, with which we were afterwards brigaded, illustrates this principle. It was the First Delaware Volunteer infantry. It was a three years' regiment and had been in the field more than a year when we joined them. All things considered, it was the best drilled and disciplined regiment I saw in the service. It was as steady under fire as on parade. Every movement in the tactics it could execute on the jump, and its fire was something to keep away from. The result was that, pushed everywhere to the front because of its splendid work, it lost comparatively few men. Every man was a marksman and understood how to take all possible advantage of the situation to make his work most effective and at the same time take care of himself. This regiment, whose record was one unbroken succession of splendid achievements during its whole period of service, might never have gotten on a roll of fame founded on numbers of men lost. How much more glorious is a record founded on effective work and men saved!

HARPER'S FERRY AND THE LEESBURG AND HALLTOWN EXPEDITIONS

Neither side seemed anxious to resume the fighting on the 18th, though there was picket firing and some cannonading. We remained the next day where the darkness found us after the battle, ready and momentarily expecting to resume the work. All sorts of rumors were afloat as to the results of the battle, also as to future movements. Whether we had won a great victory and were to press immediately forward to reap the fullest benefit of it, or whether it was practically a drawn battle, with the possibilities of an early retreat, we did not then know. We had no idea of what the name of the battle would be. My diary calls it the battle of "Meyer's Spring," from that magnificent fountain, on our line of battle, described in the last chapter. The Confederates named it the battle of Sharpsburg, from the village of that name on the right of their line. Two days later, after the rebels had hauled off--which they did very leisurely the next day and night--we received "Little Mac's" congratulatory order on the great victory achieved at "Antietam."

So far as our part of the battle was concerned, we knew we had the best of it. We had cleaned up everything in our front, and the "chip was still serenely resting on our shoulder." But what had been the outcome elsewhere on the line we did not know. That our army had been terrifically battered was certain. Our own losses indicated this. We were therefore both relieved and rejoiced on receiving the congratulatory order. I confess to have had some doubts about the extent of the victory, and whether, had Lee remained and shown fight, we would not have repeated the old story and "retired in good order." As it was, the tide had evidently turned, and the magnificent old Army of the Potomac, after so many drubbings, had been able to score its first decisive victory.

On the twenty-second day of September we were again on the march, our regiment reduced in numbers, from casualties in the battle and from sickness, by nearly three hundred men. Lieutenant-Colonel Wilcox was now in command. The body of our late colonel had been shipped to Scranton under guard of Privates S. P. Snyder and Charles A. Meylert, Company K, the "exigencies of the service" permitting of no larger detail nor any officer to accompany it.

We were told the army was bound for Harper's Ferry, distant some eight to ten miles. We passed through the village of Sharpsburg--what there was left of it. It had been occupied by the rebels as the extreme right of their line on the morning of the battle. It presented abundant evidence of having been well in the zone of the fight. Its buildings were riddled with shells, and confusion seemed to reign supreme. We learned that Burnside, with the left wing of the army, had a very hot argument with Lee's right during the afternoon for the possession of the stone bridge over Antietam creek at the foot of the hill entering the village; that after two repulses with heavy loss, Colonel Hartranft led his regiment, the Fifty-first Pennsylvania Volunteers and the Fifty-first New York, in a magnificent charge and carried the bridge and the heights above, and Sharpsburg was ours. If any one would like to get an idea of what terrific work that charge was they should examine that bridge and the heights on the Sharpsburg side. The latter rise almost perpendicularly more than three hundred feet. One of the "boys" who went over that bridge and up those heights in that memorable charge was Private Edward L. Buck, Fifty-first Pennsylvania Volunteers, formerly Assistant Postmaster of Scranton, and ever since the war a prominent citizen of this city. That bridge is now known as "Burnside's Bridge." Forty-one years afterwards, I passed over it, and was shown a shell still sticking in the masonry of one of the arches. It was a conical shell probably ten inches long, about half of it left protruding.

Little of special interest occurred on this march until we reached the Potomac, a short distance above Harper's Ferry. Here we were shown the little round house where John Brown concealed his guns and "pikes" prior to his famous raid three years before. This was his rendezvous on the night before his ill-starred expedition descended upon the State of Virginia and the South, in an insane effort to free the slaves. Our division was headed by the Fourteenth Connecticut, and as we approached the river opposite Harper's Ferry its fine band struck up the then new and popular air, "John Brown's Body," and the whole division took up the song, and we forded the river singing it. Slavery had destroyed the Kansas home of old John Brown, had murdered his sons, and undoubtedly driven him insane, because of his anti-slavery zeal. The great State of Virginia--the "Mother of Presidents"--had vindicated her loyalty to the "peculiar institution," and, let it be added, her own spotless chivalry, by hanging this poor, crazy fanatic for high treason! Was there poetic justice in our marching into the territory where these events transpired singing:

"John Brown's body lies a mouldering in the grave, His soul goes marching on?"

This couplet,

"We'll hang Jeff Davis to a sour apple-tree,"

was sung with peculiar zest, though I never quite understood what the poet had against the sour apple-tree.

We marched through the quaint old town of Harper's Ferry, whose principal industry had been the government arsenal for the manufacture of muskets and other army ordnance. These buildings were now a mass of ruins, and the remainder of the town presented the appearance of a plucked goose, as both armies had successively captured and occupied it. We went into camp on a high plateau back of the village known as Bolivar Heights. The scenic situation at Harper's Ferry is remarkably grand. The town is situated on the tongue or fork of land at the junction of the Potomac and Shenandoah rivers. From the point where the rivers join, the land rises rapidly until the summit of Bolivar Heights is reached, several hundred feet above the town, from which a view is had of one of the most lovely valleys to be found anywhere in the world--the Shenandoah Valley. Across the Potomac to the east and facing Harper's Ferry rises Maryland Heights, a bluff probably a thousand feet high, while across the Shenandoah to the right towers another precipitous bluff of about equal height called Loudon Heights. Both of these bluffs commanded Bolivar Heights and Harper's Ferry.

It was the sudden and unexpected appearance of Stonewall Jackson's batteries upon both of these supposed inaccessible bluffs that ten days before had forced the surrender of the garrison of ten thousand Union troops which had been posted here to hold Harper's Ferry. It was said that the rain of shot and shell from those bluffs down upon our forces was simply merciless, and Jackson had cut off all avenues of escape before opening his batteries. The cavalry, I believe, cut their way out, but the infantry, after twenty-four hours of that storm of shot and shell, were forced to hoist the white flag. How they could have lived half that time in such a hell of fire is a marvel. Everything above ground bore evidence of this fire. There were unexploded shells lying about in great numbers.

An incident that might have been anything but funny occurred the day after we encamped here. A new regiment joined the army and marched past our division to a point farther up the heights and went into camp. They were a fine-looking regiment, full in numbers, and with new, clean uniforms. Their reception at the hands of the "vets" was very like our own three weeks before. Our boys, however, were "vets" now, and joined in the "reception" with a zest quite usual under such circumstances. However, the "tenderfeet" incident had passed, and we were preparing our evening meal, when bang! bang! bang! bang! rang out a half-dozen shots in quick succession. Every man jumped as though the whole rebel army was upon us. It was soon discovered that the explosions came from the camp of the "tenderfeet." Some of those greenhorns had gathered a number of those unexploded shells, set them up on end for a fireplace, and were quietly boiling their coffee over them when they, of course, exploded. Why none of them were seriously injured was a miracle. At the moment of explosion no one happened to be very near the fire. A moment before a dozen men had been standing over it. Does Providence graciously look out for the tenderfoot? Some of them, I fear, were made to feel that they would rather be dead than take the guying they got for this evidence of their verdancy.

Camp life at Bolivar Heights soon resolved itself into the usual routine of drill and picket duty. How many corps of the army were encamped here I did not know, but we were a vast city of soldiers, and there was no end of matters to occupy attention when off duty. These included bathing expeditions to the Shenandoah, a mile and a half away; the "doing" of the quaint old town of Harper's Ferry, and rambles up Maryland and Loudon Heights, both of which were now occupied by our troops. This was our first experience in a large encampment in the field. One feature of it was exceedingly beautiful, and that was its system of "calls." The cavalry and artillery were encamped on one side of us. Each battery of artillery and battalion of cavalry had its corps of "trumpeters" or "buglers," while the infantry regiments had their drum corps, whose duty it was to sound the various "camp calls." The principal calls were "reveille," the getting up or morning roll-call, at sunrise usually; the guard mount, the drill, the meal calls, the "retreat" , and the "taps," the "turning in" or "lights out" call. The reveille, the retreat, and taps were required to be sounded by each battery, troop, and regiment in consecutive order, commencing at the extreme right. The firing of the morning gun was the signal for the first corps of cavalry buglers to begin the reveille, then in succession it was repeated first through the bugler corps and then by the drum corps back and forth through the lines until it had gone through the whole army. As a martial and musical feature it was exceedingly beautiful and inspiring. But as its purpose was to hustle out sleepy men to roll-call, it is doubtful if these features were fully appreciated; that its advent was an occasion for imprecation rather than appreciation the following story may illustrate.

A group of "vets" were discussing what they would do when they got home from the war. Several plans had been suggested--the taking into permanent camp of the soldier's sweetheart being the chief goal, of course. When Pat's turn came to tell what he was going to do, he said:

"I'll be takin' me girl and settling down wid her housekeepin' and thin i'll be hirin' of a dhrum corps to come an' play the ravalye iviry mornin' under me chamber windi."

"What will you do that for? Haven't you had enough of the reveille here?"

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