HOW SMITH TRAVELED A-FOOT—AND MORE.
WHEN morning came, I tried for an hour to get a conveyance to
Sharpsburg, near Antietam Creek, twelve miles distant; but in vain. Not
a horse or carriage of any kind was to be had for love or money; and I
made up my mind to walk it, although I had never yet walked any such
distance on one leg. When a man makes up his mind to do a thing,
however, he will do it, if he has firmness, no matter whether he has any
limbs or not.
At eight o’clock, I went to the office of the provost-marshal to get a
pass over the bridge—for it will be recollected that the village of
Harper’s Ferry is on the Virginia side—but he had not come in yet.
Wishing to start as soon as possible, I thought I would try to face my
way over. So, I went to the bridge, bade the sentinel a cheerful
good-morning, and was moving on, when he said:
“Have you a pass?”
“No,” I replied, stopping. “I am not in the service. Is a pass
necessary?”
“No,” said he, after a slight pause. “Your crutch is pass enough. I
suppose you got that in the Army?”
“Yes,” I replied, “at Antietam. I am going up there to-day to see the
old ground.”
“How are you going?”
“I’m going to walk.”
“Walk! Why, can you do it?”
“I think I can, although I have never yet walked so far on a crutch.”
“You’ll have a good walk of it. It is fully twelve miles.”
“Yes, so I have been told; but I could get no conveyance, and must try
it.”
“I hope you’ll get along well.”
“Thank you.”
I passed on. When I reached the middle of the bridge, I could not
refrain from stopping to admire the scenery, which had never before
appeared so grand to me. Harper’s Ferry presents a romantic picture
indeed. All around are tall majestic wood covered hills that gaze down
upon the village and bridge with quiet and awful dignity; and the
beautiful river, wandering silently about among them, looks as if it
would never find its way out. It was the twenty-fifth of March, the
morning was pleasant, the sun was smiling on the heights and glancing
down on the little village and the pure river. I thought I had never
before seen such a beautiful sight.
I passed over the bridge, turned to my left and walked up the tow-path
of the canal. The first two or three miles I got over in an hour or so,
very smoothly; but after that I felt weary at times, and found it an
advantage to rest every mile or two.
By a quarter to twelve o’clock I had reached the mouth of Antietam
Creek, ten miles from Harper’s Ferry, and had now to leave the river and
strike over the hills for Sharpsburg, two miles distant. Nothing had
happened to me during my walk, save that a stray bullet from beyond the
river had now and then whistled about my ears. They were no doubt fired
at random by some of our pickets there who did not see me.
I had now to cross the canal, in order to direct my course toward
Sharpsburg. This was no easy matter. There was no bridge or lock near,
and no ordinary jumper could clear it at a bound. I did fancy that I
might make it in two jumps, but did not try. It was not full of water,
and, seeing no plan but to wade through it, I removed my shoe, and other
apparel liable to get saturated in the course of such an enterprise, and
stalked in. I did not find it deeper than twenty inches, but its
temperature felt very little above thirty-two degrees, Fahrenheit, and
it made my foot and the calf of my leg ache clear through by the time I
got across.
Having passed this obstruction and replaced my shoe, etc., I went to a
house not far off, where I inquired the way to Sharpsburg, and was
directed to follow a country road that took its way over the hill; and
did so. I reached Sharpsburg by one o’clock having walked a little more
than twelve miles in five hours. There was an hotel there and having
taken dinner, I started for Smoketown, three miles distant, where I had
lain in the hospital. I visited the village—a village consisting of two
dwelling-houses and a corn-crib—then returned to the battle-field and
spent an hour or two traveling about in search of the spot on which I
had received my wound.
I failed to find the interesting place, although I had felt confident of
being able to walk directly to it in a straight line. It is remarkable
what a change takes place in a year or two in the appearance of the
ground on which a battle has been fought. Thirty months had now elapsed
since the battle of Antietam, and a casual observer would not have
noticed any trace of the conflict.
I saw a Mr. Miller plowing in a field opposite the little Tunker Church
by the pike—a building that had been nearly knocked to pieces in the
fight, but had since been repaired—and he showed me a full set of
“bones” lying in a fence-corner, which he had just “plowed up.” He said
they had been scarcely under the surface of the earth; but that he would
bury them deeper. This was the famous cornfield in which the struggle
between Hooker’s and Longstreet’s corps was so terrible, and where so
many of the Pennsylvania Reserves were killed. I found in this field
several bullets, a fragment of shell, and a few canteens, straps, etc.,
lying about.
As evening approached and I had walked from eighteen to twenty miles
since morning, I started for Keedysville, several miles distant, with
the intention of staying there all night.
After the amputation of my leg at Antietam, as mentioned in the first
chapter, I had lain in a barn near the creek, a week or two; and this
evening, after crossing the creek and walking a little way toward
Keedysville, I recognized this same barn, although I had never known its
precise location: and O, what recollections of misery it brought back to
me! My sufferings in that barn were so terrible, so far exceeding any
thing that might merely be termed pain, that, as I look back now, the
time spent there seems more like a horrible dream than a reality!
The sun was sinking as I stood in the road gazing thoughtfully at the
barn; and I thought of the evenings I had lain within, almost dead, and
seen the sun’s last red rays struggling into that somber apartment of
misery, through the crevices. While I thus stood, a lady, who had come
out of an adjacent house, approached me. Her footsteps as she drew near
aroused me from my train of thought.
“Good evening, ma’am,” said I.
“How do you do? Will you walk into the house?” was the response.
“No, I thank you,” I rejoined. “I am on my way to Keedysville, and was
just looking at this barn, which I recognize as one in which I lay for
some days after the battle here.”
“Ah,” said she; “were you one of the wounded ones who occupied the
barn?”
“Yes, ma’am. Who is the owner?”
“Mr. Pry—my husband.”
“I have been on the battle-ground,” I observed, “trying to find the
place I was when wounded.”
“And did you find it?”
“I am sorry to say that I failed,” said I.
“A pity. Where did you come from to-day?”
“Harper’s Ferry.”
“How did you get up?”
“Walked.”
“Walked! You surely did not walk it on one leg?”
“Yes, ma’am, and this crutch and cane. I reached Sharpsburg by
dinner-time, and have spent the afternoon in rambling over the
battle-field and visiting Smoketown.”
“You surprise me. I did not suppose a person on crutches could do all
that.”
“Nor did I till I tried it.”
“Well, you must go no further to-night. You were our guest before, and
must be again, now that we are better prepared to accommodate you.”
“Why, really, I——”
“You musn’t think of going any further. Why, you’ve walked twenty miles
to-day—and on a crutch! No, indeed, you must not pass my house. Come in.
Mr. Pry is just coming in to supper. Come, no excuses.”
I did not further decline the proffered hospitality of this excellent
lady. I was ushered into the house, and was made no less welcome by Mr.
Pry, his sons and a beautiful and amiable daughter.
An excellent supper, a pleasant evening chat, a tidy bed, a comfortable
chamber, and, O, such a delicious, dreamless slumber, after my day’s
exertion, made me forget all my weariness; and I awoke next morning—the
beautiful Sunday morning of March twenty-sixth—with all the vigor of
youth. Never let me forget the Pry family for their cordial welcome and
hospitable entertainment!