----Our doubts are traitors. And make us lose the good we oft
might win, By fearing to attempt.--MEASURE FOR MEASURE.
In a lull of the musketry, during the battle of Antietam, McClellan
rode forward toward the front. On the way, he met a Massachusetts
general, who was his old friend and class-mate.
"Gordon," he asked, "how are your men?"
"They have behaved admirably," replied Gordon; "but they are now
somewhat scattered."
"Collect them at once. We must fight to-night and fight to-morrow. This
is our golden opportunity. If we cannot whip the Rebels here, we may
just as well all die on the field."
[Sidenote: THE DAY AFTER THE BATTLE.]
That was the spirit of the whole army. It was universally expected that
McClellan would renew the attack at daylight the next morning; but,
though he had many thousand fresh men, and defeat could only be repulse
to him, while to the enemy, with the river in his rear, it would be
ruin, his constitutional timidity prevented. It was the costliest of
mistakes.
Thursday proved a day of rest--such rest as can be found with three
miles of dead men to bury, and thousands of wounded to bring from the
field. It was a day of standing on the line where the battle closed--of
intermittent sharp-shooting and discharges of artillery, but no general
skirmishing, or attempt to advance on either side.
Riding out to the front of General Couch's line, I found the Rebels and
our own soldiers mingling freely on the disputed ground, bearing away
the wounded. I was scanning a Rebel battery with my field-glass, at the
distance of a quarter of a mile, when one of our pickets exclaimed:
"Put up your glass, sir! The Johnnies will shoot in a minute, if they
see you using it."
In front of Hancock's lines, a flag of truce was raised. Hancock--erect
and soldierly, with smooth face, light eyes, and brown hair, the
finest-looking general in our service--accompanied by Meagher, rode
forward into a corn-field, and met the young fire-eating brigadier of
the Rebels, Roger A. Pryor. Pryor insisted that he had seen a white
flag on our front, and asked if we desired permission to remove our
dead and wounded. Hancock indignantly denied that we had asked for a
truce, as we claimed the ground, stating that, through the whole day,
we had been removing and ministering to both Union and Rebel wounded.
He suggested a cessation of sharp-shooting until this work could be
completed. Pryor declined this, and in ten minutes the firing reopened.
"A great victory," said Wellington, "is the most awful thing in the
world, except a great defeat." Antietam, though not an entire victory,
had all its terrific features. Our casualties footed up to twelve
thousand three hundred and fifty-two, of whom about two thousand were
killed on the field.
[Sidenote: DOWN AMONG THE DEAD MEN.]
Between the fences of a road immediately beyond the corn-field,
in a space one hundred yards long, I counted more than two hundred
Rebel dead, lying where they fell. Elsewhere, over many acres, they
were strewn singly, in groups, and occasionally in masses, piled up
almost like cord-wood. They were lying--some with the human form
undistinguishable, others with no outward indication of wounds--in
all the strange positions of violent death. All had blackened faces.
There were forms with every rigid muscle strained in fierce agony, and
those with hands folded peacefully upon the bosom; some still clutching
their guns, others with arm upraised, and one with a single open finger
pointing to heaven. Several remained hanging over a fence which they
were climbing when the fatal shot struck them.
It was several days before all the wounded were removed from the field.
Many were shockingly mutilated; but the most revolting spectacle I saw
was that of a soldier, with three fingers cut off by a bullet, leaving
ragged, bloody shreds of flesh.
[Sidenote: LEE PERMITTED TO ESCAPE.]
On Thursday night the sun went down with the opposing forces face to
face, and their pickets within stone's throw of each other. On Friday
morning the Rebel army was in Virginia, the National army in Maryland.
Between dark and daylight, Lee evacuated the position, and carried his
whole army across the river. He had no empty breastworks with which to
endow us; but he left a field plowed with shot, watered with blood,
and sown thick with dead. We found the _débris_ of his late camps, two
disabled pieces of artillery, a few hundred of his stragglers, two
thousand of his wounded, and as many more of his unburied dead; but not
a single field-piece or caisson, ambulance or wagon, not a tent, a box
of stores, or a pound of ammunition. He carried with him the supplies
gathered in Maryland and the rich spoils of Harper's Ferry.
It was a very bitter disappointment to the army and the country.
[Sidenote: THE JOHN BROWN ENGINE-HOUSE.]
BOLIVAR HIGHTS, MD., _September 25, 1862_.
Adieu to western Maryland, with the stanch loyalty of its suffering
people! Adieu to Sharpsburg, which, cut to pieces by our own shot and
shell as no other village in America ever was, gave us the warm welcome
that comes from the heart! Adieu to the drenched field of Antietam,
with its glorious Wednesday, writing for our army a record than which
nothing brighter shines through history; with its fatal Thursday,
permitting the clean, leisurely escape of the foe down into the valley,
across the difficult ford, and up the Virginia Hights! Our army might
have been driven back; it could never have been captured or cut to
pieces. Failure was only repulse; success was crowning, decisive, final
victory. The enemy saw this, and walked undisturbed out of the snare.
Three days ago, our army moved down the left bank of the Potomac,
climbing the narrow, tortuous road that winds around the foot of
the mountains; under Maryland Hights; across the long, crooked ford
above the blackened timbers of the railroad bridge; then up among the
long, bare, deserted walls of the ruined Government Armory, past the
engine-house which Old John Brown made historic; up through the dingy,
antique, oriental looking town of Harper's Ferry, sadly worn, almost
washed away by the ebb and flow of war; up through the village of
Bolivar to these Hights, where we pitched our tents.
Behind and below us rushed the gleaming river, till its dark, shining
surface was broken by rocks. Across it came a line of our stragglers,
wading to the knees with staggering steps. Beyond it, the broad
forest-clad Maryland Hights rose gloomy and somber. Down behind me, to
the river, winding across it like a slender S, then extending for half
a mile on the other side, far up along the Maryland hill, stretched a
division-train of snowy wagons, standing out in strong relief from the
dark background of water and mountain.
Two weeks ago shots exchanged between the army of Slavery and the army
of Freedom shrieked and screamed over the engine-house, where, for two
days, Old John Brown held the State of Virginia at bay. A week ago its
walls were again shaken by the thunders of cannonade, when the armies
met in fruitless battle. Last night, within rifle-shot of it, the
President's Proclamation of Emancipation was heard gladly among thirty
thousand soldiers.
[Sidenote: PRESIDENT LINCOLN REVIEWS THE ARMY.]
_October 2._
President Lincoln arrived here yesterday, and reviewed the troops,
accompanied by McClellan, Sumner, Hancock, Meagher, and other generals.
He appeared in black, wearing a silk hat; and his tall, slender form,
and plain clothing, contrasted strangely with the broad shoulders and
the blue and gold of the major-general commanding.
He is unusually thin and silent, and looks weary and careworn. He
regarded the old engine-house with great interest. It reminded him, he
said, of the Illinois custom of naming locomotives after fleet animals,
such as the "Reindeer," the "Antelope," the "Flying Dutchman," etc. At
the time of the John Brown raid, a new locomotive was named the "Scared
Virginians."
The troops everywhere cheered him with warm enthusiasm.
_October 13._
The cavalry raid of the Rebel General Stuart, around our entire
army, into Maryland and Pennsylvania, and back again, crossing the
Potomac without serious loss, is the one theme of conversation. It was
audacious and brilliant. On his return, Stuart passed within five miles
of McClellan's head-quarters, which were separated from the rest of the
troops by half a mile, and guarded only by a New York regiment. Some of
the staff officers are very indignant when they are told that Stuart
knew the interest of the Rebels too well to capture our commander.
CHARLESTOWN, VIRGINIA, _October 16_.
A reconnoissance to the front, commanded by General Hancock. The column
moved briskly over the broad turnpike, through ample fields rich with
shocks of corn, past stately farm-houses, with deep shade-trees and
orchards, by gray barns, surrounded by hay and grain stacks--beyond our
lines, over the debatable ground, past the Rebel picket-stations, in
sight of Charlestown, and yet no enemy appeared.
[Sidenote: DODGING REBEL CANNON-BALLS.]
We began to think Confederates a myth. But suddenly a gun belched forth
in front of us; another, and yet another, and rifled shot came singing
by, cutting through the tree-branches with sharp, incisive music.
Two of our batteries instantly unlimbered, and replied. Our column
filled the road. Nearly all the Rebel missiles struck in an
apple-orchard within twenty yards of the turnpike; but our men would
persist in climbing the trees and gathering the fruit, in spite of the
shrieking shells.
I have not yet learned to avoid bowing my head instinctively as a shot
screams by; but some old stagers sit perfectly erect, and laughingly
remind me of Napoleon's remark to a young officer: "My friend, if that
shell were really your fate, it would hit you and kill you if you were
a hundred feet underground."
We could plainly see the Rebel cavalry. Far in advance of all others,
was a rider on a milk-white horse, which made him a conspicuous mark.
The sharpshooters tried in vain to pick him off, while he sat viewing
the artillery drill as complacently as if enjoying a pantomime. Some of
our officers declare that they have seen that identical steed and rider
on the Rebel front in every fight from Yorktown to Antietam.
After an artillery fire of an hour, in which we lost eight or ten men,
the Rebels evacuated Charlestown, and we entered.
[Sidenote: "HIS SOUL IS MARCHING ON."]
The troops take a very keen interest in every thing connected with
the historic old man, who, two years ago, yielded up his life in a
field which is near our camp. They visit it by hundreds, and pour into
the court-house, now open and deserted, where he was tried, and made
that wonderful speech which will never die. They scan closely the
jail, where he wrote and spoke so many electric words. As our column
passed it, one countenance only was visible within--that of a negro,
looking through a grated window. How his dusky face lit up behind its
prison-bars at the sight of our column, and the words--
"His soul is marching on!"
sung by a Pennsylvania regiment!
[Sidenote: AN EMINENTLY "INTELLIGENT CONTRABAND."]
Our pickets descried a solitary horseman, with a basket on his arm,
jogging soberly toward them. He proved a dark mulatto of about
thirty-five, and halted at their order.
"Where are you from?"
"Southern army, Cap'n."
"Where are you going?"
"Goin' to you'se all."
"What do you want?"
"Protection, boss. You won't send me back, will you?"
"No, come in. Whose servant are you?"
"Cap'n Rhett's, of South Caroliny. You'se heard of Mr. Barnwell Rhett,
Editor of _The Charleston Mercury_; Cap'n is his brother, and commands
a battery."
"How did you get away?"
"Cap'n gave me fifteen dollars this morning. He said: 'John, go out and
forage for butter and eggs.' So you see, boss" (with a broad grin),
"I'se out foraging. I pulled my hat over my eyes, and jogged along on
the cap'n's horse, with this basket on my arm, right by our pickets.
They never challenged me once. If they had I should have shown them
this."
And he produced from his pocket an order in pencil from Captain Rhett
to pass his servant John, on horseback, in search of butter and eggs.
"Why did you expect protection?"
"Heard so in Maryland, before the Proclamation."
"What do you know about the Proclamation?"
"Read it, sir, in a Richmond paper."
"What is it?"
"That every slave is to be emancipated after the first day of next
January. Isn't that it, boss?"
"Something like it. How did you learn to read?"
"A New York lady stopping at the hotel taught me."
"Did you ever hear of Old John Brown?"
"Hear of him! Lord bless you, yes; I've his life now in my trunk in
Charleston. I've read it to heaps of colored folks. They think John
Brown was almost a god. Just say you are a friend of his, and any slave
will kiss your feet, if you will let him. They think, if he was only
alive now, he would be king. How he did frighten the white folks! It
was Sunday morning. I was waiter at the Mills House, in Charleston.
A lady from Massachusetts breakfasted at my table. 'John,' she says,
'I want to see a negro church. Where is the best one?' 'Not any open
to-day, Missus,' I told her. 'Why not?' 'Because a Mr. John Brown has
raised an insurrection in Virginny, and they don't let the negroes go
into the street to-day.' 'Well,' she says, 'they had better look out,
or they will get their white churches shut up, too, one of these days.'"
[Sidenote: "THE LORD BLESS YOU, GENERAL!"]
This truly intelligent contraband, being taken to McClellan, replied
very modestly and intelligently to questions about the numbers and
organization of the Rebel army. At the close of the interview, he asked
anxiously:
"General, you won't send me back, will you?"
"Yes," replied McClellan, with a smile, "I believe I will."
"I hope you won't, General" (with great earnestness). "I come to you'se
all for protection, and I hope you won't."
"Well, then, John, you are at liberty to stay with the army, if you
like, or to go where you please. No one can ever make you a slave
again."
"May the Lord bless you, General! I thought you wouldn't drive me out.
You'se the best friend I ever had. I shall never forget you till I die."
BOLIVAR HIGHTS, _October 25_.
"The view from the mountains at Harper's Ferry," said Thomas Jefferson,
"is worth a journey across the Atlantic."
[Sidenote: CURIOSITIES OF THE SIGNAL-CORPS.]
Let us approach it at the lower price of climbing Maryland Hights. The
air is soft and wooing to-day. It is the time--
----"just ere the frost
Prepares to pave old Winter's way,
When Autumn, in a reverie lost,
The mellow daylight dreams away;
When Summer comes in musing mind
To gaze once more on hill and dell,
To mark how many sheaves they bind,
And see if all are ripened well."
Half way up the mountain, you rest your panting horse at a battery,
among bottle-shaped Dahlgrens, sure at thirty-five hundred yards, and
capable at their utmost elevation of a range of three miles and a half;
black, solemn Parrotts, with iron-banded breech, and shining howitzers
of brass. Far up, accessible only to footmen, is a long breast-work,
where two of our companies repulsed a Rebel regiment. How high the tide
of war must run, when its waves wash this mountain-top! Here, on the
extreme summit, is an open tent of the Signal-Corps. It is labeled:
"DON'T TOUCH THE INSTRUMENTS. ASK NO QUESTIONS."
Inside, two operators are gazing at the distant hights, through fixed
telescopes, calling out, "45," "169," "81," etc., which the clerk
records. Each number represents a letter, syllable, or abbreviated word.
Looking through the long glass toward one of the seven signal-stations,
from four to twenty miles away, communicating with this, you see a
flag, with some large black figure upon a white foreground. It rises;
so many waves to the right; so many to the left. Then a different flag
takes its place, and rises and falls in turn.
By these combinations, from one to three words per minute are
telegraphed. The operator slowly reads the distant signal to you:
"Two--hundred--Rebel--cavalry--riding--out--of--Charlestown--this--
way--field-piece--on--road," and it occupies five minutes. Five miles
is an easy distance to communicate, but messages can be sent twenty
miles. The Signal-Corps keep on the front; their services are of great
value. Several of the members have been wounded and some killed.
[Sidenote: BEAUTIFUL VIEW FROM MARYLAND HIGHTS.]
You are on the highest point of the Blue Ridge, four thousand feet
above the sea, one thousand above the Potomac.
Along the path by which you came, climbs a pony; on the pony's back a
negro; on the negro's head a bucket of water; then a mule, bearing a
coffee-sack, containing at each end a keg of water. Thus all provisions
are brought up. Here, in the early morning, you could only look out
upon a cold, shoreless sea of white fog. Now, you look down upon all
the country within a radius of twenty miles, as you would gaze into
your garden from your own house-top.
You see the Potomac winding far away in a thread of silver, broken
by shrubs, rocks, and islands. At your feet lies Pleasant Valley, a
great furrow--two miles across, from edge to edge--plowed through the
mountains. It is full of camps, white villages of tents, and black
groups of guns. You see cozy dwellings, with great, well-filled barns,
red brick mills, straw-colored fields dotted with shocks of corn and
reaching far up into the dark, hill-side woods, green sward-fields,
mottled with orchards, and a little shining stream. A dim haze rests
upon the mountain-guarded picture, and the soft wind seems to sing with
Whittier:
"Yet calm and patient Nature keeps
Her ancient promise well,
Though o'er her bloom and greenness sweeps
The battle's breath of hell.
"And still she walks in golden hours
Through harvest-happy farms,
And still she wears her fruits and flowers,
Like jewels on her arms.
"Still in the cannon's pause we hear
Her sweet thanksgiving psalm;
Too near to God for doubt or fear,
She shares the eternal calm.
"She sees with clearer eye than ours
The good of suffering born,--
The hearts that blossom like her flowers,
And ripen like her corn."
See the regiments on dress parade; long lines of dark blue, with
bayonets that flash brightly in the waning sunlight. When dismissed,
each breaks into companies, which move toward their quarters like
monster antediluvian reptiles, with myriads of blue legs.
[Sidenote: BURNSIDE AT HIS TENT.]
On that distant hill-side, just at the forest's edge, in the midst of a
group of tents, are Burnside's head-quarters. Through your field-glass,
you see standing in front of them the military man whose ambition has
a limit. He has twice refused to accept the chief command of the army.
There stands Burnside, the favorite of the troops, in blue shirt, knit
jacket, and riding-boots, with frank, manly face, and full, laughing
eyes.
Under your feet are Bolivar Hights, crowned with the tents of Couch's
Corps--dingy by reason of long service, like a Spring snow-drift
through which the dirt begins to sift. You see the quaint old
village of Harper's Ferry, and glimpses of the Potomac--gold in the
sunset--with trees and rocks mirrored in its mellow face.
The sun goes down, and the glory of the western hills fades as you
slowly descend; but the picture you have seen is one which memory
paints in fast colors.