INTO MARYLAND AGAIN--BATTLE OF SHARPSBURG--WOUNDED--RETURN TO
WINCHESTER--HOME
Half a mile below the town we forded the Potomac for the third time, and
by the middle of the afternoon were on the outskirts of Sharpsburg, four
miles from the river. On the opposite, or east, side of this village are
Antietam creek and valley; a mile from the creek and parallel to it was
a heavily wooded mountain. It is not my design to attempt a description
of the battle which was fought on this ground on the following day,
generally conceded to have been the fiercest of the war, but only to
mention what came under my observation or was especially associated
therewith.
The unusual activity and aggressiveness on the part of General
McClellan, as evidenced by the fierce attacks made on our forces in the
South Mountain passes for the two preceding days, were explained by his
being in possession of General Lee's order to his subordinates. This
order, or a copy of it, which contained directions for the movements of
the various portions of the Confederate army, including the investment
of Harper's Ferry, had been lost or disposed of by some one in
Frederick City, and when this place was occupied, on September 13, by
the Federals, was delivered to General McClellan. Thus acquainted with
the location and movements of each division of the Confederate army,
which was scattered over a wide territory and separated by a river and
rugged mountains, it seems surprising that with his army of 90,000 men
he should not have practically destroyed General Lee's army of 40,000.
General Lee, however, was informed early on the morning of the
fourteenth that a copy of his order had fallen into the hands of General
McClellan.
This was done by a citizen of Frederick City who happened to be present
when General McClellan received it and heard him express satisfaction
over such a stroke of luck. This citizen at once went to work to inform
General Lee, which task he accomplished by passing through the Federal
lines during the night and informing General Stuart, who forthwith
communicated it to General Lee, who lost no time in moving heaven and
earth--the former by prayer, we assume; the latter by his authority over
men--to meet the emergency. Results proved how wonderfully he succeeded.
As we moved past the town we saw neither any of our troops nor those of
the enemy, and heard no firing. Although there was complete absence of
the usual prelude to battle, still the apprehension came over us that
something serious in that line was not very remote, either in time or
place. The commanders of both armies were conscious of the importance
of the impending contest, which perhaps explains the extreme caution
they exercised.
After passing through a piece of woodland, we entered a small field and
came in distinct view of two blue lines of battle, drawn up one in rear
of the other. On these we at once opened fire, and were answered very
promptly by a Federal battery in the same quarter. While thus engaged we
had a visitor in the person of a young fellow who had just been
commissioned a lieutenant, having previously been an orderly at brigade
headquarters. Feeling his newly acquired importance, he spurred his
horse around among the guns, calling out, "Let 'em have it!" and the
like, until, seeing our disgust at his impertinent encouragement, and
that we preferred a chance to let him have it, he departed. Our next
visitor came in a different guise, and by a hint of another kind was
quickly disposed of. He, a man of unusually large size, with sword
dangling at his side, came bounding from our right at a full run. A
large log a few steps in our rear was his goal as a place of safety, and
over it he leaped and was instantly concealed behind it. He had scant
time to adjust himself before the log was struck a crashing blow by a
solid shot. He reappeared as part of the upheaval; but, regaining his
feet, broke for the woods with the speed of a quarterhorse, and a
greater confidence in distance than in logs.
It was now dark, and our range had been accurately gotten. After each
discharge of our opponent's guns, what appeared to be a harmless spark
of fire, immovable as a star, repeatedly deceived us. It was the burning
fuse in the head of the shell which, coming straight toward us, seemed
stationary until the shell shot by or burst. Four young mules drawing
our battery-forge were stampeded by these shells and ran off through the
woods, thus affording Pleasants, our blacksmith, entertainment for the
rest of the night.
Firing ceased on both sides at about eight o'clock, and we passed
through the woods to our left and went into park on the opposite side.
Still feeling the comfort of my clean clothes, I enjoyed a quiet night's
rest on the top of a caisson, little heeding the gentle rain which fell
on my face. Our bivouac was immediately by the "Straw-stacks," which
have been so generally referred to as landmarks in this battle, and
which were located in the open ground near the forest which extended to
the Dunkard church. About seven o'clock next morning, while standing
with horses hitched and awaiting orders, no engagement so far having
taken place near us, a shell of great size burst with a terrific report.
One fragment of it mortally wounded Sam Moore, a driver of my gun, while
another piece cut off the forefoot of one of the horses in the team. We
soon transferred his harness to another horse which we hitched in his
stead and, as we went off at a trot, the crippled horse took his place
close by where he was accustomed to work, and kept alongside on three
legs until his suffering was relieved by a bullet in the brain.
We had moved, to get out of range of missiles, but the place to which we
had just come was not an improvement. While standing with the gun in
front turned in file at right angles to those following, a twenty-pound
shell swept by the six drivers and their teams in the rear, just grazing
them, then striking the ground, ricocheted almost between the forward
driver and his saddle as he threw himself forward on the horse's neck. I
mention this in contrast with an occurrence later in the day, when one
shell killed or wounded all of the six horses in a team, together with
their three drivers.
Fighting along the line of four miles had become general--done on our
side chiefly by infantry. Jackson's corps occupied the left with a thin
line of men, and from it there was already a stream of stragglers.
Jackson, while sitting nearby on his horse, watching the battle, was
approached by a lad of about thirteen years, who for some time had been
one of his orderlies. He began talking in a very animated manner,
pointing the while to different parts of the field. Jackson kept his
eyes on the ground, but gave close attention to what was said. The boy
was Charles Randolph, and soon after this became a cadet at the Virginia
Military Institute, and at the battle of New Market was left on the
field for dead. Fourteen years after the war, while visiting in a
neighboring county, I was introduced to a Reverend Mr. Randolph, and,
seeing the resemblance to the soldier-boy, I asked him about Sharpsburg,
recalling the incident, and found he was the lad.
The straggling already mentioned continually increased, and seemed to
give General Jackson great concern. He endeavored, with the aid of his
staff officers who were present and the members of our company, to stop
the men and turn them back, but without the least effect; claiming, as
they did, the want of ammunition and the usual excuses. The marvel was,
how those remaining in line could have withstood the tremendous odds
against them; but, from accounts, the enemy suffered the same
experience, and in a greater degree. Up to this time, with the exception
of a return of our battery to the Dunkard church, where we had fought
the evening before, we had done nothing. At about ten o'clock the
indications were that if reinforcements could not be promptly had
serious consequences would follow. But just after our return from the
church to General Jackson's place of observation we saw a long column of
troops approaching from the left. This was McLaw's division of
Longstreet's corps, which had just reached the field. Their coming was
most opportune, and but a short time elapsed before the comparative
quiet was interrupted--first by volleys, followed by a continuous roar
of battle.
Our battery was now ordered to the left of our line, and on the way
thither joined Raines's battery, of Lynchburg, and a battery of
Louisianians--eleven guns in all. Besides the ordinary number of guns
accompanying infantry, we had to contend with about thirty 32-pounders
on the high ground in the rear and entirely commanding that part of the
field. In view of the superior odds against us, our orders were to hold
our positions as long as possible, then to move to our left and occupy
new ones. Why such instructions were given was soon explained, as the
ground over which we passed, and where we stopped to fire, was strewn
with the dead horses and the wrecks of guns and caissons of the
batteries which had preceded us. By the practice thus afforded, the
Federal batteries had gotten a perfect range, and by the time our guns
were unlimbered we were enveloped in the smoke and dust of bursting
shells, and the air was alive with flying iron. At most of the positions
we occupied on this move it was the exception when splinters and pieces
of broken rails were not flying from the fences which stood in our
front, hurled by shot and shell.
Working in the lead of one of the Louisiana battery teams was a horse
that frequently attracted my admiration. A rich blood-bay in color, with
flowing black mane and tail, as he swept around in the various changes
with wide, glowing nostrils and flecked with foam, in my eyes he came
well up to the description of the warhorse whose "neck was clothed with
thunder."
Moving as we had been doing, toward the left of our line, we passed
beyond that portion held by regular infantry commands into what was
defended by a mere show of force when scarcely any existed. In charge of
it was Gen. J. E. B. Stuart, who demonstrated on this occasion his
ability to accomplish what it would seem impossible for one man to do.
With a few skeleton regiments supplied with numerous flags which he
posted to show over the crests of the ridges in our rear, as if there
were men in proportion, he himself took command of a line of
sharpshooters in our front. This skirmish-line was composed of
stragglers he had gathered up, and whom he had transformed from a lot of
shirkers into a band of heroes. With black plume floating, cheering and
singing, back and forth along the line he swept.
The Federals confronting us in the three blue lines could not have been
less than 8,000 men, who, with their powerful artillery, should have
utterly overwhelmed the scant numbers handled by Stuart. As the blue
lines would start forward, calling to our artillery to pour in the
shells again, he would urge on his sharpshooters to meet them half-way.
The failure of a strong force of Federals to advance farther is
explained, no doubt, by the fact that two of their army corps and one
division had suffered terribly a short time before near the same ground.
Colonel Allan states, in his "Army of Northern Virginia, 1862," page
409, "Of Hooker's and Mansfield's corps, and of Sedgwick's division, was
nothing left available for further operations"; and General Palfrey, the
Northern historian, says, "In less time than it takes to tell it, the
ground was strewn with the bodies of the dead and wounded, while the
unwounded were moving off rapidly to the north." (Palfrey, "Antietam and
Fredericksburg," page 87.)
While engaged in one of these artillery duels a thirty-two pound shot
tore by the gun and struck close by Henry Rader, a driver, who was lying
on the ground, holding the lead-horses at the limber. The shell tore a
trench alongside of him and hoisted him horizontally from the ground. As
he staggered off, dazed by the shock, the horses swung around to run,
when young R. E. Lee, Jr., with bare arms and face begrimed with powder,
made a dash from the gun, seized the bridle of each of the leaders at
the mouth, and brought them back into position before the dust had
cleared away.
In the constant changes from knoll to knoll, in accordance with orders
to "move when the fire became too hot," some of the batteries with us
withdrew, perhaps prematurely. In this way the Rockbridge guns were left
to receive the whole of the enemy's fire. In just such a situation as
this, it not being to our liking, I asked Lieutenant Graham if we should
pull out when the others did. Before he could answer the question a
shell burst at our gun, from which an iron ball an inch in diameter
struck me on the right thigh-joint, tearing and carrying the clothes in
to the bone. I fell, paralyzed with excruciating pain. Graham rode off,
thinking I was killed, as he afterward told me. The pain soon subsided,
and I was at first content to lie still; but, seeing the grass and earth
around constantly torn up, and sometimes thrown on me, I made fruitless
efforts to move. The strict orders against assisting the wounded
prevented my being carried off until the firing had ceased, when I was
taken back about fifty yards and my wound examined by two surgeons from
the skeleton regiments, who treated me with the utmost kindness,
thinking, perhaps, from my clean white shirt, that I was an officer. An
hour later my gun came by, and I was put on a caisson and hauled around
for an hour or two more.
It was about this time that what was left of the battery was seen by
General Lee, and the interview between him and his son took place. To
give an idea of the condition of the battery, I quote from
"Recollections and Letters of General Lee," by R. E. Lee, Jr., page 77:
"As one of the Army of Northern Virginia I occasionally saw the
Commander-in-Chief, or passed the headquarters close enough to recognize
him and members of his staff; but a private soldier in Jackson's corps
did not have much time during that campaign for visiting, and until the
battle of Sharpsburg I had no opportunity of speaking to him. On that
occasion our battery had been severely handled, losing many men and
horses. Having three guns disabled, we were ordered to withdraw and,
while moving back, we passed General Lee and several of his staff
grouped on a little knoll near the road. Having no definite orders where
to go, our captain, seeing the commanding General, halted us and rode
over to get some instructions. Some others and myself went along to see
and hear. General Lee was dismounted with some of his staff around him,
a courier holding his horse. Captain Poague, commanding our battery, the
Rockbridge Artillery, saluted, reported our condition, and asked for
instructions. The General listened patiently, looked at us, his eyes
passing over me without any sign of recognition, and then ordered
Captain Poague to take the most serviceable horses and men, man the
uninjured gun, send the disabled part of his command back to refit, and
report to the front for duty. As Poague turned to go, I went up to speak
to my father. When he found out who I was he congratulated me on being
well and unhurt. I then said, 'General, are you going to send us in
again?' 'Yes, my son,' he replied, with a smile, 'you all must do what
you can to help drive these people back.' In a letter to Mrs. Lee,
General Lee says, 'I have not laid eyes on Rob since I saw him in the
battle of Sharpsburg, going in with a single gun of his, for the second
time, after his company had been withdrawn in consequence of three of
its guns having been disabled....'"
Held by a companion on the caisson, as it was driven toward our right,
jolting over the partly torn-down fences and exposed to far-reaching
missiles, I had an opportunity of seeing other portions of the
battlefield. We stopped for a time on the ridge overlooking the village
almost enveloped in the flames of burning buildings, while flocks of
terrified pigeons, driven hither and thither by the screaming and
bursting shells, flew round and round in the clouds of smoke. In
hearing, from beyond and to the left of the village, was the fighting at
"Bloody Lane," a sunken road which was almost filled with the dead of
both sides when the day closed. As was also that at "Burnside Bridge," a
mile southeast of the town, for the possession of which Burnside's corps
and Toombs's Georgians contended till late in the afternoon. I was not
averse to leaving this scene when the disabled caisson proceeded, and
reached the pike.
A mile farther on I was deposited on the roadside, near the brigade
field-hospital; and, completely exhausted, was carried into the yard of
a neat brick cottage by two stalwart Alleghany Roughs and laid beside
their captain, John Carpenter. The place, inside and out, was filled
with wounded men. Carpenter insisted on my taking the last of his
two-ounce vial of whiskey, which wonderfully revived me. Upon inquiry,
he told me he had been shot through the knee by a piece of shell and
that the surgeons wanted to amputate his leg, but, calling my attention
to a pistol at his side, said, "You see that? It will not be taken off
while I can pull a trigger." He entirely recovered, and led his battery
into the next battle, where he was again severely wounded. That the
history of the four Carpenter brothers of Alleghany County, Virginia,
has not been recorded is a misfortune. As already mentioned, Joe, the
oldest, and captain of the Alleghany Rough Battery, was mortally wounded
near us at Cedar Mountain. John, who succeeded him as captain, after
being wounded at Sharpsburg, was again wounded at Fredericksburg in
1862, where he was twice carried from the field, and as often worked his
way back to his gun. In Early's campaign in 1864 he lost his right arm.
In the same campaign his next younger brother, Ben, lieutenant in the
same company, was shot through the lungs. The wounds of neither had
healed when they received news, at their home, of the surrender at
Appomattox. Mounting their horses, they set out for Gen. Joe Johnston's
army in North Carolina, but, on arriving at Lexington, Virginia, heard
of the surrender of that army. The fourth and youngest brother lost a
leg near the close of the war. Like all true heroes, their modesty was
as striking as their courage and patriotism.
On the following day at our hospital the heap of amputated legs and arms
increased in size until it became several feet in height, while the two
armies lay face to face, like two exhausted monsters, each waiting for
the other to strike.
About sundown that afternoon I was put in an ambulance with S. R. Moore,
of the College company, who was in a semi-conscious state, having been
struck on the brow, the ball passing out back of the ear. The distance
to Shepherdstown was only three miles, but the slow progress of
innumerable trains of wagons and impedimenta generally, converging at
the one ford of the Potomac, delayed our arrival until dawn the next
morning. About sunrise we were carried into an old deserted frame house
and assigned to the bare floor for beds. My brother David, whose gun had
remained on picket duty on this side of the river, soon found me, and at
once set about finding means to get me away. The only conveyance
available was George Bedinger's mother's carriage, but my brother's
horse--the same brute that had robbed me of my bedding at Leesburg---now
refused to work.
The booming of cannon and bursting of shells along the river at the
lower end of the town admonished us that our stay in the desolate old
house must be short, and, as brigade after brigade marched by the door,
the apprehension that "they in whose wars I had borne my part" would
soon "have all passed by," made me very wretched. As a last resort, I
was lifted upon the back of this same obstreperous horse and, in great
pain, rode to the battery, which was camped a short distance from the
town.
S. R. Moore was afterward taken to the Bedingers' residence, where he
remained in the enemy's lines until, with their permission, he was taken
home by his father some weeks later.
David Barton, a former member of our company, but now in command of
Cutshaw's battery, kindly sent his ambulance, with instructions that I
be taken to his father's house in Winchester, which place, in company
with a wounded man of his battery, I reached on the following day. At
Mr. Barton's I found my cousin and theirs, Robert Barton, of Rockbridge,
on sick-leave, and a Doctor Grammer, who dressed my wound; and, although
unable to leave my bed, I intensely enjoyed the rest and kindness
received in that hospitable home, which was repeatedly made desolate by
the deaths of its gallant sons who fell in battle.
Marshall, the eldest, and lieutenant in artillery, was killed on the
outskirts of Winchester in May, 1862. David, the third son, whom I have
just mentioned, was killed in December of the same year. Strother, the
second son, lost a leg at Chancellorsville and died soon after the war;
and Randolph, the fourth son, captain on the staff of the Stonewall
Brigade, and now a distinguished lawyer in Baltimore, was seven times
wounded, while Robert, a member of our battery, and a gallant soldier,
was the only one of the five brothers in the service who survived the
war unscathed. Our mutual cousin, Robert Barton of the Rockbridge
Cavalry, was shot through the lungs in Early's Valley campaign, and left
within the enemy's lines, where, nursed by his sister, his life hung in
the balance for many days.
After a sojourn of a few days, leave to go home was given me by the
department surgeon, and at four o'clock in the morning, with young
Boiling, Barton and Reid serving as my crutches (on their way to the
Virginia Military Institute), I was put in the stage-coach at the front
door and driven to the hotel, where several Baltimoreans, who were
returning from Northern prisons, got in. One of them was especially
noticeable, as his face was much pitted by smallpox, and with his
Confederate uniform he wore a wide-brimmed straw hat. They were a jolly
set, and enlivened the journey no little. A square or two farther on,
two wounded officers came from a house at which we stopped, and in an
authoritative manner demanded seats inside, all of which were occupied.
They said they were officers in a celebrated command and expected
corresponding consideration. The fellow with the hat told them his party
was just from Fort Delaware, where little distinction was paid to rank,
but if they required exalted positions they ought to get on top of the
coach. The officers said they were wounded and could not climb up. "I
was wounded, too--mortally," came from under the hat. After joking them
sufficiently, the Baltimoreans kindly gave up their seats and mounted to
the top.
[Illustration: R. T. BARTON]
At the towns at which we stopped to change horses, the boys who
collected around were entertained with wonderful stories by our friends
from Baltimore. Just outside of one of these stopping-places we passed
an old gentleman, probably refugeeing, who wore a tall beaver hat and
rode a piebald pony. To the usual crowd of lads who had gathered around,
they said they were going to give a show in the next town and wanted
them all to come, would give them free tickets, and each a hatful of
"goobers"; then pointing to the old gentleman on the spotted pony, who
had now ridden up, said, "Ah, there is our clown; he can give you full
particulars." One hundred and thirty miles from the battlefield of
Sharpsburg the dawn of the second day of our journey showed again the
procession of wounded men, by whom we had been passing all night and who
had bivouacked along the road as darkness overtook them.
They were now astir, bathing each other's wounds. The distance from
Winchester to Staunton is ninety-six miles, and the trip was made by our
stage in twenty-six hours, with stops only long enough to change horses.
From nine to ten o'clock in the night I was utterly exhausted, and felt
that I could not go a mile farther alive; but rallied, and reached
Staunton at six o'clock in the morning, having been twenty-six hours on
the way. Here Sam Lyle and Joe Chester, of the College company, detailed
as a provost-guard, cared for me until the next day, when another
stage-ride of thirty-six miles brought me to Lexington and home. With
the aid of a crutch I was soon able to get about, but four months passed
before I was again fit for duty, and from the effects of the wound I am
lame to this day.
Since going into the service in March, 1862, six months before, I had
been in nine pitched battles, about the same number of skirmishes, and
had marched more than one thousand miles--and this, too, with no natural
taste for war.