_May 12_.--There was part of the late battle at Chancellorsville,
(second Fredericksburgh,) a little over a week ago, Saturday, Saturday
night and Sunday, under Gen. Joe Hooker, I would like to give just a
glimpse of--(a moment's look in a terrible storm at sea--of which a few
suggestions are enough, and full details impossible.) The fighting had
been very hot during the day, and after an intermission the latter part,
was resumed at night, and kept up with furious energy till 3 o'clock in
the morning. That afternoon (Saturday) an attack sudden and strong by
Stonewall Jackson had gain'd a great advantage to the southern army, and
broken our lines, entering us like a wedge, and leaving things in that
position at dark. But Hooker at 11 at night made a desperate push, drove
the secesh forces back, restored his original lines, and resumed his
plans. This night scrimmage was very exciting, and afforded countless
strange and fearful pictures. The fighting had been general both at
Chancellorsville and northeast at Fredericksburgh. (We hear of some poor
fighting, episodes, skedaddling on our part. I think not of it. I
think of the fierce bravery, the general rule.) One corps, the 6th,
Sedgewick's, fights four dashing and bloody battles in thirty-six hours,
retreating in great jeopardy, losing largely but maintaining itself,
fighting with the sternest desperation under all circumstances, getting
over the Rappahannock only by the skin of its teeth, yet getting over.
It lost many, many brave men, yet it took vengeance, ample vengeance.
But it was the tug of Saturday evening, and through the night and Sunday
morning, I wanted to make a special note of. It was largely in the
woods, and quite a general engagement. The night was very pleasant, at
times the moon shining out full and clear, all Nature so calm in itself,
the early summer grass so rich, and foliage of the trees--yet there the
battle raging, and many good fellows lying helpless, with new accessions
to them, and every minute amid the rattle of muskets and crash of
cannon, (for there was an artillery contest too,) the red life-blood
oozing out from heads or trunks or limbs upon that green and dew-cool
grass. Patches of the woods take fire, and several of the wounded,
unable to move, are consumed--quite large spaces are swept over, burning
the dead also--some of the men have their hair and beards singed--some,
burns on their faces and hands--others holes burnt in their clothing.
The flashes of fire from the cannon, the quick flaring flames and smoke,
and the immense roar--the musketry so general, the light nearly bright
enough for each side to see the other--the crashing, tramping of
men--the yelling--close quarters--we hear the secesh yells--our men
cheer loudly back, especially if Hooker is in sight--hand to hand
conflicts, each side stands up to it, brave, determin'd as demons, they
often charge upon us--a thousand deeds are done worth to write newer
greater poems on--and still the woods on fire--still many are not only
scorch'd--too many, unable to move, are burned to death.
Then the camps of the wounded--O heavens, what scene is this?--is this
indeed _humanity_--these butchers' shambles? There are several of them.
There they lie, in the largest, in an open space in the woods, from 200
to 300 poor fellows--the groans and screams--the odor of blood,
mixed with the fresh scent of the night, the grass, the trees--that
slaughter-house! O well is it their mothers, their sisters cannot see
them--cannot conceive, and never conceiv'd, these things. One man is
shot by a shell, both in the arm and leg--both are amputated--there
lie the rejected members. Some have their legs blown off--some bullets
through the breast--some indescribably horrid wounds in the face
or head, all mutilated, sickening, torn, gouged out--some in the
abdomen--some mere boys--many rebels, badly hurt--they take their
regular turns with the rest, just the same as any--the surgeons use
them just the same. Such is the camp of the wounded--such a fragment, a
reflection afar off of the bloody scene--while all over the clear, large
moon comes out at times softly, quietly shining. Amid the woods,
that scene of flitting souls--amid the crack and crash and yelling
sounds--the impalpable perfume of the woods--and yet the pungent,
stifling smoke--the radiance of the moon, looking from heaven at
intervals so placid--the sky so heavenly the clear-obscure up there,
those buoyant upper oceans--a few large placid stars beyond, coming
silently and languidly out, and then disappearing--the melancholy,
draperied night above, around. And there, upon the roads, the fields,
and in those woods, that contest, never one more desperate in any age or
land--both parties now in force--masses--no fancy battle, no semi-play,
but fierce and savage demons fighting there--courage and scorn of death
the rule, exceptions almost none.
What history, I say, can ever give--for who can know--the mad,
determin'd tussle of the armies, in all their separate large and little
squads--as this--each steep'd from crown to toe in desperate, mortal
purports? Who know the conflict, hand-to-hand--the many conflicts in
the dark, those shadowy-tangled, flashing moonbeam'd woods--the
writhing groups and squads--the cries, the din, the cracking guns and
pistols--the distant cannon--the cheers and calls and threats and
awful music of the oaths--the indescribable mix--the officers'
orders, persuasions, encouragements--the devils fully rous'd in human
hearts--the strong shout, _Charge, men, charge_--the flash of the naked
sword, and rolling flame and smoke? And still the broken, clear and
clouded heaven--and still again the moonlight pouring silvery soft its
radiant patches over all. Who paint the scene, the sudden partial panic
of the afternoon, at dusk? Who paint the irrepressible advance of the
second division of the Third corps, under Hooker himself, suddenly
order'd up--those rapid-filing phantoms through the woods? Who show what
moves there in the shadows, fluid and firm--to save, (and it did save,)
the army's name, perhaps the nation? as there the veterans hold the
field. (Brave Berry falls not yet--but death has mark'd him--soon he
falls.)