AFTER ANTIETAM--SURGEONS ON THE FIELD--THE
HOSPITALS--LIEUTENANT-COLONEL DWIGHT MORTALLY WOUNDED--A BRUTAL
SURGEON--A WOUNDED CAPTAIN--AGONY FROM THIRST--CHRISTIAN
SOLDIERS--PRAYING AND FIGHTING--FOPS ON THE FIELD--A REBEL
PROGRAMME--PENNSYLVANIA TO BE STRIPPED--CAMP LIFE--DAILY
ROUTINE--BURIAL SERVICES.
After the battle of Antietam, one of the chaplains who was on the field
paid a fitting tribute to the colonel commanding the regiment to which he
belonged, and vividly described many scenes that came under my own
observation on that day, he says:
"How faithfully many a surgeon labored! Our own assistant surgeon was a
hero; regardless of bullets in the hottest fire, he kept coolly on in his
work, while near by Dr. Kendall, of the Twelfth Massachusetts, was killed.
The nearest hospital, that of our own corps, was necessarily in range of
the enemy's shell, which every now and then fell around and beyond. Near
by were five other hospitals, all for one wing. Here were generals and
privates brought together. General Mansfield I saw dying, and a few feet
off, an unknown private; General Hartsuff badly wounded, and by his side a
throng of others now on the same level. There is no distinction as to what
body or soul needs then.
"Our own regiment helped to fill these hospitals. Our gallant dead are
remembered with all the other dead of Massachusetts. But one we lost, hard
to replace: Our brilliant, brave, generous, kind-hearted Lieut.-Colonel
Wilder Dwight, shot mortally, but living two days. Of wonderful promise at
home, cheerful, resigned, strong in faith and trust, ready to die; his
only wish being to see his father and mother. While lying in the garden,
moved only on a stretcher, he sent our own surgeon to relieve the wounded
who were lying all around, the surgeons being occupied in amputating limbs
of men in the hospitals; and again and again sent water provided for
himself to the poor fellows calling for it. Yet Colonel Dwight was not
free from brutal insolence. While waiting there in the night for an
ambulance in which to place him, only for shelter, suddenly a harsh voice
insisted on turning him out with all our men.
"I found a pompous little surgeon angry and furious. I informed him why
the men were there, assured him of their good behavior, and requested
permission for them to remain as we were momentarily expecting the
ambulance. It was all in vain. Colonel Dwight himself was treated most
harshly, although of higher rank than the brute himself; and
notwithstanding I told the surgeon he was mortally wounded, he ordered the
guard to turn them out at the point of the bayonet, and to prevent their
return even to remove Colonel Dwight; refusing to tell his rank and even
his name, until I obtained it of another party. The men were driven away
while actually giving water to the wounded who had been calling in vain
for help. I assured him I would take care that his conduct was made known,
knowing from several scenes I had witnessed that day that he was, from
brutality, pomposity and harshness, utterly unfit to be in charge of
wounded men, and from gross disrespect to an officer higher in rank, unfit
to be in the army. This fellow was a medical director in General Reynolds'
corps, Pennsylvania Reserves," and the writer adds, "too good a corps to
have such a fellow among them."
The ordinary scene which presents itself after the strife of arms has
ceased, is familiar to every one. Heaps of slain, where friend and foe
lie side by side, mangled bodies, shrieks and groans of the wounded and
dying, are things which we always associate with the victories and defeats
of war. But we seldom expect or hear of songs of praise and shouts of
triumph from dying lips on the dreadful battle-field. The following
account was received from the lips of a brave and pious captain in one of
the Western regiments, as some friends were conveying him to a hospital
from the battle-field:
"The man had been shot through both thighs with a rifle bullet; it was a
wound from which he could not recover. While lying on the field he
suffered intense agony from thirst. He supported his head upon his hand,
and the rain from heaven was falling around him. In a short time a little
pool of water collected near his elbow, and he thought if he could reach
that spot he might allay his raging thirst. He tried to get into a
position which would enable him to obtain a mouthful of the muddy water,
but in vain; and he must suffer the torture of seeing the means of relief
within sight, while all his efforts were unavailing.
"'Never,' said he, 'did I feel so much the loss of any earthly blessing.
By and by the shades of night fell around us, and the stars shone out
clear and beautiful above the dark field, where so many others lay
wounded, writhing in pain or faint from loss of blood. Thus situated, I
began to think of the great God who had given His son to die a death of
agony for me, and that He was in the heavens to which my eyes were turned;
that He was there above that scene of suffering and above those glorious
stars; and I felt that I was hastening home to meet Him, and praise Him
there. I felt that I ought to praise Him then, even wounded as I was, on
the battle-field. I could not help singing that beautiful hymn--
"'When I can read my title clear
To mansions in the skies,
I'll bid farewell to every fear,
And wipe my weeping eyes.'
"'And though I was not aware of it till then,'" he continued, "'it proved
there was a christian brother in the thicket near me. I could not see him,
but was near enough to hear him. He took up the strain from me, and beyond
him another, and another, caught the words, and made them resound far and
wide over the terrible battle-field. There was a peculiar echo in the
place, and that added to the effect, as we made the night vocal with our
hymns of praise to God.'"
The presence of such men in the army, animated by faith in God, and
conscious of Serving Him in serving their country, adds materially to its
elements of strength and success. The religious element has always been
acknowledged as a great power in military success. The more intelligent
that principle is, the more efficient it must be in securing this result.
There is every reason, natural as well as rational, why those who hold
their lives in their hand should acknowledge the God of battle, and pray
for themselves and their country in the midst of danger. The simplest
expression of the relations of praying and fighting was, perhaps, the
blunt order of the puritan chief, "Put your trust in God, and keep your
powder dry." Cromwell and his praying puritans were dangerous men to meet
in battle. "The sword of the Lord and of Gideon was exceeding sharp,
tempered as it was by hourly prayers." Who can but admire the sublime
spectacle which Gustavus Adolphus and his vast army presented on the eve
of the battle of Lutzen, in which the King fell, praying on bended knees,
and then chanting:
Be of good cheer; your cause belongs
To Him who can avenge your wrongs;
Leave it to Him our Lord.
The King fell, but the battle was gloriously won.
"And so," says a writer upon this subject, "unless we are untrue to our
better nature, it must ever be. Before going into battle, the foolish,
wicked oath is silent. With the bracing of the nerves for the shock of
battle, there goes up a silent prayer for strength, and valor and
deliverance. The wounded pray to be saved from death; the dying recall the
words of old petitions learned in childhood, and in those broken accents
commit their souls to God."
The only amusing incident after a battle is, the crowd of spectators from
Washington and other places. If they are in carriages, their vehicles are
sure to get smashed, and then the trouble arises, what are they to do with
their baggage? Carry it, of course, or leave it behind. Even the wounded
soldiers cannot help laughing at their sorry plight, gesticulations, and
absurd questions.
Among all this class of individuals, there are none to be compared with
government clerks for importance and absurdity. On one of these occasions
I remember of a number of those pompous creatures being distressed beyond
measure, because they could not return to Washington on a train which was
crowded beyond description with the wounded. After the cars moved off
there they stood gazing after it in the most disconsolate manner. Said
one, "I came out here by invitation of the Secretary of War, and now I
must return on foot, or remain here." One of the soldiers contemptuously
surveyed him from head to foot, as he stood there with kid gloves, white
bosom, standing collar, etc., in all the glory and finery of a brainless
fop, starched up for display. "Well," said the soldier, "we don't know any
such individual as the Secretary of War out here, but I guess we can find
you something to do; perhaps you would take a fancy to one of these
muskets," laying his hand on a pile beside him.
The clerk turned away in disgust, and disdaining to reply to the soldier,
he inquired, "But where shall I sleep to-night?" The soldier replied,
"Just where you please, chummy; there is lots of room all around here,"
pointing to a spot of ground which was not occupied by the wounded. A
chaplain stepped up to him, and said: "If you wish to sleep, there is some
hay you can have;" and went on to give him a brief lecture upon the
impropriety of a young man, in perfect health, just fresh from the city,
talking about comfortable lodgings, and a place to sleep, when so many
wounded and dying lay all around him. He was horrified, and disappeared
immediately.
Before the rebels attempted to cross into Maryland in force, the Richmond
papers were full of editorials, of which the following is a specimen:
"Let not a blade of grass, or a stalk of corn, or a barrel of flour, or a
bushel of meal, or a sack of salt, or a horse, or a cow, or a hog, or a
sheep, be left wherever the Confederate troops move along. Let vengeance
be taken for all that has been done, until retribution itself shall stand
aghast. This is the country of the would-be-gentleman, McClellan. He has
caused a loss to us, in Virginia, of at least thirty thousand negroes, the
most valuable property that a Virginian can own. They have no negroes in
Pennsylvania. Retaliation, therefore, must fall upon something else. A
Dutch farmer has no negroes, but he has horses that can be seized, grain
that can be confiscated, cattle that can be killed, and houses that can
be burned."
But when they really attempted to accomplish these feats, and found with
whom they had to contend, they were very glad to re-cross the Potomac,
without confiscating property or burning houses, and to escape, leaving
their dead and wounded on the field.
After the battle of Antietam, the army was not in a condition to follow up
the rebels; but as soon as the Capital was safe, and the rebels were
driven from Maryland and Pennsylvania, vigorous efforts were made to
recruit, clothe, and reorganize the army. Harper's Ferry was again
occupied, every weak point strengthened, and all the fords were strongly
guarded. While the army thus remained inactive for a few weeks, camp
duties and discipline were again strictly enforced and attended to.
I would not have my readers think that camp-life in the army is so very
unpleasant, after all. I do not think so, for I have spent some of the
pleasantest, happiest hours of my life in camp, and I think thousands can
give the same testimony.
One of our good chaplains from the North says that even the city of New
York itself can bear no favorable comparison to military life in the Army
of the Potomac. "After all," he says: "New York is a humbug compared with
the army. It is tattoo, as I write; what music it is, compared with the
nuisance noises of those city streets! Our candles are not brilliant; but
the sight of the lights of the camps all around, is more pleasant than the
glare of the city gas. The air is the pure air of heaven, not the choky
stuff of the metropolis. The men are doing something noble, not dawdling
away these glorious days in selling tape and ribbons. The soldier lives to
some purpose, and if he dies it is a hero's death. The silks of that
wealthy mart may be coveted by some; but what are the whole to our
bullet-riddled old flag, which passed from the stiffening hands of one
color-bearer to another, in the days of many a battle?"
To give my reader a more definite idea of the routine of camp life, I will
enter into a detail of it more fully. At sunrise _reveille_ beats, drum
echoing to drum until the entire encampment is astir, and busy as a
bee-hive. Roll-call immediately follows, which brings every man to his
place in the ranks, to answer to his name. An hour later breakfast call is
sounded by fife and drum, and the company cooks, who are detailed for that
purpose, deal out the rations to the men as they sit or stand around the
cook's quarters.
At half-past seven o'clock sick call announces to surgeons and patients
that they are expected to appear at the dispensing tent--if able to go
there. Then comes a general examination of tongues and pulses, and a
liberal distribution of _quinine_ and blue pills, and sometimes a little
_eau de vie_, to wash down the bitter drugs.
Guard mounting at eight, which is an imposing affair in itself. The band
marches to the usual place of dress parade and strikes up some appropriate
piece, which is the signal for the regimental details to march to the
place of inspection. The line is formed, arms inspected, and general
appearance noted. Then the men are marched in review, and divided into
three reliefs--one of which is marched to the post of each sentinel,
where, after various important conferences, the old sentinel is relieved
and the new one takes his place, and so on around the whole camp. The old
guard is then marched to their quarters and formally dismissed, having
been on duty two hours out of every six during the last twenty-four hours.
At nine o'clock the music sounds for company drill, which drill lasts an
hour and a half. The bugle announces dinner at one o'clock.
At three in the afternoon battalion drill commences, which occupies an
hour. At half-past four is heard the first call for evening parade, and at
five o'clock comes off the great display of the day--dress parade.
Supper at six, tattoo at half past eight, and roll-call again at nine;
immediately after which comes "taps" on the drum, which means "lights
out."
But between all these calls drills and parades are more interesting
services and duties. Away in one corner of the camp is our canvas or log
meeting-house, and besides our regular preaching, we have conference and
prayer meetings, debating clubs, military lectures, and numerous musical
entertainments.
Then, too, comes visiting the sick in different hospitals, distribution of
reading matter and delicacies, and the blessed privilege of religious
conversation. And often the solemn services in connection with burying the
dead. I will here give a brief description of this service:
The burial of a soldier in camp is a most solemn scene. A suitable escort
is formed in two ranks opposite the tent of the deceased, with shouldered
arms and bayonets unfixed. On the appearance of the coffin the soldiers
present arms. The procession then forms--on each side of the coffin are
the pall-bearers without muskets--and the escort moves forward with arms
reversed, viz.: musket under the left arm, barrel downward, and steadied
behind the back with the right hand. The band marches in front, with slow
and measured tread and muffled drum they move, pouring out their
melancholy wailings for the dead--a sadder dirge than which never fell
upon mortal ear.
On reaching the place of interment the coffin is lowered into the grave,
the soldiers leaning upon their muskets, muzzle downward, the hands
clasped upon the butt of their guns, with heads uncovered and reverently
bowed upon their hands. The chaplain, who has walked in the rear of the
procession, conducts the burial service, at the end of which three
volleys are fired over the grave, the trench is filled up, and the
soldiers return to duty.
Warrior, rest! thy toils are ended:
Life's last fearful strife is o'er;
Clarion-calls, with death-notes blended,
Shall disturb thine ear no more!
Peaceful is thy dreamless slumber;
Peaceful, but how cold and stern!
Thou hast joined that silent number
In the land whence none return!
Warrior, rest! thy banner o'er thee
Hangs in many a drooping fold;
Many a manly cheek before thee
Stain'd with tear-drops we behold.
Thine was not a hand to falter
When thy sword should leave its sheath:
Thine was not a cheek to alter,
Though thy duty led to death!
Warrior, rest! a dirge is knelling
Solemnly from shore to shore:
'Tis a nation's tribute, telling
That a patriot is no more!
And thy young bride weeps in sorrow
That no more she hears thy tread;
That the night which knows no morrow
Darkly veils thy laurel'd head!
Warrior, rest! we smooth thy pillow,
For thy last, long earthly sleep;
And beneath yon verdant willow
Storms unheard will o'er thee sweep!
There, 'tis done! thy couch awaits thee!
Softly down thy head we lay;
Here repose, till God translates thee
From the dust to endless day!