THE BATTLE OF ANTIETAM
Never did day open more beautiful. We were astir at the first streak of
dawn. We had slept, and soundly too, just where nightfall found us under
the shelter of the hill near Keedysville. No reveille call this morning.
Too close to the enemy. Nor was this needed to arouse us. A simple call
of a sergeant or corporal and every man was instantly awake and alert.
All realized that there was ugly business and plenty of it just ahead.
This was plainly visible in the faces as well as in the nervous, subdued
demeanor of all. The absence of all joking and play and the almost
painful sobriety of action, where jollity had been the rule, was
particularly noticeable.
Before proceeding with the events of the battle, I should speak of the
"night before the battle," of which so much has been said and written.
My diary says that Lieutenant-Colonel Wilcox, Captain James Archbald,
Co. I, and I slept together, sharing our blankets; that it rained during
the night; this fact, with the other, that we were close friends at
home, accounts for our sharing blankets. Three of us with our gum
blankets could so arrange as to keep fairly dry, notwithstanding the
rain.
The camp was ominously still this night. We were not allowed to sing or
make any noise, nor have any fires--except just enough to make
coffee--for fear of attracting the fire of the enemies' batteries. But
there was no need of such an inhibition as to singing or frolicking, for
there was no disposition to indulge in either. Unquestionably, the
problems of the morrow were occupying all breasts. Letters were written
home--many of them "last words"--and quiet talks were had, and promises
made between comrades. Promises providing against the dreaded
possibilities of the morrow. "If the worst happens, Jack." "Yes, Ned,
send word to mother and to----, and these; she will prize them," and so
directions were interchanged that meant so much.
I can never forget the quiet words of Colonel Oakford, as he inquired
very particularly if my roster of the officers and men of the regiment
was complete, for, said he, with a smile, "We shall not all be here
to-morrow night."
Now to resume the story of the battle. We were on the march about six
o'clock and moved, as I thought, rather leisurely for upwards of two
miles, crossing Antietam creek, which our men waded nearly waist deep,
emerging, of course, soaked through, our first experience of this kind.
It was a hot morning and, therefore, the only ill effects of this wading
was the discomfort to the men of marching with soaked feet. It was now
quite evident that a great battle was in progress. A deafening
pandemonium of cannonading, with shrieking and bursting shells, filled
the air beyond us, towards which we were marching. An occasional shell
whizzed by or over, reminding us that we were rapidly approaching the
"debatable ground." Soon we began to hear a most ominous sound which we
had never before heard, except in the far distance at South Mountain,
namely, the rattle of musketry. It had none of the deafening bluster of
the cannonading so terrifying to new troops, but to those who had once
experienced its effect, it was infinitely more to be dreaded. The
fatalities by musketry at close quarters, as the two armies fought at
Antietam and all through the Civil War, as compared with those by
artillery, are at least as 100 to 1, probably much more than that.
These volleys of musketry we were approaching sounded in the distance
like the rapid pouring of shot upon a tinpan, or the tearing of heavy
canvas, with slight pauses interspersed with single shots, or desultory
shooting. All this presaged fearful work in store for us, with what
results to each personally the future, measured probably by moments,
would reveal.
How does one feel under such conditions? To tell the truth, I realized
the situation most keenly and felt very uncomfortable. Lest there might
be some undue manifestation of this feeling in my conduct, I said to
myself, this is the duty I undertook to perform for my country, and now
I'll do it, and leave the results with God. My greater fear was not that
I might be killed, but that I might be grievously wounded and left a
victim of suffering on the field.
The nervous strain was plainly visible upon all of us. All moved
doggedly forward in obedience to orders, in absolute silence so far as
talking was concerned. The compressed lip and set teeth showed that
nerve and resolution had been summoned to the discharge of duty. A few
temporarily fell out, unable to endure the nervous strain, which was
simply awful. There were a few others, it must be said, who skulked,
took counsel of their cowardly legs, and, despite all efforts of "file
closers" and officers, left the ranks. Of these two classes most of the
first rejoined us later on, and their dropping out was no reflection on
their bravery. The nervous strain produced by the excitement and danger
gave them the malady called by the vets, the "cannon quickstep."
On our way into "position" we passed the "Meyer Spring,"--a magnificent
fountain of sweet spring water. It was walled in, and must have been ten
or twelve feet square and at least three feet deep, and a stream was
flowing from it large enough to make a respectable brook. Many of us
succeeded in filling our canteens from this glorious spring, now
surrounded by hundreds of wounded soldiers. What a Godsend it was to
those poor fellows.
About eight o'clock we were formed into line of battle and moved forward
through a grove of trees,[A] but before actually coming under musketry
fire of the enemy we were moved back again, and swung around nearly a
mile to the left to the base of a circular knoll to the left of the
Roulette farm-house and the road which leads up to the Sharpsburg pike,
near the Dunkard church. The famous "sunken road"--a road which had been
cut through the other side of this knoll--extended from the Roulette
Lane directly in front of our line towards Sharpsburg. I had ridden by
the side of Colonel Oakford, except when on duty, up and down the
column, and as the line was formed by the colonel and ordered forward,
we dismounted and sent our horses to the rear by a servant. I was
immediately sent by the colonel to the left of the line to assist in
getting that into position. A rail fence separated us from the top of
the knoll. Bullets were whizzing and singing by our ears, but so far
hitting none where I was. Over the fence and up the knoll in an
excellent line we went. In the centre of the knoll, perhaps a third of
the way up, was a large tree, and under and around this tree lay a body
of troops doing nothing. They were in our way, but our orders were
forward, and through and over them we went.
[Illustration: COLONEL RICHARD A. OAKFORD
Killed at battle of Antietam, September 17, 1862]
Reaching the top of the knoll we were met by a terrific volley from the
rebels in the sunken road down the other side, not more than one hundred
yards away, and also from another rebel line in a corn-field just
beyond. Some of our men were killed and wounded by this volley. We were
ordered to lie down just under the top of the hill and crawl forward and
fire over, each man crawling back, reloading his piece in this prone
position and again crawling forward and firing. These tactics
undoubtedly saved us many lives, for the fire of the two lines in front
of us was terrific. The air was full of whizzing, singing, buzzing
bullets. Once down on the ground under cover of the hill, it required
very strong resolution to get up where these missiles of death were
flying so thickly, yet that was the duty of us officers, especially us
of the field and staff. My duty kept me constantly moving up and down
that whole line.
On my way back to the right of the line, where I had left Colonel
Oakford, I met Lieutenant-Colonel Wilcox, who told me the terrible news
that Colonel Oakford was killed. Of the details of his death, I had no
time then to inquire. We were then in the very maelstrom of the battle.
Men were falling every moment. The horrible noise of the battle was
incessant and almost deafening. Except that my mind was so absorbed in
my duties, I do not know how I could have endured the strain. Yet out of
this pandemonium memory brings several remarkable incidents. They came
and went with the rapidity of a quickly revolving kaleidoscope. You
caught stupendous incidents on the instant, and in an instant they had
passed. One was the brave death of the major of this regiment that was
lying idle under the tree. The commanding officer evidently was not
doing his duty, and this major was endeavoring to rally his men and get
them at work. He was swinging his hat and cheering his men forward, when
a solid shot decapitated him. His poor body went down as though some
giant had picked it up and furiously slammed it on the ground, and I was
so near him that I could almost have touched him with my sword.
The inaction of this regiment lying behind us under that tree was very
demoralizing to our men, setting them a bad example. General Kimball,
who commanded our brigade, was seated on his horse just under the knoll
in the rear of our regiment, evidently watching our work, and he
signalled me to come to him, and then gave me orders to present his
compliments to the commanding officer of that regiment and direct him to
get his men up and at work. I communicated this order as directed. The
colonel was hugging the ground, and merely turned his face towards me
without replying or attempting to obey the order. General Kimball saw
the whole thing, and again called me to him and, with an oath, commanded
me to repeat the order to him at the muzzle of my revolver, and shoot
him if he did not immediately obey. Said General Kimball: "Get those
cowards out of there or shoot them." My task was a most disagreeable
one, but I must deliver my orders, and did so, but was saved the duty of
shooting by the other officers of the regiment bravely rallying their
men and pushing them forward to the firing-line, where they did good
work. What became of that skulking colonel, I do not know.
The air was now thick with smoke from the muskets, which not only
obscured our vision of the enemy, but made breathing difficult and most
uncomfortable. The day was excessively hot, and no air stirring, we were
forced to breathe this powder smoke, impregnated with saltpetre, which
burned the coating of nose, throat, and eyes almost like fire.
Captain Abbott, commanding Company G, from Mauch Chunk, a brave and
splendid officer, was early carried to the rear, a ball having nearly
carried away his under jaw. He afterwards told me that his first
sensation of this awful wound was his mouth full of blood, teeth, and
splintered bones, which he spat out on the ground, and then found that
unless he got immediate help he would bleed to death in a few minutes.
Fortunately he found Assistant Surgeon Hoover, who had been assigned to
us just from his college graduation, who, under the shelter of a
hay-stack, with no anaesthetic, performed an operation which Dr. Gross,
of Philadelphia, afterwards said had been but once before successfully
performed in the history of surgery, and saved his life. Lieutenant
Anson C. Cranmer, Company C, was killed, and the ground was soon strewn
with the dead and wounded. Soon our men began to call for more
ammunition, and we officers were kept busy taking from the dead and
wounded and distributing to the living. Each man had eighty rounds when
we began the fight. One man near me rose a moment, when a missile struck
his gun about midway, and actually capsized him. He pulled himself
together, and, finding he was only a little bruised, picked up another
gun, with which the ground was now strewn, and went at it again.
Directly, a lull in the enemy's firing occurred, and we had an
opportunity to look over the hill a little more carefully at their
lines. Their first line in the sunken road seemed to be all dead or
wounded, and several of our men ran down there, to find that literally
true. They brought back the lieutenant-colonel, a fine-looking man, who
was mortally wounded. I shook his hand, and he said, "God bless you,
boys, you are very kind." He asked to be laid down in some sheltered
place, for, said he, "I have but a few moments to live." I well remember
his refined, gentlemanly appearance, and how profoundly sorry I felt for
him. He was young, lithely built, of sandy complexion, and wore a
comparatively new uniform of Confederate gray, on which was embroidered
the insignia of the "5th Ga.,[B] C. S. A." He said, "You have killed all
my brave boys; they are there in the road." And they were, I saw them
next day lying four deep in places as they fell, a most awful picture of
battle carnage. This lull was of very short duration, and like the lull
of a storm presaged a renewal of the firing with greater fury, for a
fresh line of rebel troops had been brought up. This occurred three
times before we were relieved.
[Illustration: SILENCED CONFEDERATE BATTERY IN FRONT OF DUNKER CHURCH
SHARPSBURG ROAD, ANTIETAM
This little brick church lay between the opposing lines, and both Union
and Confederate wounded were gathered in it]
During the fiercest of the firing, another remarkable incident occurred,
which well illustrated the fortunes of war. I heard a man shouting,
"Come over here men, you can see 'em better," and there, over the brow
of the knoll, absolutely exposed, was Private George Coursen, of Company
K, sitting on a boulder, loading and firing as calmly as though there
wasn't a rebel in the country. I yelled to him to come back under the
cover of the hill-top, but he said he could see the rebels better there,
and refused to leave his vantage-ground. I think he remained there until
we were ordered back and did not receive a scratch. His escape was
nothing less than a miracle. He seemed to have no idea of fear.
A remarkable fact about our experience during this fight was that we
took no note of time. When we were out of ammunition and about to move
back I looked at my watch and found it was 12.30 P.M. We had been under
fire since eight o'clock. I couldn't believe my eyes; was sure my watch
had gone wrong. I would have sworn that we had not been there more than
twenty minutes, when we had actually been in that very hell of fire for
four and a half hours.
Just as we were moving back, the Irish brigade came up, under command of
General Thomas Francis Meagher. They had been ordered to complete our
work by a charge, and right gallantly they did it. Many of our men, not
understanding the order, joined in that charge. General Meagher rode a
beautiful white horse, but made a show of himself by tumbling off just
as he reached our line. The boys said he was drunk, and he certainly
looked and acted like a drunken man. He regained his feet and floundered
about, swearing like a crazy man. The brigade, however, made a
magnificent charge and swept everything before it.
Another incident occurred during the time we were under fire. My
attention was arrested by a heavily built general officer passing to the
rear on foot. He came close by me and as he passed he shouted: "You will
have to get back. Don't you see yonder line of rebels is flanking you?"
I looked in the direction he pointed, and, sure enough, on our right and
now well to our rear was an extended line of rebel infantry with their
colors flying, moving forward almost with the precision of a parade.
They had thrown forward a beautiful skirmish line and seemed to be
practically masters of the situation. My heart was in my mouth for a
couple of moments, until suddenly the picture changed, and their
beautiful line collapsed and went back as if the d----l was after them.
They had run up against an obstruction in a line of the "boys in blue,"
and many of them never went back. This general officer who spoke to me,
I learned, was Major-General Richardson, commanding the First Division,
then badly wounded, and who died a few hours after.
Our regiment now moved back and to the right some three-quarters of a
mile, where we were supplied with ammunition, and the men were allowed
to make themselves a cup of coffee and eat a "hardtack." I was faint for
want of food, for I had only a cup of coffee in the early morning, and
was favored with a hardtack by one of the men, who were always ready
and willing to share their rations with us. We now learned that our
brigade had borne the brunt of a long and persistent effort by Lee to
break our line at this point, and that we were actually the third line
which had been thrown into this breach, the other two having been wiped
out before we advanced; that as a matter of fact our brigade, being
composed so largely of raw troops--our regiment being really more than
half the brigade in actual number--was designed to be held in reserve.
But the onslaught of the enemy had been so terrific, that by eight
o'clock A.M. our reserve line was all there was left and we had to be
sent in. The other three regiments were veterans, old and tried. They
had an established reputation of having never once been forced back or
whipped, but the One Hundred and Thirty-second was new and, except as to
numbers, an unknown quantity. We had been unmercifully guyed during the
two preceding weeks, as I have said before, as a lot of "greenhorns,"
"pretty boys" in "pretty new clothes," "mamma's darlings," etc., etc.,
to the end of the vets' slang calendar. Now that we had proved our metal
under fire, the atmosphere was completely changed. Not the semblance of
another jibe against the One Hundred and Thirty-second Pennsylvania
Volunteers.
We did not know how well we had done, only that we had tried to do our
duty under trying circumstances, until officers and men from other
regiments came flocking over to congratulate and praise us. I didn't
even know we had passed through the fire of a great battle until the
colonel of the Fourteenth Indiana came over to condole with us on the
loss of Colonel Oakford, and incidentally told us that this was
undoubtedly the greatest battle of the war thus far, and that we
probably would never have such another.
After getting into our new position, I at once began to look up our
losses. I learned that Colonel Oakford was killed by one of the rebel
sharp-shooters just as the regiment scaled the fence in its advance up
the knoll, and before we had fired a shot. It must have occurred almost
instantly after I left him with orders for the left of the line. I was
probably the last to whom he spoke. He was hit by a minie-ball in the
left shoulder, just below the collar-bone. The doctor said the ball had
severed one of the large arteries, and he died in a very few minutes. He
had been in command of the regiment a little more than a month, but
during that brief time his work as a disciplinarian and drill-master had
made it possible for us to acquit ourselves as creditably as they all
said we had done. General Kimball was loud in our praise and greatly
lamented Colonel Oakford's death, whom he admired very much. He was a
brave, able, and accomplished officer and gentleman, and his loss to the
regiment was irreparable.
Had Colonel Oakford lived his record must have been brilliant and his
promotion rapid, for very few volunteer officers had so quickly mastered
the details of military tactics and routine. He was a thorough
disciplinarian, an able tactician, and the interests and welfare of his
men were constantly upon his heart.
My diary records the fact that I saw Captain Willard, of the Fourteenth
Connecticut, fall as we passed their line on our way to the rear; that
he appeared to have been hit by a grape-shot or piece of shell. I did
not know him, only heard that he was a brother of E. N. Willard, of
Scranton. The Fourteenth Connecticut men said he was a fine man and
splendid officer.
Among the wounded--reported mortally--was Sergeant Martin Hower, of
Company K, one of our very best non-commissioned officers. I saw him at
the hospital, and it was very hard to be able to do nothing for him. It
seemed our loss must reach upward of two hundred killed, wounded and
missing. Out of seven hundred and ninety-eight who answered to roll-call
in the morning, we had with us less than three hundred at the close of
the fight. Our actual loss was: Killed--Officers, two (Colonel Oakford
and Lieutenant Cranmer); men, twenty-eight; total, thirty.
Wounded--Officers, four; men, one hundred and ten; total, one hundred
and forty-four. To this should be added at least thirty of the men who
died of their wounds within the next few days, which would make our
death loss in this battle upward of sixty. Of the missing, many of them
were of those who joined the Irish brigade in their charge, and who did
not find us again for a day or so. It may seem strange that a man should
not be able to find his regiment for so long a time, when really it is
so close at hand. But when one remembers that our army of about
seventy-five thousand men had upward of two hundred regiments massed
within say two square miles, and that they were constantly changing
position, it will be seen that looking for any one regiment is almost
like looking for a needle in a hay-mow.