THE WILDERNESS.
The Battle of Bull Run in 1861, Pope’s campaign, and Burnside’s defeat
at Fredericksburg in 1862, and, lastly, Hooker’s unsuccessful attempt at
Chancellorsville in the spring of 1863, had shown how hard a road to
Richmond this was to travel. Repeatedly, as we tried it and failed, the
hopes of the Confederacy rose exultant; the heart of the North sank as
often, heavy with despair. McClellan’s Peninsular route had resulted
still more fatally. We all remember the anguish and anxiety of those
days. But the heart of the North shook off its despair, listened to no
timid counsels; it was growing fierce and obdurate. We no longer
received the news of defeat with cries of dismay, but with teeth
close-set, a smile upon the quivering lips, and a burning fire within.
Had the Rebels triumphed again? Then so much the worse for them! Had we
been once more repulsed with slaughter from their strong line of
defences? Was the precious blood poured out before them all in vain? At
last it should not be in vain! Though it should cost a new thirty years’
war and a generation of lives, the red work we had begun must be
completed; ultimate failure was impossible, ultimate triumph certain.
This inflexible spirit found its embodiment in the leader of the final
campaigns against the Rebel capital. It was the deep spirit of humanity
itself, ready to make the richest sacrifices, calm, determined,
inexorable, moving steadily towards the great object to be achieved. It
has been said that General Grant did not consider the lives of his men.
Then the people did not consider them. But the truth lies here: precious
as were those lives, something lay beyond far more precious, and they
were the needful price paid for it. We had learned the dread price, we
had duly weighed the worth of the object to be purchased; what then was
the use of hesitating and higgling?
We were approaching the scene of Grant’s first great blow aimed at the
gates of the Rebel capital. On the field of Chancellorsville you already
tread the borders of the field of the Wilderness,—if that can be called
a field which is a mere interminable forest, slashed here and there with
roads.
Passing straight along the plank-road, we came to a large farm-house,
which had been gutted by soldiers, and but recently reoccupied. It was
still in a scarcely habitable condition. However, we managed to obtain,
what we stood greatly in need of, a cup of cold water. I observed that
it tasted strongly of iron.
“The reason of that is, we took twelve camp-kettles out of the well,”
said the man of the house, “and nobody knows how many more there are
down there.”
The place is known as Locust Grove. In the edge of the forest, but a
little farther on, is the Wilderness Church,—a square-framed building,
which showed marks of such usage as every uninhabited house receives at
the hands of a wild soldiery. Red Mars has little respect for the
temples of the Prince of Peace.
“Many a time have I been to meet’n’ in that shell, and sot on hard
benches, and heard long sermons!” said Elijah. “But I reckon it’ll be a
long while befo’e them doo’s are darkened by a congregation ag’in. Thar
a’n’t the population through hyer thar used to be. Oncet we’d have met a
hundred wagons on this road go’n’ to market; but I count we ha’n’t met
mo’e ’n a dozen to-day.”
Not far beyond the church we approached two tall guide-posts erected
where the road forks. The one on the right pointed the way to the
“Wilderness National Cemetery, No. 1, 4 miles,” by the Orange
Court-House turnpike. The other indicated the “Wilderness National
Cemetery, No. 2,” by the plank-road.
“All this has been done sence I was this way,” said Elijah.
We kept the plank-road,—or rather the clay road beside it, which
stretched before us dim in the hollows, and red as brick on the
hill-sides. We passed some old fields, and entered the great
Wilderness,—a high and dry country, thickly overgrown with dwarfish
timber, chiefly scrub oaks, pines, and cedars. Poles lashed to trees for
tent-supports indicated where our regiments had encamped; and soon we
came upon abundant evidences of a great battle. Heavy breastworks thrown
up on Brock’s cross-road, planks from the plank-road piled up and lashed
against trees in the woods, to form a shelter for our pickets,
knapsacks, haversacks, pieces of clothing, fragments of harness, tin
plates, canteens, some pierced with balls, fragments of shells, with
here and there a round-shot, or a shell unexploded, straps, buckles,
cartridge-boxes, socks, old shoes, rotting letters, desolate tracts of
perforated and broken trees,—all these signs, and others sadder still,
remained to tell their silent story of the great fight of the
Wilderness.
A cloud passed over the sun: all the scene became sombre, and hushed
with a strange brooding stillness, broken only by the noise of twigs
crackling under my feet, and distant growls of thunder. A shadow fell
upon my heart also, as from the wing of the Death-Angel, as I wandered
through the woods, meditating upon what I saw. Where were the feet that
wore those empty shoes? Where was he whose proud waist was buckled in
that belt? Some soldier’s heart was made happy by that poor, soiled,
tattered, illegible letter, which rain and mildew have not spared; some
mother’s, sister’s, wife’s, or sweetheart’s hand, doubtless, penned it;
it is the broken end of a thread which unwinds a whole life-history,
could we but follow it rightly. Where is that soldier now? Did he fall
in the fight, and does his home know him no more? Has the poor wife or
stricken mother waited long for the answer to that letter, which never
came, and will never come? And this cap, cut in two by a shot, and stiff
with a strange incrustation,—a small cap, a mere boy’s, it seems,—where
now the fair head and wavy hair that wore it? Oh, mother and sisters at
home, do you still mourn for your drummer-boy? Has the story reached
you,—how he went into the fight to carry off his wounded comrades, and
so lost his life for their sakes?—for so I imagine the tale which will
never be told.
And what more appalling spectacle is this? In the cover of thick woods,
the unburied remains of two soldiers,—two skeletons side by side, two
skulls almost touching each other, like the cheeks of sleepers! I came
upon them unawares as I picked my way among the scrub oaks. I knew that
scores of such sights could be seen here a few weeks before; but the
United States Government had sent to have its unburied dead collected
together in the two national cemeteries of the Wilderness; and I had
hoped the work was faithfully done.
“They was No’th-Carolinians; that’s why they didn’t bury ’em,” said
Elijah, after a careful examination of the buttons fallen from the
rotted clothing.
The ground where they lay had been fought over repeatedly, and the dead
of both sides had fallen there. The buttons may, therefore, have told a
true story: North-Carolinians they may have been; yet I could not
believe that the true reason why they had not been decently interred. It
must have been that these bodies, and others we found afterwards, were
overlooked by the party sent to construct the cemeteries. It was
shameful negligence, to say the least.
The cemetery was near by,—a little clearing in the woods by the
roadside, thirty yards square, surrounded by a picket fence, and
comprising seventy trenches, each containing the remains of I know not
how many dead. Each trench was marked with a head-board inscribed with
the invariable words:
“Unknown United States soldiers, killed May, 1864.”
Elijah, to whom I read the inscription, said, pertinently, that the
words _United States soldiers_ indicated plainly that it had not been
the intention to bury Rebels there. No doubt: but these might at least
have been buried in the woods where they fell.
As a grim sarcasm on this neglect, somebody had flung three human
skulls, picked up in the woods, over the paling into the cemetery, where
they lay blanching among the graves.
Close by the southeast corner of the fence were three or four Rebel
graves with old head-boards. Elijah called my attention to them, and
wished me to read what the head-boards said. The main fact indicated
was, that those buried there were North-Carolinians. Elijah considered
this somehow corroborative of his theory derived from the buttons. The
graves were shallow, and the settling of the earth over the bodies had
left the feet of one of the poor fellows sticking out.
The shadows which darkened the woods, and the ominous thunder-growls,
culminated in a shower. Elijah crawled under his wagon; I sought the
shelter of a tree; the horse champed his fodder, and we ate our
luncheon. How quietly upon the leaves, how softly upon the graves of the
cemetery, fell the perpendicular rain! The clouds parted, and a burst of
sunlight smote the Wilderness; the rain still poured, but every drop was
illumined, and I seemed standing in a shower of silver meteors.
The rain over, and luncheon finished, I looked about for some solace to
my palate after the dry sandwiches moistened only by the drippings from
the tree,—seeking a dessert in the Wilderness. Summer grapes hung their
just ripened clusters from the vine-laden saplings, and the chincapin
bushes were starred with opening burrs. I followed a woodland path
embowered with the glistening boughs, and plucked, and ate, and mused.
The ground was level, and singularly free from the accumulations of
twigs, branches, and old leaves with which forests usually abound. I
noticed, however, many charred sticks and half-burnt roots and logs.
Then the terrible recollection overtook me: these were the woods that
were on fire during the battle. I called Elijah.
“Yes, all this was a flame of fire while the fight was go’n’ on. It was
full of dead and wounded men. Cook and Stevens, farmers over hyer, men I
know, heard the screams of the poor fellahs burnin’ up, and come and
dragged many a one out of the fire, and laid ’em in the road.”
The woods were full of Rebel graves, with here and there a heap of
half-covered bones, where several of the dead had been hurriedly buried
together.
I had seen enough. We returned to the cemetery. Elijah hitched up his
horse, and we drove back along the plank-road, cheered by a rainbow
which spanned the Wilderness and moved its bright arch onward over
Chancellorsville towards Fredericksburg, brightening and fading, and
brightening still again, like the hope which gladdened the nation’s eye
after Grant’s victory.