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cannon and planted there by a boy but seventeen years of age, who
actually endeavor'd to stop the muzzle of the gun with fence-rails. He
was kill'd in the effort, and the flag-staff was sever'd by a shot from
one of our men.
THE WOUNDED FROM CHANCELLORSVILLE
_May '63_.--As I write this, the wounded have begun to arrive from
Hooker's command from bloody Chancellorsville. I was down among the
first arrivals. The men in charge told me the bad cases were yet to
come. If that is so I pity them, for these are bad enough. You ought to
see the scene of the wounded arriving at the landing here at the foot of
Sixth street, at night. Two boat loads came about half-past seven last
night. A little after eight it rain'd a long and violent shower. The
pale, helpless soldiers had been debark'd, and lay around on the wharf
and neighborhood anywhere. The rain was, probably, grateful to them;
at any rate they were exposed to it. The few torches light up the
spectacle. All around--on the wharf, on the ground, out on side
places--the men are lying on blankets, old quilts, &c., with bloody rags
bound round heads, arms, and legs. The attendants are few, and at
night few outsiders also--only a few hard-work'd transportation men
and drivers. (The wounded are getting to be common, and people grow
callous.) The men, whatever their condition, lie there, and patiently
wait till their turn comes to be taken up. Near by, the ambulances are
now arriving in clusters, and one after another is call'd to back up
and take its load. Extreme cases are sent off on stretchers. The men
generally make little or no ado, whatever their sufferings. A few groans
that cannot be suppress'd, and occasionally a scream of pain as they
lift a man into the ambulance. To-day, as I write, hundreds more are
expected, and to-morrow and the next day more, and so on for many days.
Quite often they arrive at the rate of 1000 a day.
A NIGHT BATTLE OVER A WEEK SINCE
_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.)
UNNAMED REMAINS THE BRAVEST SOLDIER
Of scenes like these, I say, who writes--whoe'er can write the story? Of
many a score--aye, thousands, north and south, of unwrit heroes, unknown
heroisms, incredible, impromptu, first-class desperations--who tells?
No history ever--no poem sings, no music sounds, those bravest men of
all--those deeds. No formal general's report, nor book in the library,
norcolumn in the paper, embalms the bravest, north or south, east or
west. Unnamed, unknown, remain, and still remain, the bravest soldiers.
Our manliest--our boys--our hardy darlings; no picture gives them.
Likely, the typic one of them (standing, no doubt, for hundreds,
thousands,) crawls aside to some bush-clump, or ferny tuft, on receiving
his death-shot--there sheltering a little while, soaking roots, grass
and soil, with red blood--the battle advances, retreats, flits from the
scene, sweeps by--and there, haply with pain and suffering (yet less,
far less, than is supposed,) the last lethargy winds like a serpent
round him--the eyes glaze in death----none recks--perhaps the
burial-squads, in truce, a week afterwards, search not the secluded
spot--and there, at last, the Bravest Soldier crumbles in mother earth,
unburied and unknown.
SOME SPECIMEN CASES
_June 18th_.--In one of the hospitals I find Thomas Haley, company M,
4th New York cavalry--a regular Irish boy, a fine specimen of youthful
physical manliness--shot through the lungs--inevitably dying--came
over to this country from Ireland to enlist--has not a single friend or
acquaintance here--is sleeping soundly at this moment, (but it is the
sleep of death)--has a bullet-hole straight through the lung. I saw Tom
when first brought here, three days since, and didn't suppose he could
live twelve hours--(yet he looks well enough in the face to a casual
observer.) He lies there with his frame exposed above the waist, all
naked, for coolness, a fine built man, the tan not yet bleach'd from his
cheeks and neck. It is useless to talk to him, as with his sad hurt, and
the stimulants they give him, and the utter strangeness of every object,
face, furniture, &c., the poor fellow, even when awake, is like some
frighten'd, shy animal. Much of the time he sleeps, or half sleeps.
(Sometimes I thought he knew more than he show'd.) I often come and sit
by him in perfect silence; he will breathe for ten minutes as softly and
evenly as a young babe asleep. Poor youth, so handsome, athletic, with
profuse beautiful shining hair. One time as I sat looking at him while
he lay asleep, he suddenly, without the least start, awaken'd, open'd
his eyes, gave me a long steady look, turning his face very slightly to
gaze easier--one long, clear, silent look--a slight sigh--then turn'd
back and went into his doze again. Little he knew, poor death-stricken
boy, the heart of the stranger that hover'd near.
_W.H.E., Co. F, 2nd N.Y._--His disease is pneumonia. He lay sick at
the wretched hospital below Aquia creek, for seven or eight days before
brought here. He was detail'd from his regiment to go there and help
as nurse, but was soon taken down himself. Is an elderly, sallow-faced,
rather gaunt, gray-hair'd man, a widower, with children. He express'd a
great desire for good, strong green tea. An excellent lady, Mrs. W.,
of Washington, soon sent him a package; also a small sum of money. The
doctor said give him the tea at pleasure; it lay on the table by his
side, and he used it every day. He slept a great deal; could not talk
much, as he grew deaf. Occupied bed 15, ward I, Armory. (The same lady
above, Mrs. W., sent the men a large package of tobacco.)