 | MRS. CHARLOTTE E. McKAY. Women of the war : |  |
The Soldier's Grave.
On the 28th day of October, 1863, the headquarters of
the Army of the Potomac broke camp at Auburn, and
moved to Colonel Murray's farm, about two miles from
Warrenton Junction.
The headquarters moving, though not so grand or striking
a spectacle as you will often see in military life, is still
quite imposing, and by no means destitute of the "pomp
and circumstance of war." Altogether it is about as long a
procession as the eye can take in at once, consisting of the
baggage wagons and private carriages of the generals and
other officers filling the various departments of the army,
accompanied by their battle-flags, a heavy escort of cavalry,
a regiment of infantry, wagons belonging to the subsistence
department, and at this time a large number of rebel
prisoners marching under guard.
We moved along slowly over the hills, through the
Bristoe, where had recently been fought the battle which
gave to Meade, instead of Lee, the coveted heights of Centreville,
and to General Warren the laurels which have
designated him "Hero of Bristoe."
It is a desolate region, and, especially at this season of
the year, affording little to attract or satisfy the eye. Yet,
as we passed along, my attention was arrested by a little
scene, which forms a picture in memory never to be effaced.
Just off to the right, a short distance over the plain, was a
soldier's grave, newly made; and ranged along, side by
side, bowed on reversed muskets over the grave of their
comrade, were four soldiers, apparently engaged in prayer.
They had turned aside from the weary march, and there,
unmindful of the gay procession passing by, with heads
bowed low, and solemn countenances, gave a few moments
to communion with Heaven, and a few tears to the sleeper
below. Did they think, in those moments, of breaking
hearts, far away, yearning with vain desire to kneel by that
lonely grave? Were they recalling the many fearful engagements
in which they and the fallen hero had fought,
side by side, and crying out in their hearts, "Such is the
price we pay for human freedom; so much it costs to
secure to our children the blessings of a good government"?
Or were they anticipating other battles speedily approaching,
and wondering if they would be the next to fall, and
who would be left to pray over their graves? I know not
what were their thoughts; but these and many others
rushed upon my mind, and I, too, gave a tear to the solitary
grave. Yes, this was a solitary grave; but on many
them strewn, "thick as autumn leaves in Vallambrosa's
brooks." There sleep our brothers and our sons — the best
we had to give; the costliest sacrifice we could offer on the
altar of our country. Their last battle is fought, their last
march ended; their last bivouac is made. They sleep well,
in that deep slumber from which no bugle call, or sound of
any kind, shall awake them, until the loud reveille, which
shall "shake, not the earth only, but also heaven." But
who can number the tears that flow, or the hearts that
break with longing for the sight of those who shall return
no more? What eye, save that which comprehends immensity,
can measure a nation's grief, as, like the foot-worn
soldier, she bows over the graves of her fallen sons, and
from the depth of her anguish, cries out, "Such is the price
we pay for human freedom"?
| MRS. CHARLOTTE E. McKAY. Women of the war : | |