 | MRS. CHARLOTTE E. McKAY. Women of the war : |  |
Life in the Tented Field.
"They have gone — they have all passed by." Nothing
can be seen of them now but a long line of flashing bayonets,
passing close under the brow of yonder hill. First
went a few miles of cavalry (interspersed with batteries
of artillery), the rattling of whose sabres always announces
their approach before you hear the tramp of their horses.
If you happen to be near them as they pass, you will hear
them jesting in merry tones, or singing snatches of rollicking
songs. They go out ready to do and die; and, whatever
else happens, we may be pretty sure that the cavalry
will not disgrace us.
Next to them went their ambulances, painfully suggestive
of broken limbs, fearful sabre gashes, and bullet holes
through the lungs; worse things than those sometimes,
but we must not think of them now. Then their train of
two, and this is the last we see of the cavalry.
A few hours pass on, and looking far away, over the
hills, we see a long, dark line in motion; and experience
tells us that it is a body of infantry. As they come out of
the shadow of the hill, their bayonets begin to gleam, so
that now, in the sunshine, they look like a line of blazing
light, and come pouring on, officers riding at the head of
their various commands, colors and battle-flags waving on
the air, some of them pierced and torn in many places, but
borne all the more proudly, and guarded the more sacredly,
for that. Presently other columns, from other camps, and
winding around other hills, come on; but they are all
moving in one direction. Where they are going, or what
for, nobody knows at present. As they come nearer, you
see that many of them have attached to their knapsack
straps tin cups, frying pans, tin pails, coffee pots, and also
a loaf of bread on their bayonets. They seem in good
spirits, and, like the cavalry, are amusing themselves with
singing and joking.
"Glorious fellows!" exclaimed an officer of high rank, as
a part of his command was marching by. He was thinking
how gallantly they had behaved on many a hardly-contested
field, and how well he might rely on them to follow
wherever he should lead in future.
"Poor fellows!" said, in the same moment, a woman, in
sympathizing tones. She was thinking of fearful sights in
crowded hospitals, cruel wounds, amputated limbs, pale
faces, and brave, faithful hearts, worn out with excess of
anguish. So they pass along for many hours; and after
wagons, and lastly a drove of beeves, proportioned in numbers
to the rations they are to serve. Now, at last, they
are all gone. The camps are like deserted cities, for they
have left their huts and tents standing, hoping to come back
to them in a short time. A few soldiers, unfit for a march,
are walking around, or lying in their tents; here and there
you may see a smoke lazily ascending, but the atmosphere
is relieved of that dense body of smoke which usually
hangs over camp. The stillness is painful. We sit down
mournfully, and wonder where our friends are going, and
what is on the tapis now; for dear and noble souls have
gone out to-day, and many such we have seen go out to
return no more. In our hearts we pray for them, and then
look out to see what signs of the weather, and hope it will
not rain. At night we think of guerrillas. We know that
our picket line is thin, and that a treacherous and unscrupulous
foe is always going about like a roaring lion, seeking
what he may "gobble." Our sleep — if we get any — is
light, and often broken by anxiety. We dream of battlefields,
rebel cavalry, and journeys to Richmond. In the
morning we hear a distant cannonading; but our ears have
become accustomed to the sound, so that we are not startled
by it: it may be fighting, or it may be only shelling the
woods as they advance. We judge of its distance and
direction by the sound. Sometimes it seems to come from
the right, sometimes from the left, and sometimes from
both directions at once. It continues, at intervals, through
the day, though growing more distant. As the day wears
on, a messenger comes in from the front, and reports our
fighting yet, and are doing better than we anticipated. But
now a new cause of anxiety arises; for the weather, which
was fine when they marched out, is changing, and ominous
gusts of wind, and rain-bearing clouds, force themselves on
our observation. We try to think we are mistaken, and
look earnestly for patches of blue sky, and gleams of sunshine;
but they are not there. Soon a starless, dismal
night sets in, with drizzling rain. O, the pitiless storm!
What can our friends do, with no shelter but their blankets,
and no bed but the soft soil under them? The rain seems
to beat on our naked hearts, and we abandon ourselves to
fearful anxiety; for there is not only the exposure to the
weather, but the danger that, the ground being softened
into mud, their progress will be obstructed, and their plans
defeated, or that the enemy will gain advantage of them.
But all our fears, we know, cannot help them; so we strive
to commit them to the care of that Providence which rules
over all, and to hope for the best.
The next morning, going to the hospital, we observe a
new patient, and are pained to see that it is a case of
extreme suffering. The eyes are partly closed, an expression
of mortal anguish is on his face, and the symptoms
of dissolution already appear. "Whom have you here,
nurse?" "He is a man of our division, ma'am, who went
on the march, but fell out by the way, and they sent him
back in an ambulance. He was very bad when he came in,
and has been growing worse ever since."
The next day, the fourth since the march, is clear and
fine. Our friends return without fighting, and we learn
hospital is dead, and we join the little escort that follows
him to his long home, there on the hill-side, along with
many who went before, and whose graves are marked by
simple head-boards, bearing the inscription of their names
and regiments. His grave is prepared, and the brown
coffin lowered in. "I am the resurrection and the life" is
read over it, a prayer is said, a salute fired, and he adds
one more to the buried soldiers with whom the soil of
Virginia is so thickly strewn. Poor fellow! he was a
recruit, and this was his first and last march.
| MRS. CHARLOTTE E. McKAY. Women of the war : | |