74. A Private in Battle
By CARLTON MCCARTHY (1861)
THE column, hitherto moving forward with the steadiness of a
mighty river, hesitates, halts, steps back then forward,
hesitates again, halts. The colonels talk to the brigadier, the
brigadiers talk to the major-general, some officers hurry
forward and others hurry to the rear. Infantry stands to one
side of the road, while cavalry trots by to the front. Now some
old wagons marked "Ord. Dept."go creaking and rumbling
by. One or two light ambulances, with a gay and careless air,
seem to trip along with the ease of a dancing girl. They and
the surgeons seem cheerful. Some, not many, ask, "What is
the matter? "Most of the men there know exactly: they are on
the edge of battle.
Presently a very quiet almost sleepy looking man on
horseback, says, "Forward, 19th!"and away goes the leading
regiment. A little way ahead the regiment jumps a fence, and—
pop ! bang! whis! thud ! is all that can be heard until the rebel
yell reverberates through the woods. Battle? No! skirmishers
advancing.
Step into the woods now, and watch these skirmishers. See
how cheerfully they go in. How rapidly they load, fire and
reload. They stand six and twelve feet apart, calling to each
other, laughing, shouting, cheering, but advancing. There :
one fellow has dropped his musket like something red hot. His
finger is shot away. His friends congratulate
him, and he walks sadly away to the rear. Another staggers
and falls, with a ball through his neck, mortally wounded. Two
comrades raise him to his feet and try to lead him away, but
one of them receives a ball in his thigh, which crushes the
bone, and he falls groaning to the ground. They have at last
driven the enemy's skirmishers in upon the line of battle, and
are waiting. A score of men have fallen here, some killed
outright, some slightly., some sorely, some mortally wounded.
Now a battery has been hurried into position, the heavy trails
have fallen to the ground, and at the command "Commence
firing! "the cannoneers have stepped in briskly and loaded.
The first gun blazes at the muzzle, and away goes a shell. The
poor fellows in the woods rejoice as it crashes through the
trees over their heads, and cheer when it explodes over the
enemy's line.
But help is coming. At the edge of the woods, where the
skirmishers entered, the brigade is in line. Somebody has
ordered, "Load! "
The ramrods glisten and rattle down the barrels of a thousand
muskets. "Forward!"is the next command, and the brigade
disappears in the woods, the canteens rattling, the bushes
crackling, and the officers never ceasing to say, "Close tip,
men ; close up ! guide centre! "
The men on that skirmish line have at last found it advisable to
lie down at full length on the ground, t
hough it is so wet, and place their heads against the trees in
front. They cannot advance and they cannot retire without, in
either case, exposing themselves to almost certain death. They
are waiting for the line of battle to come to their relief.
At last, before they see, they hear the line advancing through
the pines. The snapping of the twigs, the neighing of horses,
and hoarse commands, inspire a husky cheer, and when the
line of the old brigade breaks through the trees in full view,
they fairly yell! Every man jumps to his feet, the brigade
presses firmly forward, and soon the roll of musketry tells all
who are waiting to hear that serious work is progressing away
down in the woods. Brigade after brigade and division after
division is hurried into line, and pressed forward into action.
Battalions of artillery open fire from the crests of many hills,
and the battle is begun.
Ammunition trains climb impassable places, cross ditches
without bridges and manage somehow to place themselves in
reach of the troops. Ambulances, which an hour before went
gayly forward, now slowly and solemnly returned loaded.
Shells and musket balls, which must have lost their way, go
flitting about here and there, wounding and killing men who
deem themselves far away from danger. The negro cooks turn
pale as these unexpected visitors enter the camps at the rear,
and the rear is extended at once.
At the front, a battery of the enemy is replying and shells are
bursting overhead, or ploughing huge furrows in the ground.
Musket balls are rapping on
the rims of the wheels and sinking with a deep thud into the
bodies of the poor horses. Smoke obscures the scene, but the
cannoneers in faint outline can be seen cheerfully serving the
guns.
As the opposing battery ceases firing, and having limbered
up, scampers away, and the last of the enemy's infantry
slowly sinks into the woods out of sight and out of reach, a
wild cheer breaks from the cannoneers, who toss their caps in
the air and shout, shake hands and shout again, while the
curtain of smoke is raised by the breeze and borne away.
The cavalry is gone. With jingle and clatter they have passed
through the lines and down the hill and are already
demanding surrender from many a belated man. There will be
no rest for that retreating column. Stuart, with a twinkle in his
eye, his lips puckered as if to whistle a merry lay, is on their
flanks, in their rear, and in their front. The enemy will send
their cavalry after him, of course, but he will stay with them,
nevertheless.
Add now the streams of wounded men slowly making their
way to the rear; the groups of dejected prisoners plodding
along under guard, and you have about as much of a battle as
one private soldier ever sees.