CHAPTER 3
Landscape Turned Red
Antietam, September, 1862
“. . . the earth also shall disclose her blood,
and shall no more cover the slain.”
Isa. 26:1
It was late August of 1862. The first hints of fall touched sky and land. The days, now becoming ever shorter, were delicately warmed with the southern sun reigning supremely in a cloudless sky of azure. The nights, their increasing length answering to the daylight call, were cool and crisp. The land, too, announced that summer was fast drawing to a close. Leaves on the deciduous trees of oak and maple were yet green, but with a darkening hue. In the orchard at the Prescott farm, red and gold apples hung profusely from branches bent low under their weight of fruit. The fields of oats, timothy, and alfalfa were cut and the grain stacked, ready to be taken into the great barn. Corn was ripening, soon to be shucked by the farm hands. Sweet corn, berries, and other garden products had been prepared for winter consumption.
Amanda walked slowly down the lane leading from the road, carrying the mail that had just been placed, at mid-morning, in the mail box. She shuffled through the various pieces of mail and soon saw a letter for which she had been waiting now for several days. It was addressed to her and bore the postmark, “Washington City.”
She entered the house and went on into the kitchen, where John and Rhoda were waiting for her for the lunch.
“I’ve heard from him,” she said, holding the letter in her hand for her parents to see.
“We’re anxious to know what he has to say,” Rhoda responded. This was the anticipated letter from the Vice-President, Hannibal Hamlin, in answer to a query that Amanda had earlier addressed to him. She quickly opened the envelope and began to read,
Washington City
August 12, 1862
My dear Amanda:
Your most welcome letter arrived a few days ago. I am not surprised that you wish to give of yourself during this time of great national trouble. Your desire to work as a nurse, to alleviate the ordeal of the wounded, is without question most commendable. I have made some inquiries along the lines you suggested in your recent letter, and can now give you some information and suggestions.
First, as to your inquiry concerning Miss Dorothea Dix’s Army Nursing Corps, which is under the auspices of the War Department. I’m sorry to inform you that you are not able to enter this organization, and for two reasons: you are too young and you are too beautiful! A curious set of reasons, I must admit; but there they are and nobody in the War Department has the courage to contest them. Miss Dix has placed a bulletin in the papers: “No woman under thirty need apply to serve in government hospitals. All nurses are required to be plain looking women. Their dresses must be brown or black, with no bows, no curls, no jewelry, and no hoops.”
But, despite your youth and beauty, your situation is not hopeless. (In writing this, I can’t but be somewhat amused at this strange reversal of the dictates of time.) There is a lady, a Miss Clara Barton, from Massachusetts, who, although several years your elder, was likewise disqualified for reasons of good looks. You probably know something of her. She collected food and medicine and took them to Culpepper, Virginia, and rendered an invaluable service to the soldiers who had been wounded at the battle of Cedar Mountain. Her work, she has said, is “to stand by the soldier between the bullet and the city hospital.” I have talked with Henry Wilson, the senator from Massachusetts, about your situation. He and Miss Barton are good friends, and he has talked with her about you. She is in need of an assistant and wishes to meet you. Senator Wilson is confident, from what I have told him about you and your family, that you will be accepted. This is what he suggests you do:
You should pack those items that you will need for the duration of your work and come to Washington. Since it is quite certain that Miss Barton will accept you, you might as well come prepared for that eventuality. Perhaps your father, and your mother as well, might accompany you. Let me know when you will arrive in Washington and I will arrange to meet your train.
Please give my fondest regards to your parents and the other children. You all know how much I treasure, and have done so over the years, such dear friends. Particularly in such times as these, bonds of affection provide the courage and strength to endure.
With affection,
Hannibal Hamlin
John and Rhoda stood in silence for a few moments, then with Amanda between them, the three sat down at the dinner table. They knew, again, that the war was extending its consuming tentacles around them. Just a few days earlier, on the first day of the month, Horace, the eldest son, had enlisted in the 9th battery of Massachusetts volunteers. The family had recently bid him a sad goodby. Lewis had made arrangements to enlist on the 30th of the month in the 1st regiment Maine cavalry. Of the five sons, only George remained out of the army. And now their youngest daughter, Amanda, would soon find her place in service to the country.
The morning of Sunday, August 31, dawned bright and clear, with the exception of a few wispy clouds in the sky. After the morning chores were finished and breakfast eaten, the ladies washed the dishes and prepared those portions of the noon meal that admitted of early preparation. John harnessed the brown mare and hitched her to the buggy. The three drove to the nearby country chapel, which they regularly attended, situated as it was by the murmuring waters of the river. The service being over, all of the members of the family living in the Philips vicinity gathered for sunday dinner at the old family home. There were George and his wife, Naomi; Octavia and her husband, George Russell; and Marilla and her husband, Henry McKenney. Eunice was there by herself, as Lewis had enlisted in the Maine cavalry. She was quiet and pensive. The occasion was a bitter-sweet one, marked by the tinge of heartache. It was to be Amanda’s last day at home, for tomorrow she and her parents were to start for Washington.
Monday, the 1st of September, George and Naomi took the three to the station, where they caught the train to Portland, Boston, and New York. From there their journey took them to Philadelphia, the cradle of liberty, and finally to Baltimore. Their rail car was drawn by a team of horses from the President Street station to the Camden Street station, over the route on which the 6th Massachusetts had been mobbed the previous year. After a short ride covering forty miles, their train arrived at the Washington depot on the evening of their third day of travel. They were happy to be met by Vice-President Hamlin and Senator Wilson.
They were introduced to the senator, who, as the chairman of the powerful Committee on Military Affairs, had been of great help to Clara Barton.
“I’m glad that you could take the time to meet us,” John said to his old friend and former college roommate.
“Well, it’s not hard to find time,” Hannibal laughed. “You’ve no idea just how little a Vice-President has to do, beyond sitting as the presiding officer of the Senate. Henry is much busier than I, but he wanted to come with me to meet you.”
“I am an avid supporter of Clara,” Henry said, “and have become very well acquainted with her. Any help I can give her, as well as Hannibal’s good friends, I’m glad to furnish.”
The three visitors spent the night at the Hannibal residence. John and his host stayed up late, reminiscing about former times and discussing the war situation.
“I can tell you this, John. The nature of this war will soon change.”
“What do you mean? How is it to change?”
“I think you know that there has been some difference of view between Lincoln and myself. No, it’s not what you might think. We haven’t fallen out, and our relations are cordial. I am more of a pronounced abolitionist than he. His aim in this war is to restore the Union, with or without slavery. I do understand the precarious position in which he finds himself, particularly the need to keep the support of the border states. Against this, he has to balance the growing demand throughout the North to turn the war into a crusade against slavery, into a mighty avalanche that will sweep the entire land clear of its terrible scourge.”
“I think this is inevitable, Hannibal. Whatever other factors contributed to the war‑-the industrial North versus the agrarian South, the authority of the Union versus the rights of states, for instance‑-the thing that really brought this war is the evil of human slavery. If this is its supreme cause, then before it is over the war must address this constituting evil, and the Administration must in the end face the basic issue.”
“Yes, John, I couldn’t agree more. Slavery is the poisonous serpent that has lay coiled at our national doors, ready to strike at any moment. It was so when the Constitution was framed. Even if we had not looked at the Constitution for a considerable time, how could we forget this? Don’t you remember Rhoda’s magnificent display of artillery that time when I was visiting you?”
This brought a hearty laugh from both men.
“And more recent events,” John said. “The Missouri Compromise of 1850, the Kansas-Nebraska Bill of 1854, and the Dred-Scott decision of 1857. Here is a roll call of events leading to the war, and they all revolve around the slavery issue. The truth is, that the war is really about slavery. Does Lincoln not see this?”
“Yes, of course he does. He’s always seen it. His earlier speeches witness unmistakably to this. We cannot stand, he has said, half free and half slave. But he has had to go slow. It won’t be long now until we’ll see a change. We’ve already seen the beginning. Last March he sent Congress a proposal for a state-supervised emancipation of slaves in the border states and rebel territory when it is captured. Nothing came of it in Congress. But mark my word, it’s the first step, and we’ll see more, I believe, in the very near future. Lincoln is ahead of things, and he knows where the country must go.”
It was now late and time to retire for the night. Tomorrow promised to be a busy day.
The next morning, Thursday, September 4, after a pleasant breakfast, Hannibal escorted the three to the office of Senator Wilson, and the little party proceeded to Clara’s apartment on Seventh street. They climbed the flight of stairs leading to her rooms, and were courteously ushered in by Clara. After the group was seated, Clara pushed the papers to the side of her desk‑-she had been writing letters to friends and contributors to her work‑-and with a solicitous smile and a relaxed informality made the group welcome.
“I’m so glad you have come,” she said, turning to Amanda, “Ah, you are so young and so lovely. And you wish to become a nurse and work with me.”
Amanda saw a small, slender, and attractive woman whom she judged to be about twice her age, perhaps thirty-nine or forty. She was about five feet tall, with fine brown hair parted in the middle and combed into a bun at the back of her head. Her face was round, her mouth wide and expressive, and her eyes a dark brown. As she talked, her eyes sparkled with the light of intelligence and humor.
“Yes, I most certainly do,” Amanda replied. “And I know a little about nursing, so I think that I will be able to carry on in this work. I hope that I will meet with your approval.”
“I know you shall, my dear. Henry has told me about you, and I’m sure that we will get along well. You can bring your things here and stay with me; I have room for both of us.”
“I’m wondering,” said Rhoda, “if you are not perhaps overly-hasty in arriving at this decision. In most cases, such an important decision takes much more time. We want you to be certain.”
“Yes, you must be sure of this,” Amanda said. “I do want to work with you very much, but I also want you to be satisfied in your choice.”
“I am most certainly satisfied. Henry has talked about you at length with the Vice-President, and I know enough about you to know that you are just the person I want. I don’t need a lengthy interview.”
“Clara does things her own way, anyhow,” Henry put in. “I will admit that most people would take much more time in something like this, but she knows what she is doing. We have given her assurance that you will work well with her. And she has made her decision. She does not do things in a conventional manner. I know of no other woman in the country who would on her own initiative fill three warehouses with medicines and food and take them to the battlefield to aid the wounded.”
The following morning witnessed the departure of Amanda’s parents. She and Hannibal accompanied John and Rhoda to the Washington depot, where they boarded the train and began their return journey to Maine. Goodbyes were exchanged with a sense of loneliness and sadness, for now John and Rhoda would return to their home, once filled with the joyous activity of children, but now empty of all save themselves.
On the morning of September 2, two brothers stood on the east bank of the Potomac, peering through the slowly ascending mists to the west. It promised to be a bright and cloudless day, after the furious thunderstorm of the preceding day. The brothers were soldiers in the ill-fated Army of Virginia, under the command of Major-General John Pope. That army had just been defeated in the second battle at Bull Run, fought on the 29th and 30th of the preceding month.
“Well, Asa,” William remarked to his brother, “I suppose that I ought to write another “Bull Run” letter home, but it would be so like the one I wrote last year that I’ll not bother with it this time around.”
“It’s a Redux, as Dad would say, I suppose,” was Asa’s wry reply. “And what a waste this war is becoming.”
“We haven’t had the right kind of leadership at the top,” William went on to say. “We could have broken through the Confederate lines last summer on the Peninsula, but McClellan lacked the courage to take offensive risks. And we could have beaten Lee’s divided forces the other day if Pope had managed us properly. He was simply out-generaled by Lee and his senior officers.”
“How could any general, as Pope did, allow the enemy with inferior numbers to surprise him in a flank movement and destroy his base of supplies, which Jackson did at Manassas?” Asa asked.
“Well, I guess there are two reasons,” William observed. “First, the Confederate general who managed this was Jackson. He has a way of surprising us with his audacity. And, second, our General asked for it. Remember his address to us last month? He came from the West, he said, to show us how war should really be made. We’re supposed always to see the backs of the enemy, always to be on the offensive and pay no attention to such things as our own lines of retreat and base of supplies. These should be left to take care of themselves. Jackson evidently took Pope at his word.”
“When we were coming in after the battle,” Asa said, “I heard one soldier, who evidently knew something about Horace Greely, shout, when he saw General Pope by the side of the road, ‘Go west, young man! go west.'”
“After our fight,” William went on to say, “at Bristoe Station, we lost track of Jackson and Pope marched us back and forth for an entire day. When we finally did find Jackson on the unfinished railroad near Sudley Springs, Pope thought that Jackson was retreating and sent us in to pursue him. But, as you know by now, it didn’t turn out that way at all. Jackson was ready for us and held us at bay. What finally broke us was Longstreet’s artillery that mowed us down on our flank.”
“We didn’t fare any better,” Asa said. “We had marched hard during the days and nights before we reached our position on your left to support the drive against Jackson. So we were pretty well tired out. Pope didn’t seem to be aware that Longstreet was at hand. After you were hit by his artillery, he came on us with such force that we also had to give way. We lost our regimental commander, Col. Webster.”
“Two defeats at Bull Run in a little over a year. The Peninsula campaign coming to nothing. I have been a part of all of this. And to what purpose? We can’t win the war this way. It will all have to change, and change soon, if we are to put down the rebellion. I wonder what is to come next?” William seemed for the moment to be far away, alone and lost in a sad thoughtfulness, unaware of the presence of his brother.
“I don’t know,” Asa said, breaking the spell, “but Little Mac is back in command.”
“That is a bit strange, what with his army having just been taken from him. But I guess there’s no one else. I hope he pushes harder than he did on the Peninsula. I wonder what our next move will be? It’ll probably depend on what Lee does. He seems to be running this war, not only for his side but for ours as well.”
William’s guess turned out to be true. The Federal move was a response to Lee’s decision to march northward to Maryland. Lee could not attack McClellan’s larger force at Washington. He could not stay at the site of his victory, since he had no supplies for his army. Finally, he could not retreat, for that would lose everything that he had thus far gained. The only alternative, he thought, was to invade the North. On September 3, the day following the meeting of the brothers, Lee moved north and west toward the shallow fords of the upper Potomac.
William received a well-deserved respite from his active engagement in the front lines of battle. He was with Brigadier-General Daniel E. Sickles’ division of the Third Army Corps. His regiment, the 1st Massachusetts, with two other regiments, guarded the Orange and Alexander Railroad from Burke’s Station to Bull Run Bridge, including Centreville and Fairfax Courthouse. Asa’s 12th Massachusetts, now under the command of Colonel Richard Coulter, was in the Third Brigade (Brigadier-General George L. Hartsuff), Second Division (Brigadier-General James B. Ricketts), First Army Corps (Major-General Joseph Hooker).
On September 4, Lee began crossing the Potomac into Maryland. Jackson’s vanguard reached Frederick on Saturday morning, the 6th of September. McClellan now began moving his army in pursuit of the Confederates. At 10:30 on the morning of September 5 Asa’s regiment, in concert with the other units of the First Corps, crossed the Chain Bridge and, marching on the right of the army, headed toward Frederick. It was a three-pronged march. Hooker’s First Corps, with the Ninth, made up the Right Wing, under the command of Major-General A. E. Burnside. The Center, which included the Second and Twelfth Corps, was under the command of Major-General E. V. Sumner. The Left Wing, comprised of the Fifth and Sixth Corps, was commanded by Major-General William B. Franklin. It was without question a grand army, totaling about 85,000 men.
The Right Wing moved north out of Washington. At the close of its first day of march, the 5th, the 12th Massachusetts bivouacked at Leesborough. The following day it went seventeen miles farther on, making camp near Mechanicsville. Two days later, the 8th, found the regiment ten miles farther north, near the turnpike, the National Road. On September 10, they reached the turnpike, some twenty miles east of Frederick, and then went on another fourteen miles toward Frederick, and made camp. On the night of the 12th, the regiment camped a few miles east of New Market on the outskirts of a little place called Strawtown.
During the night Asa was awakened by some revelry that, to his northern ears, sounded quite unfamiliar. He awakened his buddy.
“Do you hear that? What do you make of it? It doesn’t sound like our soldiers cutting up?”
“I don’t know,” his friend replied, “it does sound strange. But I suppose it’s alright, so we might as well go back to sleep.”
The next morning when the men reached the little town they ran into three hundred rebel soldiers who, it turned out, had bivouacked in the same field with the Union boys. “Well,” Asa said to his friend, “that clears up last night’s racket.”
By three o’clock on the afternoon of the 13th, the regiment reached New Market. The people were glad to see the Union forces, and greeted the soldiers with waving flags and handkerchiefs. The ladies gave the hungry soldiers bread and butter, meat, and several kinds of fruit and preserves. Washtubs of cold water and lemonade set beside the road relieved the thirst of the marchers. It was evident to the men that, contrary to Lee’s hopes, the people of Maryland were sympathetic to the Union cause. By 6:30 that evening the regiment was in camp on the banks of the Monocacy River.
On Sunday, September 7, McClellan moved his headquarters from Washington to Rockville. By evening of the following day, he knew that at least some of Lee’s forces had crossed the Potomac and were foraging in Maryland. But as yet he did not know where Lee’s main forces were or what they proposed to do. The situation remained cloudy over the next few days, although by Friday, the 12th, McClellan knew that the Confederate army had left Frederick. But beyond that he knew nothing of Lee’s intentions.
However, by late morning of the 13th, McClellans’s luck suddenly changed for the better. Earlier that morning, the 27th Indiana, a regiment in the First Division of the Twelfth Corps, was assigned a bivouac site in a meadow on the outskirts of Frederick, where a division of Confederates had made camp a few days earlier. Two soldiers were passing the time idly when they noticed a large envelope lying in the grass nearby. One of the men picked it up, opened it, and drew out a sheet of paper wrapped around three cigars. The cigars were a cut above the ordinary kind, and the men anticipated a pleasant smoke. Out of curiosity they glanced at the sheet of paper, and soon were reading a roster of high Confederate officers: Lee, Jackson, Longstreet, Hill, and Stuart. These were names the two men knew well, and, suspecting that the document was an important one, took it to their company commander. The paper was soon in McClellan’s hands.
It was Lee’s Special Orders No. 191, September 9, 1862, addressed to Major-General D. H. Hill, and which somehow had got lost. Now McClellan knew Lee’s intentions. Lee had decided to divide his force: Jackson was to move west, recross the Potomac and take Harper’s Ferry and occupy Bolivar Heights; McLaws and Walker were to move south and west and occupy Maryland Heights and Loudon Heights, both near Harper’s Ferry; and Longstreet was to move west beyond the mountains and occupy Boonsboro. When McClellan read the Order, he threw up his hands and exclaimed, “Now I know what to do.”
Harper’s Ferry is located at the junction of the Shenandoah and Potomac rivers. At this junction the Potomac swings from its north-south axis and flows west. The area is the Blue Ridge Mountains. Just north of Harper’s Ferry, on the Maryland side, is Elk Mountain. Pleasant Valley lies just to the east. On the east of the valley, and running north, is South Mountain. Catoctin Creek runs south between South Mountain and Catoctin Mountain to the east. There are three gaps that allow transit through South Mountain: Crampton’s Gap, leading into Pleasant Valley at the south; Fox’s Gap, three miles to the north; and, farther north, Turner’s Gap, through which runs the National Road from Frederick to Hagerstown.
At 3:00 A.M. on the morning of September 14, the men of the 12th Massachusetts were awakened by reveille. It was, even at an early hour, a pleasant Sunday morning, promising to be a sunny late summer day. The men marched to Frederic, where they remained for an hour. They then proceded west. They reached the summit of Cotoctin Ridge as the sun rose to send its rays into the lovely Cotoctin Valley. Spread out before them, like a fairy-land map, lay a fertile, well-kept valley, dotted with small villages, farms, and orchards, and through which ran small streams of clear, glistening water. After a short march the regiment reached Middletown, where signs of battle were beginning to appear. A short distance east of Turner’s Gap, where the battle was developing, a road, the Old Hagerstown Pike, led off the National Road and ran north to a small village called Frosttown. Just after the regiment took this road, it passed McClellan, who had been to the front reconnoitering. He sat on his great black charger, Dan Webster, and received the cheers of the passing soldiers. As Asa marched by, he saw the general raise his arm and point to the west, where the battle smoke was ascending, wraith-like, over the high summit of South Mountain. It was, Asa then thought, and remembered forever, a dramatic moment, like a pageant enacted to the accompaniment of guns.
In the Federal effort to force Turner’s Gap, McClellan placed Reno’s Corps on the left of the National Road, and Hooker’s Corps on the right. By late afternoon, both flanks were in position to force the Gap. Rickett’s Second Division took the center in the advance, Hatch’s First Division on the left and Meade’s Third Division on the right. The going was difficult, since the Confederates were massed on the high ridge above Frosttown and pouring musketry fire upon the advancing men. The terrain over which the men had to advance was very rugged and steep, thickly wooded, and marked by numerous ledges and large, loose rocks.
The Second Division moved in support of the lead division, Hatch’s First Division. Asa, along with others of his Company, Company B, under the command of Captain George W. Murch, threw themselves into the advance, meeting heavy fire from the enemy. About half way up the mountain, Asa was climbing over a ledge, his rifle in one hand, when he suddenly slipped and fell some twenty feet into a crevice. His descent was swift, but, contrary to his expectation, his landing was not too uncomfortable. He had landed on top of a Rebel soldier, who had suffered the same fate earlier when he was fighting in the area. Both men, being quite surprised, stared in astonishment at each other for a moment.
Then the Confederate broke out in laughter. “You can’t gobble me, and I can’t gobble you, till we know which is going to lick. Let’s wait till the shooting is over, and if your side wins I’m your prisoner, and if we win you’re my prisoner.”
“All right,” Asa replied, “fair enough. What happens to us now depends on the outcome of the battle.”
While the battle raged all along the side of the mountain above them, the two men assumed a friendly role and discussed the great events of the war. Both soldiers, now enemies, felt that, if they outlived the war, they were destined to enjoy a comradeship made in the most unlikely of circumstances. This war, Asa thought, was a war most unlike others; it was, indeed, a civil war.
By dark, the enemy was forced off the high ground, but it was now too dark for the division to move on to Turner’s Gap. The 12th Massachusetts had used up its ammunition by the time it had gained the summit of the pass. Nevertheless, it held its position until midnight, when it was relieved by fresh troops. Shortly thereafter, Asa found his regiment, bringing his prisoner with him. Asa’s report of his activities brought a great deal of merriment to the exhausted soldiers. He heard several comments‑-some none too serious‑-about his “prowess” as a captor.
At 7:30 the next morning, there was a flag of truce to allow for the burial of the dead. By eight o’clock the regiment was on the march again. It passed through Turner’s Gap, the scene of yesterday’s heavy fighting, and halted just beyond Keedysville, about halfway between the Gap and Sharpsburg.
Early the following morning, September 16, the regiment was roused by the sound of heavy firing in its front. Rations were issued to the men, and again the regiment was on the march, making a detour of two miles to avoid the artillery fire. By midmorning, Asa’s Company climbed the ridge overlooking
Antietam Creek and gazed upon the little valley of the Antietam. They
aaw a small creek, meandering along a north-south axis and flowing into the Potomac a short distance to the south. The valley through which the creek wound its course was beautiful. There were green fields where cattle were grazing, orchards ripe with fruit, and fields of yellow grain ready for the harvest. Just beyond where the men stood were undulating hills and fertile meadows, and well-kept farmhouses, many sheltered by trees and half-hidden by vines of grapes.
Across the creek, the land rose fairly steeply to form a north-south ridge, about 150 feet in height. The terrain was broken with many wooded hills and ravines, interspersed with patches of corn. To the west of the ridge lay the small town of Sharpsburg, the spires of its church just visible to the men.
General Lee had positioned his army on a battle line extending four miles on a north-south axis along the eastern slope of the ridge overlooking the west bank of the Antietam. From the road, the Sharpsburg and Boonesboro Turnpike, over which the 12th Massachusetts had marched that morning, Asa viewed the panoramic scene and knew then that a great battle was in the making.
McClellan had positioned his army along the eastern ridge of the Antietam, paralleling and facing the Confederate army. Hooker’s First Corps was on the Federal right, Sumner’s Second Corps in the center, and Burnsides’ Ninth Corps on the left. All during that day, September 16, the two great armies looked at each other across the little stream separating them.
At four o’clock in the afternoon Hooker’s division moved across the Antietam on the Upper Bridge and through the many shallows in the vicinity of the bridge and took a position north of the Confederate left. There was some exchange of rifle fire and artillery around sunset, but as darkness came on these faded. Hooker’s Corps bivouacked that night behind a ridge on a farm owned by Joseph Poffenberger. As the night progressed, it began to rain. At 2 o’clock in the morning, now the 17th of September, the men were told to get some sleep in preparation for the pending battle. Asa and his fellows got what sleep was possible under the circumstances. But sleep was difficult, and there was much talk of what the day would bring. The men got what nourishment they could: hardtack and dry ground coffee. No fires were allowed in camp. The rain continued to fall; the shrouds of night draped the land with a solemn and foreboding heaviness. Finally, all was still. But was it the stillness of death?
Early in July President Lincoln had issued a call for 300,000 volunteers from the several Union States to replenish the Union armies. It was a call that was destined to change forever the life of a young man from New Hampshire.
On the morning of August 25, 1862, George Levi Eaton enlisted in his home city of South Hampton, New Hampshire. He, with others of the area, was to join the 6th New Hampshire, which was in the Eastern theater. After two weeks of training, he bid goodby to his wife, Elizabeth Ann, and their small daughter, Eliza, and was driven by his father to the depot. By eleven o’clock his group was at Concord, where the men got their uniforms. While at Concord, the men ate supper at the Elm House. Breakfast, consisting usually of bread and meat, and lunch were had on the grounds where the men camped, sometimes in company with the neighborhood rats.
After a few days the men were ordered in formation and marched to the station, where they boarded a train for Boston, arriving there in mid-afternoon. At 5:30 that evening, they boarded another train, at a second depot, for New London. At 10:30 that night, they trooped on board a steamboat, which entered New York harbor early the next morning. That afternoon the men crossed by boat to New Jersey and rode the train to Perryville, arriving at five o’clock the next morning. The troops were taken by boat across the Susquehanna River and at Havre de Grace boarded another train. On both sides of the river, there were companies of soldiers guarding the areas. Several cannon were positioned on the banks of the river.
As the train rattled along over the rails, the men looked out into the countryside. They saw fields of grain and corn, set off by rail fences. In the approaches to Baltimore, the tracks were lined with sentinels guarding the railroad and bridges. At ten o’clock that morning the train pulled into the President Street station. The men got off, marched to the Camden Street station, boarded the Baltimore and Ohio cars, and by noon were in Washington. There was some free time that day, and the men were released to see the sights of the city. George and some others visited the Capitol. That night the troops slept in the box cars of the Baltimore and Ohio railroad, so as to be ready early the next morning for the trip to the location of the army.
At five o’clock the next morning the train pulled out of the Washington depot. At many places along the line the ladies waved and cheered as the train rushed by. The bridge over the Monocacy River, two miles east of Frederick, had been burned by the rebels, and the train was forced to stop. By this time it was dark, so the men made camp under two large trees. It rained quite hard during the night, although George and his buddies managed to sleep well.
The next morning the men rose at dawn and bathed in the river. After a breakfast of coffee and crackers, they marched through Frederick. All day the men moved west, until night found them on the crest of Catoctin Mountain. They camped there that night in the open, under the stars.
The next day the troops again headed west. They came to the small village of Middletown, where the men paused to rest. There was time enough for George to write a letter home, which he placed in the post office. They went on to Boliver, then to Rohrersville, where they made camp for the night.
The next day, the final day of the journey, saw the men up at daylight. After rations were eaten, the soldiers continued their march. When they reached the top of Elk Ridge Mountain, on the Old Sharpsburg Road, they saw the the Union army, over 71,000 men supported by 300 pieces of artillery. Facing the Union forces on the west bank was the Confederate army. It was September 16, 1862.
The march continued on the Sharpsburg Road. Soon the newcomers joined their fellows, the 6th New Hampshire, in the Ninth Corps of Ambrose E. Burnside. The Corps was in camp on the left of the Union line in a hollow near the lower bridge over Antietam Creek.
During these days, the balmy days of late summer, there was another movement of forces toward the west. It was a small force and it was a benign force of mercy.
On Saturday evening, September 13, there was a knock on the door of Clara Barton’s apartment. Amanda opened the door and was handed a slip of paper. It was a note from someone in the army, and it read “Harper’s Ferry, not a moment to be lost.” Amanda gave the paper to Clara. She quickly read it, and realized that somewhere northwest of Washington a battle was imminent. She immediately went to the office of Colonel Daniel H. Rucker, head of the Quartermaster Depot in Washington, to ask his permission for her to join the Army of the Potomac and supply her with an army wagon and a team. This he promised to do.
Early the next morning, Sunday, a large covered wagon pulled by six mules arrived at the door of the apartment. Besides the driver, Clara’s assistant, Cornelius Wells, was on hand. In her previous field work, Clara had encountered strong opposition from men who thought that she was out of place. However, Wells, an ordained Baptist minister, had no such view, and was willing to work under Clara’s supervision. Amanda, this time, was to join in the work. They packed the wagon with medical supplies, canned food, and candle lanterns, and were soon on the way. They took the old National Road to Frederick, the route taken by the army some days earlier. When night came upon them, they made camp in an open field beside the road, the ladies sleeping in the wagon and the men in their blankets on the nearby ground. During the night, there came from the west, in the direction of Catoctin and South mountains, the distant thunder of artillery, which kept waking the two women.
At dawn the next morning, they proceeded westward, crossed Catoctin Mountain and came down into a golden valley of wheat and corn. They went on, through Middletown, over South Mountain at Turner’s Gap, where they overtook what appeared to be numberless supply wagons moving up to the army. Wending their way through the gap, Clara and Amanda gazed over an actual battlefield for the first time. Along the roadside, in the bordering woods, the dead lay in a mingled mass. There were times when the wagon ran over the dead lying in the road. Sick at heart, Clara and Amanda went out among the dead to see if there were any still living. But the only living were some civilians digging graves. It seemed that even the trees were weeping, as the dew from the leaves dropped silently upon the upturned faces of the sleeping dead.
The wagon, in the wake of the supply train, headed down the western side of South Mountain. It was slow going, and impossible to pass the wagons. When night came, Clara had her driver pull the wagon to the side of the road to afford an opportunity for a few hours of rest. At one o’clock in the morning‑-it was now September 16‑-the little party was again on the move. As the sun rose, they came up with the horse-drawn artillery, on the Boonsboro Turnpike leading into Sharpsburg. At midmorning the occupants of the wagon saw the great army, spread north and south of the turnpike, positioned in the valley of the Antietam. The driver threaded his way over a little back road, through countless Union camp fires, and finally drew up along Burnside’s Ninth Corps.
The rain began falling. Clara and Amanda slept in the wagon. They prayed for strength. Tomorrow the army was to go into battle, and they were to go with it. They would “see the Elephant,” as the soldiers termed the experience of combat. They pulled their blankets around them, awaiting the dawn.
In the early hours before dawn on the 17th of September, Rickett’s Second Division was formed astride a small road, the Smoketown Road, running south and west to join the north-south Hagerstown Turnpike, which was a short distance to the west. Just across the angle of the junction stood a little white church, the Dunker Church. Hartsuff’s Third Brigade held the center position, flanked by the other two brigades of the division. The brigade was drawn up on a meadow, beyond which was a newly- plowed field and, at its south edge, a forest. A large cornfield extended southwest from the forest to the junction of the two roads. The objective that morning was to push through to the Dunker Church.
At dawn, the line of the 12th Massachusetts stepped off the meadow into the plowed field. At that instant Rebel batteries near the Dunker Church opened upon the advancing men, sending shells screaming over their heads. With the range corrected, the shells began exploding in the ranks, wounding and killing several men. Asa, as did others, fell prone, his body molded into the freshly turned soil, and crawled forward toward the forest. The shells exploded with greater frequency, heaving and rolling the ground. Finally the men reached the woods, where, sheltered behind the trees, they drove the Rebels out with little difficulty.
The men were now at the northern edge of the cornfield. They jumpe over a rail fence and ran into the head-high corn, shouting and even laughing in the excitement of battle. Asa saw ahead of him rank upon rank of bayonets, tilted upward so as to catch and reflect the brilliant rays of the sun. It was, he sensed for a moment, as if the field was one of magic. But he knew what it meant: a field filled with the enemy, with arms in their hands and standing at support arms. There was a tremendous roar, which nearly deafened the men. It was Hooker’s batteries firing into the cornfield. Asa viewed in amazement as the Federal canister cut great swaths of corn stalks, as if an ancient mythical god of war had suddenly appeared to reap his vengeful harvest with a giant scythe. The field having been cut down, Asa then looked upon a terrible spectacle, chilling the heart even of a veteran soldier. The Confederate dead lay in row after row exactly as they had stood in rank moments before.
The command was to push forward. On through the felled corn, over the bodies of the slain, the men of the 12th Massachusetts ran, firing at the retreating enemy. As he ran, Asa found himself near his brigade commander, George Hartsuff, who was riding the line on his horse. Hartsuff was hit by enemy shell and fell prostrate in the field. Asa stopped, and knelt beside him. “General, are you badly hit?”
“Yes, I fear so,” the general replied.
“Let me help you to the rear.”
“No, no, my boy,” the general said. “You know that our orders are to leave the wounded and stay in battle. This must be obeyed, even when the wounded man is an officer. You must go on with your brigade and regiment.”
Heart-sick as he was, Asa was obliged to obey his superior. He soon caught up with his regiment. He heard Colonel Coulter, who succeeded to brigade command, shout, “Forward, Third Brigade.”
“I think they will hold it,” General Hooker, who was nearby, said, as he watched the magnificent brigade continue its advance through the cornfield.
The entire division was close to its objective, the Dunker Church. Asa saw a massive column of butternut men emerge from the woods behind the church. It was Hood’s men coming to reinforce Jackson, who had come from Harper’s Ferry in time to take part in the battle. The column bore down on the Union soldiers, pouring volley after volley in their ranks at point-blank range. Now the great scythe of the war god ran through the line of the 12th Massachusetts. The men fell by the score. The dead of the regiment lay in piles. Officer after officer went down in the deadly hail of destruction. Ricketts pushed his regiment forward. By now the regiment had fought steadily for nearly four hours. The ammunition was nearly exhausted, and the regiment was forced to retire to refill boxes. Just as Asa turned to go to the rear, he felt a numbing blow on his right thigh, and then an excruciating and searing pain. He was barely conscious, yet dimly aware that he had been hit, when he fell to the ground. A companion, who himself had been hit in an arm, was able to help Asa rise and limp to the rear. The men finally reached the woods, where they rested under the shade of a large tree, waiting the time when the ambulance wagons would arrive to carry them to the field hospital. Someone had torn his coat and bound his wound. During the hours of waiting, Asa drifted in and out of consciousness. But he knew that in all probability his part in the war was finished.
At three o’clock in the morning of that day, the 17th, Clara and Amanda were awakened by the sound of gunfire. They got out of the wagon and peered into the darkness, but could see nothing. Again they heard the sound of guns off to the right. When dawn finally came, after an anxious wait, the mists were so thick that it was impossible to see anything. Suddenly, on the heights, again off to the right, the Federal artillery went into action with thunderous salvoes. The women were deafened by the concussions of the guns. Shells and shot came screeching overhead, striking the ground with such force that it trembled under their feet. Soon musketry fire accompanied the roar of artillery. The great battle, the women then knew, was beginning. It was Hooker’s offensive, on the extreme right of the Union line.
“That is where the battle is, Amanda,” Clara said, almost to herself. “This is where we will be needed first.”
Clara and Amanda were soon in their wagon, for the men were up and ready to move out. They drove north along a narrow lane running along the crest of a wooded ridge. They could see in the distance the spires of Sharpsburg and the flashes of cannon to the north. The party soon reached the Keedysville Road and followed it until they reached the Smoketown Road. Turning south, they came near Hooker’s lines. At nine o’clock that morning the driver pulled up at an old barn, nearly hidden in a cornfield, a short distance from the main battleground. The women looked around and saw a large number of wounded men lying in the cornfield around the barn.
“Here is where we are needed,” Clara said, as the men unhitched the mules and brought the supplies into the barn. The women soon realized that they were on the front lines; they spotted a Union battery on a nearby hill, with Federal infantry standing near the guns as if anticipating an attack. In the south the sound of battle continued, accompanied by the screams of wounded and dying men. Wounded men, piteous in their agony, were continuing to make their way to the barn.
“Oh, this is horrible,” Amanda exclaimed. “These men must have help, but where are the surgeons? We’ve got to find some way to save these poor boys.”
Their driver, always so ready to help, appeared with the news that he had found a farmhouse, down a lane a few rods from the barn, where there were tables and surgeons. Immediately Clara and Amanda grabbed armloads of bandages and stimulants and rushed to the house. It was made of stone, had an upper story and a broad veranda in front, and was situated in a slight depression that sheltered it from the incoming Confederate fire.
To Clara’s surprise Dr. James Dunn, an army surgeon with whom she had earlier worked, stood in the door yard. He was as surprised as she.
“God has remembered us,” he said. “How did you get from Virginia here? So soon? And again to supply our necessities.”
In a few words Clara told her story, how she was able to come. She introduced Amanda to the surgeon, who was happy to have her help at such a time of need.
“We have nothing,” he told the women, “but our instruments and a little chloroform we brought in our pockets. I have torn up the last sheets we could find in this house, have not a bandage, rag, lint, or string. And all these wounded men bleeding to death.
“See here,” he said, leading the women to the porch. Surgeons were operating on four wounded men lying on makeshift tables, alongside of which were piles of amputated legs and arms. The men’s wounds were bandaged with dry corn leaves. “That is how desperate we are.”
Clara and Amanda were soon at work, replacing the makeshift bandages with linen. Their work of mercy had begun.
The two women worked incessantly over the incoming wounded. They comforted the weary, anxious men awaiting amputation, staunched bleeding wounds, gave cordials to the fainting, moistened the parched lips of the thirsty, and aided the surgeons when they needed assistance. The house was under fire throughout the day, the shells crashing into the trees and even exploding among the wounded. It was soon riddled by stray bullets. But through it all, the women toiled incessantly, now at the house and then at the barn, living, as it were, on sheer adrenaline.
A young soldier lying on the ground by the door of the house asked Amanda for a drink of water. She bent over him and raised his head with one hand and held a cup to his lips with the other. She felt a slight twitch of the sleeve on her right arm. The soldier fell back from her hand and dropped to the ground. A bullet had torn through her sleeve and hit the solder in the chest, killing him instantly.
There was not sufficient space in the house to place the soldiers, so when their wounds had been dressed they were taken to the barn. Clara and Amanda went back and forth from the house to the barn that morning, attending to the wounded.
Noon came. The wounded were arriving in such large numbers that the two nurses found no time in which to rest or eat. They had just returned from the barn to the house, now the field hospital, when another load of wounded was brought in by the ambulance wagon. A severely wounded man was carefully lifted from the ambulance and carried to the operating table. His face was partially covered. Amanda saw that he was barely conscious. Dr. John Hayward, the surgeon for the 12th Massachusetts, was at the table, working with Dr. Dunn.
“I believe I know this man,” Dr. Hayward said. “He’s from my regiment, the Webster Regiment, the 12th Massachusetts.”
The surgeons were preparing to dress the patient’s wound.
“Amanda,” Clara asked, “will you place this cloth over his face to relieve the pain?”
Amanda took the cloth, soaked in chloroform, and turned to the soldier. She saw him clearly for the first time, and exclaimed, pathetically: “Oh, no, no, it’s Asa; it’s my brother, Asa. Oh, dear Lord, help us!”
The little group was stricken. Hardened as the surgeons and nurses were becoming in the presence of suffering, this meeting of brother and sister under these circumstances made a powerful impression upon them.
“Let me help, Amanda,” Clara said. “Do you want to sit down; do you feel faint?”
“No, I’m alright,” replied, as she placed the cloth tenderly over Asa’s face. “I’m here for a purpose, to help Asa. I want to help him.”
The surgeons examined Asa’s thigh. There was some discussion between them.
“Will his leg have to be amputated,” Amanda queried.
“That’s what we’ve been discussing,” Dr. Dunn replied. “To be safe, it probably ought to be taken off. Yet there is a slight chance that it will heal, although it is a risk. But he will get better care in the Washington hospital.”
“I know what Asa’s decision would be, and I’ll make it for him. He would want to take the chance, even risk his life, and keep the leg. He would not want to go through life severely crippled.”
“All right, then,” Dr. Hayward said, “that settles it. We’ll clean the wound of bone and shell particles and dress it as best we can here and send him as soon as we can to Washington.”
The surgeons went to work immediately, assisted by Clara and Amanda. Amanda bent over and kissed her brother and then placed the chloroform gently over his face. Throughout the surgery, Clara noticed, Amanda’s other hand was placed in her brother’s hand.
“What an awful war, and becoming so costly,” Clara said, almost to herself. “How is it possible in a civilized world that a brother and sister could meet at a time and place like this. Will this war ever end?”
As the surgery progressed, the Confederate artillery opened a savage cannonade on the Union right. Shot and shell rained down on the Federal artillery, which was near the house, and also struck the ground near the house with such force that the operating table jarred and rolled, nearly throwing Asa to the ground. The smoke of battle became so thick that it became difficult to see. Through it all, Amanda stood beside her brother, her ears ringing, her tongue dry, her lips parched to bleeding, her mouth tasting of gunpowder, and her hands raw.
When the surgeons had done their best, Asa was taken to the barn. At the house, the work of mercy and healing continued with no pause. All through the day, Amanda assisted in the work, snatching intervals of time so as to run up the lane to the barn to her brother’s side. On one such trip, late in the afternoon, she stooped at Asa’s side. He had regained consciousness, and, glancing up, saw his sister.
“Amanda,” he cried, “is that you? Are you here? Do you know what happened to me?”
“Yes, Asa, it is I. I was there when you were brought in.”
“I was hit in the leg. I can’t feel my leg. Do I have it, or has it been amputated?”
“No,” Amanda assured him, “you have your leg, and the doctors believe that it will heal. You will always know that you have been wounded, but you will walk again. I’m so glad. You’ll be taken to Washington soon, where you will get adequate care and you’ll recover. I know you will.”
“I knew that you were in the army as a nurse, but I never once thought that we would meet in this way. But what a comfort to have you here.”
“It is all in God’s providence. I knew that you would want it, so I asked the doctors not to remove your leg. I hope that I have done the right thing.”
“You have, I’m sure of it. I will get well. I will resolve to recover. You know, the old motto that Dad always drummed into us, even when we were very young: Vincit qui patitur.”
The dark hours of night fell, and stil the surgeons worked, Clara and Amanda assisting in numerous ways. They brought their lanterns to the barn so as to be able to see as they tended the wounded. Back at the farmhouse Dr. Hayward was sitting at a table, watching the dying flame of a single candle. His head was bowed, resting on his hands.
“You are so tired, Dr. Hayward,” Clara said, placing her hand on his shoulder.
“Yes, I’m tired. I’m tired of war, tired of such carnage and heartlessness and folly. There are more than a thousand wounded men here and half of them will die by morning. And I have no light, except this dying candle, to enable me to see to tend these men. What shall I do?”
“Show him, Amanda,” Clara said.
Amanda took him by the arm and led him to the door, pointing to the barn. The light flickered through the waving corn.
“What is that?” he asked with great incredulity.
“Those are lanterns; we brought four boxes of them. The men will get them and hang them in the house. You’ll have the light that you need. Don’t be discouraged.”
In a few minutes the operating room was aglow with light. Throughout the long night Clara and Amanda assisted the surgeons, who removed bullets and amputated mangled limbs. The women, without thought of rest, worked the night through, walking up and down the lanes of the wounded lying outdoors, feeding them with gruel, raising cups of cold water to parched lips, and comforting the dying. They were, indeed, angels of mercy.
On the morning of September 17, General Burnside’s Ninth Corps was in position about a half mile east of the lower bridge over Antietam Creek. The 6th New Hampshire, which George Eaton had joined the preceding day, was commanded by Colonel Simon G. Griffin. It was in the First Brigade (Brigadier-General James Nagle), the Second Division (Brigadier-General Samuel D. Sturgis).
For the most part, the entire Ninth Corps was an idle spectator of the events occurring to its north. The 6th New Hampshire was at rest on the right of the Ninth Corps, just behind a ridge near the Rohrbach house. When the men climbed the ridge periodically during the morning, they saw something of Hooker’s offensive. By nine o’clock, the offensive, supported by Mansfield’s Twelfth Corps, was stalled, although the troops held their ground. The battle then shifted to the center of the Federal line.
The second phase of the battle opened at that hour, when the lead division, Sedgwick’s, of Sumner’s Second Corps advanced through the southern part of the East Woods toward the Dunker Church. The division proceeded through the corn, which was very high and strong, until it crossed the Hagerstown Turnpike and moved into the West Woods. Sumner was riding at the head of the division, when the Confederates, under Jackson, furiously attacked its flank. It was a catastrophe. More than two thousand men lost their lives within fifteen minutes. The division was forced to retire to the east of the Turnpike.
The battle now moved southward. The men of D. H. Hill’s division occupied an entrenched position. Six hundred yards south of the Dunker Church, a farm road left the Hagerstown Turnpike and ran east and southeast to Antietam Creek. Heavily used over the years, it became worn down until it was several feet below ground. Rail fences lined both sides of the road. The Confederates were entrenched in this road, invisible to the approaching Union forces.
Sumner’s remaining two divisions, those of French and Richardson, came from the north, topped the ridge and looked down upon the masses of men below them. At first the Confederates felt confident as they shot into the incoming Union ranks, yelling, “Go away, you black devils! Go home!” Oon came the men, firing and slaughtering the rebel forces. The left of the Confederate line pulled out of the sunken road and it was soon occupied by the Federals, who lay down an enfilading fire all along the enemy line. Soon the sunken road, now a “bloody lane,” was filled, even over-filled, with the dead. Those who managed to live broke and ran for the rear.
The second phase of the Battle of Antietam was over by 1:00 P.M. It was time for the commencement of the third phase, Burnside’s successful attempt to cross the Antietam over the little bridge before which his troops were assembled, waiting for the command to move out.
The lower bridge, known locally as the Rohrbach Bridge, was a stone structure of three arches, with stone parapets. It was 125 feet long and 12 feet wide. The road from Rohrersville, to the east, wound along the steep ridge of the Antietam, and, descending into the valley a short distance south of the bridge, made a sharp left turn to cross the bridge. After crossing the bridge, the main road made a sharp right turn and followed the creek bank before ascending the ridge and entering Sharpsburg. There was also a small farm road leading off to the left of the bridge at its west end.
There was very little cover to protect the Union men while they were preparing to attack the bridge. A farm, the Rohrbach Farm, was situated about a half mile south and east of the bridge. There was an orchard in front of the farmhouse. A freshly plowed field extended from the orchard to the ridge above the creek. On the left of this field was a cornfield. And on the right of the field, facing the creek, was a lane leading from the house to the bridge road. The lane descended from the high ground through a ravine, which afforded the Federals their only protection.
Early on the morning of the 17th, General McClellan ordered Burnside to form his troops to assault the bridge. Sturgis’ Second Division moved into position opposite the bridge. The 11th Connecticut, of Brigadier-General Isaac P. Rodman’s Third Division, was thrown out as skirmishers to cover the front of Sturgis’ men.
The 11th Connecticut made the first attempt to take the bridge. The regiment was formed just behind two knolls overlooking the east bluffs of the Antietam. At 10 o’clock the men raced over the bluffs and reached the rail fence and stone wall at the south and north sides of the bridge. After ten minutes of severe fighting, with severe losses, the regiment was forced to retire to the safety of the knolls.
A few minutes later, about 10:30, Colonel Griffin’s 6th New Hampshire received its order to carry the bridge. With his comrades in arms, George marched down the ravine of Rohrbach’s lane, turned left over a ridge and stopped in a small gully in the upper end of the cornfield. After a short pause, the regiment, following the 2nd Maryland, rushed down the gully and crossed the plowed field below the bridge. The order was given to charge with fixed bayonets. The men did so, in columns of four. The Georgians of Brigadier-General Robert Toombs’ brigade were defending the western end of the bridge and poured a merciless fire into the Union ranks. From trees, which snipers had climbed, from behind a rock quarry and barricades came a hail of bullets, wounding and killing the attackers. Yet through it all, many of the men, including George, made it to the bridge, only to huddle behind its fragile protection. Realizing that they could make no further advance, the two regiments withdrew behind the safety of the ridge behind them.
About an hour later, the two regiments made a second attempt to force the bridge. The Georgians threw everything they had at the advancing men. A fifteen foot length of railroad iron came whizzing over the heads of the startled men. George watched it in amazement as it twirled end over end and hit the ground behind him, then catapulted down the ridge toward the men. Again, Toombs’ Georgians repulsed the regiments and drove them back to the safety of the twin knolls behind the ridge.
Nagle’s First Brigade had expended itself in its two efforts to force the bridge. Burnside himself ordered the divisional commander, General Sturgis, to commit the Second Brigade, commanded by Brigadier-General Edward Ferraro, to take the bridge. This time the attempt succeeded. By 1:00 P.M. the Union colors were planted at the west end of the bridge. Soon the 6th New Hampshire, although pretty well worn out, was across to add its weight to the drive up the steep ridge toward Sharpsburg.
With Sturgis’ division now across the bridge, Rodman’s division across Snavely’s Ford south of the bridge, and the Kanawha Division, under Colonel Eliakim P. Scammon, across the creek north of the bridge, a Federal arc of three-division strength was in position to advance upon Sharpsburg. Were this successful, Lee’s army would be enveloped and cut off from retreat into Virginia.
General McClellan had earlier promised Burnside to support his drive with reinforcements. But he never made good on his promise. An entire Corps, Major-General Fitz John Porter’s Fifth Corps, was held in reserve near McClellan’s headquarters. Nevertheless, Burnside was ordered to carry the advance into Sharpsburg. His lead division, Sturgis’ Second Division, which had borne the brunt of the offensive thus far, was out of ammunition. The division was pulled back to the hills overlooking the creek to rest and refit. The First Division, under Brigadier-General Orlando B. Wilcox, was brought across to replace Sturgis, Burnside himself helping to direct the traffic. It was not until 3:00 that afternoon that the army was in condition to renew its offensive.
Wilcox’s division, on the right of the line, advanced to the outskirts of Sharpsburg. Rodman’s division, to the left of Wilcox, was to enter the town on the south. After hard fighting, the Union forces were close to realizing their goal. At approximately 4:30, A. P. Hill, who had marched that day from Harper’s Ferry, entered the battle and routed the Union left. Burnside had to pull back all of his forces on his right, and the Ninth Corps, now on the defensive, retreated to the ridge just west of Antietam Creek. The Confederates were content to let the matter rest, and did not launch an attack upon the Ninth Corps. The Battle of Antietam drew to its close with the setting sun. A dense, sulphurous smoke hung over the little valley. The rays from the westering sun filtered through the haze, turning the sky into a crimson vault. The trampled fields of corn and meadow were tinged with red. In the Antietam, in its sheltered eddies, whirlpools of red still circled and re-circled in the sluggish current. It was as if all nature, all of its great elements, had joined in a chorus of condemnation of human folly. The night came, and with it the murmuring night wind rippling over the fields of wheat and clover, carrying on its breath the cries of the suffering of both armies. The unconscious stars gave their feeble light, and the unconscious stream glided silently in its course. The living groped their way through the darkness of the night, searching for the lost.
Throughout the next day, September 18, the two exhausted armies faced each other. When night came the Union men heard the tramp of marching feet and the sound of rolling wheels. Lee’s army was retreating over the Potomac into Virginia.
For the next few days, the Federal army remained in camp along the Antietam. On Friday morning, October 3, George Eaton rose at daylight, went down to the creek to wash, and ate a hearty breakfast with others of his regiment. Orders came down to prepare to march. After marching a mile, the regiment joined the other units of the great army in a large wheat field. After an hour’s wait, George saw Generals McClellan and Burnside, with their staffs, approaching. Then he saw a tall, rather ungainly figure, wearing a black stovepipe hat. It was the President, Abraham Lincoln, who had come to review the troops. A great roar of applause went up, as the men cheered their great leader. Soon the bands struck up, playing the favorite tunes of the day.
On Tuesday, the 7th of October, the 6th New Hampshire marched over the Blue Ridge, making its way into Pleasant Valley. The day was extremely hot, and many men fell ill and fainted. George was sunstruck on that day. That night the men made camp in the valley, about two miles north of Harper’s Ferry. On October 28, another Tuesday, George boarded a box car and was taken to Frederick, and from there to Washington. He was taken by ambulance to the Judiciary Square General Hospital to convalesce.
It was a pleasant, but crisp, sun-lit afternoon in mid-November. A light dusting of snow covered the grounds of the General Hospital. Two men sat in chairs near each other. Both were recuperating from the disabling effects of the recent campaign.
Asa had been dozing, but soon after waking he noticed that another man, perhaps a year or two younger than he, was quietly sitting in the chair next to his. “Well,” he said with a smile, “I take it that you’re here for about the same reason that I’m here. Who are you with in the army?”
“My name is George L. Eaton. I’m with the 6th New Hampshire, Burnside’s Ninth Corps.”
“That means, then, I suppose, that you were in the fight at the lower bridge. Am I correct?”
“Yes, that is so. I made it safely across the bridge, after two strenuous efforts. But later, I was sunstruck in the Blue Mountains. I’m recovering well and should be out of here quite soon. How about you? Although I can see that you fared far worse than I, for which I’m truly sorry.”
“I’m Asa D. Prescott, 12th Massachusetts, Hooker’s Corps. I received my wound while fighting in the West Woods. The doctors now assure me that my leg will heal, although I’ll walk with a limp. In fact the limp has already been named, by my father. It is ‘Jacob’s Limp,’ for, father wrote, now I’ve wrestled with the dark angel of war and have been touched in the thigh by his finger.”
This brought a laugh from both men.
“We took a frightful loss in the West Woods,” Asa said. “According to the reports that have since come in, we went in with 334 men and lost, killed and wounded, 224 men, 67 percent of our force.”
“My wife’s mother is a Prescott,” George said. “She is Caroline M. Prescott, whose father was Simon Prescott. Her people have lived in New Hampshire since a James Prescott came over from England in 1665.”
“My people are originally from New Hampshire,” Asa said. “My great-grandfather moved from there to Maine. My boyhood home is in Maine. Your wife and I are no doubt cousins, perhaps removed from each other by a generation.
“We should have, and could have, won that battle and captured Lee’s army and ended the war.”
“When we were being forced back by Hill’s men, ” George responded, “Burnside warned McClellan that we had to have more men and guns or we could not hold or advance against the enemy. The only answer Burnside received was that it was up to him, and him alone, to hold his ground, that there were no additional troops available for him.”
“That wasn’t true, “Asa replied, “McClellan had an entire Corps, Porter’s Corps, that he could have sent. Since the battle I’ve heard that a third of our army never saw action. And McClellan didn’t use his cavalry to learn what the enemy was doing.”
“The entire army should have gone into action at the same time,” George said, “rather than in three separate, disconnected battles.”
“That, too, was McClellan’s fault,” Asa replied. “He should have done more than merely watch the battle; he should have been in active command. My brother, William, was in the Peninsula campaign, and has told me that McClellan behaved this way there.”
“In any event, Asa, McClellan is out of the war, and my general, Burnside, has replaced him. We’ll have to see how this works out.”
“But a great good has come out of Antietam,” Asa offered. “You’ve read Lincoln’s proclamation, I’m sure. Here, I have it in my pocket,” he said, as he gave the paper to George. “I keep it with me; read it again.”
“Yes, certainly, I’ve read it. It means that the war has changed. It is not only a war to save the Union, but it is a war to save freedom. We will see the end of human slavery. And this means, finally, that we no longer have to fear foreign intervention in support of the South. It is inconceivable that England can intervene to support the evil of slavery; her people would revolt if that were to happen.”
Then, the sun slowly slipping under the horizon, George read Lincoln’s fateful words, directing that unless the rebellious states returned to the Union within the next one hundred days, on the first of January next, those persons held in bondage “shall be then, thenceforward, and forever free.”
That on the first day of January in the year of our Lord, one thousand eight hundred and sixty-three, all persons held as slaves within any state, or designated part of a state, the people whereof shall then be in rebellion against the United States shall be then, thenceforward, and forever free . . . .
“Now, I’ll show you this, but use discretion,” Asa said. My father is a close friend of the Vice-President, Howard Hamlin. The Vice-President sent us an advance copy of the President’s forthcoming message to Congress. Read from the last paragraph,” Asa said, handing the paper to George.
The fiery trial through which we pass, will light us down, in honor or dishonor, to the latest generation. . . . In giving freedom to the slave, we assure freedom to the free‑-honorable alike in what we give, and what we preserve. We shall nobly save, or meanly lose, the last, best hope of earth.
“Such sublime words,” Asa said in a hushed voice. “With these words Lincoln has redeemed Antietam. Now there is a transcendent purpose to this war.”
ROSTER OF THE ARMIES
ANTIETAM, SEPTEMBER 17, 1862
ARMY OF THE POTOMAC, USA
Major-General George B. McClellan, Commanding
First Corps: Major-General Joseph Hooker (wounded)
Brigadier-General George C. Meade
Second Divison: Brigadier-General James B. Ricketts
Third Brigade: Brigadier-General George L. Hartsuff (wounded)
Colonel Richard Coulter
12th regiment Massachusetts volunteers: Colonel Fletcher Webster
Asa Prescott, Co. B, Captain George W. Murch
Ninth Corps: Major-General Ambrose E. Burnside
Brigadier-General Jacob D. Cox
Second Division: Brigadier-General Samuel D. Sturgis
First Brigade: Brigadier-General James Nagle
6th New Hampshire: Colonel Charles Griffin
George Levi Eaton
ARMY OF NORTHERN VIRGINIA, CSA
General Robert E. Lee, Commanding