Karl Bacon (9 page)

My darling, you are a young and beautiful woman, intelligent and gracious and of good humor, so do not endlessly grieve for me. In spite of the despair that may now hold you, your life can be full and joyous once again. If it pleases you to do so, and according to
His Most Gracious Providence, it would be good for you to take another husband. Do not let past sentiment for me hinder you from marrying a man who will be both a fine husband and father.

Please give Sarah and Edward a hug and a kiss from their loving father.

Until we meet before His glorious throne,
I remain your most devoted and adoring husband,

My breath is corrupt, my days are extinct,
the graves are ready for me.
JOB 17:1

F
OG LAY OVER THE CITY LIKE A DEATH SHROUD, SHIELDING US
completely from view of the enemy. About nine o’clock, “Fall in!” echoed up and down the street. Groans and curses filled the air as the men slowly rose, rolled and tied their blankets, and shuffled into some semblance of an orderly line. We marched down Caroline Street a short distance, turned right for one city block, then turned left onto Princess Anne Street, one of the main thoroughfares in Fredericksburg. A halt was called near a church.

As the morning wore on, the fog began to lift. With the improving visibility, Rebel gunners opened up on us with shells from the low hills that surrounded Fredericksburg to the west and south. A shell was a hollow metal sphere with a small hole for a fuse through one side. The shell was packed full of black powder and bits of metal called shrapnel. When the shell was fired over a target, namely our marching lines of blue infantry, the fuse exploded the shell and the shrapnel and shell fragments are sprayed over a wide area.

Whenever a shell struck the façade of a brick building, men in the street below were pelted with a hail of dislodged bricks in addition to bits of hot metal. One such shell hit high on the wall of a three-story building. Several soldiers standing directly beneath ran into the street to avoid the falling bricks. A second shell caromed off a nearby building and fell into the middle of the street, where it exploded. All of the men who had run into the street were either killed instantly or grievously wounded.

Colonel Perkins rode forward. “Men of the Fourteenth,” he began, “General French’s division has been chosen to lead the assault against the Confederate position.” Mumbled words passed up and down through the ranks as the import of these words hit home with the men. “We will attack in three lines of battle, General Kimball’s brigade first, then Colonel Andrews’s brigade, and then our brigade under Colonel Palmer. Behind us, other divisions will follow to carry on the assault. The task ahead is formidable. The danger is great; I’ll not hide that from you. But we must do our duty. You will acquit yourselves well this day, and Connecticut’s defense of the Union will long be remembered. May God bless us all. Prepare to march.”

The Rebels knew how to use their shells to great effect. From the heights outside the city, their cannon were positioned in line with the cross streets so that, about noon, when Kimball’s and Andrews’s brigades began to march up Princess Anne Street, they were exposed to flanking fire from these guns. The Rebels started sending shells down the cross streets as fast as they could. Several shells exploded in the marching ranks, killing or maiming dozens of men before they exited the city onto the field of battle beyond.

When our turn came to move out we had learned how to deal with this threat at the cross streets. At every intersection, our officers stopped at the head of the column and waited until the tail end of the Andrews brigade cleared the intersection.
With no visible targets, the Rebels slowed their rate of fire. Then we dashed, one company at a time, across the intersection. We played this deadly game several times as we worked our way, block by block, down Princess Anne Street to the end of town near the train depot, but the injuries sustained by our brigade were few and minor and no one was killed.

We were resting between two cross streets, in what we considered relative safety, when a shell exploded about ten yards away. I saw it explode and tried to turn my back to it, but a small fragment struck the outer part of my left thigh. Bright red blood stained my bright blue trousers. I howled in pain.

“Michael, hold still a minute.” John’s steady voice calmed me. I howled again when he gripped the metal bit and pulled. “There, not so bad. I have a few bandages that I made, just in case. Would you like to go to the hospital? You have been wounded.”

“No, John,” I said, gritting my teeth as he tied the bandage, “I don’t need the hospital for this little scratch.” Yet I sensed another question behind his words. “That would make me a shirk, in my own eyes, if in no one else’s,” I added.

At the end of Princess Anne Street, Kimball’s and Andrews’s brigades had turned the corner and were advancing upon the Rebel position. Artillery fire swelled to a roar, now that the enemy had a clear view of the Union advance, and as our batteries responded in kind. Our officers dismounted and sent their horses to the rear. Colonel Perkins screamed a series of orders above the din that were echoed up and down the line by the company officers.

“Fourteenth, prime muskets!”

“Fourteenth, fix bayonets!”

“Fourteenth, double-quick—march!”

At a quick trot we left the protection of the city and moved out onto the tracks of the Richmond, Fredericksburg & Potomac
Railroad. Just past the depot we came under direct shelling from the Rebel guns. A short distance farther a drainage canal several feet deep cut directly across our route. There were only three places to cross this canal, one of which was a damaged railroad bridge, and the enemy had guns aimed at all three. Timing was crucial. We tried to time our crossings immediately after the detonation of a shell, with the knowledge that at least that gun could not fire again until it was reloaded, but we still lost several men there.

We ran down into a swale and came upon a rock wall that was becoming a gathering place for the wounded of Kimball’s and Andrews’s brigades. Beyond the rock wall, the ground rose steeply for a short distance, then more gradually for about three hundred yards to the base of the hill where the Rebels were. The men in gray had taken cover behind another rock wall that bordered a sunken wagon road at the base of the hill. Kimball’s brigade was just starting to advance up the gradual slope while Andrews’s men were taking cover along the steeper slope.

The Confederate artillery was particularly concentrated upon that area of gently rising land that led to the base of the hill and the sunken road. They had carefully planned their fields of fire, meticulously placed every gun, and aimed each gun for maximum effect. As Kimball’s line began to advance, the Confederate guns spewed flame and smoke as they opened on our men with canister, a round that functioned like a giant shotgun shell. Wide gaps were ripped in the long blue line as several men in a row were struck down. To their credit, Kimball’s men closed ranks and continued forward, crouching low and rushing ever faster, until they were about a hundred yards from the wall at the sunken road. Then the Rebels rose from behind the wall. A sheet of flame erupted and fully half of Kimball’s men went down. The remainder returned fire, but as the Rebels had a stout rock wall in front of them, Kimball’s men did little damage.
They were quickly driven back down the slope in disarray to find whatever shelter they could.

Then it was Andrews’s turn. As they started forward, we moved forward to the position they had occupied. The dreadful scene was repeated. There was a loud, hearty cheer and then a desperate rush up the slope toward the Rebels against the blast of shell and canister. A tremendous volley of Confederate and Union muskets split the air. The Union line wavered for a moment, then collapsed altogether. The survivors ran frantically, limping and stumbling down the slope toward cover.

“Don’t go, boys, it’s murder,” they cried as they passed through our line. “That’s what it is. It’s murder up there. Don’t go. You don’t stand a chance.”

Then we were up and moving forward, dressing our lines, shells coming at us from the front, from the left, and from the right.

Colonel Perkins was at our front, “All right, boys, at the double-quick …
charge!”

And charge we did. With our eyes fixed on our leader instead of the enemy, we charged with Colonel Perkins up that slope, as had those before us. The dead and wounded of Kimball’s and Andrews’s brigades lay all around. We stumbled over some and jumped over others, but we pressed on toward the enemy.

Suddenly our line wavered and almost stopped altogether.

Our colonel had been shot.

He clutched at his throat and fell to his knees. Several men fell out to help him to the rear. Captain Davis, of Company I, ran to the front with the color-bearers. “Fourteenth!” he called out above the clamor, “on the colors! Forward!”

Men fell wounded and dying, but we pressed onward, elbow to elbow with the barrels of our muskets pointing skyward, each pace bringing us closer to the Rebels. Bullets flew at us thick as a swarm of mad bees. Several times I felt a puff of air as a bullet
passed close by my face. Jessie Anne would surely become a widow this day.

We advanced about as far as the previous two brigades to a rail fence that afforded the only sparse cover on that part of the field. Then the Rebels’ bucking rifles hurled a sheet of flame and thousands of bullets at us. Men fell where they were, shot through the chest, in the head, or in the stomach. Others were hit in legs or arms or feet. I felt several bullets pluck at my clothing and one punched a hole in my haversack. One bullet bounced off something, perhaps the earth in front of me or a fencepost or another soldier, and hit me squarely on the right shin. My leg buckled and I fell heavily to the earth. Another bullet creased my right wrist, though I did not realize it until much later.

As Kimball’s and Andrews’s men had done, the brigade quickly gave way and started to withdraw down the slope. “Every man for himself,” was the cry. I started to struggle to my feet, and as I did so, I saw that Harry Whitting, who had been standing next to me in line, was also down. He cried in pain and clutched his left ankle with both hands; blood oozed from between his clasped fingers.

“Harry, we have to go, we have to go now! The brigade is falling back. Let’s go!” I used my rifle like a crutch to stand up; then I helped Harry to stand on his good leg. Bullets continued to fly around us, but thankfully, most of the hostile fire was directed at those of our number still firing at them. Through much pleading and urging, I helped Harry stagger back about fifty yards, but he could go no farther.

“Harry,” I shouted, “over to the right, about thirty more feet, is a place we can rest.” It was a small depression in the earth that would offer some protection from the leaden hail that continued to fly past us.

“Lie down, Harry, with your head uphill toward the enemy. Turn over! I need your blanket roll.” Every move drew groans
of agony from Harry. I untied Harry’s blanket roll and placed it above his head to serve as added protection from enemy bullets. Then I did the same with my roll.

Harry was in a desperate way. He would have to be seen by a surgeon soon if there was to be any prospect for his survival. How could we make it three hundred yards back to the safety of the swale when Harry could barely do fifty? I saw several of the wounded trying to limp or crawl to safety. One by one they were finished off with a shot in the back.

Where was John? I could use his help now. And where were the rest of the boys? Some with the Sharps rifles were kneeling behind the meager cover of the fence, still trying to hold the ground they had gained, but after several shots, they too joined the rest of the brigade, bobbing and weaving for the rear.

The pain in my shin made me forget about my shrapnel wound. I gingerly pulled up the leg of my trousers and saw a large bluish welt, but little blood. I flexed my leg and ankle several times to make sure they were usable. Apparently, there was no serious damage, but sharp-eyed Rebels sent several shots kicking up the dirt nearby.

I looked around cautiously. There was a small house about fifty yards to the left. The rear of this house was screened from the sight of the enemy, and many of our boys were taking shelter there. I could probably have dashed for the shelter of that house and lived, but I would have to leave Harry behind. I remained where I was, one motionless body on an open plain of the dead and dying. I looked up at the sun; it had hardly moved. Harry and I were trapped until nightfall.

The firing of the Rebels had diminished as our brigade melted away. Now it grew louder again. I lifted my head slowly and peered down the slope. Another line of Union troops had begun their advance. Shells ripped holes in their ranks and others
were struck with musket balls. On and on they came, drawing ever nearer to where Harry and I were lying.

I clutched at the coats of those passing close by. “Go back, boys!” I cried. “Go back! You can’t take that wall. You’ll be killed. Go back!”

But the men continued to fall and the line went forward up to the rail fence, just as our line had a few minutes before. There was a deafening crash of blue and gray musketry, and many more of our boys fell to the earth. In a few minutes, for that was all human endurance could withstand, this brigade too tumbled and stumbled rearward past where Harry and I lay.

Father in heaven,
I prayed,
please stop this madness and show me how to take Harry to safety.
Jim Adams had been right, and where was Jim in all of this?

Yet another blue line came up the slope in another vain attempt to overrun the wall and the hill beyond. The brilliant green battle flag of the Irish Brigade fluttered proudly in the breeze, then fell to the ground as the color-bearer was shot down. Another soldier picked up the flag, but the moment he raised it, he was struck by several bullets at once. Others took up the precious standard and were similarly struck. The Irish came abreast of me and pressed the advance forward against the firing of the Rebels from their place of security. As the Lord Jesus had set His face toward Jerusalem, toward the certainty of His own death, so the face of each man appeared chiseled in stone. Each man leaned rigidly forward against both the slope and the leaden fury fired at him, much as one would lean forward against a gale.

“Lads! They’ve killed me!” a large man directly in front of me cried as he sank to his knees. He swayed once to the left as if he was about to fall completely over, then, with supreme effort, he righted himself.