Karl Bacon (26 page)

For wickedness burneth as the fire: it shall devour the briers and thorns, and shall kindle in the thickets of the forest, and they shall mount up like the lifting up of smoke.
ISAIAH 9:18

T
HE GHOSTS OF
C
HANCELLORSVILLE GREETED EVERY MAN OF
the Second Corps as we marched through that dark place on the fourth day of May. The unburied skeletal remains of hundreds of Union dead lay scattered about, a stark reminder of the bleeding and dying that yet remained. The tragedy that had been visited upon this army the year previous was lost on no one, veteran and recruit alike, as the men encamped at the southern fringe of the battlefield for the night.

Now about 27,000 strong, the corps had seen several changes during the winter months. General Hancock had returned to command and seemed as hale and hearty as ever. General John Gibbon now commanded the Second Division, replacing General Hays. While the Fourteenth Connecticut remained in the Third Brigade, eight additional regiments filled its ranks, and a
new brigade commander had been appointed, Colonel Samuel S. Carroll. This man would, I was confident, lead us well.

Thursday’s dawn found us already marching toward the southwest on Catherine Furnace Road. Several hours later at the Brock Road, a great cheer arose from the ranks when we turned left. “On to Richmond!” was the cry, a cry soon stifled when the column first halted, then about-faced and marched back toward the dense thickets and entrapments of the Wilderness. At about half past four, echoes like that of distant thunder rolled over us. Every man knew without being told that, before the day was out, he would likely face the enemy in the forbidding depths of the Wilderness. All men of sound judgment knew no battle should ever be fought there, but battle there would be savage and bloody. The fighting and dying had commenced anew — our time was at hand, and this thought both thrilled and terrified me.

“Close up, men.” I heard the urgency in my own voice. “Keep the pace. We’re needed at the front. Stay in line!” Otto was marching beside me. “It’s going to get hot,” I said, “very hot and very soon, I think.”

“I think you’re right, Sergeant. I hope I do well.”

“You will, Otto. You were steady at Bristow, and Corporal Adams said you did well at Morton’s Ford. This will be a much bigger fight.”

“Thank you for teaching me to write, Sarge. I wrote my ‘pocket letter’ to my parents, as you suggested. It’s right here,” he added patting his chest.

I smiled at Otto’s use of the phrase
pocket letter,
which I identified with Needham.

The road through the heart of the Wilderness was soon crowded with men and the material of war, wounded men, resting men, waiting men, supply wagons, artillery pieces, limber chests, and caissons. We weaved around and between them and marched onward until we came upon the Plank Road, which ran eastward toward Chancellorsville and westward toward Mine Run and Orange Courthouse. Hundreds of men were laboring to build breastworks along the left side of the road for hundreds of yards both north and south of the Plank Road.

“Fourteenth, left face!” The command came down just after we passed the crossroad. “Double line of battle, center on the Sharps.” Companies A and B carried the rapid-firing breech-loading Sharps rifles, and their placement in the center of the line served as an anchor for the entire regiment. Four companies formed to the left of the Sharps men and four to the right. Under the supervision of Captain Simpson, I led the men of Company C to the far left of the line and deployed them in double ranks. At five o’clock a command was given. We vaulted over the rising breastworks and entered the densely wooded forests of the Wilderness.

The rattle of musketry came from somewhere ahead, but nothing could be seen. Close underbrush screened all but what was less than ten or twenty yards away. Onward we pressed. Musket balls cleaved the air above our heads and slapped into tree trunks. Yells and screams and, from time to time, the dreaded Rebel yell reached our ears. Bodies of Federal dead lay here and there; the walking wounded stumbled rearward through our strong and steady line. Volleys of musket fire erupted just out of sight in front of us.

We came up behind a line of men in blue firing into the darkness beyond. Muzzle flashes eerily silhouetted the forms of our men as they engaged in their deadly business. Some turned in panic at our approach, thinking perhaps the enemy had surrounded them, but “Friends! Friends!” we called out, and they turned back to the enemy. They fired off the last of their ammunition and made way for us to file into their places.

The Rebels saw us before we saw them and they fired a
volley at close range. A few of our men fell dead, several more were wounded.

“Steady, men, steady!” I called out. I raised my own rifle and took careful aim. “Fire!”

Many of our foes fell. The Rebels began to fall back, retreating slowly down a slope, turning to fire at us whenever they could. We pursued them, steadily driving them backward. After an advance of about two hundred yards, our officers called a halt. We lay down in the woods to avoid the Rebel sharpshooters and waited for night to fall.

After dark the men of Company C dug a shallow trench and piled branches and fallen logs atop the excavated earth. The position was as secure as the ground would allow. The men lay upon the low earthworks all night, muskets at the ready. Most fell quickly asleep, victims of fatigue. Not even the chilly night air or the occasional firing that flared from deep in the Wilderness disturbed their slumbers.

“Brigade forward.” Colonel Ellis ordered as soon as it was light enough to tell one tree from another. After a hundred paces we came upon a thin skirmish line. The Rebels fired a few shots hastily in our direction and disappeared into the forest. A few minutes later we came within sight of a line of enemy infantry behind a low barricade, much the same as the one we had built.

“Fire!” The crisp order of the Rebel officer carried clearly to my ears. Enemy muskets spewed bright flame; bullets struck home and more of our men fell.

“Forward,” I cried, “Forward! Get them before they reload!” We ran ahead about ten paces to close the range and fired a tremendous volley into their ranks, striking many of them. The Rebel line wavered and began to fall back. They abandoned the barricade and retreated slowly, man by man, tree by tree, taking
time to reload their muskets, taking deadly aim, and triggering off shot after shot at the advancing line of blue.

“I can’t see them, Sergeant,” Otto yelled. “There’s no one to aim at.”

“Fight Indian-style,” I called out to anyone within earshot. Lessons from the previous year just a few miles distant had made me coldly proficient at the fine art of dealing with death within the thickets of the Wilderness. The time had come to take up the mantle of teacher.

“Stand behind a tree to load. Don’t jump out to shoot. You won’t see them if you look straight ahead. Look a little to the right or left and you’ll see where they’re hiding. Aim carefully — don’t rush it. Make every shot count.”

A minie ball zipped close by my head and slapped into a tree just behind me. “Otto! Look, over there to the right, thirty yards out, you can see about half of him leaning against that oak.” Otto took careful aim at the half-hidden man and squeezed the trigger. The man slumped against the tree and did not move. Once again Otto had proven himself a quick study.

“Press on!” I cried. “Keep moving forward and drive them out of the forest. Press on!”

A line of Confederate reinforcements checked our advance. It was back and forth for about half an hour. Then an unseen battery of artillery opened up on us. Men began to fall all around. The men of the Fourteenth were forced to withdraw or risk being cut off. We fell back across a small clearing and took shelter among the trees just as the Rebels had done earlier.

“Stand with me!” Colonel Ellis cried above the din of battle. “Stand and do not yield, or the enemy will win the day! Rally on the Sharps, boys! Rally on the Sharps and give them all the lead you’ve got!”

The regiment reformed and started to pour a steady fire into the oncoming line of Rebels. One by one, other regiments in the
brigade joined the fight and added the weight of their lead to the fight. Now it was the Rebels’ line that wavered. They withdrew to the shelter of the trees on the other side of the clearing. Musket fire continued back and forth across that clearing for about another hour until nearly eight o’clock. When the men of General Birney’s division came up to relieve us, the brigade returned to the Brock crossroad for a rest.

I had survived the Wilderness—no, more than survived. I had entered its depths in fear and emerged a victor. Its thick forests could be as much a friend as an enemy. We had met the Rebels on equal ground and driven them back.

“Well done,” Colonel Ellis said as we sat beside the road drinking coffee. “You men followed orders under fire and fought well. But our work may not be done, so get some rest.”

The colonel made his way over to the men of Company C. “Captain Simpson, your men were particularly steady this morning. You maintained your fire and did much damage to the enemy.” I nodded slowly as I sipped my coffee. Yes, we had. It was about time.

The woods to the west from which we had just come suddenly erupted afresh with the din of battle. “Birney’s boys are getting it now,” Colonel Ellis said.

A rider clattered down the Plank Road. “Where’s Hancock? Where’s General Hancock?” he cried, his eyes wide with terror. Dozens of eager hands pointed to the general’s headquarters near the crossroad.

An ammunition wagon drew up. Food and drink were cast aside as each man raced to fill his cap and cartridge boxes.

“Columns of four by company!” Colonel Ellis shouted a few minutes later. “We’re going in again. Birney’s men are being driven back. It’s up to us to stop it. General Gibbon is counting on every man to do his duty today. We’ll advance along the
road as far as possible, then move into the woods in support of Birney’s division. Double-quick! Move out!”

The men of the Fourteenth ran up the Plank Road toward the fight, much as we had at Chancellorsville the year before. Once again the stream of walking wounded and slovenly shirkers parted before us and we ran until heavy musket and artillery fire from ahead forced us into the woods to the right of the road. Ten minutes of stumbling frantically through the underbrush brought us up behind Birney’s men. I dripped with sweat; my head throbbed from the exertions. The Rebels had charged Birney’s line and turned the left flank so that, when we arrived on the scene, the left end of the line was nearly surrounded. Birney’s men were being fired upon from three sides.

“Charge!” ordered Colonel Ellis. We dashed forward and began firing into the flank of the Rebels. Our onslaught took them by surprise; our aim was true; many of the enemy fell. We fought fiercely, pushing the enemy back until the line was nearly restored to order. But we were only a single regiment and many of Birney’s men, at least those who had remained in the fight, were nearly spent.

Our young color-bearer fell, seriously wounded. Lieutenant Colonel Moore picked up the fallen flag and waved it high. “Rally on the colors, boys! Rally on the colors!”

The Sharps companies maintained a rapid rate of fire and stood fast in the center of our line, causing the Rebels to veer right or left, thus increasing the pressure on either end of our line. At the left end, we were so hard-pressed that several times I had to order my men to fall back to avoid capture. Within twenty minutes, the line that had been nearly straight was bent in the shape of a horseshoe, the ends of which were being pressed ever more closely together. We were in great peril of being cut off from the rest of the army. The regiment was in a fight for its very existence. It was fight or die for every man.

“Surrender, Yanks!” yelled the Rebels. “We’ve got you! You’re surrounded! There’s no way out. Surrender or die!”

Was this to be the end of it? Was all I had endured and suffered for naught? Had God simply led me into this place and time to have me surrender? No, I had sworn to fight and fight I would—to the end, if need be, here and now—and it would be an honorable end. Sergeant Michael Palmer would not be sent off to die in some putrid prison camp.

“Steady, men!” Colonel Ellis called out above the clamor. “Steady! We’re not whipped yet! Keep firing and make every shot count!” With a sharp, clear voice he gave order after order, withdrawing first one company, then another, pace by pace, keeping the regiment centered on the men with the Sharps rifles. We helped the wounded as well as we could, while facing the enemy and maintaining our rate of fire to keep them at bay. After retreating in this manner about three hundred yards, we were able to withdraw entirely from those dreadful woods back to the relative safety of the breastworks along the Brock Road. Once again, I had forayed into the Wilderness and emerged unscathed.

We could not have done more. Birney’s men were relieved, the Rebel advance had been slowed, and the regiment had survived the desperate clutches of the enemy so it could fight another day. We were totally spent, exhausted, hungry, thirsty, and almost out of ammunition for the second time that day. But it was not yet noontime, and there was much of that day yet to be devoted to battle.