Karl Bacon (20 page)

Like the regiments of the previous day, we moved out to the north end of the stone wall, then down the lane to the fences at the Emmitsburg Road. Colonel Smyth marched alongside Lieutenant Seymour as far as the road; then the colonel turned back to the safety of our lines.

We sprinted across the road and crouched behind the rails and posts of the fence.

“Listen up, men,” Captain Moore shouted. “When I say, ‘Charge,’ I want all of you to run for that barn as fast as you can. Don’t stop for anything; don’t shoot at anything, just run for your lives. Run for the wall of the barn, they won’t be able to hit you there. Then we’ll rush the barn and drive them out. They’ll fire on us just as soon as we rise up, and so will the pickets, so do your best not to get hit. Is that clear?”

“Sir, yes, sir!”
The shooters in the barn already knew we were coming for them, so there was no point in stealth.

“Steady, men, …
charge!
“

I ran like I had never run before. It was a good three hundred yards to the barn over open ground, and all the while bullets zipped through the air trying to find me. I dodged this way and that; I never ran more than ten paces in one direction. The first two hundred yards were slightly downhill, but running at a half-crouch with weapon at the ready is never easy. It wasn’t long before my lungs burned with the exertion; my chest heaved and I longed to stop to catch my breath, but I knew that to do so would
mean certain death. It probably took me about a minute, possibly a little more, to make it to the barn, but make it I did, winded and sweaty, as did most of the other men in the squad. Sadly, several of our men did not, among them Lieutenant Seymour.

As we huddled against the wall of the barn, the Rebels inside found that they could no longer bring their weapons to bear upon us. Captain Moore cautiously peered inside the front door of the barn only to find the scoundrels scurrying out the back door. He fired a couple of shots with his revolver at their fleeting forms. Then we entered the barn.

“Stay away from the doors and windows,” he ordered. “They’re hiding in the house and the orchard, but they’re still shooting at us.”

A loud crash rocked the barn as a solid shot struck the western wall. It was just the first shot of a barrage. Rebel gunners fired round after round of shot and shell at the barn. Most struck the walls of stone and brick and did little damage, but one shell came through the roof and exploded inside the loft, killing one of our men and wounding several more.

“All you men,” Captain Moore called up the stairs to the loft, “get down here on the double.” They didn’t need a second invitation. “We’re in for it now, boys,” Captain Moore shouted above the din, “a few more shots like that last one and we’ll be in real trouble. We’ve been ordered to keep the Johnnies out of this barn, but we can’t hold it much longer. It’s a death trap, and eventually we’ll have to give it up. I’ve checked out the house where most of their shooters are now. We can probably take it, but we won’t be able to hold it either. At least here we’re protected; the house won’t protect us at all. We must leave this place at once.”

No sooner had these words been spoken than the doorway through which we had entered was darkened by the form of Major Ellis. Seeing the straits we were in, he had brought over
the remainder of the regiment. They too had lost several men to fire from Rebel pickets and the shooters in the house. Captain Moore explained the difficulties of our situation, and Major Ellis either nodded or shook his head as the details required. The artillery barrage grew in intensity with every passing minute.

“Rider approaching,” called out one of our men standing by one of the windows facing the Federal lines. “Look at him go! Is he crazy?”

We all clustered around the various portals, straining to see what the mad horseman was up to. The man reined his horse off to the left, then back to the right, then to the left again as he tried valiantly to evade the hail of fire that was concentrated upon him. As he came nearer, we saw he was an officer; cheers and applause swelled within the barn. By the time the officer reined to a halt next to the doorway, Major Ellis was waiting for him.

“Captain, what news do you have?” Ellis asked.

“Major,” the captain shouted, “Colonel Smyth sends his compliments on your taking the objective. The colonel told your Lieutenant Seymour that these buildings should be burned. The colonel wishes you to burn whatever you can of this barn and burn the house to the ground. Then return your regiment to its former position in the line.” With a snappy salute, the captain spurred his horse and dashed back across the fields, again swerving this way and that, and again under heavy fire for the entire distance, until he reached our lines safely. I could not help but think that Sarge would have liked that officer.

Our mission was now clear, but first we had to drive the Rebels out of the farmhouse. My company, eleven men in all, was detailed to carry out the assault. As we prepared to rush out into the open space between the buildings, the rest of the men concentrated their fire on the farmhouse and the orchard beyond. After a minute or two of this the Rebels had had enough and were seen leaving the house. We raced from the barn to the
house and broke in through the front door. I led a squad to the second floor, taking the steps two at a time. Perhaps I should have crept up the stairs, peering into every corner and searching in every possible hiding place for the rogues, but I knew they had fled.

“Miserable cowards!” I spat on the floor as I rushed into a bedroom at the rear of the house. Through a window I saw the shadowy forms of the lately departed enemy moving swiftly away among the trees of the orchard. I swung the butt of my rifle and smashed the window sash to pieces, then pointed my rifle out the window and sighted down the barrel. A fleeting shape in butternut was nearly at the end of the orchard, about two hundred yards away. I steadied myself and slowly squeezed the trigger. The Springfield bucked and the man dropped.
Good, at least that one won’t bother me again.

We went from room to room gathering anything that would burn—papers, bedding, and straw from mattresses. Then we set fires in every room and went back down the stairs. As we raced back to the barn, smoke billowed from every window of the house, and in a few minutes the entire structure was engulfed in flames. Our men in the barn had already set the hay ablaze and were waiting in the shelter of the east wall for us. Together we ran back toward the Emmitsburg Road as fast as we could, bringing all of our wounded and our single dead comrade along with us. Jim Adams and I came upon Lieutenant Seymour. He had been badly wounded in the leg and was leaning against a fence post.

“Colonel Smyth told me to burn the place to the ground,” the lieutenant said, his voice weak and strained.

“Don’t worry, lieutenant,” I said. “We made it too hot for those devils. They won’t be back.”

Jim and I helped the lieutenant off the field. The Fourteenth
was welcomed back to the line with cheering, both loud and long. The sharpshooters would not plague us again.

The Bliss farm was now a smoldering ruin, but the fire within me burned all the hotter, and the day was not yet half spent.

For which cause we faint not; but though our outward man perish, yet the inward man is renewed day by day.
2 CORINTHIANS 4:16

T
HE REWARDS FOR VICTORY WERE MEAGER INDEED—AND
short-lived. The Fourteenth regiment, now reduced to about 125 men of all ranks, was given no duty besides manning its portion of the stone wall. There was a new sense of freedom now that the sharpshooters were gone. Infantryman and artillerist alike relaxed at the wall or in the open ground behind the wall, baking under a hot sun that beat down on us from a cloudless sky. The men dug into their haversacks in search of something to eat.

Across the way, if one looked closely, as I did, there was much shadowy activity under the shielding screen of the trees on the far ridge. Now and again, a team of horses trotted out of the shadows, drawing a single artillery piece into the open field. Throughout the morning, while we had been otherwise engaged at the Bliss farm, the Rebels had been rolling out their guns and lining them up, nearly wheel hub to wheel hub, in a line across the farmland stretching from the south near the peach orchard
to a point opposite our position, behind the smoldering ruins of the Bliss house and barn. The men in blue stood and watched the unfolding scene, some in stunned silence and others with exclamations of amazement. I counted over a hundred pieces of artillery, but there were surely more out of my line of sight. My stomach tightened with the growing understanding and apprehension of what was in store. An eerie silence fell over the entire length and breadth of Cemetery Ridge. So quiet was it, that we could distinctly hear the gunners barking orders to their crews as they charged their guns with powder and shell.

At one o’clock two single shots were fired, certainly a signal for the rest of the hundred to let loose upon us. As if all the lanyards were pulled by a single hand, the entire line spewed forth flame and smoke. Every man in blue stood no longer, but ducked low behind the stone wall, shielding his head and ears with his arms. Shells screamed over our heads and fell among the artillery batteries with dreadful results, blasting gun crews and draught horses and equipment alike.

The entire Federal artillery corps responded in kind and the shelling grew to such a continuous roar that it was impossible to tell one explosion from another. At times, the blast of exploding shell drowned out the roar of our own firing. How strange it was to be so near to a gun as it fired, yet not be able to distinguish its report from the general cacophony of the cannonade. The constant roar, like one long continuing blast, shook the ground; the concussions drove the earth up into my body as I cowered behind the stone wall. Waves of hot compressed air struck me like hammer blows from right and left and behind. Billows of thick, acrid smoke filled the air. Fearful, blinking, tearing eyes gazed back at me out of smoke-darkened faces whenever I looked around at any of my comrades.

The effects of the Rebel shelling were terrible and bloody. The men of the Rhode Island battery again worked their guns
furiously and set up a rapid and steady fire. Several shells landed near them but did little damage—until one shot struck one of their limber chests, causing it to explode. Men near it were blown entirely apart and others were dealt grievous injuries. Helpers carried bloodied and mangled bodies over the ridge behind us, and the survivors set about working the guns again. I turned away from this grisly scene only to see three more chests in the artillery attached to Gibbon’s Division explode in quick succession. The destruction there was even more ghastly, and the firing from that battery ceased altogether.

A general on horseback appeared out of the smoky haze. “Captain,” he shouted above the clamor, attracting the attention of the commander of the Rhode Island battery. The general swung himself off his mount to the ground. “How is your command, Captain …”

“Arnold, sir, Captain Arnold. General Hunt, sir, we’ve had four men killed and about a dozen wounded, but I believe all six guns are in working order.”

“Fine, Captain Arnold, that’s fine. You are to reduce your rate of fire and save your remaining ammunition. After the enemy has finished with their cannonade, there will certainly be an infantry charge. Save your ammunition for the infantry.” With a crisp acknowledgement of Captain Arnold’s salute, General Hunt mounted his steed and galloped off down the line.

At last there was confirmation of what I and every man on Cemetery Ridge both desired and feared. The Rebels were going to attack us; they will come.
Good, let them come; we are ready to receive them. We will give Fredericksburg back to them.

The Rhode Island battery slowed its rate of fire gradually and then stopped altogether as did all of the Federal artillery. Across the way the line of Confederate guns also fell silent. I raised my head over the top of the wall. For a time, smoke enshrouded everything beyond the Emmitsburg Road, but after
several minutes, the smoke drifted away and revealed a stunning sight. Drummers drummed a fine marching cadence while brigade after brigade of Rebel infantry emerged from the tree line across the way and moved out into the open fields. They formed in straight lines, perfectly dressed, over a mile from one end to the other, with their battle flags flying proudly in the afternoon sun. The field fell silent. I looked at my watch; it was about three o’clock. Mounted gray-clad officers rode among their men, issuing final orders and rallying the men for the battle to come. The hour of reckoning was at hand.

The long, distant wave of gray and butternut rippled as the men stepped off; a great shout reached my ears. The Confederates marched with precision and skill, as if on parade, weapons held at Shoulder Arms, and it was difficult not to admire the grand sight of this well-disciplined army going forward to battle. Their officers led them with obvious pride, brandishing sabers in one hand, waving hats high in the other.

This parade had not advanced more than a hundred paces when our artillery opened up on them. General Hunt had not been idle since ordering all of the Union artillery batteries to fall silent. Severely damaged batteries were sent to the rear to rest and rearm, and fresh batteries were sent forward from the artillery reserve. Now, guns from up and down the Federal line poured shot and shell into the lines of infantry. Fire was directed from the front and from either flank; our boys had the range zeroed in and they had saved plenty of ammunition. Shells exploding in the ranks threw men high in the air while solid shot ripped deadly holes several men wide. With determined discipline and precision the Rebels closed up the holes, centered their lines on their colors, and continued to come on.

It quickly became apparent that the Rebels were trying to concentrate the force of their attack at the center of the Federal line, including that portion of the stone wall held by a few determined
men from Connecticut and the angle in the wall just to the left. Through several skillfully executed oblique moves, the Rebel lines that had stretched out over a mile began to contract toward the center. They overlapped each other in a way that at once reduced the width of their lines exposed to direct fire and increased the depth of the assault force in many places to three lines of infantry. On and on they came, ever closer, all the while enduring the most dreadful damage by our artillery. They approached the Emmitsburg Road and started to climb over, under, and around the fences. The artillery switched from shot and shell to grape and canister and started blasting even more of the oncoming minions to kingdom come.

“Fire at will!” cried Major Ellis, and our line of Springfields and Sharps erupted in a sheet of flame and lead.

I, however, held my fire for a few moments. There was no use firing at the faceless mass of gray and butternut. I wanted to pick my target with care. I wanted to watch the man fall, knowing it was my bullet that had felled him. I chose a tall, skinny man with a long beard and a black slouch hat. I triggered the round and the man was knocked over backward. “That’s one,” I muttered as I ducked behind the wall.

I pressed myself to load my rifle as fast as I could; how I wished that just this once I could load as fast as John. I bit at the cartridge savagely and rammed it home. I replaced the cap and rose up again, ready to fire. The Rebels were fewer now, closer by thirty yards, and on they came. The Rhode Island boys worked their guns furiously; each blast of canister blew a new gap in the advancing line. I drew a bead on a sergeant with a dusty gray jacket. Down he went. “That’s two.”

I dropped two more of them with two more shots before their advance was halted and they began to fall back in confusion.
A good start.

Then the second line charged and the killing went on. Just
load, aim, fire, Sarge had said, and that is what I did. A ball seared a hot streak across the left side of my face; blood flowed freely down my cheek, staining my shirt and jacket. I cared not a whit and sent three more men tumbling, three more men who would never bother me again, three more dead men closer to home. This charge was shattered as well; those few who were still able drew back, then turned and fled.
Come back for more, you cowards.

A third line now surged forward. Several North Carolina flags waved proudly in the breeze. The battery continued to blast away, and our musket fire took a terrible toll. Yet on those stubborn fiends came without wavering. I picked out a small, wiry man dressed in a filthy white shirt and dark jacket, with a gray kepi on his head and a red bandana around his neck. I shot the filthy man squarely, and he went down in a heap. Load, aim, fire—load, aim, fire. I loaded and capped another round and rose to fire. They were almost upon us, about twenty yards now, but they had stopped; they were bringing their weapons to bear upon us. I shot down another man just as one of the Rhode Island guns bucked with a blast of double canister. The North Carolina line was blown away; they were either dead or writhing grotesquely on the ground or crawling for the rear. “That’s ten.”

But the fight was not over. Just to our left, some of Gibbon’s boys had been overwhelmed at the angle of the wall. Hundreds of Rebels had breached the wall and were trying to drive a hole through their line. Additional men were sent forward and desperate fighting ensued. Much of the fighting was hand to hand; men on both sides clubbed each other with the butts of their muskets.

The voice of Major Ellis rang out clearly. “Fourteenth, left oblique!” We stood and aimed our weapons into the mass of Rebels clawing their way toward our Pennsylvania and New York brothers.

“Fire!” cried Major Ellis. Our shots tore into the flank of the Rebel assault. The line wavered and then quickly broke apart. Gibbon’s men surged forward and either killed or captured those few Rebels that did not immediately run for the rear. “That’s eleven.”

And then I was gone, vaulting over the wall and running after the fading Rebels, wanting more than anything else to finish this thing here and now on this hot July afternoon. Voices screamed after me to stop, to come back, but I paid them no mind. My duty was to kill the enemy and I was not yet done. I raced forward through the maelstrom, rifle at the ready. One hairy man just in front turned to face me; I stuck him in the gut with my bayonet, gave my Springfield a quick twist and pulled it free. One man raised a saber, an officer I think—stick, twist, pull. Another over here struggled to his feet—stick, twist, pull. How easy it all was. Yes, John, yes, I can kill a man. Something hit my right leg below the knee. I looked down. A pair of legs kicked and churned the air. Blood seeped through the clutching fingers of one hand while the other reached into a jacket pocket for something—a pistol or a blade maybe. I raised my rifle as high as I could and plunged it down with all my strength.

But my hand was stayed—stayed by a power clearly not my own, for all I wished was to add this man to my blood tally for the day. The point of my bayonet rested on the man’s chest, but it would go no further. I raised my gaze past the red bandana and looked into the eyes of the filthy man I had shot shortly before, where I read the agony of a man about to die as clearly as one reads words on a page. My shot had struck the man in the abdomen. I stood motionless over the man as he slowly drew his hand out of his jacket and held a small book up to me.

“Please, sir, … if you would … read for me.”

I didn’t move. The filthy man’s eyes pleaded once again.
Blood flowed from the gash on my face down to my chin, falling in great drops upon him, mingling with his own.

“Please, sir. I wish only to hear the words of my Lord as I pass from this life to the next.”

I released my left hand from the Springfield and grabbed the book. It was a small testament, similar to the one that had been stolen from me two months before. The leather cover, probably once a rich brown, had faded to a pasty tan, but was now stained red and wet with blood. The pages were worn and tattered. I laid my rifle upon the ground and knelt down beside the man.

“Are you thirsty?” I asked him.

“Yes.”

I reached for my canteen.

“No, sir, don’t trouble with that. Read, sir, for my time is short. Where are the mountains, sir?”

“The mountains?”

“I would like to look to the mountains as you read. Where are they, sir?”

“Off there to the west.” He turned his head as I pointed them out. “You can just make them out above the trees on the other side. What shall I read, Johnnie?”

“From the Psalms, sir. The twenty-fifth is one of my favorites.”

My hands shook as I fumbled with the pages. I finally found the passage; a faint smile formed on the man’s lips as I began to read: