Karl Bacon (10 page)

“I am done,” he said, lifting his eyes toward heaven. A second shot drove him over backward. His body came to rest just
above the small depression where Harry and I lay. He turned his face toward me. A slow trickle of blood escaped his lips. It ran down the side of his face, over the lobe of his ear, to the back of his neck where it formed a small red rivulet that inched its way toward me. I looked into the man’s dimming eyes as the last of his breath left him; the flow of blood ceased. The rivulet stopped and was soon swallowed by the thirsty earth.

After a few minutes, I grabbed the shoulder of the man’s greatcoat and tugged at his corpse. At first I could not move him, but I pulled and pulled, and inch by inch was finally able to position him to our best advantage. Then I turned the man’s face, his eyes wide and unseeing, away from me, toward the enemy in the sunken road. The dead man was now a shield from the deadly balls of the enemy and I thanked God for this protection.

The Irish advanced farther than any other brigade that day, to within fifty yards of the rock wall. After courageously firing several volleys at the Rebels, they were forced to retire as well, leaving half their number behind, dead or wounded.

The slaughter continued unabated as brigade after brigade of the Second Corps fought their way toward that wall and then fell back, leaving an appropriately large and bloody sacrifice before it. The bloodletting did not diminish that day until the merciful setting of the sun. Thank God for the shortness of daylight in December. How many more would have fallen had the battle taken place in June?

As night fell, I continued my motionless vigil, looking always for the opportunity to get Harry off that field. Under the half moonlight, here and there a shadowy figure would struggle to his feet. After a few furtive, limping steps a shot would ring out, and the man would fall. There was no way Harry and I could survive if we tried to escape, so there was nothing to do but remain where we were until the Rebels either lost interest or fell asleep.

“It’s broken,” Harry whispered through teeth clenched against the pain. “It has to be broken. I can’t move it at all.”

I examined Harry’s foot as well as I could in the darkness. I probed gently with my fingertips—Harry groaned in agony. The cold had slowed the bleeding from Harry’s ankle to a trickle. The bullet had torn away the ankle bone on the inside of his left foot. Harry’s war was done, since the surgeon would certainly amputate the mangled foot. I winced at the thought of it.

Harry fell into a fitful sleep. Still weak from his sickness at Belle Plain, he probably should not have been judged fit for duty. He would soon die without medical attention. I lay silently on my back under my woolen blanket, staring up at the moon and the stars.

It must never be thought that the field of battle falls silent once the fighting stops, for when the guns cease firing and the last echoes die, the wailing cries of the thousands of wounded arise in a pitiable chorus of woe. A short distance away I heard the rasping liquid breathing of a man who had probably been shot in the upper chest or throat. The whimpering sighs and guttural groans of those in the throes of deepest distress formed the chords of the ostinato, while from every direction individual voices called out their solo pleas, praying for help, hoping for deliverance.

“Help me … please help me …”

“I can’t feel anything … just cold …”

“Hail Mary, full of grace, blessed art thou …”

“I am so sorry, Mother …”

“A sip of water … anyone … anyone …”

“Father, forgive this dying sinner …”

“Your Josh will not be home again …”

“Don’t leave me, friend …”

“For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory …”

Then, from somewhere behind that dreadful rock wall, perhaps
atop the frowning hill that had loomed over us all day, and carried between the lines upon a light breeze on that cold night, I heard the mournful strains of a violin as some soldier in gray or butternut bowed his own musical requiem out over that plain. The tune I did not know, but the sentiment that soldier conveyed was exceedingly somber and too familiar. So many had died, and more would die before the dawn.

I wrapped myself up tightly within the folds of my greatcoat and allowed the darkness of the night to draw me into its embrace. It was a friend now—killing was a daytime avocation.

The heavens declare the glory of God;
and the firmament sheweth his handy work.
PSALM 19:1

I
SHOOK HARRY GENTLY
. H
IS
ONLY RESPONSE WAS A SOFT, DEEP
groan. I leaned over close to his ear. “Harry, come on — wake up.” Sleep was a good thing for him, but now was not the time. I shook him again.

Harry coughed several times.

“Shhh, they might hear us,” I said. “Only been a few scattered shots in the last hour, just one or two along this part of the line. They might be asleep. Some clouds are moving in; the moon is nearly hidden. If we’re going, it has to be now.”

I checked Harry’s ankle, and even with only the dim illumination of the moon and stars, it did not look good. There was hardly any bleeding; the cold had certainly helped staunch the flow. The shredded remnants of his sock were stiff and crusty, stained black now instead of white. I tried to probe beneath the sock, but my slightest touch was agony to Harry.

“Leave it alone, Michael,” Harry gasped. “You’re trying to help, but you can’t do anything for me.”

“All right, Harry, but I have to protect it. Take off your belt.”

I took Harry’s woolen blanket and folded it several times into a thick pad while Harry tugged his leather belt from his waist. Then I rolled up my own blanket and removed my belt as well.

“Harry, clench my belt in your teeth. This is going to hurt plenty, but only for a little while. Ready?” Harry nodded as he bit down. As smoothly and gently as possible, I lifted Harry’s leg and slid my blanket roll underneath his calf. His breathing became fast and shallow, but he made no other sound. Then I wrapped Harry’s folded blanket around his injured foot, looped his belt twice around the blanket, and secured it with the buckle. It was the best I could do.

I gave Harry a few minutes to recover. His jaw relaxed, releasing its grip on my belt. “Look, Harry, I’m cinching my belt around my ankle. I’ll lead the way and you hold it. If you let go, I’ll know you’re in trouble. Let’s go.”

I helped Harry turn himself to the left, toward the house I had noticed earlier. The house was no farther from the Rebels than our current position, but if we could make it to that house, it and the other small outbuildings would serve to screen our movement farther down the slope away from the enemy line.

I flexed my right leg several times and found it painful but serviceable; my left thigh throbbed dully. I slowly raised my head to get the lay of the land. The house was about fifty yards away and many, many bodies lay in between.

I started to inch my way forward. Through the tugs at my ankle, I could tell Harry was moving too. We slid ourselves slowly along between the corpses of our fallen brothers, hugging the earth, never daring to rise above the shielding presence of the dead. Rarely did we progress directly toward the refuge we sought. Instead, we had to slide right, then left, then right again as we weaved our way between the frozen bodies, taking great care to never show a silhouette to the enemy. A few times our path was blocked entirely by the dead. Harry rested while
I cautiously looked for a way around the obstruction. Then, we went forward again.

Harry never let go of the belt. He clung tenaciously to it until, yard by yard, we neared the shelter of the house. I led Harry toward the rear of the house, away from the Rebel line.

“Who’s that?” a voice rasped out of the darkness.

“Fourteenth Connecticut,” I answered quickly.

“Tenth New York. Hi, Yank.”

“Hi, Yank. My friend Harry here’s been shot bad in the ankle.”

“All right, get back here where it’s safe.”

“Harry must get to a hospital soon or he’ll die.”

“There’s seven of us here that’s still alive, all from different units. Two are pretty bad; the rest should make it okay. Just about to skedaddle, when I heard you. Didn’t know if maybe you were a couple of Rebs trying to sneak up on us.”

All eyes scanned the night sky. A large cloud began to pass in front of the moon.

“It’s now or never,” Tenth New York said. “We’re going to carry you off this field, Harry. Connecticut, you get under Harry’s right arm, I’ll be under his left. Harry, you hang on tight, ‘cause we might not come back for you if we drop you.” Tenth New York chuckled at his own wit. “Let’s go.”

In twos and threes, our little band started out from the shelter of the house. We moved down the slope, weaving back and forth as we found our way among the dead and dying. I thank God above for sending those clouds, and I thank the Rebels for holding their fire or for being asleep, because all nine men made it safely down the slope to the rock wall near the railroad. We rested there for several minutes and planned our next move.

“What’s your name, Tenth New York?” I asked.

“Pat MacMullin,” he answered.

“Mine is Michael Palmer, and I’m pleased to make your
acquaintance, Pat.” I extended my hand to him; he grasped it firmly. “This is Harry Whitting, and I could not have brought him back here without your help. I can’t thank you enough.”

“Don’t worry about it. I wasn’t hit at all. When our unit got into it, most of us just fired once and then hit the dirt. I was lucky enough to make it behind that house before the Rebs got me in their sights. I was just waiting for the night to darken some.”

“Thanks all the same.”

It was only about a hundred yards to the railroad trestle that led across the canal to the relative security of the city streets beyond. Back on our feet, our small band hobbled the distance to the bridge. The engineers had replaced the planks all the way across and we passed over with ease.

Oil lamps glowed eerily along both sides of Princess Anne Street. Long columns of troops lay about the streets, as we had the night before, waiting for their turn to be thrown into the fighting that was sure to be renewed at first light. I prayed they would be spared. Others, like us, stragglers fresh from the field, walked to and fro in search of the scattered remnants of their units.

It was a simple thing to find a hospital. Many houses had been appropriated for this purpose, and many a grand dining table was pressed into service as a surgeon’s table. I thought of the house on Caroline Street. The sighs and groans and screams of the grievously injured once again filled the air, as did the stench of blood and death. I considered these men blessed since they no longer faced the danger of further injury on the battlefield, and nurses moved among the men spreading good cheer, offering comfort, and serving hot coffee.

MacMullin and I approached one of these hospitals, hoping to find treatment for our friends and relief from our burdens. A weary nurse stopped us as we started up the steps.

“What corps are you from?” she asked.

“Second Corps, Third Division, ma’am,” I replied.

“Oh no, this hospital is Sixth Corps. So is the next one there,” she added, pointing at the large building next door. “He must go to your division’s hospital.”

“Where is that, ma’am?”

“Second Corps is down next to the river, I think, past the pontoon bridge. Turn right at the next street. At the river, turn left. The hospitals are down a ways, maybe half a mile.”

“Thank you, ma’am. Can you spare a stretcher for Harry here?”

“Oh no,” said the nurse, “ours are filled with our own wounded. I’m sorry, but I can’t help you.”

At that, Pat and I turned around and started to carry Harry farther down the street. Both of my wounds throbbed due to the exertions of the last hour, and we still needed to go about as far as we had already come from the field of battle. Strength for the task ahead was gone, and we had to stop for rest before we had gone a hundred paces. Harry groaned as we gently set him down.

Pat and I went into a nearby house, looking for anything we might use to help Harry. The house already held a good number of soldiers, a mix of officers and enlisted men. One or more weary men were already employing every piece of furniture that could be laid upon, sat upon, or leaned against.

“Hey, Palmer,” whispered Pat as he moved over to the passage from the dining room to the kitchen, “let’s use a door.”

“A door?” I asked.

“Yeah, a door. It’s the right length; it’s flat. Let’s just bust the hinges out of the door frame and take it.” And so we did, amid the cries of protest from several whose slumber we disturbed with our door wrenching. We carried the door outside and laid Harry upon it.

“Unh … unh … unh … unh,” Harry moaned with nearly every step. The door certainly made it easier for Pat and me, but it was tougher on Harry, and we could not stop.

At the river we turned left. After passing a few more cross streets, I finally spotted some familiar faces lit by the dim halos of several small campfires. Pat and I had stumbled upon the remnants of my Fourteenth Regiment. We set Harry down and I found Sergeant Holt.

“Sergeant, Private Palmer reporting for duty. I have Harry Whitting with me, and he’s badly wounded. This man, Pat Mac-Mullin from the Tenth New York, helped me get Harry off the field.”

“Thanks, MacMullin,” said Holt. “Want some coffee?”

“Sure, Sergeant,” said Pat. “Thanks.”

“We’ll take care of Whitting. Blake, Chatfield, Hill, Thompson.” Four men got wearily to their feet. “Take Whitting here to the division hospital. Just down the street here about two hundred yards, white house, white fence.” They picked Harry up and started off, four sharing the work that Pat and I had done until then.

We drained our coffee cups.

“Pat, thanks again for helping Harry and me tonight. I hope God repays your kindness by seeing you safely home.” We shook hands warmly, and Pat went off to find his unit while I turned to follow Harry to the hospital.

The scene at the hospital would make the stoutest heart faint. The large house was reserved for the treatment of officers. Smoke rose from three chimneys; it must have been pleasantly warm inside. I assumed this was where Colonel Perkins had been taken.

All of the wounded enlisted men remained outside in the cold, lying about the yard, waiting for a surgeon to see them. Most had no covering against the cold other than their own
clothing. There were a few large trees in the yard, and between two of them, almost screened from the casual observer, I noticed two long tables under the glow of several smoking oil lamps. A surgeon was busily at work at each table, trying to save as many men as possible. I now knew what “sawbones” meant.

A plump gray-haired nurse met us at the gate. “His name is Harold Whitting, ma’am,” I told her. The nurse wrote Harry’s name on a sheet of paper as I spelled it.

“What regiment?”

“Fourteenth Connecticut, ma’am, Second Brigade, Third Division.”

“What’s his injury?”

“He was shot in the left ankle, ma’am, sometime after noon today.”

“You mean yesterday. It’s now Sunday morning, about 3 o’clock.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You boys bring him inside the gate and find a place for him.” We found a spot large enough and the four bearers lowered Harry to the ground. “And take that door with you when you leave.”

“Thanks, boys,” Harry said weakly with a slight wave of his hand. The four helpers took their leave. “Thank you too, Michael.”

“I hope a doctor sees you soon, Harry,” I told him, gripping his hand in both of mine.

The nurse marked Harry’s location in the yard on her paper. “Young man,” she told me, “you can’t stay here. A surgeon will see him when he can. You should return to your unit. I have many others to look after.”

I walked back to the regiment and sat down wearily before a campfire. After another cup of coffee and a few hard crackers, I began to feel somewhat better. I wrapped myself in my woolen
blanket and lay down to get some sleep. It didn’t take long. I had time for one thought before I lost consciousness:
Where is John?

Moments later, or so it seemed, I awoke to warm sunshine filtering through my closed eyelids. I stirred and opened my eyes to a steaming cup of coffee. I looked up and saw John smiling down at me.

“Michael, it’s so good to see you. I thought I would have to mail that letter to Jessie Anne.”

“Likewise,” I said, sitting up stiffly. Both legs hurt, but the right one especially so. “I lost you in the fight; it was so confusing. I couldn’t see what happened to you or Jim.”

“We made it out all right. Jim should be along shortly. He saw some of the boys in the Twenty-seventh Connecticut a few streets over and went with them to see if they could find a friend of his in their unit. Are you all right?”

“Yes, nothing major. They added a big lump on my shin from a spent bullet. But Harry’s bad.” I told John every detail, including the help of the good fellow from New York. “Harry will lose his foot,” I said. “I left him at the hospital down the street at about three o’clock this morning.”

“You did well, my friend. No one could have asked more. They amputated Harry’s leg this morning about six inches above the ankle. It’s a shame, but it had to be done. He’ll be sent home if his wound heals.”

“I hope so,” I said, sipping the hot coffee. “What about you and Jim? How did you make it through? And how do you know about Harry?”

John poured himself a cup of coffee and sat next to me. “After that first blast up by that wooden fence, most of us just dropped to the ground. Staying put would mean a quick death, so we started back as soon as we got the order.” John sipped his
coffee several times before continuing. “We didn’t turn and run. We faced the enemy so that we could see when they rose up to shoot. Then we dropped again. We backed off about a hundred yards like that, but some of the boys still got hit. Then the next line came up, and when they passed us, most of the fire was concentrated on them, so we ran for the rear.”

“Thank God you and Jim are safe. I was anxious when I didn’t see you with the regiment last night.”

John drank more of his coffee. “I made it back to the city just after dark and the wounded were coming in by the hundreds. I helped one man to our hospital, and the nurse asked me to stay and help. It was horrible. There aren’t enough nurses to assist the surgeons, so I helped a surgeon from the First Brigade. I just did whatever he told me to do and tried not to think about the blood and the pain and the sadness of it all, hoping I was doing some small good for these men.”