Karl Bacon (23 page)

O L
ORD,
what shall I say, when Israel turneth their backs before their enemies!
JOSHUA 7:8

O
N
N
OVEMBER
7
^TH
, F
EDERAL TROOPS OF THE
S
IXTH AND
Third Corps defeated Confederate forces at Rappahannock Station and Kelly’s Ford, allowing the Army of the Potomac to once again advance toward Culpeper. The Second Corps moved near the village of Stevensburg, where General Warren ordered the corps to encamp and build winter quarters. The granting of furloughs would soon begin again, and I was very close to the top of the list.

Jim, Charlie, and I invited Otto Wehlmann to become the fourth occupant of our winter hut, which very much pleased the big German. The weather was cold and rainy most of the time, but Otto worked tirelessly, even joyfully, as he felled trees, axed notches in them and heaved the timbers into position. It was with obvious satisfaction that Otto drove himself onward, along with his other three companions, so that the hut was completed within seven days. It was Otto who finally fixed our half-shelter tents in place for the roof and it was Otto who built and lit the first fire in the mud-covered fireplace.

Thursday, November 26
^th
was proclaimed by President Lincoln to be a national “day of Thanksgiving and Praise to our beneficent Father who dwelleth in the heavens.” While most folks already celebrated a day of thanksgiving, this was the first time in many years that a national holiday had been declared. My friends and I began to think about what special foodstuffs we might be able to acquire to enhance our celebration. As at Falmouth the year before, the army built brick ovens, and we enjoyed a steady supply of fresh bread. With the entire army encamped, herds of cattle could now be slaughtered, making fresh beef a definite possibility for our special day. Slabs of real bacon were plentiful. In addition, Jim and I had received some goodies from home and, if we still lacked anything, the sutler had a variety of canned fruits and vegetables. It would be a real feast—a feast for which all would have to wait, a feast which many, even thousands, might never partake of.

In the early morning hours of Thanksgiving Day an order came down that the entire army was to prepare to march. Meager possessions went from hut to knapsack, half-shelters went from roof to blanket roll and we huddled together before the fireplace, drawing what scant warmth we could from the dying embers. Feasting was exchanged for marching and prayers of thanksgiving for grumbling as the army moved southward.

The Second Corps crossed the Rapidan River on a pontoon bridge at Germanna Ford. We were very close to the enemy now. Signs of his recent activity were everywhere—the carpet of fallen leaves disturbed and trampled, abandoned entrenchments, smoldering embers of dying campfires, camp refuse strewn about, the stench of human and animal excrement. And it was not lost on anyone that this forested country through which we marched lay just a few scant miles west of the scene of our greatest disgrace at Chancellorsville.

On Friday, the weather turned much colder. The brigade
deployed in line of battle in some woods near a small hamlet called Locust Grove. Furtive movements and rustling leaves told of enemy lookouts scurrying away at our approach. Breastworks were thrown up and we settled down warily for the night. Icy rain fell with the dawn on Saturday, but we still marched several more miles through dense forest and built more breastworks.

On Sunday it was more of the same. The cold rain was not constant but was sufficiently heavy and frequent to keep us damp and shivering all day long. We struggled for eleven miles over terrible roads—narrow, muddy, and deeply furrowed with ancient wagon ruts. Late in the afternoon, Colonel Smyth ordered the brigade to form in line of battle. The men of the Fourteenth Connecticut went forward as skirmishers.

Colonel Ellis’s orders were crisp in the cold, damp air. “Fix bayonets! Arms at the ready! Forward, march!”

We advanced into yet another dense wood. We worked our way slowly forward, weapons at the ready. There were no colors in those woods, only shades of gray. I blinked my eyes again and again, trying to distinguish between the darker shades of the tree trunks and the lighter frosty voids, testing the several visible yards before me with all my senses — smelling, listening, feeling, watching—to learn if death waited for me within the gloom. Step by step, yard by yard, I advanced. Leaves rustled and jeering calls came from out of the shadows.

Another step and then another.

A tree several yards ahead and slightly to the right—two more steps and suddenly it seemed the tree had moved. A dark form stood motionless beside the tree trunk; a pair of arms raised a musket and leveled it squarely at my chest. I froze.
Jessie Anne, I’ll not be coming home.

“Bye, Yank,” I heard the man say.

A soft click; his musket had misfired. Our eyes fixed on each other. The man’s face twisted into a hideous, devilish sneer, and
he spat a heavy wad of black spittle onto the ground between us. I brought my own rifle to bear and drew back the hammer, but in that short second or two, the man had vanished into the shadows. Damp powder had spared another life, but for how long and for what purpose?

“After them, men,” cried Colonel Ellis. “Don’t let them stop to reload.”

We rushed over the crest of a low ridge and then down into a shallow valley, yelling and screaming all the way, until we came upon a small stream. We splashed across Mine Run, as it was known, without difficulty, but a few yards beyond the stream the woods ended and so did our pursuit. The main line of the enemy, toward which the pickets were fleeing, was only a few hundred yards away, atop yet another low ridge that had been cleared of trees. Artillery opened on us immediately, but did us no harm, though we were forced to spend the last hour of the day in extremely close contact with the cold, muddy earth.

The main body of the brigade advanced to our skirmish line, and we set about digging a shallow trench and building breastworks for protection against the shelling, our third such construction in three days. With nightfall the rain ended. A strong north wind arose and it grew much colder. Within a short time the mud-covered works had frozen solid.

Colonel Smyth came forward to address the brigade. Always an encouraging officer and usually in bright spirits, the somber tone of his voice caused all to pay close heed.

“The Second Corps is the left end of the Union Line. Our hard marching during the last two days was an attempt to get beyond the Rebels’ right flank, but as you see, they have extended their works. General Warren is confident that the Second Corps can charge up that hill tomorrow and sweep the Rebels off it, so General Meade has ordered a grand assault all along the line.”

A collective groan passed through the ranks.

“Tomorrow morning at eight o’clock, we will hear a signal shot from one of our guns in the center off to the right. There will then be a general bombardment of the enemy. We are to be ready to charge the hill as soon as the bombardment ceases. General Hays’s division has been given the task of leading the assault along this part of the line, and this brigade will lead that division. We will be the front line. We will lead the assault for the entire corps.”

Not a groan this time, but hushed, terse whisperings.

“I want you to know fully what we have been called upon to do tomorrow. We will fix bayonets and rush up that hill, not stopping, not firing a shot until we gain their works. The position of the Rebels is strong. Their works are formidable. I expect casualties will be high, perhaps extreme.”

The colonel paused for a few moments to steady his voice before continuing.

“The army and the nation will be watching us tomorrow to see if we do our duty. Let it never be said of this brigade, of you men from New Jersey, Connecticut, New York, and Delaware, that we were found wanting in the time of trial. Let it only be said that we always did our duty to its fullest extent. We will fight together tomorrow as brothers, and as brothers we shall meet whatever the Almighty has in store for us. Let His will be done, and may He bless this army with success tomorrow.”

The night was bitterly cold. No fires were allowed because of the nearness of the enemy. Sleep was not possible or even desired, for if one was to fall asleep, he might never awaken; his frozen body would be found in the morning. And so it remained for each man to pass each long minute of that endless, frigid night in preparation for the coming battle. For some this meant gathering in twos or threes or fours to talk and joke of nothing
in particular, laughing and stamping their feet and sometimes jumping up and down to keep their blood flowing. For others, and I include myself among this number, it was a time for solitude, perhaps for prayer and reflection, for death would call upon many tomorrow. I sat atop my folded half-shelter and leaned back against a large oak tree, wrapped in my woolen and rubber blankets, shivering against the cold.

The Rebels made no secret about what they were doing to prepare for the battle. Had we expected them to attack us, we would have done the same thing. We clearly heard the incessant chopping of the axe, the crashing of falling trees, the yells and grunts and curses of the men across the way as they worked through the night to strengthen their defenses. The metallic clanks of hundreds of shovels and spades spoke of a great volume of earth being dug out and thrown up. As we listened to them work, every one of us knew that for every chop of the axe, for every fallen tree, for every shovel filled with dirt, the cost in our blood grew dearer still.

Heavy footfalls approached; the massive form of Otto Wehlmann loomed over me. “Sit down, Otto,” I said. I usually enjoyed Otto’s company and conversation, and now we could help each other avoid the danger of falling asleep.

“Sergeant Palmer, is it going to be as bad as Colonel Smyth said?”

“I expect so,” I said. “Colonel Smyth’s always truthful with the men. The Rebs have been working all night up on that hill, so it will be very bad for us tomorrow. It could be worse than Fredericksburg, but General Warren thinks we can take that hill, so we’ll have to try. It might be like Gettysburg, only in reverse. We could get all the way up to their works, only to be driven back. I guess it’s in God’s hands now.”

“I’m not ready to die,” said Otto, “I’ve seen so little of life. I could get married and have children like you, Sergeant, and
work and … there must be much more than I’ve seen so far. Maybe God should let me live so I—”

“Hey, Yank,” a voice called from the darkness in the direction of the Rebel line, amid the incessant clanking and chopping. “Say your prayers tonight ‘cause you’re sure in for it tomorrow. Best be ready to meet your maker.” The voice cackled a piercing, ghoulish laugh, and other cackling voices from the void added a chorus of hoots and hollers and taunts.

A shadowy figure approached. “Sergeant Palmer, is that you?” It was Chaplain Stevens. Otto and I started to rise. “No, no, don’t get up. And who’s that you’re sharing this tree with? Ah, Mr. Wehlmann. I should have known, you’re such a large fellow. Mind if I sit for a spell?”

“Please do, sir,” I said.

“That man’s right, you know. We must all say our prayers tonight. Unless the Lord is indeed most merciful, a big fight will occur here tomorrow and many men will die. ‘Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ, and thou shalt be saved.’ That’s the best thing I can tell you tonight. If you trust in Him, even if you’re killed tomorrow, you will live forever in glory with Him. You believe this, don’t you, Sergeant?”

“I’ve always said so,” I answered quickly.

“And now? When it appears your faith will be put to the test?”

I shifted uncomfortably against the tree. I recalled each of the men I had killed, until lastly, the anguish-stricken face of the man Wyatt seemed to appear before me. Had I not gone off to war to do the will of God? I had told Jessie Anne as much. How could I have been overcome by such malice and rage? I was a guilty man and I despised myself because of it.

“Well, sir,” I said, “when I think of it … it’s just that my sin is so great … so deep … and dark. And when I think of my faith, sir, I’m afraid it’s so small and weak compared to my sin.”

“But Sergeant,” Otto said, “you’re a religious man. I’ve seen you reading the Bible and praying.”

“Mr. Wehlmann, Sergeant Palmer has spoken from the heart,” Chaplain Stevens said, “and you have raised an interesting question, Sergeant, so let me speak from the heart as well. The truth is that sometimes my own sin seems so great and my faith so small that I wonder where it has gone. It’s a constant battle that rages inside me. But thanks be to God, He’s not holding a balance, with my faith on one side and my sin on the other, waiting to see which way it will tip. Sergeant Palmer, Mr. Wehlmann—please understand that any faith I possess is not something for which I deserve credit. It’s not because I’m a religious man or a minister of the gospel. No, the beauty of the Christian gospel is that my faith comes to me as a gift from the One in whom I trust, the Lord Jesus Christ, and I need only receive that gift and rest upon Him for salvation. This is my eternal and glorious hope.”

“But what about tomorrow?” Otto asked.

“What of tomorrow when you go charging up that hill?” The chaplain paused for a moment before answering. “I can only say that He alone has power to strengthen me, even when I am weak and afraid. By myself, I would be worthless as a minister and as a man, but with Christ I can do what is required of me, and I know He will never leave my side. I will be by your side tomorrow on that hill, to minister to the fallen, and if He takes me, so be it.”

“I should pray for faith such as yours,” Otto said.

“Pray only that Christ might know you, Otto Wehlmann, and that you might know Christ. Trust that Christ alone can cleanse you of all sin, and then let Him carry your burdens. Your body may die just hours from now, but if you are truly in Christ, and if Christ is in you, then eternal glory is yours.”