This is the fourth of a seven-part series reviewing the recent annual Civil War Symposium produced by the Andrew Carnegie Free Library & Music Hall in Carnegie, Pennsylvania.
To many, the Civil War was, well, civil. Somehow, despite all we know, it does not seem quite so terrible as the world wars that would follow in the next century or the numerous smaller conflicts around the world with which we are familiar because they occurred during our lifetime (or, in many cases, because either we or someone we know served “there”).
This impression may come from films such as Gettysburg or Glory where everyone remained standing even when the balls were whistling or artillery shells exploding. No one seems to be ducking for cover or finding a hole. There is no blood, and body parts do not fly through the air.
Scott Hartwig tells us, though, the Civil War does not have a “happy” ending for those who saw things up close. Indeed, it would ha
unt them for life, and the evidence can be found in their contemporary letters. These missives, written within days or weeks of the battle, are raw and unfiltered. They tell the story the soldier had just experienced when there was no post-war need to repackage events to tell a better story, defend honor or secure a place in history. Indeed, they provide a harsh narrative of the smells, sights and sounds while fresh in the mind of the correspondent. Despite the niceties of the Victorian Era, there was no effort to appeal to the sensibilities of the gentle folk back home.
Hartwig, more often associated with the Gettysburg National Military Park from which he retired as supervisory historian, seems somehow out of place at Antietam, and this is another false impression. Indeed, he has authored what will likely stand as THE definitive study of the Maryland Campaign (he apparently did not get the memo from Dennis Frye on this subject!) for years to come with a two-volume study spanning 808 pages. In the process, the soldiers’ letters became a veritable gold mine for the historian and researcher seeking a more personal connection to the events of the campaign.
The Antietam Creek valley in 1862 was likely more scenic and pastoral than it is today (which is saying something!). The area was actively farmed that September, and generally supported the surrounding community. While a pair of turnpikes ran through Sharpsburg, the self-supporting town was not a regional center of commerce or manufacturing. Life was simple.
Then came the armies, and local landmarks such as the East Wood, West Wood and Dunker Church would gain everlasting fame. Any one of a dozen cornfields ready for harvest could become THE cornfield referenced in every battle study since 1862. There, Rufus Dawes and the Iron Brigade would wage war against their Southern foes, and Dawes’ writings a few days later told how Confederate artillery “knocked men out of the ranks by dozens,” and how they engaged in a “frantic struggle to shoot fast.” Men were standing and shooting while “laughing demonically” with “reckless disregard for life.” Dawes’ letter is unfiltered in describing the horrors of David Miller’s cornfield… THE Cornfield.
On the other side of the line, Captain Fred Richardson of the 5th Louisiana Infantry and his men were ordered to lie down to keep from exposing themselves as targets. A few days later, Richardson would write a letter to a Memphis newspaper describing how the Canfield brothers had died that morning so their mother would know of their fates. The letter, though, can hardly be considered the type of comfort for which a mother could hope. Rather, Richardson would tell how the men were joking while under fire when a Federal shell would plow into their midst, killing four, amputating limbs and literally forcing one of the boys’ heart out of his chest. Too graphic for a grieving mother, but perhaps an unconscious effort to ensure the event was never erased from the author’s memory.
Other letters speak matter-of-factly about the killing of an enemy soldier, with no more emotion than being back home on the farm hoeing corn. One writer noted how he and his comrades had fun picking off a group of exposed Yankees who had no place to hide, and claimed to even enjoy shooting down a wounded soldier. Were these men that inhumane, or were they still recovering from the loss of friends three days before on the crest of South Mountain and simply seeking vengeance?
A Union lieutenant wrote of forcing two known malingerers and one sick man into the ranks with their comrades. Having witnessed them previously shirking away from battle, he put them on the front line with the point of his sword. One would be killed and the other two wounded (as the lieutenant would be himself). His letter ruminates on having been responsible for a man’s death, but with no apparent feelings of regret or guilt.
Another missive reported in graphic detail a soldier being shot through the heart and good-naturedly waving and saying “good-bye” to those around him as he fell dead. Yet another account from a wounded soldier told the folks back home how he had been shot in the elbow, but he squeezed the bullet out of the wound and now keeps it in his pocket!
Those who have seen war up close, and first-responders who see death and destruction every day here at home, have a “dark” sense of conversation which they can appreciate and understand, but which is distasteful, even nauseating, to “regular folks.” So it is with the contemporary writings of many Civil War soldiers who put their pencil to paper to remember and never lose sight of what they had experienced in a conflict that was neither romantic or civil.
May 26th: “Nothing can be half so melancholy as a battle won…” Sharpsburg Civilians and Antietam’s Aftermath
