the middle of the long field down to the river, were completely startled by the charge and gave ground for a half mile to the base of the slope and their own cedar thickets.
We never regained our original positions from the morning. But we had the last word that day, and it proved to be prophetic. The Army of the Cumberland formed a new defensive line, still parallel with the railroad and pike, collected its wounded, and buried its heads in weariness behind breastworks thrown up in darkness.
That night there was a generals’ council at Rosecrans’ headquarters. We all heard that Thomas intensely disliked councils of war; he believed generals should be left to their own courage and ingenuity. All they needed to know was where everyone else was supposed to be. “Too much talking weakens the resolve of any army,” he said. I learned only later that most of the generals were counseling retreat since we had lost so much ground. Thomas, with an assist from Sheridan, was roused from a catnap and stated his case clearly: “This army does not retreat,” and that was the end of the meeting. He was forty-six but looked at least sixty that night, and no one, not even Rosecrans, was going to dispute his wisdom. The West Point Thomas was like a grandfather among the younger officers, so many of whom owed their rank to political appointments.
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Forty thousand of our men, many in their first battle, lie stretched beside their guns on the field. The night is cold and gloomy, but our spirits, unaccountably, are rising. We all glory in the stubbornness with which Rosecrans, with Thomas in charge, has clung to our position. Once my horse has been tethered and settled down with the rest of our animals, I take out my pocket Bible and turn quite by accident to the 91st Psalm: “I will say to the Lord, He is my refuge and my fortress, my God: in Him will I trust. Surely He shall deliver thee from the share of the fowler, and from the noisome pestilence…. Thou shalt not be afraid for the terror by night; nor for the arrow that flieth by day;... A thousand shall fall by thy side, and ten thousand at thy right hand; but it shall not come nigh thee.” Countless campfires glimmer. A few scattered shots are heard, and an occasional mounted man gallops by. But our spirits are lifting, and I wrap myself in my blanket and lie down for the night.
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Neither army wanted to fight the next day, but we knew it would come; neither was content with the first day’s battle.
As I rode by an Ohio regiment in Rousseau’s division the next morning, a gallant colonel gathered his field of men together and addressed them in an unusual way. I thought afterwards that his strange, cruel speech was true to what was likely to happen, even if we won the battle the following day:
“Soldiers of the Third: The assault of the enemy on our fortifications will be made tomorrow morning. They will have twenty thousand men and forty cannon, more men and cannon than we have in this spot. They will cut us to pieces. Many of you will go into battle and never come back again. Marching into such an attack will be like marching to a butcher shop rather than to a battle.”
The colonel spoke for another ten minutes in this same vein, and I took him aside when he finished and suggested, respectfully, that he might be upsetting the men for the battle that was coming. He only replied, “What I said was true, and they should know the truth.”
Plutarch never included such a speech in his wars; his generals always spoke encouragingly and hopefully. But this colonel was his own person; maybe he wanted his men just to think of what was at stake. His men and I, as we listened, undoubtedly thought of what it would be like to die so young, so far from home. Of parents and family and sweethearts. Of things not said, and advice not heeded. Of the meaning of life itself, especially if, like I was, we were unsure of that meaning. Some soldiers, even before I moved away to my own men, kicked together the expiring fragments of their campfires, and when they raised their heads I could see how white their faces had become. Yes, the colonel revealed what we were fighting for and, for some of us, losing.
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The sun rises on January 2nd and the Rebel cannon shells immediately begin falling along the Pike, like the wooden balls on those new bowling alleys bouncing toward the pins, but destroying them in the process. We rouse quickly, stuff our mouths, and mount to take the position, again on the right, that Thomas has assigned to me even before the sun rose. As I swing my horse around, a soldier near me, walking deliberately to the rear for safety, is struck by one of the cannon balls and separates in two, both halves—torso and head in one spot, and legs still together in another—still trying to move in that same direction, as if it is important any more. Our own batteries, thank goodness, immediately open up and silence the cannon fire coming in. The lull lasts till early afternoon.
Then from the left, where Van Cleve’s regiment is located, comes the relentless sound of all guns, and all regiments, mounted or not, rush toward the center to bolster his men. The thunderous noise becomes more and more violent, the volleys of musketry growing into one prolonged and unceasing roll.
During the night, Van Cleve’s men have moved forward and occupied a hill that the Rebels think is still unoccupied and ready for them to take, giving them a perfect base from which to conduct their real attack. And Thomas has repositioned his cannon to fire on the fields below Van Cleve’s men, as if he knew the Confederates would want that hill. They ignored it two days before, but somehow Thomas knows they want it now. All tolled, fifty-eight guns decimate the half mile of space in front of our troops. And Negley’s and Rousseau’s divisions, on the defensive New Year’s Eve, now rush across the river on the offensive to support Van Cleve. My men are held back. The battle lasts only two hours. The Rebels withdraw completely.
Our hungry soldiers cut steaks from the flanks of dead horses, and around the campfires talk over the incidents of the day. This is the most cheerful they have been since my regiment arrived, and they even give us a snatch of song now and then. Officers come over from adjoining brigades, hoping to find a little whiskey, only to discover the canteens empty long since, as are the private flasks.
I ride over the battlefield. The bodies of Federals and Confederates are intermingled everywhere, old and young, for miles. Some are my own men, one third of whom are missing. I see Corporal Wright lying at the exit from the cedar thickets when we first glimpsed the enemy two days before; he has one foot off and has bled to death. Another lies with his hands clasped behind his head, as if he is dreaming of home, but he is dead, too. The Confederates have the very same expressions on their faces as the Union dead: wherever they have gone they are presenting themselves to God in the same way.
A young boy, dressed in a Confederate uniform, lies face upward, eyes closed; there is no sign of a wound, and he looks as if he might be sleeping. I get down from my horse, and moving his rifle away from him, jostle his leg. I cannot believe he does not wake up, and I keep trying for what seems like minutes. A mule with one of his legs blown off has obviously been standing on three legs all day long; where could his strength be coming from, waiting for who knows what? How many poor men moaned through the cold night in the thick woods after that first day’s battle, calling in vain for help, and finally dealing with God on their own.
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I find my men, back at camp, talking in hushed voices about comrades that have not returned. They assume they are dead, though some undoubtedly have fled. There are no laughs, not even the laughter of fear that comes with sorrow. A frivolous word would insult the slain. They have sought for a long time a grand battle, and have finally gotten one. They see it is like a storm through autumn leaves, and are amazed to discover that they are still attached to the tree.
I ask for volunteers to bring shovels to our position on
