The twenty-pounder Parrotts on the hill by my side open once more their iron lips. The hills all around Sharpsburg are flaming with Rebel guns. The sharpshooters all along the line keep up a rattling fire. Near the town, hay-stacks, barns, and houses are in flames. At my left hand, Burnside's heavy guns, east of the river, are at work. His lighter batteries are beyond the bridge. His men are along the hillside, a dark line, dimly seen, covered by a bank of cloud, illuminating it with constant flashes. All the country is flaming, smoking, and burning, as if the last great day, the judgment day of the Lord, had come.
Gradually the thunder dies away. The flashes are fewer. The musketry ceases, and silence comes on, broken only by an occasional volley, and single shots, like the last drops after a shower.
Thirty thousand men, who in the morning were full of life, are bleeding at this hour. The sky is bright with lurid flames of burning buildings, and they need no torches who go out upon the bloody field to gather up the wounded. Thousands of bivouac fires gleam along the hillsides, as if a great city had lighted its lamps. Cannon rumble along the roads. Supply wagons come up. Long trains of ambulances go by. Thousands of slightly wounded work their way to the rear, dropping by the roadside, or finding a bed of straw by wheat-stacks and in stables. There is the clatter of hoofs,—the cavalry dashing by, and the tramp, tramp, tramp of Couch's and Humphrey's divisions, marching to the field.
There are low wails of men in distress, and sharp shrieks from those who are under the surgeon's hands.
While obtaining hay for my horse at a barn, I heard the soldiers singing. They were wounded, but happy; for they had done their duty. They had been supplied with rations,—hard tack and coffee,—and were lying on their beds of straw. I listened to their song. It was about the dear old flag.
"Our flag is there! Our flag is there!
We'll hail it with three loud huzzahs!
Our flag is there! Our flag is there!
Behold the glorious stripes and stars!
Stout hearts have fought for that bright flag,
Strong hands sustained it mast-head high,
And oh! to see how proud it waves
Brings tears of joy to every eye.
"That flag has stood the battle's roar,
With foeman stout and foeman brave;
Strong hands have sought that flag to lower,
And found a traitor's speedy grave.
That flag is known on every shore,
The standard of a gallant band,
Alike unstained in peace or war,
It floats o'er Freedom's happy land."
Then there came thoughts of home, of loved ones, of past scenes, and pleasant memories, and the songs become plaintive. They sung the old song:—
"Do they miss me at home—do they miss me
At morning, at noon, or at night?
And lingers a gloomy shade round them,
That only my presence can light?
Are joys less invitingly welcome,
And pleasures less bright than before,
Because one is missed from the circle,—
Because I am with them no