There was a tacit understanding between the soldiers of the Fifth and the enemy in front of them that there should be no picket-firing. They filled their canteens at the same spring and had friendly conversations. But not so in front of the Ninth, in which thirty were wounded or killed every twenty-four hours. Such was the unnecessary sacrifice of life to this Moloch of our generation! There were those in the army, as well as out of it, who were not willing that the colored soldier should be recognized as a man.
"The negroes ought not to be allowed to fight," said a Massachusetts captain to me.
"Why not, sir?"
"Because the Rebels hate us for making them soldiers," was the reply; and adding, dubiously, "I don't know but that the negroes have souls; but I look upon them as a lower order of beings than ourselves."
The old prejudice remained. We were not willing to deal fairly. We asked the negro to help fight our battles, but we were willing to pay him only half a soldier's wages, as if we feared this simple act of justice might be construed as an acknowledgment of his social as well as civil equality.
Through all the weary months of fighting and exposure the wants of the soldiers were greatly relieved by the Sanitary and Christian Commissions. The warm-hearted people in the North never ceased their contributions. The machinery of both those excellent organizations was so perfect that the soldiers had quick relief.
The power of any force—moral and religious as well as mechanical—is in proportion to the directness of its application. I recall, in this connection, a hot, dry, sultry day. The sun shone from a brazen sky. The grass and shrubs were scorched, withered, and powdered with dust, which rose in clouds behind every passing wagon. Even the aspens were motionless, and there was not air enough to stir the long, lithe needles of the pines. The birds of the forest sought the deepest shade, and hushed even their twitter. It was difficult for men in robust health to breathe, and they picked out the coolest places and gave themselves up to the languor of the hour. It required an earnest effort to do anything. Yet through this blazing day men crouched in the trenches from morning till night, or lay in their shallow rifle-pits, watching the enemy,—parched, broiled, burned, not daring to raise their heads or lift their hands. To do so was to suffer death or wounds.
The hospital tents, though pitched in the woods, were like ovens, absorbing and holding the heat of the sun, whose rays the branches of the trees but partially excluded. Upon the ground lay the sick and wounded, fevered and sore, with energies exhausted, perspiration oozing from their faces, nerves quivering and trembling, pulses faint and feeble, and life ebbing away. Their beds were pine boughs. They lay as they came from the battle-field, wearing their soiled, torn, and bloody garments, and tantalized by myriads of flies.
The surgeons in charge were kind-hearted and attentive. They used all means in their power to make their patients comfortable. Was this the place where the sick were to regain their health, far from home and friends! With nothing to cheer them, hope was dying out, and despondency setting in; and memory, ever busy, was picturing the dear old home scenes, so painfully in contrast with their dismal present.
It was the Sabbath, and there were many among the suffering thousands who had been accustomed to observe the day as one of worship and rest from toil and care. In imagination they heard the pealing of church-bells, the grand and solemn music of the organ, or the hum of children's voices in the Sabbath school.