No pursuit was attempted, but, although the rebels were not at once driven from their position, they had suffered a terrible defeat, and they must retreat with all speed to their defenses in Virginia, or submit to the destruction of their army. Our wounded were collected in great numbers in and about the field hospitals, which were composed chiefly of hospital tents, some farm house with its large barns, serving as a nucleus for each. To these, thousands of our brave comrades were brought with mangled limbs, torn bodies or bleeding heads, yet, notwithstanding their terrible wounds, exhibiting their accustomed heroism. Long trains of ambulances were bringing in crowds of poor fellows with arms or legs torn to shreds, yet who never uttered a word of complaint, and who, indeed, appeared cheerful, and some even gay.
In this respect there was the greatest contrast between the wounded of the Union and the rebel armies. A Union soldier, if so severely wounded that he could by no possibility assume a cheerful countenance, would shut his teeth close together and say nothing. While a rebel, if he could boast of only a flesh wound, would whine and cry like a sick child. One unaccustomed to such scenes as can only be witnessed about a field hospital in time of battle, would be filled with astonishment at the stoical bravery manifested by the northern troops. If one had passed along where our men were lying in rows, he would only now and then have heard a groan escape from some poor fellow who had received a bullet through the abdomen or some such fatal and painful wound. But let a group of wounded rebels be placed in some part of the hospital, and their groans were heart-rending. This contrast is not overdrawn. Every surgeon who has had opportunities to observe the difference in the bearing of wounded men of the two armies, can testify to the greater heroism of the northern soldier at such times.
CHAPTER XX.
PURSUIT OF LEE'S ARMY.
Scenes of the field of Gettysburgh—The rebel hospitals—The sightless rebel soldier boy—The Sixth corps at Fairfield—"Hurrah for the Union"—Kilpatrick's handiwork—At Waynesboro'—On picket—A division of militia—The Vermonters at Funkstown—The army at Funkstown—Meade's failure to attack—New York riots—Return to Virginia.
The battle was over and the invading army which had suffered such a crushing defeat, had only to gather up its shattered remnants and hastily retrace its steps southward. We were in no condition to renew immediate hostilities. Every man and every gun had been brought into service. Never before had all of our army been fought at once. At Gettysburgh, every man of the infantry reserve, and every gun of the reserve artillery had been brought into action. The men were exhausted by their tedious marches and hard fighting, while our ammunition was well nigh spent.
During the night of the 4th of July, Lee's army retreated, and on the morning of the 5th, our Sixth corps, Sedgwick's cavalry as the corps was called, was sent in pursuit on the Fairfield road. The battle-field was horrible. Dead men were thickly strewed over the fields with their faces blackened, and eyes starting from their sockets; and upturned, swollen horses lay, sometimes in groups of six or eight, showing where some battery had suffered fearfully. As we passed the scene of the conflict on the left, at the foot of Round Top, was a scene more than usually hideous. Blackened ruins marked the spot where, on the morning of the third, stood a large barn. It had been used as a hospital. It had taken fire from the shells of the hostile batteries, and had quickly burned to the ground. Those of the wounded not able to help themselves were destroyed by the flames, which in a moment spread through the straw and dry material of the building. The crisped and blackened limbs, heads and other portions of bodies lying half consumed among the heaps of ruins and ashes, made up one of the most ghastly pictures ever witnessed, even on the field of battle. But we passed these direful scenes to meet with others of less shocking but still sad character. Every house and barn from Gettysburgh to Fairfield was a hospital; and about most of the large barns, numbers of dilapidated hospital tents served to increase the accommodations for the wounded.
All of the worst cases were left in these hospitals, the number being estimated, by the rebel surgeons in charge, at no less than fifteen thousand. Never had we witnessed such sad scenes as we were passing through to-day. The confederate surgeons were doing what they could for their wounded, but they were destitute of medicines and surgical appliances, and even food sufficient to supply those in their charge. At one of these barns some of our officers stopped, and as they passed among the gray-clad sufferers who were lying in rows upon the barn floors, one, a boy apparently not more than sixteen years of age, attracted the notice of one of the company, a surgeon. The lad looked more like a delicate girl than a soldier; his hair fell from his fair forehead in long flaxen curls upon his pillow of straw, some of them matted with blood; his cheek was rosy, and his soft white hand told of a youth spent amid more tender scenes than those of the camp. A piece of linen laid across his face covered a ghastly wound where a ball had passed through his face, and had torn both his eyes from their sockets.
The surgeon spoke a kind word to the youth, who stretched out his hand, saying, "Come near me, I want to touch you." The doctor stooped over him, and the boy, pressing his hand in his own, said, "You are a friend, are you not?" "Yes, I am a friend to all the unfortunate." "But are you not a confederate?" "No." The boy clung to the hand of the surgeon in silence for a moment, and then said slowly, "I did not think a federal would speak so kindly to me; your voice sounds like that of a friend, and your hand feels like one; will you not stay with me?" When the other told him that he must follow his command, he replied: "Oh! I shall never hear any one speak so kindly to me again; my mother lives in North Carolina, but she will not see me. Can you not stay?" The doctor was far from being a rebel sympathizer, yet he turned away from the poor boy, with a sad face and a deep drawn sigh, to join the moving column.
Early next morning we passed through the somewhat dilapidated village of Fairfield. Our advance threw a few shells down the street, scattering a body of cavalry, which had been left in town, and killing some of the horses attached to their battery. A mile beyond the town the South Mountain range rose in our front, the road running through a narrow pass. Here the rear guard of the rebel army was strongly posted. Neill's and the Jersey brigade advanced against the rebel skirmishers, but after losing some six or eight men they were ordered to halt. General Sedgwick deeming the position too strong to assault with his corps from the front, reported to General Meade that the pass was very strong, and one in which a small force of the enemy could hold in check for a considerable time, a force much larger than its own. The main body of the army, therefore, was moved around their flank by way of Frederick; while Neill's brigade, with Colonel McIntosh's brigade of cavalry and two light batteries, all under command of General Neill, were made to form a flying division to harass the enemy in the rear.