An effort was made to reform after the firing had slackened, but the increased darkness prevented the marshalling of the thinned ranks. Out of range of the still not infrequent bullets and occasional shell, and drowsy from fatigue, the men again lay upon their arms at the foot of the slope; and the battle of Fredericksburg was over.
What happened upon the left, where the main battle should have been fought, and why Franklin was upon the left at all, are problems that perhaps the reader can pass upon to better advantage than the writer of these pages. His "corner of the
fight" has been described, truthfully at least, whatever the other failings may be.
We had left the field; but the Rebels had not as yet gained it. Pickets were thrown out to within eighty yards of their line, and details scattered over the field to bear off the wounded. No lights were allowed, and the least noise was sure to bring a shell or a shower of bullets. In consequence, their removal was attended with difficulty. The evil of the practice too prevalent among company commanders, of sending skulkers and worthless men in obedience to a detail for the ambulance corps, was now horribly apparent. Large numbers of the dead, and even the dying, were found with their pockets turned inside out, rifled of their contents by these harpies in uniform.
But little rest was to be had that night. At 8 p. m. the troops were marched back into the town, only to be brought out again at midnight and re-formed in line of battle about a hundred yards distant from the wall. The moon had now risen, and in its misty light the upturned faces of the dead lost nothing of ghastliness. Horrible, too, beyond description—ringing in the ears of listeners for a lifetime—were the shrieks and groans of the wounded,—principally Rebel,—from a strip of neutral ground lying between the pickets of the two armies. Whatever the object of reforming line of battle may have been, it appears to have been abandoned, as after a short stay we were returned to the town and assigned quarters in the street in front of the Planters' House.
Fredericksburg was a town of hospitals. All the churches and public buildings, very many private residences, and even the pavements in their respective
fronts, were crowded with wounded. In one of the principal churches on a lower street, throned in a pulpit which served as a dispensary, and surrounded by surgical implements and appliances, flourished our little Dutch Doctor, never more completely in his element. Very nice operations, as he termed them, were abundant.
"How long can I live?" inquired a fine-looking, florid-faced young man of two-and-twenty, with a shattered thigh, who had just been brought in and had learned from the Doctor that amputation could not save his life.
"Shust fifteen minutes," was the reply, as the Doctor opened and closed his watch in a cold, business way.
"Can I see a Chaplain?"