The only amusing incident after a battle is, the crowd of spectators from Washington and other places. If they are in carriages, their vehicles are sure to get smashed, and then the trouble arises, what are they to do with their baggage? Carry it, of course, or leave it behind. Even the wounded soldiers cannot help laughing at their sorry plight, gesticulations, and absurd questions.
Among all this class of individuals, there are none to be compared with government clerks for importance and absurdity. On one of these occasions I remember of a number of those pompous creatures being distressed beyond measure, because they could not return to Washington on a train which was crowded beyond description with the wounded. After the cars moved off there they stood gazing after it in the most disconsolate manner. Said one, “I came out here by invitation of the Secretary of War, and now I must return on foot, or remain here.” One of the soldiers contemptuously surveyed him from head to foot, as he stood there with kid gloves, white bosom, standing collar, etc., in all the glory and finery of a brainless fop, starched up for display. “Well,” said the soldier, “we don’t know any such individual as the Secretary of War out here, but I guess we can find you something to do; perhaps you would take a fancy to one of these muskets,” laying his hand on a pile beside him.
The clerk turned away in disgust, and disdaining to reply to the soldier, he inquired, “But where shall I sleep to-night?” The soldier replied, “Just where you please, chummy; there is lots of room all around here,” pointing to a spot of ground which was not occupied by the wounded. A chaplain stepped up to him, and said: “If you wish to sleep, there is some hay you can have;” and went on to give him a brief lecture upon the impropriety of a young man, in perfect health, just fresh from the city, talking about comfortable lodgings, and a place to sleep, when so many wounded and dying lay all around him. He was horrified, and disappeared immediately.
Before the rebels attempted to cross into Maryland in force, the Richmond papers were full of editorials, of which the following is a specimen:
“Let not a blade of grass, or a stalk of corn, or a barrel of flour, or a bushel of meal, or a sack of salt, or a horse, or a cow, or a hog, or a sheep, be left wherever the Confederate troops move along. Let vengeance be taken for all that has been done, until retribution itself shall stand aghast. This is the country of the would-be-gentleman, McClellan. He has caused a loss to us, in Virginia, of at least thirty thousand negroes, the most valuable property that a Virginian can own. They have no negroes in Pennsylvania. Retaliation, therefore, must fall upon something else. A Dutch farmer has no negroes, but he has horses that can be seized, grain that can be confiscated, cattle that can be killed, and houses that can be burned.”
But when they really attempted to accomplish these feats, and found with whom they had to contend, they were very glad to re-cross the Potomac, without confiscating property or burning houses, and to escape, leaving their dead and wounded on the field.
After the battle of Antietam, the army was not in a condition to follow up the rebels; but as soon as the Capital was safe, and the rebels were driven from Maryland and Pennsylvania, vigorous efforts were made to recruit, clothe, and reorganize the army. Harper’s Ferry was again occupied, every weak point strengthened, and all the fords were strongly guarded. While the army thus remained inactive for a few weeks, camp duties and discipline were again strictly enforced and attended to.
I would not have my readers think that camp-life in the army is so very unpleasant, after all. I do not think so, for I have spent some of the pleasantest, happiest hours of my life in camp, and I think thousands can give the same testimony.
One of our good chaplains from the North says that even the city of New York itself can bear no favorable comparison to military life in the Army of the Potomac. “After all,” he says: “New York is a humbug compared with the army. It is tattoo, as I write; what music it is, compared with the nuisance noises of those city streets! Our candles are not brilliant; but the sight of the lights of the camps all around, is more pleasant than the glare of the city gas. The air is the pure air of heaven, not the choky stuff of the metropolis. The men are doing something noble, not dawdling away these glorious days in selling tape and ribbons. The soldier lives to some purpose, and if he dies it is a hero’s death. The silks of that wealthy mart may be coveted by some; but what are the whole to our bullet-riddled old flag, which passed from the stiffening hands of one color-bearer to another, in the days of many a battle?”
To give my reader a more definite idea of the routine of camp life, I will enter into a detail of it more fully. At sunrise reveille beats, drum echoing to drum until the entire encampment is astir, and busy as a bee-hive. Roll-call immediately follows, which brings every man to his place in the ranks, to answer to his name. An hour later breakfast call is sounded by fife and drum, and the company cooks, who are detailed for that purpose, deal out the rations to the men as they sit or stand around the cook’s quarters.