“With that exception, all the dead and wounded officers were carried off by the enemy during the night. Many traces were left where they were dragged from the woods to the road, and thrown into ambulances or carts. We counted some sixty or seventy bodies in the space of about an acre, many of which were horribly mutilated by shells; some with half their heads shot off, and others completely disembowelled. The artillery was served with great accuracy, and wo doubt if any battle-field of the war presents such havoc among the trees and shrubbery. Immense pines and other growth were cut short off or torn into shreds.”
It is only simple justice to the Fifty-fifth Massachusetts Regiment, to say, that at Honey Hill it occupied the most perilous position throughout nearly the entire battle.
Three times did these heroic men march up the hill nearly to the batteries, and as many times were swept back by the fearful storm of grape-shot and shell; more than one hundred being cut down in less than half an hour. Great was its loss; and yet it remained in the gap, while our outnumbered army was struggling with the foe on his own soil, and in the stronghold chosen by himself.
What the valiant Fifty-fourth Massachusetts had been at the battle of Olustee, the Fifty-fifth was at Honey Hill.
Never was self-sacrifice, by both officers and men, more apparent than on this occasion; never did men look death more calmly in the face. See the undaunted and heroic Hartwell at the head of his regiment, and hear him shouting, “Follow your colors, my brave men!” and with drawn sword leading his gallant band. His horse is up to its knees in the heavy mud. The rider, already wounded, is again struck by the fragment of a shell, but keeps his seat; while the spirited animal struggling in the mire, and plunging about, attracts the attention of the braves, who are eagerly pressing forward to meet the enemy, to retake the lost ground, and gain a victory, or at least save the little army from defeat. A moment more he is killed; and the brave Hartwell attempts to jump from his charger, but is too weak. The horse falls with fearful struggles upon its rider, and both are buried in the mud. The brave Capt. Crane, the Adjutant, is killed, and falls from his horse near his colonel. Lieut. Boynton, while urging his men, is killed. Lieut. Hill is wounded, but still keeps his place. Capts. Soule and Woodward are both wounded, and yet keep their command. The blood is running freely from the mouth of Lieut. Jewett; but he does not leave his company. Sergeant-major Trotter is wounded, but still fights. Sergt. Shorter is wounded in the knee, yet will not go to the rear. A shell tears off the foot of Sergeant-major Charles L. Mitchel; and, as he is carried to the rear, he shouts, with uplifted hand, “Cheer up, boys: we’ll never surrender!” But look away in front: there are the colors, and foremost amongst the bearers is Robert M. King, the young, the handsome, and the gentlemanly sergeant, whose youth and bravery attract the attention of all. Scarcely more than twenty years of age, well educated, he has left a good home in Ohio to follow the fortunes of war, and to give his life to help redeem his race. The enemy train their guns upon the colors, the roar of cannon and crack of rifle is heard, the advanced flag falls, the heroic King is killed: no, he is not dead, but only wounded. A fellow sergeant seizes the colors; but the bearer will not give them up. He rises, holds the old flag aloft with one hand, and presses the other upon the wound in his side to stop the blood. “Advance the colors!” shouts the commander. The brave King, though saturated with his own blood, is the first to obey the order. As he goes forward, a bullet passes through his heart, and he falls. Another snatches the colors; but they are fast, the grasp of death holds them tight. The hand is at last forced open, the flag is raised to the breeze; and the lifeless body of Robert M. King is borne from the field. This is but a truthful sketch of the part played by one heroic son of Africa, whose death was lamented by all who knew him. This is only one of the two hundred and forty-nine that fell on the field of Honey Hill. With a sad heart, we turn away from the picture.
But shall we weep for the sleeping braves, who, turning their backs upon the alluring charms of home-life, went forth at the call of country and race, and died, noble martyrs to the cause of liberty? ’Tis noble to live for freedom; but is it not nobler far to die that those coming after you may enjoy it?
“Dear is the spot where Christians weep;
Sweet are the strains which angels pour:
Oh! why should we in anguish weep?
They are not lost, but gone before.”