July 28th, 1861.
Dear Mother:
A week has passed since our misfortunes at Bull's Run, and
in all the intervening time I've had only opportunity to let you know that I
was safe. But I must tell you something of that unlucky day, for I know you had
rather have the story from my own lips. As I promised Henry Goddard to write
once in a while for the Bulletin, I will put my story in a form to suit
that sheet, if you think proper to communicate it: —
We too have breathed into our nostrils the smoke of battle,
we too have listened to the voice of the cannon, we too have seen the finest of
pagents, the most splendid of dramatic spectacles — the death struggle between
armed arrays of men. We, who only yesterday were numbered among the “Sons of
the Muses,” find ourselves today counted among the full-fledged “Sons of Mars.”
We have fought, suffered, and survived to tell our tale. “To-morrow morning at
2 o'clock be ready for an advance, provided with a couple of day's provisions,”
is the command we receive on Saturday evening, and at the chilly hour
appointed, without the sounding of the Reveillé, we are noiselessly summoned to our Arms. We
stand in silence at our posts until the red glare of the rising sun had
followed the dark hour before dawn. Then we marched on, gay of heart, and full
of confidence. We cross Bull's Run, and see men cutting trees by the bridge. We
ask their reason. “It is to cover a retreat,” they tell us. “Ho! Ho!” How we
laughed at the thought of our retreating! What innocent woodmen those were that
could talk of us defeated! It was a bonnie sight to see us then, eager for
battle, dreaming of victory. Some three miles we marched on, and then were
drawn in the woods in line of battle. In line we advanced till we came to the
edge of the forest, where we were told to lie down to avoid the range of the
enemy's cannon. About 6 o'clock a couple of pieces of our artillery to the left
of us opened a fire upon such of an unseen foe as our skirmishers were able to
discover. Long our pieces were unanswered. How glorious, we thought, this
firing on the foe, and ourselves in seeming safety! How we laughed when afar we
could see an exploding shell scattering the enemy in confusion, who for a short
moment were thus forced to show themselves on open ground. The fields before us
were occupied by our officers reconnoitring. Away off on the line of
wood-covered hills two or three miles away, we could see the glitter of
bayonets. Seen from a tree, they were found to belong to fine troops, well
equipped, and marching in order — troops not to be scattered by threats, but
worthy of being combatted. Upon an elevated open space of ground before us to
the right, we could see more troops moving — horsemen riding — above all one on
a white horse who seemed to be everywhere. The sun grew warm and we became
listless. The artillery continued to discharge its Death messengers, the sharp
rattle of musketry was heard to our right, volley after volley following in
quick succession, yet many of us slept, quietly awaiting our turn to be
summoned to action. About 11 o'clock two horses came galloping riderless toward
us. While surmising whence they came, we were called to rise and march to
battle. We sprung from the earth like the armed men of Cadmus. On we rushed by
the flank, over fields, through woods, down into ravines, plunging into
streams, up again onto rising meadows, eager, excited, thrilled with hot desire
to bear our share in routing the enemy. We cheered, and yelled, pressing
onward, regardless of shells now and then falling among us, thinking only of a
sharp fight and a certain victory. At last we reached the lines of the brave
boys of the 69th. Here the American banner was planted, so we shouted lustily,
for the spot had not long since been wrung from the foe.
From many a point not long since covered by secession
forces, the American banner now floated. What wonder we felt our hearts
swelling with pride, and saw, hardly noticing, horse and rider lying stiff,
cold and bloody together! What, though we stepped unthinking over the pale body
of many a brave fellow still grasping convulsively his gun, with the shadows of
Death closing around him! We were following the foe, I have said, and were
dreaming only of victory. So we were marched to the edge of a slope which
sheltered us partially from the aim of the enemy's artillery. Here lying
prostrate, shell after shell flew over our heads, or tore up the ground around.
Now we could feel the hot breath of a cannon ball fan our cheeks; now we could
see one fairly aimed, falling among our horses, and rolling them prostrate; and
now again one of these messengers would come swift into the ranks of one of our
columns, and without a thought or a groan, a soul was hurried into eternity.
After about an hour in this trying position, we were called
up and turned into the road, where Death began to make sad havoc in our ranks.
Surely aimed, the shot of the enemy fell among us. We could not see the foe,
and then it was terrible to see our own boys, whose faces we knew, and whose
hands we had pressed, falling in Death agony. We heard, while marching
stealthily, a great shout, and looking we saw a hill before us, covered with
the Ellsworth Zouaves. A moment more, and from the top of the hill, from unseen
hands blazed a terrible discharge of arms. It was one of those masked
batteries, which have so often brought us misfortune. Bravely fought the
Zouaves, but they had to fall back from that hellish fire. Other Regiments made
the charge but only to be repulsed with ranks thinned and broken. At length our
turn came. Up we rushed — our brave Colonel with us.
The first fire swept our ranks like a quick darting
pestilence. “Rally, boys —Rally!” shouted the officers, and a brave rally was
made. Our men stood firmly firing, answering volley by volley. Here we felt the
worthlessness of our old Harper's Ferry muskets, when matched against the
rifles of the enemy. Tall men were mowed down about me. Wounded men begged
their comrades to press on, and not to risk anything by lingering near them. We
were only some twenty yards from a battery, belching forth a thick heavy hail
of grape and canister, shell and fire of musketry. With unerring accuracy the
enemy's riflemen singled out our officers and mighty men. Suddenly we saw the
American flag waving over the battery. “Cease firing” was the order given, and
for a short moment we believed the battery was ours. It was the enemy though that
had raised the flag to deceive us. As we lowered our arms, and were about to
rally where the banner floated, we were met by a terrible raking fire, against
which we could only stagger.
“By the Lord, but I believe them coons's too cunning for us!”
cried an old soldier near me. We halted, fell back, and the hillside was left
to such only as lingered to bear away their wounded comrades.
As we passed down we saw our Colonel lying still, in the
hands of Death. He had fallen bravely, breast to the foe, not wishing to
cherish his own life, while the lives of his men were imperilled. Over the sad
disheartening retreat let us not linger — let it be covered by the darkness of
the night which followed. We took with us 750 brave men into the battle, but
our roll call shows that 199 are numbered among the dead, the wounded, and the
missing. Six captains of ours are silent now when their names are called. They
died with many of their men, careless of Death, willing to give up all things,
even life in its sweetness, for the good of the Republic. “Dulce et decorum est
pro patria mori.”
L. of the 79th.
I have received only three letters from you, the rest
probably having been intercepted by the enemy while I was in Virginia.
Very affec'y.,
Will Lusk.
SOURCE: William Chittenden Lusk, Editor, War Letters
of William Thompson Lusk, p. 55-60
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