Maryland Heights, Va., September 21st, 1862.
Toward evening of
the 13th we left Frederic City and marched out on the National Turnpike toward
South Mountain, and halted for supper and a few hours rest near Middleton. It
was nearly midnight. We had made a rapid march of several miles, and were
tired, and hungry as wolves. Hardly had we stacked arms when Lieutenant Rath
inquired: "Where's John Conley?" John could not be found; he was
already off on an expedition of his own. "Well, then," said Rath,
"send me the next best thief; I want a chicken for my supper."
Our foragers soon
returned; the Lieutenant got his chicken, and we privates were fairly well
supplied with the products of the country. It strikes me as a little strange,
the facility with which a soldier learns to steal his grub. It must be the
effect of heredity. Perhaps, in the dim past, when our ancestors went on
"all fours," and roamed the forests in search of food; possibly at a
more recent date, but before a name was given to the deed; they formed the
habit of taking what they wanted wherever it could be found, provided they had
the physical power, or mental cunning, to accomplish it, and this habit, thus
formed, became instinct, and was transmitted to their descendants. At daylight
we were on the move, headed for South Mountain. We had an inkling—how obtained
I do not know; mental telepathy, perhaps, that occult, mysterious power that
enables us to divine the most secret thoughts of men-that a mass meeting was to
be held on that eminence to discuss the pros and cons of secession, and that
we, the Seventeenth, had received a pressing invitation to be present. The Pike
was in fine condition. Our men stepped off briskly, with long, swinging strides
that carried them rapidly over the ground. We marched in four ranks, by
companies, and were led by our gallant Colonel Withington. Company G was
seventh from the front, which gave me a view of over half the regiment. And it
was good to look upon. Only two weeks from home, our uniforms were untarnished.
Dress coats buttoned to the chin; upon our heads a high-crowned hat with a
feather stuck jauntily on one side. White gloves in our pockets; a wonder we
did not put them on, so little know we of the etiquette of war.
As we neared the
mountain, about nine o'clock in the morning, I scanned its rugged sides for
indications of the presence of our friends, the enemy, and, as I looked, I saw
a puff of smoke, and on the instant a shell sped howling above our heads,
bursting some half a mile beyond.
Every man of us
"bowed his acknowledgments;" then, as by one impulse, every spine
became rigid; every head was tossed in air; as if we would say: "My
Southern friend, we did the polite thing that time. No more concessions will
you get from us and—may God have mercy on your souls." Of our exploits on South
Mountain I will not write. They will be woven into history and will be within
the reach of all. About thirty of our brave boys were killed, and over one
hundred wounded. Captain Goldsmith was wounded in the shoulder and Lieutenant
Somers in the side. A number of Company G boys were wounded, but none were
killed in this battle.
Eli Sears, the best,
the most universally beloved of the regiment, is dead. He died the second day
after the battle. A rifle ball, early in the engagement, struck him in the left
breast and passed entirely through him. When I saw him he was so low he could
only speak in whispers. He gave me his hand, with a pleasant smile, and told me
he had but a few more hours to live. Bitterly do I mourn his loss. So kind, so
thoughtful, always preferring another to himself. He died as heroes die, as
calm and peaceful as an infant on its mother's breast. Albert Allen, Carmi
Boice and Charlie Goodall were in the thickest of the fight and escaped unhurt.
The Seventeenth has
been baptised in blood and christened "Stonewall." The battle of
Antietam was fought on Wednesday, September 17th, three days after South
Mountain. The Seventeenth did not lose so many in killed—eighteen or twenty, I
think, although the list is not yet made out—and eighty or ninety wounded.
Company G lost three killed, among whom was Anson Darling. We crossed the
Antietam River about 1 p. m., and about three o'clock charged up the heights,
which we carried, and advanced to near Sharpsburg. Here, our ammunition giving
out, we fell back behind the hill and quietly sat down ’mid bursting shells and
hurtling balls until relieved. As we sat waiting, a spent ball—a six-pounder—struck
a tree in front of us. Not having sufficient momentum to penetrate, it dropped
back upon the toe of my comrade on my left. With a fierce oath he sprang to his
feet and shouted, "Who the h--l? Oh!"
That night, while on
picket, when all my comrades were wrapped in slumber, and silence reigned
where, a few hours before, the tumult of battle raged, my willing thought
turned to my Northern home. The most vivid pictures arose before me—so real—could
they be imagination? And as I gazed upon these fancied visions and pressed them
to my soul as a living reality, I asked myself the question, "Can this be
homesickness?" The answer came, quick and decisive: No; I have never seen
the time—even for one short moment—that I could say to myself, “If I had not
enlisted, I would not." On the contrary, if, after the little experience I
have had, and the little knowledge I have gained, I had not enlisted, I would
do so within the hour.
SOURCE: David Lane, A
Soldier's Diary: The Story of a
Volunteer, 1862-1865, p. 10-13
