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we have encamped. Words fail, but tears do not, when I think of you and the children. How I miss you all and long for you. Kiss Sarah and little Edward for me and assure them of their father’s (and their Father’s) love. Please pray the Almighty that He will continue to guard me and that I might know more of His tender mercies.
With much love and deepest affection,
I am your loving husband,
CHAPTER 9
The Dark Times
The sword is without, and the pestilence and the famine within:
he that is in the field shall die with the sword;
and he that is in the city, famine and pestilence shall devour him.
EZEKIEL 7:15
O N M ONDAY THE TWENTY-SECOND DAY OF S EPTEMBER, THE men of the Fourteenth Connecticut broke camp at first light and formed in columns of four abreast at the head of the mile-long column that comprised General French’s division. We moved out in silent respect for the comrades we were leaving behind. Words were few, only brief whispered remarks, as the living passed soberly through the place where so many had fallen. In the mists of the dawn, we marched up the Smoketown Road and turned left onto the Hagerstown Pike. A small, white, spire-less church stood near the intersection, the meetinghouse of a small sect known as the Dunkers. This simple house of worship, now despoiled with its many scars and holes, bore silent testimony to the human storm that had enveloped it.
The pike led through the town of Sharpsburg. There were no crowds lining the streets to cheer our victory; the few town folk we did encounter were simply trying to put their lives back in order after the recent devastation. No bunting adorned thesimple homes, the two or three churches we passed, the meetinghouse, or the small library. Indeed the only display of any kind was a lone Union flag hanging slack in the still morning air next to a second-floor window of a grayish-white house near the town center. The flag was tattered and torn and very dirty. The red, white, and blue of her stars and stripes were stained with several mottled shades of brown and gray. Surely this flag had waved proudly in the breeze when the Confederate army entered the town, and surely she had been thrown angrily down and dragged through the mud. Perhaps she had even been kicked and beaten or run through with saber or bayonet. And yet she flew once more, wounded and soiled to be sure, but unbroken and unbowed, just like the army that defended her. I stared and stared at the simple beauty of that flag as my steps drew me closer, until a slight movement at the window caught my eye —an old, white wrinkled face, of a man or a woman I knew not which, faintly but clearly illumined by the light of the new day. A frail, trembling hand rose slowly beside the face and gave a feeble wave. I tipped my cap in return.
We left the town behind and the day began to brighten. The warm September sun warmed our spirits once more. The way ahead had been scouted and was clear of the enemy. It was our lot simply to march, and as the lead regiment in the column, the Fourteenth was able to set the mood of the march. The band struck up marching music to help us on our way.
“Sergeant Holt, when we get to Harper’s Ferry, do you think we’ll have to fight again?” Every head within earshot swiveled toward Jim Adams, the questioner, then to the sergeant, who was marching alongside.
“Nah, I don’t think so. If the Rebs are still there, our big guns will just blast them to kingdom come.”
“So what’s going to happen to us now, Sergeant Holt?” John asked.
“Don’t know exactly,” Holt answered. “Just have to wait until we get there.”
Like King Saul of old, Holt was a large man, taller than every other man in the regiment, the sort of man you would much rather fight with than against. However, he possessed neither the acute intellect nor the pleasant disposition of Sergeant Needham, and to us he would always be Sergeant Holt, never Sarge.
We reached the Potomac at about two
With much love and deepest affection,
I am your loving husband,
CHAPTER 9
The Dark Times
The sword is without, and the pestilence and the famine within:
he that is in the field shall die with the sword;
and he that is in the city, famine and pestilence shall devour him.
EZEKIEL 7:15
O N M ONDAY THE TWENTY-SECOND DAY OF S EPTEMBER, THE men of the Fourteenth Connecticut broke camp at first light and formed in columns of four abreast at the head of the mile-long column that comprised General French’s division. We moved out in silent respect for the comrades we were leaving behind. Words were few, only brief whispered remarks, as the living passed soberly through the place where so many had fallen. In the mists of the dawn, we marched up the Smoketown Road and turned left onto the Hagerstown Pike. A small, white, spire-less church stood near the intersection, the meetinghouse of a small sect known as the Dunkers. This simple house of worship, now despoiled with its many scars and holes, bore silent testimony to the human storm that had enveloped it.
The pike led through the town of Sharpsburg. There were no crowds lining the streets to cheer our victory; the few town folk we did encounter were simply trying to put their lives back in order after the recent devastation. No bunting adorned thesimple homes, the two or three churches we passed, the meetinghouse, or the small library. Indeed the only display of any kind was a lone Union flag hanging slack in the still morning air next to a second-floor window of a grayish-white house near the town center. The flag was tattered and torn and very dirty. The red, white, and blue of her stars and stripes were stained with several mottled shades of brown and gray. Surely this flag had waved proudly in the breeze when the Confederate army entered the town, and surely she had been thrown angrily down and dragged through the mud. Perhaps she had even been kicked and beaten or run through with saber or bayonet. And yet she flew once more, wounded and soiled to be sure, but unbroken and unbowed, just like the army that defended her. I stared and stared at the simple beauty of that flag as my steps drew me closer, until a slight movement at the window caught my eye —an old, white wrinkled face, of a man or a woman I knew not which, faintly but clearly illumined by the light of the new day. A frail, trembling hand rose slowly beside the face and gave a feeble wave. I tipped my cap in return.
We left the town behind and the day began to brighten. The warm September sun warmed our spirits once more. The way ahead had been scouted and was clear of the enemy. It was our lot simply to march, and as the lead regiment in the column, the Fourteenth was able to set the mood of the march. The band struck up marching music to help us on our way.
“Sergeant Holt, when we get to Harper’s Ferry, do you think we’ll have to fight again?” Every head within earshot swiveled toward Jim Adams, the questioner, then to the sergeant, who was marching alongside.
“Nah, I don’t think so. If the Rebs are still there, our big guns will just blast them to kingdom come.”
“So what’s going to happen to us now, Sergeant Holt?” John asked.
“Don’t know exactly,” Holt answered. “Just have to wait until we get there.”
Like King Saul of old, Holt was a large man, taller than every other man in the regiment, the sort of man you would much rather fight with than against. However, he possessed neither the acute intellect nor the pleasant disposition of Sergeant Needham, and to us he would always be Sergeant Holt, never Sarge.
We reached the Potomac at about two
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