The post last night from Catton on the U.S. march in Kentucky: Eleven months later, in worse weather, in colder cold, in a more northern state, my great-great grandfather, Nathan Bracken, a Sergeant in the above regiment, began a march that took him, undoubtedly for the first time in his life, into two other states, Maryland and Virginia, as a warrior, also for the first time in his life.
We were always a big country. Distant travel for the common man was almost unknown in the 1860's. We were a country people, most of us farmed among our family and few distant neighbors. We weren't around large groups of people as in the cities. One consequence was that the immune systems of people in the country weren't "hardened" to the kinds of diseases that are common in large groups. From the notebook of a camp inspector, not discovered until 2012, of the United States Sanitary Commission at Sharpsburg, Maryland.
Entry for the 133rd Pennsylvania Volunteers, Inspection Returns, October 28, 1862.
Amplifying these stresses and sufferings of battle were the high rates of sickness found in the camps. Camp sites were often used repeatedly by various regiments, each previous one leaving behind debris and refuse for the next. Many regiments were confronted with shortages of clothing, blankets and medical supplies. These poor conditions caused diarrhea and camp fever to become commonplace throughout the camps. The 133rd Pennsylvania Volunteers suffered greatly from both of these illnesses. Recent days of rain and frost added to the general misery.
After that they continued their march south and were afforded the opportunity of sightseeing on the Antietam battlefield where they could experience, also for the first time in their lives, the bloated, reeking corpses of those who had gone before them.
They continued their march to their destination, Fredericksburg, Virginia where they encamped for the final time for many of them, including Sgt. Bracken, and for four days in the bracing weather they drilled.
At last the big day, December 13, came. In late afternoon their leader gave them an inspiring speech describing their mission as one of "forlorn hope" and off they went. Across the frigid Rappahannock while under enemy fire, via a rickety, slippery bridge
.jpg)
from which some of them lost their footing and fell into the invigorating waters, those, like my great-great grandfather, who made it across intact and alive were in for the adventure of a lifetime. As they entered the streets of Fredericksburg, pausing to take cover behind buildings, they slipped on the blood of those most recently having made the same trip, some of whom who were still alive grasping at their pant legs, now stained crimson, and inspired them further with the advice, "Don't Go!".
Once through the town streets they opened onto a vista thrilling to behold. Cross that moonscape and assault those distant heights, at which behind an impregnable stone breastworks, was the enemy, locked, loaded and waiting for them.
.jpg)
The sight of these brave young men charging unarmed up that hill was a thrilling sight as well to the Confederates behind the stone wall. In a literary reconstruction a writer tells the story from the pov of a Confederate, who, convenient to the present narrative, selects a sergeant, tall of stature (we were always a tall family) as his prey.
They are going to charge us. Orders run along the line, and we are waiting until every bullet, no matter if fired by a soldier with his eyes shut, must hit a foe. I select my man while he is yet beyond range. I have eyes for no other. He is a tall, soldierly fellow wearing the stripes of a sergeant. As he comes nearer I imagine that he is looking as fixed at me as I at him. I admire his coolness. He looks neither to the right nor to the left. The man on his right is hit and goes down, but he does not falter.
I am going to kill that man! I have a rest for my gun on the breastwork, and when the order comes to fire I cannot miss him. He is living his last minute on earth! We are calmly waiting until our volley shall prove a veritable flame of death. Now they close up their gaps, and we can hear the shouts of their officers as they make ready to charge. My man is still opposite me. He still seems to be looking at me and no one else. I know the word is coming in a few seconds more, and I aim at his chest. I could almost be sure of hitting him with a stone when we get the word to fire. There is a billow of flame- a billow of smoke- a fierce crash, and 4,000 bullets are fired into that compact mass of advancing men. Not one volley alone, though that worked horrible destruction, but another and another, until there was no longer a living man to fire at.
The smoke drifts slowly away- men cheer and yell- we can see the meadow before us heaped up with dead and dying men. We advance our line. As we go forward I look for my victim. He is lying on his back, his eyes half shut and fingers clutching at the grass. He grasps, draws up his legs and straightens them out again, and is dead as I pass on. I have killed my man! My bullet alone struck him, tearing that ghastly wound in his breast, and I am entitled to that honor. Do I swing my cap and cheer? Do I point him out and expect to be congratulated? No! I have no cheers. I feel no elation. I feel that I have murdered him, war or no war, and that his agonized face will haunt me through the rest of my life.
By soldierly skill and good fortune the men of the 133rd Pennsylvania had the honor of getting closer to the stone wall, two rods (eleven yards), than any other Union regiment before they were killed. Ah, glory.
Thus, and only thus, does the undersigned have some vicarious appreciation for the privations endured by Gen. Thomas' young soldiers in Kentucky.