A Civil War Private in Battle
By Carlton McCarthy in 1861
The year is 1861. The air is thick with anticipation, a tangible tension that hangs heavy over the ranks of men marching towards the unknown. The column, a seemingly endless river of soldiers, equipment, and hope, had been progressing with the relentless steadiness of a force destined for a singular purpose. Now, that flow is disrupted. A hesitation ripples through the ranks, a subtle tremor that betrays the underlying uncertainty. The forward momentum falters, a full stop as the column halts. A backward step follows, a momentary retreat before steeling themselves forward again. The hesitation returns, a pregnant pause before the inevitable.
The reason for this disruption, though unspoken by most, is understood by all. They are approaching the precipice, the very edge of battle. The officers, those entrusted with command, are in a flurry of activity. Colonels confer with the brigadier generals, who in turn seek counsel from the major generals. A whirlwind of communication as officers hurry forward with urgent messages, while others rush to the rear, carrying directives and requests. Infantrymen, the backbone of the army, stand patiently to one side of the road, momentarily yielding passage to the cavalry, who trot purposefully towards the front lines. The rhythmic beat of hooves creates a cadence of impending conflict. The rumble of heavy wagons, marked with the stark designation "Ord. Dept.," breaks the tension. These are the supply lines, the lifeblood of the army, carrying the tools of war and sustenance. A stark contrast arrives with light ambulances, their presence an acknowledgement of the casualties to come. The surgeons within, though aware of the grim task ahead, maintain a cheerful facade. Some soldiers, new to the experience, voice their questions, asking, "What is the matter?" However, most of the men are already privy to the impending situation. They are on the very edge of battle, the threshold between relative calm and chaotic fury.
The order comes, delivered by a seemingly unassuming figure, a quiet, almost sleepy-looking man on horseback. His voice, though calm, carries the weight of authority, "Forward, 19th!" The leading regiment surges ahead, their initial trepidation replaced by a surge of adrenaline. They break from the road, jumping a fence that marked the boundary between the known and the unknown. The sounds of war erupt with sudden violence. "Pop! Bang! Whiz! Thud!" The air is filled with the staccato bursts of gunfire and the ominous thud of impacts. Above the din, the rebel yell reverberates through the woods, a chilling declaration of intent. This is not the full fury of battle, but a skirmish, the probing of the enemy’s lines. The skirmishers are advancing, testing the waters, and gauging the enemy’s strength.
The initial disruption to the marching column is now a fast-paced action. Let us step into the woods, to observe the skirmishers. See how cheerfully they move. They load, fire, and reload their muskets with practiced efficiency. They are spaced apart, six to twelve feet, offering less of a target. They call out to each other, laughing, shouting, and cheering, a display of camaraderie and courage. They advance undeterred. But this is war, and the cost is ever-present. One soldier abruptly drops his musket as if it were burning hot. His finger is gone, severed by a bullet. His friends offer congratulations, a twisted gesture of solace, as he sadly walks towards the rear, his fighting days temporarily over. Another soldier staggers and falls, a bullet piercing his neck, a mortal wound. Two comrades rush to his aid, attempting to lift him to his feet and lead him away. Tragedy strikes again as one of the rescuers is struck, a ball shattering the bone in his thigh. He collapses, groaning in agony. Despite the casualties, the skirmishers push forward, driving the enemy’s skirmishers back upon their main line of battle. The advance halts, and the skirmishers await reinforcements. Many men have fallen in this initial engagement, some killed instantly, some slightly wounded, some grievously injured, and some mortally wounded. This is A Civil War Private in Battle.
The heavy artillery arrives. A battery is hastily brought into position, the heavy trails of the cannons falling to the ground with a thud. The order is given, "Commence firing!" The cannoneers, well-drilled and efficient, step in briskly and load their weapons. The first gun roars to life, a flash of fire and a deafening boom as a shell screams through the air. The soldiers in the woods, pinned down by enemy fire, rejoice as the shell crashes through the trees above them. They cheer as it explodes over the enemy’s line, a momentary respite from the relentless pressure.
Reinforcements are coming. At the edge of the woods, where the skirmishers first entered, the brigade forms a line. The command rings out, "Load!" The metallic glint of ramrods flashes as they are driven down the barrels of a thousand muskets. The sound is a rattling symphony of war. "Forward!" The command is given, and the brigade disappears into the woods. The canteens rattle against their sides, the bushes crackle and snap underfoot, and the officers tirelessly repeat, "Close up, men; close up! Guide center!" Maintaining formation is paramount.
The skirmish line, still under heavy fire, has no choice but to seek cover. They lie prone on the wet ground, pressing their heads against the trees for scant protection. They cannot advance, nor can they retreat without exposing themselves to almost certain death. They wait, desperately, for the line of battle to arrive and relieve them.
The sounds of the advancing line reach them first, a welcome symphony of impending salvation. The snapping of twigs, the neighing of horses, and the hoarse commands of officers fill the air, inspiring a ragged cheer from the beleaguered skirmishers. Then, the line of the old brigade breaks through the trees, emerging into full view. The skirmishers erupt in a full-throated yell, a collective release of pent-up fear and anticipation. Every man jumps to his feet as the brigade presses firmly forward. Soon, the roll of musketry tells all who are waiting to hear that serious work is underway, deep within the woods. Brigade after brigade, division after division, is hurried into line and pressed forward into the action. Battalions of artillery open fire from the crests of the hills, their thunderous volleys adding to the cacophony of battle. The battle is fully engaged. A Civil War Private in Battle is now fully committed.
The logistical support strains to keep pace with the relentless demands of the fighting. Ammunition trains navigate treacherous terrain, climbing impassable places and crossing ditches without bridges. They somehow manage to position themselves within reach of the troops, ensuring a steady supply of ammunition. Ambulances, which hours before had gone gaily forward, now return slowly and solemnly, laden with the wounded. The grim reality of war is laid bare for all to see.
Even behind the lines, there is no true safety. Shells and musket balls, stray projectiles that have lost their way, go flitting about, wounding and killing men who deemed themselves far removed from the danger. The negro cooks, tending to their duties in the rear, turn pale as these unexpected visitors arrive, disrupting their routine and shattering their sense of security. The rear, once considered a safe haven, is quickly extended as the zone of danger expands. This is A Civil War Private in Battle – a landscape of constant threat.
At the front, the enemy’s battery retaliates. Shells burst overhead, sending shrapnel raining down, or plow huge furrows in the ground, tearing up the earth. Musket balls rap against the rims of the wheels and sink with a resounding thud into the bodies of the poor horses, adding to the carnage. Smoke obscures the scene, but through the haze, the cannoneers can be seen serving their guns with unwavering dedication.
As the opposing battery ceases firing, limbers up, and scampers away, and the last of the enemy’s infantry slowly disappears into the woods, a wild cheer erupts from the cannoneers. They toss their caps into the air, shout, shake hands, and shout again, a collective release of tension and a celebration of a momentary victory. At the same time, the breeze lifts the curtain of smoke, revealing the battlefield in all its grim reality.
The cavalry is gone. They have passed through the lines and down the hill with a jingle and clatter of hooves and sabers. They are already demanding surrender from many a straggler, a pursuit that leaves no room for respite for the retreating column. Stuart, with a twinkle in his eye and his lips puckered as if to whistle a merry tune, is on their flanks, in their rear, and in their front. The enemy will undoubtedly send their cavalry after him, but he will stay with them nonetheless, harassing their retreat and disrupting their efforts to regroup.
Add now the streams of wounded men slowly making their way to the rear, the groups of dejected prisoners plodding along under guard, and you have about as much of a battle as one private soldier ever sees. This is A Civil War Private in Battle.
Compiled and edited by Kathy Alexander/Legends of America, updated March 2025. Notes and Author: Carlton McCarthy wrote this tale, which was included as a chapter in Albert Bushnell Hart’s book The Romance of the Civil War, published in 1896.
Also See:
Hardtack and Coffee in the Civil War
Combatants of the Civil War
The Civil War Main Page
Historical Accounts of American History