Ozaukee County's
War History
by Daniel E. McGinley

as extracted from THE PORT WASHINGTON STAR
October 17, 1896



The Ozaukee Rifles
Chapter 16

ìWar is cruelty and you cannot refine it; and those who brought war into our country deserve all the curses and maledictions a people can pour out!î Thus wrote Gen. W. T. Sherman to Gen. J. B. Hood in their famous correspondence in regard to the removal of all citizens from Atlanta, and the grim old hero never wrote a truer sentence. I am reminded of his pointed and truthful words when I recall the scenes on and around Bald Hill on the morning after the great battle of Atlanta. Awaking at early dawn the writer opened his eyes upon a memorable scene -- a scene that after a lapse of thirty-two years remains indelibly imprinted upon his memory, and is likely to remain so while life and memory is his.

The scene inside and outside of our works furnished abundance of testimony to the truth of the assertion that ìwar is crueltyî. Yes, war is cruelty, -- the very essence of cruelty. I imagine that I can see that scene almost as plainly today as it appeared to me on that beautiful July morning so long ago. Lying where they had fallen were thousands of the victims of war's cruelty, some wearing the blue but by far the greater number wearing the grey. Bodies in grey were stretched so thickly over the field outside of our works that it almost seemed at the first glance as if a whole army was bivouaced there. The field itself, which had been covered with waving corn but two days before, had been overrun and trampled by thousands of hurrying feet until scarcely a stalk of corn remained; the site of the farmer's house was covered with rebel dead, the surrounding timber was riven and torn as though a tornado had passed through it, and the field was furrowed by shot and shell, red with human gore and strewn with the wreckage of the conflict.

In a large rifle-pit which stood on the site of the farmer's garden, and some three rods in front of the works our regiment had occupied during the battle, and in which some 80 of the rebels had sought shelter when repulsed in their last assault, the dead lay in piles. So many men had crowded into the (pit) that there was not room for all to reach the parapet, and when their comrades slipped away from them in the smoke, those in the pit had to fight a hopeless fight or surrender. They refused to surrender and fought desperately, but the fire of our whole regiment was soon concentrated upon the pit, and its defenders rapidly fell, those in the rear dragging back the dead and piling them up like cordwood while others took the dead men's places at the parapet. The interior of that pit presented a sickening spectacle the next morning, the ground being soaked and slippery with blood, while nearly all of its defenders were lying cold in death.

The survivors of our regiment were in line of battle, partly standing and partly lying as they reclined against the works with their rifles in their hands, and their bayonets extending over the works formed a continuous line of steel that did not look very inviting from the enemy's side. A hasty glance along our line would give the impression that the boys were all awake and awaiting an attack of the foe, so well had they retained the attitudes they had assumed more than once on the preceding day, but a closer inspection disclosed the fact that they were all enjoying a much needed sleep. At our right the artillery men were sleeping under and around their guns, which stood grim and silent looking out upon the field over which they had hurled so many death-dealing messengers during the fight, and it was almost impossible to distinguish the living from the dead, the faces of all, both artillerists and infantrymen were so blackened with powder.

Not a sound could be heard on the whole front of the Army of the Tennessee, over which the thunders of war had rolled so loudly but yesterday, but far away to the right the pickets of the armies of the Ohio and Cumberland were exchanging their morning salutes with the foe. To the left of our regiment, the Ohio brigade of the 4th division of our corps had been put into position just before the last assault by the enemy, and during the night had thrown up a line of solid earthworks that extended down the eastern side of Bald Hill and back through the timber in which McPherson had fallen, until it joined the line of the 16th corps. Not only had the works been built during the night, but where they had been built through the timber, the trees had been felled for an eighth of a mile in front, so as to give a clear sweep for musketry and artillery.

Soon the troops were all awake and moving out, some seeking water to wash off the stains of the struggle, others cooking and eating their breakfasts, which despite the surroundings were eaten with a hearty relish, as most of the boys had not eaten much if any in twenty-four hours. Some were caring for the few wounded that still remained on the field, friends and enemies alike, while others roamed over the field seeking for missing friends.

Shortly after breakfast, an army of sightseers from other parts of the army swarmed on to and over Bald Hill, to see as some of them expressed it ìwhere the heaviest fighting had taken place,î and our hill became a Mecca for thousands of such pilgrims, who tramped around and over us all day, many of the green ones holding up their hands when they saw the winrows of rebel dead that were being gathered together by our burial parties, and gaping at us as though we were something more than mortal. During the battle an artillery caisson had run over a stump and upset just in front of our company, scattering over half a bushel of cannister around for a rod or more. When some of our visiting comrades saw the cannister, they were struck dumb with surprise, while others declared that they could not see how any of us had survived such a storm of canister as that must have been. We did not enlighten them.

But without any exaggeration, the whole field in front of our division, where over 1,000 boys in grey and some 200 boys in blue were lying dead, presented a dreadful spectacle. Going down to a little spring that bubbled up at the eastern base of Bald Hill, another sickening sight was seen. Hundreds of wounded from both armies had crawled hither in quest of water, and many of them had died near and around it, some lying a few yards away and appearing as though their strength had failed them there, and they had died with the water almost within reach, needed so badly to quench their feverish thirst. Others had reached the spring and died in the act of drinking, their bodies still remaining partly in the water. For rods around, the blue and the grey slept peacefully side by side, they having fought their last battle and marched to the great encampment over the mysterious river.

Walking up the hill through the timber on its southern slope, I came to the works held by the Illinois regiments of our brigade at the opening and during the greater part of the battle, and walked along the line some distance. Everywhere there were evidences of the terrible struggle that had ensued there before the plucky Illinois boys were forced to run or surrender. The dead of the blue and grey were intermingled on both sides of the breastworks, showing that the attacks had come from both directions. I might go on describing that gory and now historic field for hours, but there is not space enough in this chapter for any more.

Shortly after noon Gen. Sherman visited our position on Bald Hill. He was on a tour of inspection, wishing to see for himself some of the results of the great battle. As he passed along the line each of the regiments fell into line and presented arms, and then grounding arms gave their great leader three rousing cheers, which seemed to please him greatly. But what pleased him most was mute testimony that told him plainer than words how gallantly his boys had fought. Sherman was as usual dressed neatly in full major generalsí uniform, adorned with a white vest, but he wore neither sword nor belt, and there was nothing in his dress or equipment to distinguish him from any other major general. He paused on the summit of Bald Hill and chatted with some of the officers and men who crowded around him. A flag of truce reached him from Gen. Hood, and an agreement was made by which hostilities were suspended in front of the Army of the Tennessee for several hours, to give both sides a chance to gather and bury the dead. For two or three hours, the burial parties of blue and grey intermingled, and as they performed their sad duties discussed the battles of the two previous days, the campaign and the war in general.

The next three days were spent in strengthening our fortifications and in repairing clothing, arms and camp equipage, and in moving our field hospitals to the rear of the Army of the Cumberland and nearer the Chattochoochee, preparatory to another great movement of the Army of the Tennessee.

The writer was one of a detail of twelve sent from our regiment on July 24, to remove our wounded Lieut. Colonel Thos. Reynolds, from the old to the new field hospital, and for the first time I had an opportunity to see and inspect a great field hospital after a battle. There had been a number of large hospital tents provided but there were not enough of them to shelter the wounded of one division, and shelters of numerous kinds had to be resorted to. The most common was to put upright posts of some ten feet in heighth, in position at short intervals, on the top of which long poles were laid and the poles in turn were covered with green boughs. This was good shelter from the sun but not from the rain. Under these brush shelters, cots were stretched for the wounded, and acres of those cots were there that day, each cot occupied by a wounded Union or rebel soldier. Friend and foe were treated alike there, and were given as good care as the circumstances would permit of.

The site of the new hospital was eight miles from that of the old one, and Col. Reynolds being so badly wounded that he could not be moved from his cot, we were obliged to run poles across under the cot and carry him with slow and careful steps the whole distance as the least jar would shake the shattered bone in his thigh and cause him to groan with pain. Up hill and down we slowly moved, the patient at times suffering much pain, and it being very warm weather made matters worse both for the wounded man and his bearers. It was nearly sunset on that long July day when we reached the new hospital with our burden and we were tired out, but we were eight miles from our regiment, and had to immediately retrace our steps. It was one of the most fatiguing day's work the writer has ever performed.