Alpena weekly argus. [volume] (Alpena, Mich.) 1871-1893, 1885-04-15

army comrade of Capt. Charley Du-
pont, which he received few days
ago, is, in point of homely eloquence
and graphic realism of description, a
product so remarkable that it deserves
a permanent place in history of the
great American conflict:
In THE NORTH MICHIGAN WILDERNESS,
HARTwIcK PosToFFIcE OscEoLA Co.,
March ], 1885. }
OLD CoMRADE DUPoNT-Seeing
your name in the papers as Captain
of the Detroit Light Infant in the
late Washington Monument parade,
| am reminded of June 27, 1862, see
ing Corpl. Dupont, of Company X,
Fourth Michigan, struck by bullet
(as was supposed shot through the
head to the ground dead). Rebels to
the right Of us, rebels to the left
flank and rear rebels all around
our Captain killed, First Lieutenant
killed, First Sergeant killed. First
Corporal "killed"-kill! kill! kill !!
and Il whirlwind Of bullets, yells and
shreks. Was it so or was it a bad
dream? l dare not try to tell the
story of that place lest folks think
me liar; and often | hope it was
not n reality, but only nightmare.
Please assure me, if you can, that it
was not real.
Dear Dupont, l know you are the
one-so bright and CHEEKY, so glad
and light-hearted and hopeful, though
it was twenty-onc years ago when we
were soldiers lads together, led like
sheep to the slaughter on that terrible
Friday morning, the beginning of the
bloody week in the old Potomac army.
l remember lying on the ground
that night completely exhausted by
the fearful fighting, dazed by the ter
rible and shocking sights that had
met my gaze but few hours before.
My senses were bewildered; l could
not trust them. Really, l could not
believe that it was so.
Geo. Crogan laid beside me. After
season of silence I thought would
trust myself to speak and see if he
believed it was true.
George" said I, "the Captain is
killed ?"
"Yes," he replied, "it's so"
Then l mentioned Lieut.. Beers.
EYES," George replied, che is dead"
And then / went on naming over
the brave boys one after another, act
udly discrediting the sound of my
own voice. l could not believe that
they were all dead, bright, brave boys,
hearty, jolly and happy only few
hours before; but George confirmed
the horrid truth as went over the
long roll of the dead, you among
them-De Puy, Beers, Dupont, Shrig,
Haviland, ETC., etc. Ah supposing
that historians could write the war
history and picture it just as it was
there at Gaines Mill, and so on
through those seven days of battle,
and make the reader feel the same
emotions that we felt there-crushing
exhaustion, hanger, thirst, pain, and
worse than all else, the consciousness
that our brave regiment was cut to
pieces and the best and bravest of our
boys lying mangled on the field. Do
you suppose that readers would call
it "a Glorious Battle Piece?' Would
men read of war if they experienced
the same emotions that we felt there ?
You ought to write your experience
on that fatal field, and put it in plain,
simple words. just as it was, from the
time that the rebs made their first
charge--thc rcpulse, the second
charge, the terrible hand-to-hand
melee, the retreat, the horrible slaugh-
ter, first of the rebs, then of the old
Fourth Michigan Infantry, the rally
ing under our grand old hero, Wood
bury, as he rushed in amongst us bare
headed, with the flag in one hand and
his sword (whistling in fiery circles
around his head in the other-his
tremendous voice as he roared (really
and truly lion-like) "Rally my brave
boys, my Michigan Fourth, rally OH
the colors !" Oh, the most awful and
heroic picture of man ever seen in
this world, it seems to me, was that
of Woodbury. rallying us, with officers
and men falling like nine-pins on all
hands. Don't you hear it yet? Why
don't you write the story of the strug-
gle?
But no wonder you don't try. No
writer or artist that ever lived in this
world could more than make a rude
boggle in attempting to picture the
work of that day. But what grieves
me most is the fact that recorded his
tory utterly ignores Woodbury's rally
of the regiment in that hell of hor-
rors and making us stand against the
overwhelming enemy-certainly five
to one of us-until ordered to retreat.
should like to hear from you and
learn your experience as the rebs
swarmed over you and the storm of
lead from both sides swept the ground
like invisible harrow teeth all around
you-your life in Libby Prison and
on through till the last. Poor Wood
bury was with us-I might say with
every private soldier-in the battles
that ensued, until Tuesday, July 1,
when he went to his death as gaily as
on dress parade. at Malvern Hill.
Oh, the cost of heroes, priceless as
they are to nation, would be too ter
rible if they were not the life blood
of liberty.
Why don't somebody try to tell the
story Of our Woodbury., the perfect
embodiment of all that was truly
heroic and sanity in manf To write
or say that he flung his life away to