Morning journal and courier., 1886-03-24
A Picture of War.

From Address by Prof. H. M. Whitney of
 Beloit (Ws) college.l
 Let us take him once to the field and put him in the ranks, so that he will be shot at himself. Let the place be the siege of Port Hudson in June, 1863. The Union forces have been lying about the place for some three week and are liable to interrup- tion and dispersion at any time by the armies of Johnston if he can only check Grant and get his hands free. Therefore it is thought necessary to try to carry the rebel works by assault. So the troops are walked and under arms at o'clock in the morning. Through the darkness they creep along, but most of the time they are waiting, standing still or lying upon the ground. It becomes 3, 3:30, 4 o'clock. The artillery begins to roar and globes of iron hurtle through the air. Now and then bullet sings by. It is like play ing the ''Battle of Prague upon the piano; only the keys that strike the notes may at any moment kill man, and that man may be not mere unit on 8 muster-roll, but a living soul son, a father, a husband. Now that his own life is endangered, our money-making friend is not so sure that such risks should be incurred for the sake of rais- ing the price of wheat. The artillery-duel grows hotter. The troops that preceded us have reached their position, have moved for ward and are already engaged A man 
 been broken and almost severed by piece of shell; his face is pallid and distorted with pain; his clothes are bathed in blood. A stretcher is borne past, carrying a desperately wounded man; the stretcher is stained a bright red; the blood drops from it in little spurts as it swings: the smell of fresh blood makes our nostrils jingle. A bullet in some mysterious way curves over the mound that shelters us, and goes to the heart of the man by our side. He gives an agoniZed glance at us,-it speaks volumes, but he cannot speak. He sinks with lurch; he is dead How much profit on grain was his life worth. But there is no time for such thoughts. Draw hls body to one side lest it be stepped upon; lay his cap over his face; at present you can do no more. Brace your own heart to say without quiver, if you can, that if during the day you do not meet like fate, you will try to bury him decently at night. The din is growing greater. Some regiments are charging with a shout. The enemy, sheltered by their earthworks, are pouring in terrible fire and so steadily that the crack of their rifles cannot be distinguished, but sounds like the tearing of strong cloth. ball passes in front of your own face closely that it tugs at the breath in your trils. The artillery-fre peals and crashes with terrible noises of every kind. The stream of wounded going to the rear becomes greater. Now you and your regiment are wanted; your brother, your son, are beside you; the man that wanted to make money by war creeps timidly and painfully behind. You all must be flung upon the altar of the NJ bloch of war, with seemingly no hope of escape You emerge from this sheltering ravine into full view of the enemy's works. The enemy see you and turn their fire upon you. Almost at once a captain, playmate of your boyhood, is pierced by bullet as he is waving his sword; he staggers, is caught by two of his men, and, leaning upon them still straight and soldierly, walks off the field where the work of his life was finished. As he passes you, there shines in his eyes the consciousness of approaching death and a light that means the only good by that, whether you live or die, you will ever get from him. The voice of the colonel rings out, urging on his men, but your path Is blocked by abattis or slashing, so that progress is difficult The enemy are protec- ted by their earthworks and pick off man after man. You step over or upon dead men, or men still living, wounded in every possible way, biting the earth or turning ghastly faces to the unpitying sun. The man whose elbow has touched yours on many day at drill is struck by ball that passes through both his eyes; in agony of pain blindness, he turns toward the noises and with face covered with blood curses friend and foe, heaven and hell, alike. In strange scene, dove, frightened from her low nest and thither, with soft meanings of mingled terror for herself and of distress for the safe ty of her little brood.