Middlebury register. (Middlebury, Vt.) 1886-1937, 1888-04-20


which woke me-brought me back from
my dream of boyhood to this scene of
carnage. But-the hole is here in my
head me-try-to-think.
In the first place, here are black patch
es of scared ground that was covered with
grass, leaves and underground awhile
ago. There are trees riven with shot and
shell. Here is tree near me with twen'
ty-eight bullet marks. Here on my
right, and below me. are thirteen dead
men-eight in Federal blue. There I
can hear the sound of my own voice.
All very well thus far. have it. At
tention salute the commanding officer.
What is your namel
Robert Stoner.
Where were you born?
Westmoreland county.
Where were you educated2
was graduated from Harvard.
What is your calhng2
was educated for the ministry.
What is your rankl
First corporal.
Company letter, regiment and brigade
commanders.
Company B, Fifty-third Ohio in
fantry, Col. Appler. Hildebrands
brigade.
Day of the week, and month of the
year,
Sunday, April 6, 1862.
There-that sounds all right--but I feel
the hole in my head as plainly as before.
What is this? 1t is not the daylight
that is fading How long have l been
lying here? That awful charge was
made before eight My time must be
short. l feel myself growing strangely
faint and numb-and so this isis death
Darbness-utter darkness. More leaden
hail-will the battle never end? The
ground is wet. Ny clothes are wet
God s blessed rain at last What sounds
are these9 Have the dead come to life?
Means, curses, blasphemy-my blood
curdles. Was that bolt of lightningl
There is another-and Others They are
Shells These fleeing figures in the dark
ness-now l can barely see them. l hear
the rumble of artillery. the clang of
sabers, the commands of officers, the
sullen curses of men. Shells exploding
everywhere. It's like hell itself, these
bursting shells, screams of wounded and
means of the dying. There is the cease
less tramp of many feet, the neighing Of
frightened steeds, all pressing back
to escape the sweep of the mon
ster shells. Limbs cracking, trees
toppling-God! what a swath the shot
and shell cut in the forest! The living
trample the dead in their mad flight
they are needless of the fresh fallen; the
horses neigh in terror as they bear their
riders against saplings, bruise and buffet
them against trees-and still the scream
ing shells pursue them. Theirs is the
agony of apprehension. 1t must be as
Sherman predicted; the gunboats on the
Tennessee are discharging their cargo on
the heads of the enemy, nor selvage of
timber nor deep forest can avail them,
nor render more shelter than the open
fields. The belching cannon sweeps
them back from the ground they won in
the day.
Blessed rain that moistens my lips.
Welcome the fiery gust of shrieking
shells that sheer the forest and sweep the
enemy back as remorselessly as the ocean
surf lashes the beach upon which it casts
the ragged sea weed, limp and high.
Though you may not live to see the light
of another day, Robert Stoner, you
have the consciousness on the threshold
of deaths door that the field strewn with
Federal blue has been regained by the
blast of iron from the gunboats.
What strange sense is th1s9 seem to
be midway between earth and heaven.
The air is tremulous with strange, sweet
sounds. There are shimmering, shifting
lights, now vivid, now faint. Flashes of
light come and go like the fitful flames of
musketry that flashed from the edge of
that forest when the enemy assailed, then
swarmed upon US. There is muffied
sound in my ears; it's not like the hol-
low rumble of artillery, or the throbbing
of the great guns that pulsed in the
morning air as the smoke of battle pulled
and lay low about the bristling batteries,
nor like the volleys Of musketry that
rolled and ratified in angry response to
the roar of the cannon. IT'S more like
the ceaseless rush of mighty waters. The
lights are fading; sound ceases. My
broken arm that was like nest Of needles
a moment ago is cold as ice. Is this the
endp Corp Stoner, prepare to salute the
great commander
The faint morning shadows are slant.
ing along the orchard slope. l see the
COWS cropping the lush meadow grasses
cool shadows lie over the sheep fold
The mist hugs the swamp. The blue
birds and robins pipe their morning
songs, and sober faced Dobbin stretche:
his neck over the bars looking for hi
oats. The burrows measured in the
partly plowed field are damp. The liliei
in the pond are reflected in its placid
depths until the bottom looks like huge
bowl covered with lilies. The FLY fling
its heels at the oaken bars Network.
of vines clustering over the door beal
brilliant red berries-they are like cora
in the shadow-in the sunlight they glin
like fire as the suns rays kiss the dew
What melody is it that rises clear anc
sweet above the fiuting of the bluebirC
and the robin? The lark cleaves the cleal
sky with its song. A face-the face
last looked at through mist of tears al
l babe her adieu tine afternoon lief
home for college-her face is at the oper
door.