A few short days ago, blue and gray clad soldiers marched away from Perryville Kentucky where in October, the merciless dark angel claimed more than 1,300 men. In happier times, these dead would have embraced each other as countrymen, but instead lost their lives for causes that seemed to him a little more distant than when the passions of war first sparked the now unremitting flames. Of those that survived, more than 5,000 emerged from the battle no longer whole, leaving behind arms, legs, and the deadened portions of their once innocent naive souls. He sometimes judged those at eternal rest as the more fortunate, except for their cold and lonely graves, shallow and quickly dug if they had a grave at all.
At days end as the men of both armies settled in for an uneasy night, the cold winter air lent each man a biting chill matching the lingering trepidation ever-present within. Fellow pickets on either side of him leaned against rocks or trees, tightly wrapped in whatever they had not foolishly discarded during the hot summer marches. The bolder or more desperate among them pulled closer the coats and blankets recently "acquired" from those no longer in need, vainly attempting to elude the cold, heavy rains and clinging mud which sought to leech the warmth from their tired, haggard bodies.
With his adversaries only some 700 yards distant, tonight, he would likely not find the peace of the forbidden yet cherished few moments of much needed sleep. Having learned some time ago the skill of dozing lightly while standing upright at his post, sleep would have offered a welcome respite from the cold misery of the last few weeks. While peering into the endless, surrounding darkness, he wondered what the night would yet hold for him.
As if to sooth the persistent anguish threatening to consume him, an army band mercifully broke the silence. When the initial welcome strains ended, adversaries from across the darkening divide responded in kind with a song of their own.
With each side now taking turn in this instrumental volley, music familiar to both armies danced among the trees stirring the chill winter air. These songs, he mused, once held dear by all, now either inspired thoughts of patriotism or treason depending upon your present chosen or dictated loyalties. Shifting his weight against the tree which held him upright, he wondered if in a strange twist, God had given the fleeting warmth that each note offered as a gift to the men who had in His name shattered so many of those created in His image.
The lyrics as familiar as the faces of his family, he watched his vaporous breath swirl in the frigid air as he joined in the diversion of song. His hoarse voice added to the orchestral tonic caressing the ground so contentiously held by the members of this growing unified chorus. For a moment, some of the pain, if not forgotten, diminished in severity with fraternal memories providing a bittersweet solace.
After several near joyous tunes, the continuing musical challenge abruptly changed tone as one side, he could no longer distinguish which, began the first few strains of Home Sweet Home. Other mournful voices now joined his in the welcome yet sad refrain.
- I gaze on the moon, as I tread the drear wild
And feel that my mother, Now thinks of her child;
As she looks on that moon, From our own cottage door,
Thro' the woodbine whose fragrance, Shall cheer me no more.
- An exile from home, splendour dazzles in vain
Oh! give me my lowly thatch’d cottage again;
The birds singing gaily, that came at my call;
Give me them, with the peace of mind, dearer than all.
Home, home, sweet sweet home,
There's no place like home,
There's no place like home.
Hours later, when the sun next rose, savage battle began anew, with this soldier and thousands more fated to never again see home except in the dimming light of their dying minds eye.
Very Respectfully,
Randy
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The old Laurel Hill Cemetery along Philadelphia’s Schuylkill River serves as an eternal home to revolutionaries, political leaders, soldiers, professionals, laborers, and past citizens from the then young United States. Time had yet spared many of the 19th century gravestones which fared better than their older comrades with progressively illegible epitaphs. Thankfully, the markers on the Meade family plot remained clear. Union Major General George Gordon Meade’s simple stone stated for all who cared to visit, "He did his work bravely and is at rest". My camera would now hold this image safe from the wearing effects of the ages.
The children of the 19th century had their own "stressors" with which to cope. Up to 25% of all children would die before their first birthday with the rate falling to a still tragic 1 in 10 for those who received the best care. In some regions of the young country, up to the same percentage of mothers would die during or due to complications from birth. Nineteenth century medicine would not uncover the role microbes play in disease until the 1870s with antiseptic practices only then becoming mainstream. Penicillin would first become available another 70 some years later. As a whole, life expectancy mid-19th century hovered around 43 years. The children of that day would then face the potential death of a parent or sibling throughout all of their young lives while continuously attempting to elude the specter of life stealing infectious disease.
The Park Service established a walking trail and offers free of charge interpretive materials to carry with you as you walk. Included in that material, a southern soldier describes an encounter with a Confederate icon. 
To the Northwest, Antietam National Battlefield has added a walking trail over the grounds where General Burnside’s troops advanced and then were repulsed by A.P. Hill’s Light Division after his 17 mile forced march from Harper’s Ferry. Even with no knowledge of what occurred on these fields, the near two mile trail meanders through beautiful terrain and allows views of the magnificent hills and valleys. Once experienced, the typically undulating, steep, rocky, uneven ground speaks volumes concerning the difficulties commanders would encounter organizing and directing their men. With few modern intrusions, the trail leads you back 140 years to the counterattack that saved the Confederate Army for future battles.
Moving throughout the old manor, we made our way to the northern most room. Void of furnishings, the somewhat small room had a solid, dark wood floor, white walls, a painting of George Washington, and a tattered Federal Division flag. As her discussion progressed to the battle's aftermath, she mentioned the building's use as a hospital, somewhat reverently mentioning that the room in which we stood served as the main center for surgery. Now thoroughly riveted to her words, she relayed that Walt Whitman had come to Chatham after learning that his brother, serving with the 51st New York, had been wounded during the fighting. At some point, he sought him here.
But this day, one other scene surprisingly lacking in horror would singularly capture the imagination. Also housed safely behind glass sat a sword scabbard with fading, chipped paint, obviously not of the original form. A closer look revealed the word "Fredericksburg" and several scenes painted on its sides. To my astonishment, the display's interpretive note reported that a convalescing soldier painted the vastly incongruous images on this instrument of war. Towards the top of the scabbard, clear for all to see, a Union and Confederate officer shook hands in reconciled friendship. Just beneath it, hands labeled "US" and "CS" embraced with similar sentiments.
"With the declining day I slowly rode over the stricken field. Around the breastworks lay a hundred and fifty of the enemy's dead and desperately wounded. We had taken also in the counter-charges and eddies of the strife nearly two hundred prisoners - happier than they knew. These we sent away for safe keeping. But we had with us, to keep and to care for, more than five hundred bruised bodies of men, - men made in the image of God, marred by the hand of man, and must we say in the name of God? And where is the reckoning for such things? And who is answerable? One might almost shrink from the sound of his own voice, which had launched into the palpitating air words of order - do we call it? - fraught with such ruin. Was it God's command we heard, or His forgiveness we must forever implore?" - Major General Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain, "The Passing of the Armies" Describing a battlefield outside of Petersburg towards war's end.
But here, decades before the existence of the protective rail, men immersed in sorrow slowly and with heavy steps walked sullenly from this room. Overwhelmed by loss and unable to suppress their emotion, most cried. This man, so revered and respected, passed away at 3:15pm on that spring Sunday afternoon, the day of the week that, if given his choice, he had said he wished to die. His wife who had just days earlier introduced the proud commander to his tiny newborn daughter would later say, "Tears were shed over that dying bed by strong men who were unused to weep."
His men cautioned against this excursion past the protection of their lines, but the tenacious corps commander sought to crush the disorganized, routed Federals. Returning from his mission, as he approached his own lines, the men he had just lead to one of the South's most commanding victories, shot him three times after mistaking his party for Union cavalry. With bones shattered and blood loss mounting, his men endured a hazardous journey through dark woods filled with raging Union artillery, bursting shells, and screaming iron balls, to carry their commander to safety. The corps' chief medical officer, Dr. Hunter McGuire examined the wounded general at the Wilderness Tavern a few miles behind the Confederate lines. Dr. McGuire described his actions that night. "The round ball (such as is used for the smooth-bore Springfield musket), which had lodged under the skin upon the back of his right hand, was extracted first. It had entered the palm about the middle of the hand, and had fractured two of the bones. The left arm was then amputated about two inches below the shoulder, very rapidly and with slight loss of blood, the ordinary circular operation having been made. There were two wounds in his arm. The first and most serious was about three inches below the shoulder-joint, the ball dividing the main artery and fracturing the bone. The second was several inches in length; a ball having entered the outside of the forearm, an inch below the elbow, came out upon the opposite side just above the wrist. Throughout the whole of the operation, and until all the dressings were applied, he continued insensible." [2]
Until recently, I did not care much for this particular period in our history, considering its study hardly useful. However, about five years ago, I found myself pacing impatiently in a bookstore, lamenting my inability to find a satisfactory read. But, as discussed in a 
Soft lead bullets and the iron fired from relentless artillery swept these fields tearing flesh and shattering bones. The wounded lay among the dead on the unforgiving, unsheltered ground, unsure whether aid or death would find them first. The figure of 23,000 casualties for one day's fighting remains grim enough on its own. But many more suffered slower, lingering deaths from wounds, disease, or the aftereffects of amputation and crude surgeries. The citizenry would endure trials as well as contagious, untreatable diseases ravaged many families who offered their homes, resources, and energy to help save those mangled by the unfeeling hand of battle. 
