A Soldier's Reflection - A Sobering Moment

I have recently been reading various Civil War items on my Kindle. I like items that were penned as journals or reflections by the common soldier rather than the historians who are explaining what happened. I do not dismiss the critical value of those historical works but there is something about reading about the thoughts, feelings and experiences of the common soldier to give insights that the other books miss.

One of the things I like about having a Kindle is its copy feature that allows me to copy sections into a file for downloading onto my laptop. Following is a lengthy excerpt from My Life In The Irish Brigade: The Civil War Memoirs Of Private William McCarter, 116th Pennsylvania Infantry by William McCarter. McCarter was a private in the Irish Brigade, a Brigade made up of regiments of Irish immigrants mainly from New York City and Philadelphia.

This section takes place after a small battle at Charlestown VA (now Charlestown WV). Months later McCarter was wounded multiple times before the stone wall at Fredericksburg (major scene in the movie Gods and Generals), and due to his wounds was not able to return to his regiment. Following is drawn from his book and speaks for itself.


War is truly said to be a sad necessity. But civil war, be it long or short and under almost any circumstance, is indeed sadder and more desolating in its effects. History may record the ravages and desolations made and left in the tracks of the bloody feet of war. Even in this most unnatural contest of our own, painters of the rarest talents may one day paint the destruction in masterly styles and glowing colors. Yet, all of these efforts fall far short in showing to the eye or to the mind war's real effects upon people and country.

I proceeded along one of the streets of this ill-fated town [Charlestown] accompanied by several members of my regiment. Our attention was attracted to a three-story house, one of the better class of dwellings there, by crowds of soldiers and a few citizens going into it. These visitors came immediately out again with dull and saddened countenances and, in not a few cases, with tearful eyes. The front door had apparently been smashed and laid about in pieces upon the cobblestone pavement opposite. We stopped and, following the example of others, entered the house and then the room on the first floor.

Merciful heaven, what a sight met our eyes. God save me the pain of another such sight as long as I live. The room was long and narrow. From one end of it to the other, regardless of those present, paced a lady, apparently not over 30 years of age. She appeared to be in terrible grief, misery and despair, refusing entirely any comfort or consolation from those of her friends and neighbors there congregated. The woman was clad in black, but in some manner her dress had been almost torn from her body. She would now and then burst out into heart-rending fits of weeping, exclaiming, "Oh, my child, my Lilly."

Not knowing exactly the cause of the lady's sorrow, I quietly inquired of an old man leaning against the door what it was. He replied that her child, her only child, had been killed about an hour ago by a ball from the Federal battery. The round passed through a window at which the child had been standing, looking down at soldiers on the street. At one end of the room, a few women and several members of our Irish Brigade were gathered around what seemed to me to be a melodeon, or pipe organ, gazing sadly and silently at something lying on its top. As soon as opportunity presented to approach the spot, we did so.

There on the top of the instrument laid a sweet little girl, some seven or eight years old, cold and stiff and dead. Except for the dead yet still beautiful, innocent pale face, all the rest of the body was covered with a large sheet, or white quilt. On this cover, particularly that part of it over the child's breast, were large spots of blood. A young colored woman was cutting the long brown curls from the child's head and perfectly saturating them with her tears.

Approaching still nearer, I asked how the child had been killed. The reply given was in substance the same as the old man's. In a flood of tears, the young colored woman laid her scissors down. With both hands, she slowly and solemnly raised the blood-stained cover off the little breast, saying in sobs as she did so, "Just look there."

My companion and I gazed for a moment at the object in horror and dismay, unable to utter a word. Then turning slowly and sadly away, we left the room. My heart was too full and my eyes positively refused to shelter any longer the streams of hot water that burst from them. The ball had struck the child on the left breast, tearing it and ripping the left arm completely away. Only a small portion of the right breast remained. It presented a most ghastly, sickening appearance. Yet, that dear little face seemed as calm and as peaceful as in a quiet, sweet slumber. Oh, cruel, cruel war! Must the innocent suffer with the guilty, yea, must the mother see her own darling child in a moment turned into a mangled bleeding corpse, for the sin, shame and rebellion of proud, haughty men and women? Alas, such is civil war.

We proceeded a little farther along. Lying on a vacant space of ground between two houses, we found the dead body of a woman. The lower part of her garments were apparently burned or singed and the fragments of an exploded shell were scattered all around. Her nearly grey hair, for she had fallen with her face on the ground, indicated that she had been well advanced in years. In front of the body laid a small waiter, several pieces of broken china and some slices of bread. We inferred that she had been in the act of carrying these articles, probably to a neighboring house, when the fatal shell struck her. Turning a corner near the same place, we saw a cart or wagon on which laid the dead body of a young man, a Rebel soldier. He had evidently been placed there by some of his companions after dark. The only injury to the body visible to us was a small cut or hole above the eye. A little pool of blood had formed on the ground underneath the cart.