The Diary of Horatio White
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The Diary of Horatio White
Mark Souza
Copyright 2011 by Mark Souza
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This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any actual person, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Table of Contents
Story
The Diary of Horatio White Tidbits
About the Author
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“The Comfort Shack” Excerpt
The Diary of Horatio White
There are some who question the reasoning and courage of General McClellan over the events at Antietam Creek. How could an army of ninety-thousand surprise a force half their size and not emerge victorious? Why would a man with that kind of advantage retreat? Was McClellan inept, or was he a coward? Those who ask these questions were not there. They cannot understand. They don’t know the true events of Antietam Creek. Perhaps no one ever will.
Though sworn to secrecy by the Federal Army, I have placed an account of those days and my life here on these pages. I have no plans to allow other eyes see these words, so in that regard, I consider that I have maintained my vow. If these words were somehow to be read, who in their right mind would believe them? I scarcely do myself. I question my reasons for this record, as it can do nothing but open me to ridicule. Perhaps the best explanation is that what occurred was so unbelievable that perhaps by putting the events to paper, the fact that they take on physical form, though only ink on a page, can make them more real, more than the rants of a madman. For I fear I may truly be going mad.
We had pitched camp ten miles northeast of Sharpsburg on September 16th, 1862. Though the days were hot, the onset of fall brought a chill to the night air. I was with the 12th Regiment Massachusetts Volunteer Infantry under Major Burbank. Our scouts reported that the bulk of Lee’s Confederate Army was consolidated in Sharpsburg and we had caught him unawares.
We had marched for days and hadn’t had a hot meal in a week. This night was no exception. Dinner consisted of potted meat in jars, apples from a nearby orchard just coming ripe, and stale bread.
After sunset, Major Burbank gathered us around the campfire and gave us our orders. McClellan’s plan involved a three prong attack over the three bridges crossing Antietam Creek. Our regiment was to attack from the north at first light. We were a diversion to occupy Lee’s attention while the bulk of the army led by General Burnside, attacked from the south. The Major said we were to be the tip of the sword and could end the war by our efforts on the morrow. We’d finally caught Lee with his pants down.
We looked at one another and I think we all saw the same thing. Tears glossed our eyes. Some shook with nerves. None more than Billy Gillespie, a seventeen year-old kid from Danvers who hadn’t yet sprouted his first whisker. My mouth went dry. The Major was a good man and well intentioned, but how could he think we would be happy to receive this news?
We were quiet. He delivered his orders with the fire and conviction of someone sure we would end the day triumphant. And although he compared us to the tip of the sword, none of us believed it. Swords don’t bleed, and tomorrow we certainly would. We were green and really hadn’t seen battle. We’d had training, but till now we’d been held in reserve as a reinforcement unit. Tomorrow would be our first real test. As we looked to one another, we realized for many of us, if not most, these were our last hours.
After Burbank left, we couldn’t sleep. We listened in as the order was delivered to the Pennsylvania boys over at the next campfire by their commander, Colonel William Christian. What a waste of hide he was. He cared more for his horse than his men. His regiment used to joke that it might be a service to the army if Christian was shot in the back, but that there was little chance of that as he was the type who liked to lead from the rear. They fell as quiet as we had upon hearing the news.
We settled around the fire. Those of who could write wrote letters to mothers and wives trying to set everything to rights. I wrote to my Cora. Henry Talbot offered me a sip of his whiskey. He somehow always managed to maintain a supply. He was an educated man, a school teacher from my hometown. He got it in his head that he should stand for the cause and be a part of history as it was being made rather than just reading about it. He volunteered like the rest of us, each man for his own reasons. But in the face of the reality of it, he had had second thoughts and taken to drink. Talbot’s teeth were black at the edges and looked like old corn rotting on the cob. I respectfully declined.