by Larry Hunt
Chapter Two
THE SECOND DAY
During the first day’s skirmish, Sergeant Scarburg, and his boys did not see much of the actual fighting. They did see; however, the horses lathered up with white, foamy, sweat, galloping by their marching columns. The horses pulled the heavy caissons and Napoleon cannons that were creating clouds and clouds of choking dust. They could constantly hear the roar of the fighting, the rebels yelling, the cannons firing, and the officers issuing orders, but most of the battle is out of their immediate view. A large part of the day has been spent marching to get in to position for their actual fight. They do not realize it, but they are about to become a small part of this enormous bloodbath.
On this second day of the fight, the battle begins early in the morning. A slight haze of fog covers the ground as Company E advances toward the enemy through an area later to become infamously known as the Devils Den. The entire area between the Union army and the Confederates is a broad stretch of ground strewn with boulders the size of small wagons, some even bigger. Interspersed between the boulders is waist high wild grass that offers no protection whatsoever. The Southerners will have to crawl and pull themselves over and around these natural rock obstacles constantly exposing their bodies to the deadly rain of lead from the Yankee muskets. Their objective is a small hill, named, appropriately Little Round Top.
Up and down the long Confederate line, officers issue the order, ‘Column Forward, Guide Center,’ youthful drummers furiously beat ‘Advance.’ Buglers can be heard repeating the same ‘Advance’ call on their bugles. The Confederate guides unfurl the Stars and Bars flags, which begin fluttering in the gentle summer breeze. The young boys carrying these flags proudly thrust out their breasts and begin the advancement toward the enemy. The drummers continue the rhythmic beat of the drum signaling the troops to move forward. The remainder of the thousands of Rebel soldiers follows closely on their heels.
Sweat, mixed with dust and dirt, drips from the tip of Sergeant Scarburg’s nose. He swings his musket from his shoulder and goes in to a shuffling run toward the large rock formations to his front. He along with thousands of other soldiers commences the infamous ‘rebel yell’ - a yell hard to explain. To fully understand this cry it has to be personally experienced. To thousands of Yankee defenders, the yell is blood curdling. Years later this spine-tingling scream will haunt the northern veterans most nights as they try to drift off to sleep.
As the boys in gray run toward the blue-clad Union Army, bullets begin to whiz by their heads. The sulfur smell of gunpowder hangs heavy in the air. The blue-black smoke becomes so thick the soldiers of the Army of the Potomac defending Little Round Top are becoming more and more obscure. A young boy screams as a bullet passes through his body – blood spews wildly as he collapses in a heap on the ground. Another soldier disappears in a red mist of blood as a cannon ball hits him squarely in the chest. Mercifully the gray clad boy dies instantly; he has no time to emit a scream. Dismissing these horrors from his mind, Sergeant Scarburg begins to run faster toward the enemy. He has to reach one of those large boulders. All he, and hundreds of other soldiers can think about is the safety of the rocks.
Leaning against the cold, hard stone’s surface, he presses his face against the coolness of the rock, sighs, and inhales a deep breath of smoke-filled air. He pulls his ragged, gray, forage cap from his head and using it as a handkerchief, wipes his face. He can hear the officers imploring the men to advance – leave their place of safety and once again face the onslaught of Yankee bullets. The boys! Where are my boys? He hates himself – for a brief few moments he thought only of his safety and forgot about Luke and Matthew. He squints his eyes trying to look through the smoke for his boys, but he can see nothing.
Sergeant Scarburg begins to muster up the courage to resume his assault once more when he hears shouts of the enemy advancing toward his position – all his instincts are telling him to withdraw – no never! To retreat is unthinkable, but who are these outnumbered, defiant Yankee defenders who dare attack him and his Confederate comrades rather than turn tail and run?
High upon Little Round Top the Union men of the 20th Maine under the command of Lieutenant Colonel Joshua Chamberlain are quickly running out of ammunition. As a last resort, Chamberlain orders his men to fix bayonets and ‘Charge’, down the hill, unknowingly, directly toward Sergeant Scarburg’s place of safety.
No longer able to ignore the screams and cries Sergeant Scarburg jumps from his hiding spot. He moves around the large rock, and immediately comes face to face with a blue-bellied Yankee from Chamberlain’s company bearing a long Springfield musket with a shiny, razor sharp, steel bayonet attached to its business end. Sergeant Scarburg did not have time to react; the bayonet is already at his breast. Time seems to stand still; he wants to raise his weapon, but cannot; the Yankee steel starts to penetrate his tread-bare shirt. He can feel the sharp, cold metal penetrating his skin. Strange, he always had thought it would hurt, but he does not feel any pain.
“Father! Father! How badly are you hurt?” Luke asks, pulling his father back against the shelter of the huge boulder.
Sergeant Scarburg looks at the young man. His eyes blurred he could not quite make out his features.
“Matthew! Matthew is this you my son?”
“No, Father, it’s me Luke. Your son Luke.”
“Luke? Luke!” Robert whispers. “Bend down, I need to tell you something. Please son, it is imperative. I have something to say that was told to me by my father and I need to pass it on before I die.”
“Hush Father, conserve your strength, you’re not going to die!” Looking at the bloody hole in his father’s chest made by the bayonet, Luke thinks otherwise. “Hold this handkerchief tightly against the wound Father.” Trying to bolster his father’s spirit he continues, “do not worry Father it is only a scratch, lie still I will get help.”
Struggling to speak, “Wait Luke! Please! Luke closer, come closer.” Whatever he has to say is crucial. Luke realizes it too, bends down and places his ear close to his father’s mouth. The noise of the on-going battle is deafening. Luke is near enough to feel his father’s breath on his cheek.
Barely able to hear his father’s whispers, he remarks, “Father? Father? I do not understand! Bible? Bible? I don’t have a Bible!”
The words have no sooner left Luke’s lips as a lead, mini-ball ricochets off the boulder above his head raining lead and rock fragments in Luke’ face and forehead. Blood gushes in his eyes. For a second, Luke thinks the bullet has found its mark, but a swipe with his hand indicates it is only a deep scalp laceration.
“Luke! Where are you? Luke!” Someone screams from the direction of the field of tall grass.
Even though he only can see a few yards in to the thick, blue smoke, Luke recognizes the voice. It is the frightened voice of his younger brother Matthew.
“Here Matt! I’m here with Father he seems to be hurt badly. I think he wants a Bible, do you have one Matthew?”
Matt shakes his head then asks, “Is Father dying?
“Yes, I think so.”
“Are you okay?”
“I’ll live, just a scratch, stay with him Matt; I’ll try to find some help.”
“No, Luke, please don’t leave...!”
Luke grabs his musket, rounds the boulder, dodging bullets as he runs into the thick smoke.