For two miles the ground was
covered with the mangled dead, dying, and freezing. Smashed artillery
and dead horses lay in heaps. In the retreat the heavy wheels of the
artillery had rolled over the bodies of the dead and wounded, crushing
and mangling many beyond recognition.
No general ever gazed upon a more ghastly scene than that which greeted
the eye of U. S. Grant in this moment of his life's supreme crisis. The
suffering of his wounded who had fought with the desperation of madness
to save themselves from the cold, had left its mark on their stark,
white faces. The ice had pressed a death mask on the convulsed features
and held them in the moment of agony. They looked up into his face now,
the shining eyes, gaping mouths, clenched fists, and crooked twisted
limbs.
McClernand's raw troops retreating over this field of horrors were
largely beyond control. Grant knew the enemy had been reenforced. He
could reasonably assume from the evidence before him of the terrific
slaughter in the open field that his own army was in peril. The
transports were in sight ready to move his army to a place of safety
where he might re-form his broken ranks.
His decision was instantaneous and thoroughly characteristic. He turned
to C.
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