A Confederate Soldiers Perspective at The Charge on Mcfadden’s Ford January 2nd 1863
The order came just after midday, January 2nd, 1863. We’d spent the morning huddled on Wayne’s Hill, tending the wounded, shivering in the bitter winter air, and hoping against hope that the generals would think better of it. But when word came down, there was no time for hope. General Breckinridge had his orders, and so did we. We were to charge.
Five thousand of us lined up in the cold mud, shoulder to shoulder, gripping our muskets and trying not to think about what lay ahead. The hill before us was crawling with Yankees—men of Van Cleve’s Division holding high ground near McFadden’s Ford. They had artillery across the river, but no one told us how many guns were waiting. Maybe it wouldn’t have mattered. Orders were orders.
At 4 p.m., we stepped off, the drums beating a steady rhythm that matched the pounding in my chest. We started up the slope, our flags snapping in the cold wind. The first volleys came quickly, Yankee rifles spitting fire and smoke. Men started to drop—thuds and screams punctuated the cracks of musket fire—but we pressed on. We reached the crest and drove the Federals back, cheering as we surged forward.
And then we saw it.
Across the river, lined up like a grim row of teeth, were dozens of Union cannons—more than I could count. They opened fire all at once. The world exploded around us.
The first blast knocked me flat. Dirt and blood rained down, and I scrambled to my feet, ears ringing, only to see men torn to pieces around me. The cannons fired canister shot—metal packed with musket balls and iron shards. It wasn’t like a bullet wound. The shot tore through men, ripping limbs clean off, or cutting them in two. I saw my friend Henry take a hit square in the chest; he fell, screaming, his insides spilling onto the ground.
Still, we pushed forward. The flags moved ahead, and we followed, tripping over the dead and dying. The air was thick with smoke and screams—some from the enemy, but mostly from us. I heard one man wailing for his mother as he clutched the bloody stump of his leg. Another staggered past me, his face half gone, like something out of a nightmare.
The ground ahead of us was littered with bodies. Each step felt heavier than the last, as though the earth itself was trying to drag me down. And then the second volley came. This time, it wasn’t just canister. Exploding shells burst overhead, raining hot metal down on us. A piece of shrapnel tore through the man next to me, opening his throat. He collapsed, gurgling, as blood sprayed across my face.
By the time we reached the riverbank, what was left of us could hardly be called a line. The charge had collapsed. Men stumbled and fell back, clutching wounds or simply dropping their rifles and running. I turned to see the hill behind us. It was a charnel house, littered with bodies torn and broken, the mud stained red with blood.
The Yankees counterattacked, pouring over the crest like wolves. I was one of the lucky ones. I ran when I could, slipping and sliding in the gore, until I reached what was left of our line.
That night, I sat by a dying fire, staring at my hands. They were covered in blood—some mine, but mostly not. We’d lost over 1,800 men in less than an hour. Of the friends I’d marched with that morning, fewer than half answered roll call that night. General Breckinridge sat nearby, his head in his hands, muttering prayers or curses—I couldn’t tell which.
The next day, we retreated. Stones River was lost. But the battle wasn’t just a defeat. It was a massacre. And for what? A hill? A ford? I’ll carry the sights and sounds of that charge with me to my grave.
War, they said, was about honor and glory. On that day, I saw no glory—only horror, death, and waste. I pray I never see its like again, though I know I will.
