A Union Soldier Perspective at The Charge on Mcfadden’s Ford January 2nd 1863
January 2nd, 1863. I’ll never forget the sound that day—the steady drumbeat of marching feet, faint at first, but growing louder as the Confederates came. From my vantage point on the west side of Stones River, I could see them emerging from the woods across the ford, five brigades deep, flags high, their bayonets catching the pale winter sun.
General Crittenden barked the order to ready the guns. Fifty-seven cannons stood behind us, lined up like the gates of Hell itself. I was tasked with hauling ammunition—double canister shot—and I prayed I’d never see what those iron cylinders could do to a man. But my prayers would go unanswered.
The Confederates surged up the hill in a solid wave, and Van Cleve’s boys, stationed on the east bank, fired volley after volley to hold them back. It wasn’t enough. I watched as the Rebs crashed into our lines, muskets blazing, and our boys began to fall. Some were running, some were firing, but none could stop the tide. It was like watching a dam burst. Van Cleve’s division broke and spilled down the hill, right toward the river.
And then, the order came: “Fire!”
The cannons roared, and the earth trembled beneath my feet. I clapped my hands over my ears, but it didn’t help. The sound wasn’t just loud—it was inside me, rattling my chest and skull. I turned to see what we’d done, and my stomach twisted.
The first row of Confederates simply disintegrated. Double canister—it wasn’t meant for killing one or two men. It was meant for mowing down dozens. The field was packed with them, shoulder to shoulder, and the shot tore through them like a scythe through wheat. Bodies flew backward in pieces. Heads. Arms. Legs. I saw men with their faces blown clean off, their torsos shredded open like sacks of grain. Blood spattered the air, steaming as it hit the cold ground.
Still, they kept coming.
They marched right into the teeth of those guns, stepping over the bodies of their comrades. We fired again, and again, and again. I was hauling shot as fast as I could, my hands blistered and blackened with powder. My back ached, but I couldn’t stop. The field was chaos—men screaming for their mothers, officers shouting orders, horses rearing and falling under fire.
The Rebs were getting closer, staggering forward like drunkards, their formation falling apart. I could see their faces now, twisted with fear and fury, some streaked with blood, others blank with shock. Another volley hit them, and the front lines collapsed. A man about my age stumbled toward the river, holding his guts in his hands, trailing ribbons of flesh and blood. He fell, and I don’t think he got up.
It wasn’t just the enemy suffering. Our boys in Van Cleve’s division were scattered, broken. I watched one of them try to pull a wounded man to safety, only to be blown apart by a cannonball. Just gone. The wounded man started crawling, his legs useless, dragging himself through the mud until another shot finished him.
By now, the Confederates were falling back. What was left of them, anyway. The cannonfire slowed, and the battlefield fell eerily quiet. I climbed up the riverbank to get a better look, and that’s when it hit me—the scale of it.
The ground was littered with bodies. Hundreds, maybe thousands. Some were missing limbs, others lay crumpled in grotesque shapes, like broken dolls. Blood soaked the frozen earth, pooling in the ruts where the cannon wheels had passed. The river itself ran red. I’ll never forget the smell—powder smoke, burnt flesh, and something sickly sweet I didn’t want to think too much about.
I saw a Confederate boy—couldn’t have been older than sixteen—lying in the mud, his chest blown open. His lips were moving, and I thought he might be praying. I didn’t get closer to find out. There wasn’t anything I could do for him.
The next day, we heard Bragg was retreating. Stones River was ours. They called it a victory, but looking at the field that night, I couldn’t see anything victorious about it. Over 1,800 of Breckinridge’s men were dead or wounded from the charge alone. Counting both sides, they said there were more than 23,000 casualties over three days of fighting.
That night, as I lay shivering by the fire, I tried to shut my eyes, but I couldn’t stop seeing their faces. The boy in the mud. The men blown apart. The river running red. They told us we’d saved the Union, that this was a fight worth winning. Maybe they were right. But the cost—it’ll haunt me for the rest of my days.
