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Taking of Burnside Bridge – September ’97 America’s Civil War Feature

9/23/1996 • America's Civil War

Taking of Burnside Bridge
Taking of Burnside Bridge

By John M. Priest

While Union commander George McClellan fumed and the Battle of Antietam hung in the balance, a handful of Rebels held off Federal troops at “Burnside Bridge.”

The day–September 17, 1862–promised to be long and hot, and the regimental commanders in Brigadier General Samuel Sturgis’ division of the Union Army of the Potomac, now tramping along the Porterstown Road southeast of Sharpsburg, Maryland, ordered their men out of line by squads to fill their canteens from nearby wells.

Hundreds of thirsty, dry-mouthed men broke ranks and streamed like blue-jacketed cockroaches toward the wells. The rapid exodus quickly attracted the malign attention of Confederate batteries several hundred yards away, on the western bank of Antietam Creek. The Rebel gunners’ aim, though largely inaccurate due to the extreme range, put the division’s ambulance train to flight, but did not discourage the parched infantrymen from their much-needed water details.




A little over a mile to the north, above Sharpsburg, it was a far different story. Major General George B. McClellan’s Union army had been attacking General Robert E. Lee’s outnumbered Confederates for four hours, slashing through woods and cornfields toward the Rebel position on the high ground near a small German Baptist meetinghouse, the Dunker church. Fighting had been horrific–whole rows of opposing soldiers scythed down like new-mown wheat–but nothing had been settled. The fate of Lee’s ambitious invasion of Maryland, and perhaps of the Union itself, remained very much in the balance.

Lee had invaded western Maryland two weeks earlier, intent on relieving the Union pressure on Virginia, particularly during the crucial harvest season. He envisioned thousands of fresh Confederate recruits rushing to his banner from “occupied” Maryland, which, though officially neutral, had widespread Southern sympathies. A dramatic battlefield victory on Northern soil might also force European recognition of the Confederacy.

Audaciously, Lee divided his army, sending Maj. Gen. Thomas J. “Stonewall” Jackson southeast to converge on Harpers Ferry, while Maj. Gen. James Longstreet moved north toward Hagerstown. The chance discovery of a copy of Lee’s orders gave McClellan the opportunity to destroy the Rebel army while it was dangerously divided, but the overly cautious “Little Mac” delayed long enough for the Confederates to make a stand at South Mountain on September 14, salvaging their supply trains and giving Lee time to plan his next move.

Lee gathered his two wings together on the outskirts of Sharpsburg, along Antietam Creek. There he determined to fight it out, depending on McClellan’s inherent timidity to compensate for the nearly 2-to-1 advantage the Union commander had in troops. The Battle of Antietam had opened at dawn on the 17th.

At 10 a.m., Maj. Gen. Ambrose Burnside, commanding McClellan’s left wing, received the order to assault Lee’s right. The movement would necessitate taking the 125-foot-long Rohrbach Bridge, a triple-arched stone span crossing Antietam Creek between two steep banks. Within an hour, 350 Georgians, under the command of Colonel Henry L. “Old Rock” Benning, repelled two assaults by Brig. Gen. James Nagle’s brigade to storm the bridge.

While Nagle made his second futile charge against the entrenched Confederates on the west bank of the creek, Sturgis placed Brig. Gen. Edward Ferrero’s brigade along the creek bank south of the bridge. Three times, Sturgis ordered the former New York City dance instructor to take the bridge along Nagle’s line of approach.

Ferrero formed his brigade in a cornfield near a bend in the creek, immediately west of the Lower Bridge Road. The 51st Pennsylvania was in front, followed by the 51st New York, 21st Massachusetts and the untried 35th Massachusetts. “It is General Burnside’s special request that the two Fifty-firsts take the bridge,” Ferrerro shouted. “Will you do it?”

Corporal Lewis Patterson of Company 1, 51st Pennsylvania, a known teetotaler, shattered the ensuing silence with, “Will you give us our whiskey, Colonel, if we take it?” (The Pennsylvanians had had their liquor ration cut for misconduct on the march.)

“Yes, by God!” cried Ferrero. “You shall have as much as you want, if you take the bridge.” He added that he would see to it if he had to send back to New York to get the whiskey and pay for it out of his own pocket.

Tension rippled through the line as the brigade moved out. The 51st Pennsylvania, following the diagonal approach used by Nagle’s men earlier, passed northeast behind the 9th New Hampshire toward the right rear of the twin knolls overlooking the creek and bridge. The 51st New York stayed in place while the smaller 21st Massachusetts filed right into the plowed field the New Hampshire men had formerly occupied.

The Massachusetts regiment behaved poorly while moving out. Singly and in small groups, rattled soldiers rose up sporadically from their line and shot wildly through the brush toward the opposite creek bank. Lieutenant John W. Hudson, one of Ferrero’s aides, later observed wryly that the men were firing “by guess,” and that some had gotten back “a good rifle ball to pay for their wisdom.”




Simultaneously, the 48th Pennsylvania made for the bridge with a small part of the 6th New Hampshire, both units from Nagle’s brigade. All four regiments started to pour a terrific fire into the opposite bank. They could see the Rebels, in pairs and threes, dodging about through the smoke to escape their bullets.

Captain James Wren of the 48th Pennsylvania ordered his men to lie prone alongside the 51st New York, and they cut loose at will into the leafy foliage and Rebel barricades across the stream. Wren was coolly directing their fire when an enlisted man from the 6th New Hampshire wandered over to complain that the Rebels had shot off the trigger finger of his right hand. The wounded man shouted that he still had 40 rounds in his cartridge box and did not want to go to the rear. Wren, succumbing to the thrill of the moment, turned to the man and blurted, “Now you bite the ends off these cartridges and I will fire them cartridges of yours.” Putting down his sword, Wren took the man’s musket and carelessly stood up to shoot.

Three balls in rapid succession zinged close by the captain’s ears. His men shouted to him to get down–the Rebs had his range. At the same moment, Wren saw a Confederate leisurely step from behind a large tree next to the bridge, take careful aim and squeeze the trigger. The bullet whistled just above Wren’s head. Wisely, he ducked for cover.


The noise at the bridge reached a nerve-shattering crescendo as rifle fire, shrieks and curses mingled with the exploding shells and rattling canister from Simmonds’ Kentucky (Union) Battery, which was firing over the Federals’ heads into the Confederate positions.




“Does he desire it?” an incredulous Hartranft shouted back. “Yes, sir,” Hudson replied.

“Very well.”


Hudson, for his part, hurriedly raced back to the safety of the knolls. As he explained later, “Having on straps & sword & pistol, I was willing to keep moving,” lest he prove to be a prize target for some Confederate sharpshooter.





By the time Hudson responded, the scene at the crossing had become thoroughly muddled. The 51st Pennsylvania halted in the road at the entrance of the bridge to volley at an enemy that was no longer there. Hartranft leaned against the upper abutment, weakly fanning his hat to speed his men forward. “Come on, boys,’ he panted, “for I can’t halloo any more.”


Hudson got hopelessly stuck in the middle of the mob. As he elbowed his way through the frantic herd, he repeatedly bellowed, “Make way for an aide!” The struggle so exhausted him that when he came within hailing distance of the acting lieutenant colonel of the New York regiment, he blurted the commands to him along with the request, “Will you pass it to your colonel along the line?” The officer, a new acquaintance of Hudson’s, politely but with a hint of exasperation in his voice replied, “That is part of your duty, sir.”




Meanwhile, the 51st New York and the 51st Pennsylvania retired below the creek bank to the water’s edge to avoid enfilading fire from the heights above Boonsboro Pike. Hartranft, who was about 300 feet up the road, sent Lt. Col. Thomas Bell south to fetch reinforcements.


“Hudson,” cried Ferrero, “tell your colonel to cross the bridge immediately, move along the road to the right, form in line and advance up the hill.”





After struggling over the fence along the road, the men of the 35th Massachusetts wheezed and crawled part way up the hill toward the crest. Climbing over a split-rail fence on the hilltop east of Otto’s Farm, the regiment continued to advance to the right, in full view of Sharpsburg.


The barrage caught Bell about 50 yards from the bridge. He had just slapped Private Hugh Brown on the shoulder as he passed, exclaiming, “We did it this time, my boy!” Barely two steps away, a ball from the second case shot glanced off his left temple. The impact whirled Bell around in a circle and slammed him on his side. Men rushed to his aid as he rolled down the creek bank into the regiment’s stacked muskets. Concerned, they asked if he was badly hurt.

Bell, the left side of his face quickly reddening with blood, put his hand to his temple and calmly replied, “I don’t think it is dangerous.” He paused. “Boys, never say die,” he added.

Hudson found the left wing of the 51st Pennsylvania sprawled along the creek bottom. He asked, “Where is your lieutenant colonel?”

“There he is, sir, wounded.”

Hudson’s gaze fell on a stretcher being borne toward the bridge. The officer being carried stared fixedly in Hudson’s direction as he was carried south. His dimming glance hurt Hudson badly. An ugly blue bruise was on Bell’s left temple. Bell, a newly made friend, was dying.

Hudson abruptly turned to meet Hartranft, who was coming down the road. Hudson asked why he had not advanced to support the 35th Massachusetts. “I’ve no ammunition,” Hartranft snapped.

The two frustrated officers stood there in the road, at a loss for words. They both had to answer to the moody Ferrero. Eventually, Hudson ventured, “Shall I tell the colonel so?”

“If you please,” said Hartranft.


“You must excuse me,” Hudson called out. “I’ve got something to do across the bridge.” With that, he hurried to deliver his latest message to Ferrero.

Lieutenant Colonel Joshua K. Sigfried of the 48th Pennsylvania, upon crossing the bridge, immediately detached Captain Wren and his B Company as skirmishers, with orders to cover the quarry and the ridge to the right. The plucky captain and a couple of his people detoured slightly to check on the Confederate that Wren had shot. They found a dead man lying beside the same tree. “Captain,” one of the men chimed in, “that is your man.”



Union soldiers set upon the colonel’s beautiful dress uniform; one stole Holme’s expensive gold watch, others cut the gilt buttons off his tunic. Captain Joseph A. Gilmour claimed a shoulder knot. Two men pulled the polished boots off his feet, then callously flipped a coin to see who would have the matched pair.


“Damn ’em, man,” Dye retorted through a mouthful of bread. “The Johnny is dead, but the johnny cakes is no dead.” He kept eating away.


John M. Priest teaches at South Hagerstown High School and resides in Boonsboro, Md. He is the author of the recently published Antietam: The Soldier’s Battle by White Mane Publishing Company, from which the article was adapted. As supplemental reading, try Landscape Turned Red, by Stephen W. Sears or The Gleam of Bayonets by James V. Murfin.

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