Reading about Antietam sure makes me pull heavily at the whiskey bottle ...


Timothy Egan,
The Immortal Irishman (AMH, 2016), p. 222 purports that "Meagher had slept on the ground, and his face looked puffy." p. 225: "Meagher tossed off his hat and tried to finish the battle. Just then, his horse took a blast in the head, reared p in panic, a blood pattern sprayed on its white mane. Meagher was thrown to the ground--the fourth Union general to go down. Concussed by his fall, he couldn't tell up from down, light from dark. Two soldiers dragged him back among other wounded in the haystacks. The forage was not much of a refuge: soon the stacks caught fire in the rain of explosives, burning men alive." p. 228, two months after the battle, "[Private Wm. McCarter, 116th PA Inf.] as he confided to his diary, worshiped the Irishman who could speak at least five languages, recite an epic poem without missing a line, make roll call seem like an ode. 'He had a voice that sounded like a lion,' he wrote in one of his perfectly penned sentences, as if the words were standing at inspection. But now: who was this stumbling soul leaning against his tent pole? ... Meagher grunted, slurred something that sounded like nothing. The general reeked of whiskey, which he called 'a smile,' as in 'Let's have a smile before dinner.' Soldiers used a dozen other terms for the infantry's only real diversion--
busthead, knock-'em-stiff, dead shot among them. In the worst year for the Army of the Potomac, liquor was medicinal and ubiquitous, for officers and infantry-men, Irish and native-born. The best general of the North, Ulysses S. Grant, was widely viewed as a drunk. He'd been forced to resign in 1854, his reputation in ruins. He got his second chance after volunteering in 1861, though his reliance on heavy drink had not diminished. ... And hearing yet again that Grant was overly fond of whiskey, the president asked what brand, and wondered if he should send a keg to each of his other commanders. But even with all the high-octane spirits flowing through the depressed ranks of the Union Army, no one in the brigade had seen Thomas Francis Meagher like this--a standing man, blank-faced; the great conversationalist, mute; the wit of Bull Sumners' corps, staggered. 'He was very drunk,' McCarter wrote on November 13, 1862, 'and looked strangely wild.' "