Never Eat a Dead Man’s Cake, Part 1; Or, the Anxiety of a Mother

In June 1864, Reverend Robert J. Parvin, a volunteer for the U.S. Christian Commission, discovered an opened package sitting along the docks of the Union supply depot at City Point. Careless dockworkers had opened this small square box and unloaded its contents, hoping they were intended for general distribution. The box contained an assortment of pastries and cakes, contents that might be soon be eaten unless immediately claimed. Using his authority, Parvin rescued the pastries from destruction and told his commission agents to scour the box for any indication of its destination. Eventually, they determined the dockhands had opened the wrong end of the box, making it appear as if the parcel had no address. At the bottom of the parcel (the intended top) the agents discovered a large cake with a note affixed to it. The message revealed that the package had been sent by a New York woman to her son, an officer serving with the Army of the Potomac.

This image depicts the Union supply depot at City Point where the dead man's cake was unloaded 

In fact, the note took aim at anyone who dared to open the box (other than its intended recipient, of course). The note read:

If any one opens this box, except the person it is intended for, will they please regard the wish and anxiety of a mother, who greatly desires to comfort and help her dear child, and close it again, and send it to him if possible? She has done a great deal for others during the war; she wants also to relieve her own son.

The note provided the name, rank, and regiment of the intended recipient—a major in the 18^th Corps. There was also a letter addressed to him, one that advised caution. It was clear the apprehensive mother—a widow—was growing concerned for the safety of her child. Day by day, the war was becoming more dangerous. Recently, her son had been shot in the foot, but he refused to stay at the field hospital. Perhaps, she suggested, he should consider resigning or seeking a medical discharge before combat or illness claimed him. A portion of her letter read:

I have always, as you know, my dear son, felt that you were in the right place, and been thankful that you felt it your duty to serve your country; but, I confess, my patriotism is sometimes scarcely equal to this long-long trial. Your danger is now quite as great from another source as from the war. O Charlie dear, seek God’s counsel, and if He makes you feel it duty to remain, then He will take care of you, or prepare you for His will.

Parvin felt guilty because he and his agents had violated the privacy of this mother’s message to her cherished son. He recalled, “Grieved at our mistake, I undertook to remedy it as well as I could.” Parvin returned all the articles to the box, and he sent a letter to the major, telling him where he could find his package.

Within an hour, Chaplain Charles L. Hagar, 118^th New York, arrived at the U.S. Christian Commission’s City Point headquarters. He carried Parvin’s letter. Hagar bore sad news. The major was dead, killed at the head of his regiment only a few days earlier.

Chaplain Charles L. Hagar of the 118th New York took the box and the cake.

Parvin was shocked. Despite his best efforts, the mother’s package would never get to its destination. Sullenly, he handed Chaplain Hagar the box, but he decided to keep the mother’s letter. He planned to write to her, offering his condolences and apologizing for the circumstances that led to its opening.

Parvin knew he had done the right thing. Never eat a dead man’s cake!

To whom did Reverend Parvin write? Alas, he did not say. His story appeared in a book, Edward Parmelee Smith’s Incidents of the United States Christian Commission. When Parvin recounted this tale of cakes and death to Smith—the commission’s secretary—he instructed Smith to delete all proper nouns that might indicate the identity of the family in question. Thus, if someone were to read the book, they would see blanks (—) in place of names, cities, and identities.

But do not worry, dear reader, it didn’t take me long to figure out which woman had sent the box.

She was Mary Putnam Pruyn, a 44-year-old mother of four (eight originally; four of her children died young) from Albany, New York. Thankfully, plenty is known about Pruyn and her son, Charlie. Mary Pruyn saved her son’s letters, and in 1866, she loaned them to a family friend, Reverend Rufus Wheelwright Clark, the pastor of the First Reformed Church of Albany. After the war, Clark was interested in collecting tales of Christian Albanians who served in the War of the Rebellion. After two years of compiling, he produced a mammoth 870-page book called, Heroes of Albany. It profiled 155 figures, including Maj. Charles E. Pruyn.

Reverend Rufus W. Clark wrote a full account of the life of Major Charles E. Pruyn

The Pruyn letters are fantastic. They are one of those rare sets where the writer doesn’t withhold his emotions. Surprisingly (and sadly), they are seldom used by historians. 

So what’s the point of this tale? Why shouldn’t we eat a dead man’s cake? When Charlie Pruyn perished outside of Petersburg, Virginia, an Albany newspaper commemorated his mortal contribution to the Union by saying, “Major Pruyn’s life cannot be measured by length of days.”

Tales from the Army of the Potomac has maintained an unwavering goal of digging deep into the Army of the Potomac’s forgotten history to find the meatiest of human experiences. Having gained some insight into the life and death of Major Pruyn through the lens of his primary biographer—Rufus Clark—I would have to agree with the members of the Albany press. Pruyn’s life—cut tragically short by a Confederate shell at age 23—has to be measured by something other than the number of years he lived.

So, how should his life be measured? My subsequent posts will offer some possibilities.

Thanks to Mary Pruyn’s decision to preserve and publish her son’s letters, we know what Charlie thought about the war and his role in it. In life, Major Charlie Pruyn experienced the Army of the Potomac’s war to its fullest. He faced fearsome trials by combat, he endured (unfair) accusations of cowardice, he suffered from illness and injury, he experienced a frustrating quest for promotion, he witnessed repeated repulses from the gates of Richmond, and he experienced a personal test of leadership. There was not much else the war could have done to him to make his career more emblematic of life inside the Army of the Potomac.

If you read this tale to the end, you will agree with me (hopefully) that Parvin’s decision not to eat Pruyn’s cake—or rather, his decision not to allow the cake to be eaten by others—led to sanative reflection on the part of Mary Pruyn, reflection necessary for her to comprehend the meaning of her son’s sacrifice. I’m not sure if she would have been able or willing to make peace with Charlie’s death if it had not been for the simple gesture made by Reverend Parvin to get the errant box to its destination.

Thus: Never eat a dead man’s cake!

This tale is in several parts. Check out the next installment here.