“Kiss My —!”

In the summer of 1863, Surgeon Carl Uterhard wrote home to his mother. In his letter, he described problems that arose from alcohol. In a shockingly frank manner, Uterhard admitted, “They [Americans] have a special way of celebrating days of significance, they drink liquor. From the generals down to the common soldiers, they all drink liquor to celebrate happy events or to suppress miserable memories. They don’t drink it out of glasses, but from the bottle, and get alarmingly intoxicated as a result.”

Uterhard’s frustration with his regiment’s alcoholism derived from the fact that drunkenness almost ruined the career of one of his friends, twenty-seven-year-old Second Lieutenant Frederick Brunner (Company E, 119^th New York).  Although he was an officer, Brunner emerged from the enlisted ranks. (One year earlier, he had mustered in as corporal.) His commission arrived on June 29, 1863, just four days prior to the Battle of Gettysburg, where the regiment lost 140 officers and men. Brunner fought gallantly at Gettysburg, but his officer’s commission did not last more than two months. Uterhard explained why:

Every day, dozens of officers are dishonorably discharged without pay because they drink themselves into oblivion. A few days ago our regiment lost an officer this way, a Bavarian named Brunner, who was otherwise a good and decent officer, but then he got drunk, and after he had insulted our brigadier general Chrysanowsky [Wladimir Krzyzanowski] he went to our division general Carl Schurz and said the classic words: Kiss my —. Brunner named me witness at his court-martial; he wanted me to testify that he often suffers from temporary insanity. He hoped this excuse would get him out of it. I naturally told the court that I couldn’t swear to it, but it was nevertheless possible.

On August 25, 1863, a court-martial found Brunner guilty of insulting a senior officer, and reduced him to the rank of private.  Uterhard disliked the decision. Brunner was a strong-hearted officer who had risen from the enlisted ranks, and now he had to rejoin those ranks in disgrace. Uterhard did not blame the officers for attempting to enforce  such strict decorum. Instead, he blamed America’s drinking culture. He wrote, “Many of the officers have to leave the army because they ruin their health by drinking liquor. . . . In the other regiments the situation is even worse than in ours, because the colonels usually set a bad example. . . . America is full of contradictions; it is undoubtedly the country where people drink the most, yet it also has the largest associations of people intent upon never letting a drop touch their lips.” According to Uterhard, many young German officers drank to excess because they could not adapt to America’s binging style of consumption. Lieutenant Brunner’s example fit that description.

Brunner did not remain in the enlisted ranks for long. On July 1, 1864, as his regiment battled its way to Atlanta along with the Army of the Cumberland, Brunner received a promotion to first lieutenant of Company I. (I have no idea what he did to win back the good graces of his superiors, but if anyone out there in internet-land knows it, please share.) Brunner held onto his rank permanently. He mustered out with his regiment on June 7, 1865. Truly, he was lucky to get a second chance.

I’m not sure what happened to Brunner in his later years, but in 1914, his name turned up on the roster of inmates living at the Soldiers and Sailors Home in Bath, New York. Brunner would have been seventy-eight-years-old.

I wonder if, in Brunner’s old age, he ever told the nurses at Bath to kiss his ass. Did he move on from the hot-headedness of his youth, or did he retain his foul mouth? I do wonder.

 

(Surgeon Carl Uterhard, 119th NYV,  had to testify on behalf of Lieutenant Brunner, a young officer who used intemperate language in front of a superior.)

(Most Civil War buffs recognize the stern visage of General Carl Schurz. Try to imagine his facial expression contorted in mortification; a junior officer had told him to kiss a certain part of his anatomy.)

(Here you can see N.Y. State's Soldiers and Sailors Home in Bath. This is where Brunner ended up.)

“Keep Up Good Courage”

Any retelling of Gettysburg’s bloody wheat-field is incomplete without the tale of Captain Henry Van Aernam Fuller, the commander of Company F, 64^th New York Volunteers. At approximately 6:30 P.M., Confederate infantry from Lafayette McLaws’s division slammed into the Union position near the Rose Woods, driving out Brig. Gen. John C. Caldwell’s division. Outnumbered and short on ammunition, Caldwell’s 4^th Brigade ran pell-mell into the wheat-field. One of the 4^th Brigade’s five regiments—the 64^th New York—lost ninety-eight of its 204 officers and men.

As the 64^th New York made its retreat, a bullet struck Captain Fuller in the leg. One of his friends, Private George Whipple, dropped his gun and carried him to the rear. Bracing each other, Fuller and Whipple made their way off a craggy ledge. As they descended into Rose Woods, another ball struck Fuller in the back. Fuller could no longer stand, so Whipple laid him down near Rose Run, shielding him behind a rock. Not knowing what else to do, Whipple asked if he should stay or flee. Fuller asked his friend to remain by his side. Whipple clenched his captain’s hand. As Fuller lay there, his life’s blood ebbing, he looked his friend in the eye and said, “George, keep up good courage.”

In a minute, Confederate soldiers surrounded the two New Yorkers. With little ado, they pulled Whipple away at the point of their bayonets, taking him to the rear as a prisoner of war. Fuller died a few minutes later. Whipple, though, was not there to see it.

Years later, Whipple remembered the moment vividly. He wrote, “It was hard to leave my best friend and captain.” He continued, “[It was] the saddest moment that I have ever seen since I have been a soldier. It seemed as if I were leaving the last friend that I had, and to me he had always been.”

Today, a small monument marks the place where Fuller expired.

When I used to lead tours at Gettysburg National Military Park, I told visitors this story. (If I had an adventurous group, I led them to the Fuller marker so they could see the site for themselves.) I did not tell the story because I thought it was a uniquely Civil War tale. Quite the opposite, I thought that many of us could relate to it. I told it to emphasize the gut-wrenchingly human moment involved in Whipple’s leaving and the meaning of Fuller’s last directive: to “keep up good courage.”

Let me explain.

Whipple experienced a timeless moment, one that always tests the human character. We see our friend lying prostrate; we are wrenched away, unable to do anything further. We wish we could do more, but it is beyond our power. He is scared but he does not show it. He might reveal his true feelings to us as he stands upon the precipice of death, but instead, he tells us to keep up good courage. It is imperative that we listen to that command. It is not for our sake, but for his. He must see bravery in our eyes so that he can have it in his.

These are life’s dark moments. They will come to us eventually. When they do, we must follow Fuller’s instruction. We must keep up good courage.

 

(Capt. Henry V. Fuller was known by Gen. W. S. Hancock as "the fighting captain.")

 

(Here is Fuller marker along Rose Run. Although not often visited, on the autumn day pictured here, my wife and I decided to pay our respects.)

 

 

"Died as a Soldier Should Die"

Many years ago, I worked as a ranger at Gettysburg National Military Park. I held plenty of responsibilities, not the least of which involved leading tours on the battlefield. During my first summer, I had to research and prepare four programs. One of them was a forty-minute guided walking tour of the Soldier’s National Cemetery. My program addressed the aftermath of the battle, the burial of the Union dead, and the meaning of Lincoln’s dedicatory remarks—things that I believed all visitors ought to learn.

One aspect of my tour made it especially memorable (to me, anyway). At the end of it, I halted the tour at the gravesite of a New York soldier: eighteen-year-old Sergeant William H. Ambler, Company D, 57^th New York. During the course of my research, I had found a few documents that described Ambler’s death. I closed the program by reading some lines to the crowd. I’d like to share some of them here.

This article appeared in South Salem New York’s local newspaper:

South Salem—In Memoriam.
Among the slain at the battle of Gettysburg was Wm. AMBLER, of the 57th. Regt., N.Y.S.V., a young man from this place. He was killed by the explosion of a shell, a piece going through his body and cutting him nearly in two. He was among the first of the three years’ men who responded to their country’s call and for two years has served his country most faithfully. Youth, though he was—being but eighteen at the time of his death—he sought the battle-field from no enthusiastic desire of adventure, but because he felt that duty called him, and manfully and courageously did he discharge the obligations devolving upon him as a soldier. The frequent letters he wrote to his widowed mother are unmistakable evidences that he never regretted the path he had chosen; they are characterized by a spirit of lofty patriotism and devotion to the cause of liberty and the right. He was in nearly all of the hard fought battles in which the Potomac army has been engaged, and once only having been wounded. But his battles are over. On the bloody field of Gettysburg death claimed the young hero as his victim, and amid the thousands that fell on those terrible days none died a truer soldier than he. Sleep brave boy in thy early but honored grave! The roar of cannon shall not disturb thee more, and drum and trumpet tone will roll unheeded above thy resting place, for thou sleepest ‘the sleep that knows no waking.’

But the night dew that falls though in silence it weeps,
Shall brighten with verdure the grave where he sleeps;
And the tear that we shed though in silence it rolls,
Shall long keep his memory green in our souls.

C. F.

 

This letter—which I always read—was addressed to Mary Ann Timson Ambler, William’s mother:

Mrs. Ambler,

It is with most painful feelings, that I inform you of the death of our beloved Willie. He was killed instantly at the battle of Gettysburg by a solid shot entering his right shoulder and passing through his left side. He was gallantly performing his duty & died as a soldier should die, beloved by those in command over him & by those he commanded. He was always prompt to do his duty & although he enlisted as a private, he had risen to fill the position of a Sergeant & was in a fair way of promotion. His company & officers sympathize with you in your loss and will always remember Willie as a true & fine soldier in the support of our glorious country. It will be a matter of great satisfaction to you, to know, that we took possession of his body and buried him in a soldier’s grave in the presence of his cousin Lieutenant Meade of the 4th Michigan Vols. Willie had some money in his possession, but before we recovered his body, the enemy had taken it from his pockets. His watch &c. I delivered to Lieutenant Meade, who will see that you get them. I would have written before, but this is the first opportunity that has offered. As soon as we reach camp, I shall arrange matters so that you can get pay, bounty, & pension. Hoping that you will meet your loss with Christian resignation & fortitude & that you may feel that Willie died in a good cause while protecting the stars and stripes.

Your Obedient Servant, O.F. Middleton, Lieutenant commanding, 57th Regt. N.Y.V.

 

I worked at Gettysburg for eight summers. In the end, I’m not sure how many tours of the cemetery I ended up leading, but that number certainly crested 100. In each one, Sergeant Ambler’s story made a prominent appearance. Often, I think back to Memorial Day weekend, when each gravesite had a flag to adorn it. I liked those days best.

I imagine that they are all adorned that way right now.

(Here is Sergeant Ambler's grave, New York Section, Row E, Number 91.)

 

(I've found only two photographs of Ambler. This one is the one most often reprinted.)

 

(Here's me--on the far right--leading a tour to a group of GNMP visitors on a rainy summer morning.)

 

“What Will I Do With My Gun?”

This tale is really gross. (Also, it is a little bit of a stretch for my blog’s theme. It involves the 5^th Connecticut, a regiment that once belonged to the Army of the Potomac, but served with the 20^th Corps during the Atlanta Campaign. But of course, this my blog; I do what I want.)

On May 15, 1864, the 5^th Connecticut found itself occupying the front lines at the Battle of Resaca. In the afternoon, it endured an artillery bombardment and an infantry assault delivered by A. P. Stewart’s division. Years later, a soldier remembered a singular incident from that battle:

After our boys had captured the open ridge and driven the rebels back into the woods, as a preparation for another charge upon the ridge, the Confederates turned all their artillery within range upon our boys along that ridge, making it an extremely hot and uncomfortable place, and our boys were ordered to lie down and hug the ground as close as they could. They lay down flat, the rear rank men lying between the legs of the front rank men, about as close as it was possible to put men; the rear rank men firing between the heads of the front rank men.

At first the artillery firing at this line was extremely high and wild, and served only to amuse the men, but-by degrees they depressed their guns more and more and their shells came nearer, till finally, just as the rebel line came out of the woods to make the second charge, a shell came and struck the line in Company I, taking off the top of the head of James E. Richards in the front rank, and passing along down his back passed under the rear rank man, John Bates, bursting when it was about under the center of his body. Bates and Richards were of course killed outright by it, and four others were wounded by the pieces of the shell and pieces of the skull from Richards. Corporal Wm. H. Kerr had several pieces of the skull driven into his face, also Private James Tuttle’s face was filled, and Tommy Graham, from fragments of the shell or skull, had both eyes cut out of his head and then left hanging on his cheek. Lieutenant Stewart, commanding Company I, sprang up and helped to pull the dead men, Richards and Bates, to the rear from their places in the line in order to fill the gap with living fighting men, for the rebel column was coming on again charging and yelling. He saw that Tommy Graham could not see at all, and that while Corporal Kerr’s face was badly cut up, still that he had his eyesight remaining. He asked the corporal if he could see well enough to take himself to the rear and lead Tommy, totally blinded as he was. He said he thought he could, and thereupon the Lieutenant told Graham to go to the rear with Kerr and started them off; but Tommy had not moved two steps to the rear before he stopped and cried out, “Lieutenant, Lieutenant, what will I do with my gun?” and the brave man did not stir a step further until his officer had come to him and taken his gun and relieved him from this final responsibility.

If this picture could be imagined as it was, and as the comrades of poor Tommy saw it, then something of the true stuff of the man could be conceived, artillery roaring from all directions,—shells screeching past, and now coming so low that every one of them ricocheted along the ground and raked the earth from front to rear; a yelling line of rebels fast coming towards him, his eyes just closed forever to all the beauties of this earth and the glories of the skies, never to behold wife or children again, and still, when ordered to the rear in care of another, standing there with those sightless eyes dangling at his cheeks, and calling upon his officer to relieve him of his trusty gun, the last obligation remaining upon him, as he understood his duty to his country as a soldier; and then whoever can imagine this scene as it was, can begin to understand something of the truth and faithfulness of the nature of such private soldiers as Thomas Graham.

Today, I am fairly convinced that Civil War historians have trouble painting a clear picture of Civil War combat. For instance, academics love to remind readers of the graphic bloodshed—the bloated corpses, the severed limbs, and the unearthly smell of death. By contrast, amateur historians (and limited edition artists, especially) prefer to focus on the glory of battle—the fluttering flags, the stentorian shouts of commanders, the rampaging lines of troops, and the famous last lines of the war’s heroes. Thus, after many years of trying, we have fashioned two images of war, one supremely gruesome, the other imperiously glorious, and rarely do the two images meet.

This account from the 5^th Connecticut suggests that these two pictures of battle might, in fact, encounter each other on common ground. Here, we see graphic violence and celebrated valor going hand-in-hand. In this incident, it all revolved around one simple question: “What will I do with my gun?”

(Pvt. Thomas Graham, the soldier who lost his eyes to a piece of flying skull, had his name etched on this monument, the Soldiers' Monument in New Hartford, Connecticut. Image by ctmonuments.net)

A Photograph from the James River Earthworks

 

 

 

Over the past few weeks, I have been posting some stories from the 12^th New Hampshire Infantry. Occasionally, I’ve posted images of its officers. Some of these images are cropped from a larger photograph taken in December 1864 at Chaffin’s Farm, near Fort Harrison, Virginia.

The whole image depicts fifteen officers from the 12^th New Hampshire standing in front of their regimental headquarters.

They are, from left to right:

1^st Lieut. Alonzo W. Jewett

Capt. Ephraim W. Ricker
1^st Lieut. George E. Worthen
1^st Lieut. John P. Lane
Capt. James W. Saunders
Capt. Arthur S. Smith
Capt. Jeremiah L. Sanborn (who enlisted under a fake name)
1^st Lieut. Rufus E. Gale
Lt. Col. Thomas E. Barker
Maj. Nathaniel Shackford
Capt. Hosea Q. Sargent
Capt. Andrew M. Heath
Capt. John H. Prescott
Capt. Daniel W. Bohonon
1^st Lieut. Mayhew C. Batchelder

 

Some of you might recognize Smith, Barker, and Shackford from the previous posts. You might also make note of Captain Sargent (a confusing Civil War name, to be sure). He was one of several officers who, after the war, laid claim to leading the first organized Union troops into Richmond, April 3, 1865.

Anyway, there’s no moral or lesson here. I just wanted to marvel at the faces of these men as they prepared for the last winter of the war.

“. . . Even if Jesus Christ Himself Should Order It.”

One of my favorite quotes from the Civil War comes from Captain Thomas Barker, who, in heated fury after the Battle of Cold Harbor, vowed never to lead his regiment into another such charge, even if Jesus Christ ordered him to do it. I think this outburst speaks to a universal truth among battlefield commanders, that it hurts them immeasurably to carry out orders they believe will lead to the massacre of their men. I think that dilemma was faced by Barker, the youthful commander of the 12^th New Hampshire.

Who was Thomas Erskine Barker? Quickly: he was the youngest child born to the wife of a poor Canterbury farmer. Lacking funds, his family could not send him to private school, so he learned his letters with only a common school education. On May 13, 1861, as war fever spread across the North, Barker enlisted in the “Goodwin Rifles,” a unit that eventually became Company B, 2^nd New Hampshire Volunteer Infantry. The 2^nd New Hampshire engaged Confederate forces at Bull Run, July 21, 1861, and during the bewildering Union retreat, it helped cover the army’s withdrawal. Several men ended up prisoners, including Corporal Barker. For the next ten months, the Confederates held him as a prisoner of war. During five of those months, he was confined at Old Parish Prison in New Orleans, and for several weeks, the Confederate officers threatened to execute him and seventeen others as retribution for alleged criminalities perpetrated by Union troops. Luckily, cooler heads prevailed, and Union authorities negotiated his safe release. This rough prison experience lingered with him, and when he returned to Concord in May 1862, he brought with him a renewed interest in punishing the leaders of the rebellion. He recruited a new company, which became Company B, 12^th New Hampshire, and he led it into action at Fredericksburg and Chancellorsville. He was wounded at the latter engagement, struck in the leg by a ball. He returned home to recuperate, and while there, he married Florence Whittredge, the President of the Women’s Relief Corps. By the summer of 1864, Captain Barker had risen to command the 12^th New Hampshire.

(This image depicts Captain Thomas E. Barker in the summer of 1862, shortly after his return from Confederate prison.)

 

On the morning of June 3, 1864, Barker’s 12^th New Hampshire led the attack of Colonel Griffin Stedman’s brigade, 1,800 men strong. According to Stedman’s orders, the brigade had to form in “closed column of division,” essentially, a column, forty ranks deep and two companies wide. (In Civil War terminology, when two companies joined together, it formed a “division.”) Barker protested the formation. Although it had worked splendidly for the Army of the Potomac two weeks earlier at Spotsylvania Court House, Barker complained that the shape of the Confederate earthworks in front of Stedman’s column would create a deadly crossfire, savaging the men in the rear divisions.

The following image—taken from the 12^th New Hampshire’s regimental history—illustrated the tactical problem.

(The regimental historian remembered the attack this way. Note the horseshoe-shaped Confederate line and the "closed column by division" formation of the 12th New Hampshire.)

 

 

The horseshoe shape of the enemy earthworks created an interlocking field of fire into which Barker’s regiment had to advance. Asa Bartlett, the 12^th New Hampshire’s adjutant, later explained:

To advance a massed column of troops into such a semi-circle of destruction as here portrayed, with front and back flanks entirely exposed to the converging fire of eight or ten pieces of artillery and more than half a mile sweep of battle-lined musketry, was something fearful to even contemplate, but how much more so to actually experience none can tell save those who were there. No wonder that Captain Barker who had a heart to feel as well as courage to act, when he saw the field covered with his own brave men and heard the cries of the wounded, some of whom were less fortunate than the dead, stood up before his superiors in rank while the enemy’s shot was still flying around him, and wounding some of his listeners as he spoke, and denounced in righteous wrath the general, high or low, who was guilty of ordering such a murderous charge as that. He was so highly wrought up by his anger and the excitement of the occasion, that he declared with an oath that he would not take his regiment into another such charge, [even] if Jesus Christ himself should order it.

Captain Barker, as hereafter seen, was decidedly opposed to making the charge, massed in column, and so expressed his opinion. Adjutant-General Reynolds referred to Napoleon, as making all his charges in solid column, and thought it the most effectual way. “The most effectual way of murdering men, I agree, and there is the evidence of it,” sharply replied the captain, as he pointed to the field in front, thickly spotted with the dead and wounded. The next moment General Reynolds was wounded in the shoulder, from the effects of which he afterwards died.

It is well to remember where Barker stood in relation to this column of divisions. He stood front and center of the whole thing. Private George Place, a soldier in Company B—one of the companies at the front of the column—remembered, “Colonel [sic] Barker was standing near me, and I heard him remark, that he thought he had experienced some heavy artillery firing at the battle of Bull Run, but none equaled the closeness of that fire, yet strange as it may appear, as far as I could learn, not a man of the regiment was hurt while in that position.”

Place also remembered Barker giving the order to charge:

Finally, the Colonel [sic] drew his sword,— “Forward, march,” and the regiment started. We had not gone ten feet, when a rebel battery on our left flank opened fire. . . .The guns were so arranged that the iron storm swept past us about two rods in front. How it crashed and howled through those pine trees! For a moment, the regiment quailed and halted. As it did so, I turned and looked at Colonel Barker. I shall never forget the expression that came into his face as he beheld that halting. His eyes dilated, and it seemed as if I could almost see the fire flash from them. He flung his sword above his head and shouted with a voice that seemed as if the rebels must have heard,—“Forward!” Instantly the regiment started again, yelling as it went. There was no more halting after that, until, swept down in killed and wounded, it lost all semblance of order, and could do no otherwise than fall back.

Somehow, Barker managed to live through the destructive attack at Cold Harbor—truly a charmed life, if such a thing existed. He remained the 12^th New Hampshire’s commander throughout the remainder of the war, rising to the rank of colonel. When his regiment mustered out in July 1865, he wrote a touching farewell address. An excerpt of it is reprinted here:

Farewell Address.

Head Quarters 12^th N. H. Vols.,

Concord, N. H., July 3, 1865.

Soldiers, — The day to which we have all looked forward so long and anxiously has at last arrived. The great work in which we engaged almost three years ago is accomplished, and with the knowledge that we have done an honorable part toward crushing the rebellion, saving the union, and restoring peace, we have been permitted to return to our dear old native State, and are about to resume our peaceful avocations.

You have served your country long and nobly. By your deeds you have won a name that shall live forever. From the bloody fields of Fredericksburg, Chancellorsville, Gettysburg, Front Royal, Swift Creek, Drury’s Bluff, Port Walthal, Cold Harbor, Petersburg, Cemetery Hill, Bermuda Front, and your triumphant entry into Richmond, ages hence will view your deeds, and the generations of centuries to come will honor and bless you for the legacy gained by your valor and bequeathed to them.

Since my connection with you as your commanding officer your conduct everywhere has been a source of pride to me. For bravery in battle you are second to no regiment that New Hampshire has ever sent to the field, and there is no State that can boast of braver troops than our own rock-bound Granite State.

For discipline and drill you have ever excited the admiration of military men. . . . By your ever ready, willing, and cheerful obedience to all orders you have rendered the duties of your commanding officer pleasant, and words are inadequate to express my appreciation of your services.

We have delivered up to the state authorities our old war-worn and bloodstained colors, which have been made dear to us through toil, danger, and sacrifice for their preservation. Nobler blood never coursed in the veins of man, or was sacrificed on a country’s altar, than has been poured out on many a crimsoned field for them. God bless the noble dead—our comrades still—who have fallen in their defense! Our last duties as a military organization have been performed, and as we arc about to separate, perhaps for time, we must say farewell.

As you have been faithful, brave, and true soldiers, I feel assured that you will be good and worthy citizens, and of your duties as such I will not venture a word, except an admonition that you will ever greet the bereaved friends of our comrades that we have buried in a distant land, or sent home to rest beneath their native sod, with kind words and helping hands.

Soldiers, I am proud of your record, and the highest honor that I ask is that, when the history of the Rebellion is written, my name may be recorded as the commander of the Twelfth New Hampshire Volunteers.

With kindest wishes for you in all your relations of life, and that Heaven's richest blessings may be shed upon you all, I bid you a kind and affectionate farewell.

Thomas E. Barker,

Col., 12th N. H. Vols.

I often wonder if, when Barker wrote out his farewell address, he thought of the men he had lost at Cold Harbor and the vow he made, never to lead men into such a charge, even if “Jesus Christ himself should order it.”

After Barker died, a veteran remembered: “[Barker always] appeared on the higher plane of moral excellence[.] . . . But [he never]  . . . had a thought that he was any better, or even quite as good as many of the men whom he had the honor to command. And in nothing more than this did he show his real worth as a soldier and a man.” Responsibility, it seemed, humbled Barker, but that humbleness made it difficult for him to order the death of that which he loved the most: his regiment.
 

(Here, you can see Lt. Col. Thomas Barker on the Bermuda Hundred Peninsula. You can see Maj. Nathaniel Shackford, from the previous post, standing behind him.)

 

“I Shall Never Forget My Ambulance Ride.”

The Battle of Cold Harbor subtracted 177 men from the ranks of the 12^th New Hampshire. Of those, sixty-three were killed or mortally wounded. The remaining 114 were wounded. Infamously, some of those wounded men were caught between the hostile lines for four days. Not until June 7 did Lt. Gen. Ulysses S. Grant seek a truce so that his men could reclaim the dead and wounded.

Even before the truce became official, Union soldiers traipsed into the hostile no-man’s-land; they knew that time was of the essence. The wounded could not remain untreated for long. The weary New Hampshire bluecoats attempted their forays in the dead of night. Although the fighting had ended, the crunching of leaves always invited fire from Confederate sharpshooters. Asa Bartlett, the regimental historian, remembered:

Here then is such a picture of war as does not often present itself even to the veteran of a hundred battles. Two armies so closely confronting each other that their main lines in some places are scarcely a rifle shot apart, and the exposure of a hand or head, upon either side, is pretty sure to result in a furlough for thirty days or eternity; while upon the narrow space between, in plain sight of both friend and foe, are lying thousands of the dead, wounded, and dying, all stricken down from the ranks of one of the opposing armies, and all unprotected and uncared for. That the wounded were thus allowed to remain in suffering helplessness upon the field day after day, unless sooner rescued by their pitying comrades, was because of such a shameful and criminal negligence as no common words can fully and justly characterize. . . . Thus in silent darkness, for none but whispered words could be spoken, they crept around among the still more silent dead listening, for they could make no call, for some deep sigh or low moan that would tell them where amid the surrounding gloom of night and death they might find one in whose veins the vital fluid still continued to circulate. And when by some such sound or mere accident a comrade at last was found, with whispered caution to make if possible no cry of distress or groan of agony, he was carefully lifted up, a blanket or stretcher put under him, and borne away with noiseless steps to where they would receive all the comfort and care that kind hearts and willing hands could render. And thus the noble work of rescuing suffering humanity went on, not only for that night, but the next and even the third, until all of the living and most of the dead were removed, leaving but comparatively few to be buried, on the field where they fell, under a flag of truce, which was not until just before dark on the 7^th, or five days after the battle.

During these nighttime excursions, the survivors of the 12^th New Hampshire found two men barely clinging to life, Captain Nathaniel Shackford of Company E and Captain Arthur St. Clair Smith of Company G. Shackford, age thirty-seven, had been wounded three times: a grape shot had clipped three inches of bone out from his elbow, a piece of shell had passed completely through his back, and a bullet had bruised his right hip. Smith, age twenty-three, had been hit five times: three bullets had bruised him and two bullets had penetrated his flesh. And, by the way, these wounds were not the first wounds that either officer had suffered. Shackford had received four wounds in 1863—one at Chancellorsville and three at Gettysburg. Likewise, Smith had received a wound to the arm at Chancellorsville.
 

(Capt. Nathaniel Shackford, Co. E, 12th N.H. Vols., who was thrice wounded at Cold Harbor.)

 

 

(Capt. Arthur St. Clair Smith, Co. G, 12th N.H. Vols., who was wounded five times at Cold Harbor.)

 

 

In the middle of the night, the unwounded survivors bore Shackford and Smith off the field by carrying them on stretchers. Near Beulah Church, they loaded the two grievously wounded officers onto an ambulance bound for White House Landing, the location of the nearest field hospital, about ten miles distant. Smith remembered, “I shall never forget my ambulance ride with Captain Shackford.”

(Litter bearers and an ambulance bore Shackford and Smith from the field.)

 

This remembrance by Smith sounds like a simple line, but I think the words, “never forget” challenge us to consider what this ambulance ride was like. Their horse-drawn wagon bounced over bumpy, dirt-filled roads in the black of night. It could not have been a pleasant experience for a either soldier; both of them nursed multiple wounds. As Smith remembered it, he expected Shackford to die during the journey. Perhaps, then, no words exist to describe the suffering.
 

 

(This image by Mathew Brady depicts White House Landing on the Pamunkey River. This image shows what the landing looked like in June 1864.)

 

 

The horse-drawn ambulance was not their only conveyance. Shackford’s wounds required his immediate transfer to a general hospital near Washington. On June 10, medical personnel loaded him onto the steamer Connecticut, along with 674 other wounded men. It took twenty-eight hours for the steamer to sail down the Pamunkey, then down the York River, and then into the Chesapeake Bay before finally ascending the Potomac. As a newspaper reporter wrote, “The wounded brought up in the Connecticut were all very severe cases, and it was found necessary to move the boat along at moderate speed, as  the working of the engine went at full speed affected them unfavorably.” Even so, fifteen men died as the ship sailed to its destination: Washington, D.C.

(Here is USS Connecticut, the steamship that transported Capt. Shackford to Washington.)

 

 

As for Smith, he remained a few days longer at White House Landing, with 2,000 other wounded men.  He experienced the same awful trip, but later. 

Amazingly, the two men survived their wounds. In fact, both returned to duty that autumn and mustered out with their regiment in 1865. Shackford served as a state prison appraiser, and later, he supervised a hosiery mill.  He died on October 20, 1920. Arthur Smith became a lawyer and served as justice of the peace at Cedar Rapids, Iowa. Later, he became a judge, city council member, alderman, and state legislator. He died on December 19, 1895.

Even though they lived long lives, it is safe to say that they never forgot their ride in an “ambulance,” whether it was by stretcher, horse-cart, or steamship.

 

(Here, you can see Capt. A. St. Clair Smith in December 1864. You can see that he has recovered from his wound and rejoined his regiment.)

 

(Here is newly-promoted Major Shackford, from the same photograph as the one above.)