Twenty-first Century Courage: Alonzo Cushing and the Medal of Honor

On September 14, 2014, President Obama will award Lt. Alonzo Hereford Cushing the Medal of Honor. This is a big deal. Cushing will go down in history as the Medal of Honor winner with the greatest delay between the heroic action (July 3, 1863) and the day he received the Medal. He will receive it 151 years, one month, and twelve days after the action for which he was recommended. More importantly, he will be the only Civil War Medal of Honor winner to have been killed in the action for which he was recommended.

Most students of the Battle of Gettysburg know what Cushing did.  On July 3, 1863, he commanded Battery A, 4^th U.S. Light Artillery, which defended the Angle during Pickett’s Charge. During the artillery bombardment that preceded the infantry attack, Cushing received two wounds, one in the shoulder and one in the groin. After the shelling disabled four of his guns, he pushed his two operational cannon up to the stone wall and continued to command them until he received his death wound (a shot through the mouth) just as Brig. Gen. L. A. Armistead’s Brigade made its forlorn rush for the wall.

It is pretty clear that Cushing exhibited bravery; however, his heroism is complicated by the fact that few historians know what happened, exactly. In 1893, one of Cushing’s men, Sergeant Frederick Fuger, applied for the Medal of Honor and won it, and in so doing, he perhaps exaggerated the tale of Cushing’s actions. (For instance, Fuger argued that Cushing could not speak above a whisper after receiving his wounds; other accounts from eyewitnesses disputed this.) Further, few of Cushing’s men offer a play-by-play account of the engagement. The well-known accounts of Private Christy Smith and Corporal Thomas Moon are littered with errors, and it is hard to tell what is truth and what is post-war fabrication.

However, we do know that every senior officer in the area noticed Cushing’s bravery and resilience. Even though artillery fire had wounded him, he stayed with his guns. He even pushed two of them into the most dangerous place on Cemetery Ridge. If any of these generals were alive today, I doubt they would openly question our decision to take Cushing’s  posthumous application for a Medal of Honor seriously.

But what does it say about us that we have decided to award a Medal of Honor 151 years after the fact? What kind of courage are we taking seriously?

First, I should explain how this long-deceased officer has even been given the opportunity to win the Medal. Cushing’s post-mortem quest to win it is a recent thing. The campaign began in the late-1980s when a Wisconsin resident, Margaret Zerwekh, began writing letters. (Zerwekh had no direct connection to Cushing, except for the fact that she lived on property once owned by Cushing’s father.) Recently, she reflected, “I didn’t think it would take this long. I thought it would go much faster because he was a real hero.”

Zerwekh wrote to Senator William Proxmire, who offered her a sympathetic ear. At the time, Zerwekh and Proxmire faced an insurmountable obstacle. After 1963, all Medal of Honor nominations had to be made within two years of the action in question, and Congress had to approve the award within five years of the application. (Of course, this was not the state of affairs when the Civil War ended. Most Civil War veterans won the Medal of Honor decades after their action had passed. More than 600 Union soldiers and sailors received the Medal of Honor in the 1890s, thirty years after they had completed acts of heroism.) Thus, Proxmire required special legislation to waive the time limitations.

Although Proxmire did not live to see the fruits of his quest, the Wisconsin delegation eventually succeeded in initiating an Army investigation in 2002. After eight years of research, in February 2010, the U.S. Army approved the nomination. Congress, though, still had to confirm the waiver legislation, and to do that, they had to append it to a national defense appropriation act. The Wisconsin representatives attached the amendment, but in late-2012, one Senator had second thoughts. Virginia Senator Jim Webb, a former U.S. Marine and winner of the Navy Cross, was unwilling to hand out an award so long after it had occurred, and he consequently deleted the Cushing waiver.

Webb explained his decision this way: “It is impossible for Congress to go back to events of 150 years ago to make individual determinations in a consistent, equitable and well-informed manner. While one would never wish to demean any act of courage, I believe that the retroactive determination in one case could open up an endless series of claims. The better wisdom would be for Congress to leave history alone.”

Undeterred, Wisconsin’s delegation tried again, and nearly two years later, it succeeded.

So, here we are, on the cusp of an historic moment in American military history. I would like to ask, have we done the right thing?

Now,  this may seem like a strange question to ask, so I want readers to get this straight: If I were the sole judge of battlefield courage, I would have given Cushing the Medal of Honor a long, long time ago. I believe he committed actions worthy of the Medal. That is my personal opinion.

But that being said, I’d like to consider Webb’s objection, particularly his last sentence, the one where he warned Americans to leave history alone. Did he have a point? Is it really worth revisiting battles from so long ago to make a formal commendation—even one as ennobling and sacred as our nation’s Medal of Honor?

Much of this debate centers on our conception of courage. (Undoubtedly, courage in combat is the hardest of all emotions to judge, and I know that I am no expert in it.) However, the most shocking thing about this award is that, in awarding it, we are attempting to hold a 19th Century officer up to 21^st Century standards of courage. None of the 1,522 other Civil War Medal of Honor winners had to meet these demands. Perhaps it sounds strange, but this thought irks me just a bit. As a professional historian, I know it is unwise to judge characters from our nation’s past based on our own standards of morality. The same principle might also be applied to courage. Are standards of courage from two different centuries even compatible? Are we really awarding Cushing the Medal of Honor as he would have understood it, or are we honoring him with a meaningless commendation based on a conception of courage that only we can truly appreciate?

Maybe it is a moot point. Modern criteria for winning the Medal of Honor are far harsher than they were in 1863. During the Civil War, soldiers received Medals of Honor for relatively unassuming activities. Consider the Battle of Gettysburg, the same action for which Cushing has been nominated. Sixty-three soldiers have, to this point, received Medals of Honor for action at that engagement. Twenty-four of them received medals for the capture of enemy battle flags. Certainly, I do not mean to say that capturing an enemy flag is an easy thing. Some of the Medal of Honor winners—Corporal Francis Waller, for instance—captured a flag by ripping it from the hands of its color bearer. Unquestioningly, that took guts. However, many other soldiers won the Medal without similar trouble. On July 2, Sergeant Thomas Horan of the 72^nd New York captured the colors of the 8^th Florida. Veterans from the 19^th Maine asserted that they, not Horan, had been responsible for killing the Confederate color bearer. Horan simply picked up the flag because his regiment followed in their regiment’s wake. A sergeant from the 19^th Maine explained:

Just as we were ordered back, our attention was attracted by loud cheering in the rear. It was a portion of the Excelsior Brigade which had followed us about one-third of the distance we had charged and had come up to the Eighth Florida flag, lying upon the ground. These New York men were waving that Rebel flag and cheering wildly. The other Rebel flag over which we had charged was also picked up and some of the cannon from which the Nineteenth had driven the Rebels were hauled back as trophies of the valor of the Third Corps. Our honors were rapidly disappearing. The trophies of our victory, so dearly earned, were borne away by the men following in our footsteps, far behind. The honor of capturing the Eighth Florida flag went to Sergeant Hogan [sic] of the Seventy-second New York, of the Excelsior Brigade. When Hogan picked up the flag in question there was not a live Rebel soldier within half a mile of him, unless such Rebel soldier was a prisoner of war.

In Horan’s case, he displayed no valor, not as modern Americans would conceive it. Instead, Horan had simply done what any ordinary soldier would do; he picked up an enemy battle flag when he saw it lying in his path. The U.S. Army never launched a thorough investigation. Once Horan provided proof of the capture in the form of sworn affidavits, the War Department issued him a Medal on April 5, 1898.

To say that Horan and others like him hoodwinked the War Department would be a stretch. At the time, the War Department did not consider the Medal to be an unblemished symbol of gallantry. Instead, it served simply as recognition of participation in a battlefield act, kind of like a merit badge. Indeed, of the Civil War’s 1,522 Medal of Honor winners, only twenty-three received it posthumously, and none of that group received the Medal for the action that killed them (although four of Andrews’s Raiders were later executed for the action for which they received the Medal). In essence, the typical Civil War Medal of Honor winner was not a war hero who had been killed by going above and beyond the call of duty; instead, he was a veteran who lived to tell his tale. In order to win the Medal, he had to tell it often. Civil War Medal of Honor winners agitated for recognition, persistently appealing to the War Department as they entered their declining years. A Civil War Medal of Honor winner’s action might have been truly heroic, but also it might have come from a desire to create a sense of artificial fame out of postwar embellishment.

So what happened? When did the Medal of Honor become a revered symbol of unselfish courage? Eventually, the War Department got tired of handing out Medals, and in 1897, it published more stringent guidelines for receiving the award. Teddy Roosevelt’s Secretary of War, Elihu Root, rigidly enforced these tighter qualifications, rejecting applications from aging veterans who reveled in their former glories. As an example, James W. King, a Michigan soldier who applied for the Medal in 1902 for actions performed at Missionary Ridge, snarled when Root rejected him. He wrote: “It is my opinion that if the present Assistant Secretary of War had been obliged to take that four-mile walk, under the same conditions that I did, to say nothing of the voluntary risk of life in battle, he would have though his conduct was of such a most distinguished character that it would have taken more than a bushel of medals to fully compensate him for his bodily sufferings, and mental anguish caused by the expectancy of losing his good right arm.” King never received his Medal.

As the years passed, the requirements for valor continued to change. By 1963, Congress standardized the criteria by arguing that the Medal could only go to those who distinguished themselves “conspicuously by gallantry and intrepidity at the risk of his life above and beyond the call of duty.” As a result, the number of issued Medals of Honor decreased drastically. As a point of comparison, of the 3,464 Medals of Honor awarded to date, 1,522 (43%) went to veterans of the Civil War. To equal the number of Civil War winners, a person would have to combine all of the winners from World War 1, World War 2, Korea, Vietnam, the Spanish-American War, and all the Indian Wars!

In short, the Medal of Honor meant one thing in 1863. It means something vastly different today. Consider what it currently takes to win the Medal of Honor. This is the citation for LT Michael Murphy, the U.S. Navy SEAL who was awarded the Medal in 2007 for actions that occurred on June 28, 2005, in Afghanistan:

While leading a mission to locate a high-level anti-coalition militia leader, Lieutenant Murphy demonstrated extraordinary heroism in the face of grave danger in the vicinity of Asadabad, Kunar Province, Afghanistan. On 28 June 2005, operating in an extremely rugged enemy-controlled area, Lieutenant Murphy's team was discovered by anti-coalition militia sympathizers, who revealed their position to Taliban fighters. As a result, between 30 and 40 enemy fighters besieged his four member team. Demonstrating exceptional resolve, Lieutenant Murphy valiantly led his men in engaging the large enemy force. The ensuing fierce firefight resulted in numerous enemy casualties, as well as the wounding of all four members of the team. Ignoring his own wounds and demonstrating exceptional composure, Lieutenant Murphy continued to lead and encourage his men. When the primary communicator fell mortally wounded, Lieutenant Murphy repeatedly attempted to call for assistance for his beleaguered teammates. Realizing the impossibility of communicating in the extreme terrain, and in the face of almost certain death, he fought his way into open terrain to gain a better position to transmit a call. This deliberate, heroic act deprived him of cover, exposing him to direct enemy fire. Finally achieving contact with his headquarters, Lieutenant Murphy maintained his exposed position while he provided his location and requested immediate support for his team. In his final act of bravery, he continued to engage the enemy until he was mortally wounded, gallantly giving his life for his country and for the cause of freedom. By his selfless leadership, Lieutenant Murphy reflected great credit upon himself and upheld the highest traditions of the United States Naval Service.

Murphy won the Medal of Honor posthumously, as some of you may know. (As an aside, I wonder if LT Murphy had performed his actions in 1863, would he have won a Medal? Given that he would not have been alive to tell the story, I would guess probably not.)

 By comparison, note the scantiness of the citations from some Battle of Gettysburg winners:

·         Col. Joshua Chamberlain: “For daring heroism and great tenacity in holding his position on the Little Round Top against repeated assaults, and carrying the advance position on the Great Round Top.”

·         Captain James Clarke Postles: “Voluntarily delivered an order in the face of heavy fire of the enemy.”

·         Privates James Richmond: “Capture of flag.”

·         Sergeant James Wiley: “Capture of flag of a Georgia regiment.”

·         Corporal Munroe Reisinger: “Specially brave and meritorious conduct in the face of the enemy.”

You will see that Civil War citations tended to be terse and not terribly informative. Moreover, you will notice that some of the 1863 citations fail to meet the 1963 standard of risking “life above and beyond the call of duty.” Colonel Joshua Chamberlain’s citation does not fit that standard. You will note that the citation honors him for defending Little Round Top, not for leading a bayonet charge. In essence, Chamberlain received an award for doing what he was supposed to be doing, carrying out orders that his superiors had given him. Many other regimental commanders at Gettysburg had a rightful claim to meeting that same standard of courage, even surpassing it. Yet, they received no Medals.

Okay, back the original premise. What about Cushing? Did his act of valor meet the standards of 1863 and does it meet the standards of 2014?

On the first point, did Cushing act heroically according to the standards of 1863? I think we can say, “yes,” he acted heroically and displayed bravery to such a degree that it would have entitled him to a Medal had he lived. However, one serious fact remains. He did not live, and that means he did not meet the same standards of his contemporaries.

Did Cushing meet the modern standard? Almost certainly, “yes.” Compare what Cushing did, line by line, to what LT Murphy did.

·         “Lieutenant Murphy valiantly led his men in engaging the large enemy force.” Cushing did this too. He commanded, at most, 126 men and squared them off against an enemy attack consisting of 12,500 infantry. Cushing had the aid of other nearby units, of course, but at most, they counted only 6,000 officers and men. 

·         “The ensuing fierce firefight resulted in numerous enemy casualties, as well as the wounding of all four members of the team.” Cushing’s unit, Battery A, 4^th U.S. Light Artillery, lost thirty-eight men killed and wounded. This was nine times as many as Murphy lost, but of course, a much smaller percentage.

·         “Ignoring his own wounds and demonstrating exceptional composure, Lieutenant Murphy continued to lead and encourage his men.” Cushing did this too. He received two ghastly wounds, one to the shoulder and another to the groin. In leading their men while wounded, both Murphy’s and Cushing’s examples demonstrated great similarity.

·         “When the primary communicator fell mortally wounded, Lieutenant Murphy repeatedly attempted to call for assistance for his beleaguered teammates. Realizing the impossibility of communicating in the extreme terrain, and in the face of almost certain death, he fought his way into open terrain to gain a better position to transmit a call. This deliberate, heroic act deprived him of cover, exposing him to direct enemy fire.” Cushing did not do this, not exactly, but he did perform a similar feat when he moved his only two serviceable guns closer to the stone wall on Cemetery Ridge. Probably, Murphy’s heroism exceeded Cushing’s in terms of degree, but both officers deprived themselves of cover and exposed themselves to enemy fire.

·         “In his final act of bravery, he continued to engage the enemy until he was mortally wounded, gallantly giving his life for his country and for the cause of freedom.” There is similarity here too. Cushing continued to serve his battery, even though twice wounded. Indeed, he even took over tasks normally assigned to his enlisted men when they fell wounded. No one can doubt that both he and Murphy gave their lives for their country.

In short, Cushing’s final action at Gettysburg meets the modern standards of gallantry more than most Civil War soldiers. This leaves us with a curious answer: Cushing meets the more stringent requirements of the 21^st Century, but he does not meet the more relaxed requirements of his own time. (Take a moment and let that thought sink in.)

What, then, have we done? By awarding Cushing the Medal of Honor, we have transformed him into a modern-day hero; we have not necessarily proven that he was a hero from his own time. As I said earlier, I support Cushing’s application for receiving the award, but I feel that all we have done is to make ourselves feel better about his death. If the U.S. Army had truly meant to honor him, it would have awarded him a Medal long, long ago, back when his mother, Mary, and his brothers, Howard and William Barker, would have been alive to feel a sense of pride about it. They could have felt that their nation remembered the sacrifice of poor Alonzo and believed that a grateful public mourned with them. That window of opportunity has long since closed.

Awarding Cushing the nation’s most important combat award is the right thing to do, undoubtedly, but let’s not forget this crucial fact: his receiving the award describes the ways that our generation venerates courage. It tells us nothing about what Cushing thought about it.

You might all say,  “Better late than never.” I am unconvinced that such a phrase can even apply here.

(Here is Lt. Alonzo H. Cushing, photographed in 1862.)

 

Rescued at Reams Station

Today, August 25, is the 150^th Anniversary of the Battle of Reams Station, a nasty little fight that cost the Army of the Potomac 2,747 men. For the bluecoats, this battle resulted in a clear-cut defeat. It happened because the normally-stalwart 2^nd Corps gave way to a determined Confederate attack. For the veterans of the 2^nd Corps, Reams Station was a hard defeat to swallow. The 2^nd Corps had always boasted a reputation as a fighting unit; it had performed admirably on the Peninsula and it fought hard at Antietam, at Fredericksburg, at Gettysburg, and during the Overland Campaign. Reams Station produced a collective shame that no other battle ever duplicated. (Indeed, one contemporary once said of Maj. General Winfield S. Hancock, the corps commander, that if one could read his heart, “Reams Station” would be inscribed upon it.) After the battle, veterans found it hard to offset the disgrace. Unlike the aftermath of Fredericksburg, they could not recount any stories that featured personal daring. Simply put, few bluecoats accomplished anything heroic.

One regiment tried.

The 14^th Connecticut Volunteers was one of the regiments caught in the 2^nd Corps’ unfortunate stampede. (On the map below, the 14^th Connecticut held the southern bend in the Union entrenchments, part of Brig. Gen. Thomas Smyth’s brigade.) After the battle, the diminutive Connecticut regiment counted fifty-one officers and men killed, wounded, or missing. Among the wounded was one of their favorite officers, Captain James R. Nickels of Company I, a clerk from Norwich. Nickels received a gunshot wound to the leg. When the Confederates overran the 14^th Connecticut’s position, the rebels did nothing to evacuate him, leaving the young captain to die.

(This is the Civil War Trust's map of Reams Station. The Union earthworks formed a loop around the Station. The 14th Connecticut held a position on the southeast side.)

Amazingly, although he was caught behind enemy lines, Nickels’s comrades reach managed to reach him and it was they who evacuated him to a field hospital. Sergeant Henry Lydall of Company F left behind an account of this incident, describing how he helped to recover Captain Nickels. Lydall survived the fighting, but was caught up in the retreat. As he ran to the rear, the severe Confederate gunfire prompted him to hide on the battlefield until nightfall. Lydall found a small, unused rifle pit. He jumped in, and as he narrated, “Here I found a comparatively safe, but unpleasant shelter, where I was compelled to lie flat until the shadows of night concealed me from the view of the enemy.”

After darkness fell, Lydall peered out to “see the flickering lights of many lanterns, and I knew that the human vultures were at their unholy work of robbing the dead and wounded.” Braving the murky unknown, Lydall wandered back toward the Union entrenchments. Along the way, he found a few wounded comrades, aided them, and for a time, he even wandered into enemy lines and became a prisoner of war. However, Lydall and another comrade, Private Alfred Pardee, slipped past their guards and began heading back to the Union position east of the Weldon Railroad. En route, Lydall and Pardee found Captain Nickels. Lydall’s narrative described the scene:

We worked our way cautiously over the battle-field until we came to the breastworks we had assisted in throwing up that day, when we heard a voice calling for assistance: stopping to investigate we found it came from Captain Nickels, Company D [sic], laying there wounded, shot through the leg and unable to move, and to add to his misery the rebel cavalry had been there and robbed him of hat, coat, watch, money and other valuables, and only desisted from taking his boots on discovering that in trying to move them from his wounded limb, they caused him such intolerable suffering as to touch the heart of even a rebel cavalryman; and as if to add still more to the poor Captain’s suffering the rain just then began to pour down in torrents, and we not being able to carry him, made him as comfortable as possible with our rubber blankets to protect him somewhat from the inclemency of the weather. We then started, he giving us directions where to go, hoping to get assistance that we might return and bring the Captain within our lines where he could be cared for. We had proceeded perhaps two miles in the direction he had pointed out to us, when we met Adjutant [William B.] Hincks and another comrade who had heard of Captain Nickels being left on the field, and were coming back in search of him, and with them we retraced our steps and brought the wounded man to where our ambulance train was stationed, when Adjutant Hincks left me to take charge of him until we should reach such a place as he could be attended to by the surgeons. But the end of that night’s hardships was not yet, for after the ambulances had started, its way being over stumps, stones and uneven ground, making such thumping and jostling that Captain Nickels was unable to endure the pain it caused, and I was compelled to procure a stretcher and with such help as I could procure from stragglers I tramped along through that whole night, some times I would be without help and would be compelled to wait, accosting the weary stragglers as they passed, imploring them to give the Captain a little assistance towards safety, and the treatment he stood so much in need of. Fourteen weary miles we tramped carrying the wounded man that night, through woods and swamps and over rocks until just as day dawned upon us, we reached the hospital tent more dead than alive, and left the brave man to the tender mercies of the surgeons.

After the fourteen-mile trek, Nickels arrived at City Point, the supply hub for Ulysses Grant’s siege of Petersburg and the site of the Army of the Potomac’s largest field hospital. The 14^th Connecticut’s surgeon, Frederick Dudley, was already at City Point, and although he was prostrated by illness, he went to see Captain Nickels as soon as he arrived. Dudley’s friend, Cornelia Hancock, wrote to her sister describing the touching scene: “In the fight at Reams Station Capt. [William H.] Hawley [of the 14^th Connecticut] was killed and three Capt. Wounded severely[.] the evening they arrived at City Point; Dr. Dudley was sick in bed but he got up, came as far as my quarters, rested a while and went to see every one of them. They were all very glad to see him and absolutely hugged each other. The next day he dressed every one of their wounds. “

Later on, the Army moved Nickels to Armory Square Hospital in Washington, D.C. The surgeons grew hopeful of his chances for recovery, but on February 20, 1865, Nickels died from the effects of his wounds. He was twenty-two years old.

The survivors of the 2^nd Corps always remembered Reams Station as a great disappointment. However, for the 14^th Connecticut, the battle initially offered some solace and vindication because the veterans had done everything in their power to rescue one of their favorite captains. But when Nickels died, it must have struck the regiment heavy blow. Not only did the regiment lose a beloved officer, but once again, Reams Station was thrust back into their consciousness as a pure, unalloyed failure. In the end, Nickels’s incredible rescue had been for nothing.

(Capt. James R. Nickels, 14th Connecticut, was mortally wounded at Reams Station, August 25, 1864. He died on February 20, 1865, at Armory Square Hospital.)

Let Slip the Dogs of War, Part 2

My fondness for all things canine has led me to another post about Union dogs. There's no special theme to this one, just a few images and captions.

This is Jack, the dog that fought with the 5th Connecticut Volunteer Infantry. That regiment's historian left a lengthy account of Jack's service. Here's what he had to say:

 

When the regiment passed through Winchester, a black and tan terrier, weighing perhaps fifteen pounds, joined it and became domiciled in Company F. He was named Jack, and although he was not a handsome dog in any respect, he very soon became, on account of his intelligence, a very general favorite. He was a remarkably successful dog in a fight, and would generally maintain himself against any other dog of twice his weight or less. He was fleet and would often overtake and catch a rabbit in a straight away run.

He had a peculiar respect for the commanding officer of whatever detachment or expedition he was upon. If the whole company was out, he kept close to the captain. If only a platoon he kept with the lieutenant in command. If only a sergeant and squad he kept with the sergeant. On dress parades, which he was very particular to attend, he left the company and went to the rear of the colonel or commander of parade and there seated himself and watched the parade with as much interest and dignity as if had pay [paid] for it, or had to make a report of it. He never was known in but one instance to seat himself between the colonel and the regiment. At night he would manage to get inside the blanket and curl around the feet of whoever he slept with, and he was as good as a hot brick for a cold night. He knew how, also, to keep himself free from fleas and vermin of every kind, which was more than his tent mates could do at all times. He took a general supervision of affairs, and at daylight always turned out and nosed around the cook till he was started, and then would look up the orderly and start him. Although all soldiers looked alike, he could tell a Company F man as far as he could see him from any other soldier without mistake, and he never followed others. Of that company for a long time he did not attach himself to anyone in particular, but like some politicians, whenever there was a division went with the majority.

In battle he became highly excited and faced the rebels several feet ahead of the company line, and expressed all the exasperation that a dog can ever show towards an enemy. If they ran he would follow them up and get in his little nip at some of their disloyal heels if it was possible. The striking of a shell into the ground near him would make him almost wild, and he would spring about in all directions as if it were possible he was trying to see and catch the missile that had caused such commotion.

I don't know the name of this dog, but he or she has accompanied his or her master, now an amputee.

 

 

This dog belonged to a soldier in the 51st Massachusetts Infantry.

 

This image depicts Brig. Gen. Henry M. Naglee and his staff. Naglee's dog lounges in the front. If anyone knows the name of Naglee's dog, please let me know.

 

 

This corporal (who appears to have joined a late-war Pennsylvania regiment) took his puppy with him to the photographer's studio.

 

 

This image depicts Brig. Gen. Alexander Asboth (wearing what appears to be a cape with an American flag design) seated with his dog, York.

 

This is Dash, the Fire Dog, who belonged to the 23rd Pennsylvania. During the Peninsula Campaign, he became too fat to accompany the regiment, so the unit sent him home to Philadelphia. During the voyage back home, Dash mysteriously disappeared.

 

 

This brigadier general poses with his dog.

 

These are the officers of USS Miami. Their dogs are up front.

 

This dog's name is Major. He belonged to the 10th and 29th Maine. One member of the regiment described the scene as Major went into battle at Antietam: "Our old dog MAJOR behaved well under fire, barking fiercely and keeping up a steady growl from the time we went in till we came out. He had thus contributed his part towards the uproar which some consider so essential in battle. He had shown so much genuine pluck, moreover, that the men of [Company] H were bragging of his barking, and of his biting at the sound of the bullets, asserting besides that he was 'tail up' all day." 

 

In April 1864, Major was killed in action at the Battle of Sabine Crossroads. John Mead Gould described the sadness caused by his death: "Beside this gloom there was another casualty that perhaps ought to be mentioned with the first, yet the fact I record, the death of our old dog MAJOR cast a gloom over the whole regiment just as when one of the best and most loved of officers are killed. In going up the hill before the fight old 'Maje' barked at the flying cavalrymen fiercely and when the regiment opened upon the enemy he ran from right to left and back as if mad. A bullet hit him by and by and we left him at the front of the regiment just where he fell. He was with the old 10th in all of their campaigns." The two soldiers holding him in this photograph are Corporal William W. Wentworth and Sergeant Hezekiah Elwell.

 

 

This is the only known photograph of Sallie, the most famous regimental mascot. She belonged to the 11th Pennsylvania.

 

This image depicts the 104th Ohio's regimental band. The regiment's beloved mascot, Harvey, sits at the far left.

 

 

This dog is Union Jack. Soldiers from the 1st Maryland liberated him from a Front Royal jail and he accompanied the regiment throughout its harrowing actions in the Shenandoah Valley. Believe it or not, Union Jack got a full-page story in Harper's Weekly. Here it is:

The poetic incidents of this war would fill many an interesting volume could they be collected by some able hand; and it would appear that it is not man alone who is being roused to deeds of heroism, but that even the brute creation are catching the contagion. The distinguished individual who forms the subject of this brief memoir, and whose portrait graces our present number, is the already-famous “UNION JACK” or “JACK”—as he is more briefly and familiarly called among his friends. We are not aware of Jack’s entertaining any ambitious desire of being promoted to the rank of a Brigadier-General, nor have we heard of any intention, on his part, to get up a grand bow-wowing demonstration in any of our crowded theatres; but this excessive modesty should not induce us to hide his merits. Although walking upon four legs, he has exhibited far more courage, devotion, trust-worthiness, and other noble human qualities—indeed done more actual good to our army—than many a shoulder-strapped and gold-bedizened animal now walking upon two legs.

The writer of this sketch first had the honor of becoming acquainted with Jack at Fortress Monroe, on the interesting occasion of the arrival there of our liberated prisoners from Richmond—some 160 officers—on the 19^th of August last. He seemed to belong to nobody in particular, but followed these officers every where about the Hygeia Hotel, receiving such caresses and marks of deep affection from every officer that we were tempted to inquire into his history.

He is a young dog of the mastiff breed, of medium size and jetty blackness, except a white breast and a dash of white on each of his four paws. His manners are very gentle and even timid among his friends, but he is suspicious and fierce as a lion when among his enemies. Although born in Secessia, and breathing constantly the air of treason, he is intensely loyal to the Union, and betrays a hatred of any thing in the shape of a rebel, which many of our “conservative” and “neutral” loyalists in the North would do well to imitate.

Jack originally belonged to a rebel jailer in Front Royal, Virginia, when Company F and I of the First Maryland regiment were there on provost guard duty. When Jackson made an advance upon the place, these companies fell back to join their regiment in repelling him, and, after a severe action, were surrounded by Jackson, taken prisoners, and brought back to Front Royal. It was on this occasion that Jack’s great military, loyal, and social qualities were first brought into conspicuous display. When Companies F and I left Front Royal to take the field, Jack insisted upon accompanying them, in spite of all his master’s efforts to detain him. He proceeded with them to the battle-field—keeping company with the officers as he went along—and his first exploit was trying hard to unearth a cannon-ball which he had seen bury itself near him. Presently the shells began to scream and burst in the air all around him. When Jack saw them coming, instead of running to hide himself—as it is said many a blustering bully does—he ran barking after the fragments and trying to catch them; thinking, no doubt, that it was some pyrotechnic display got up for his especial amusement.

This settled the question of Jack’s bravery, and from this time forward he seemed to form an affection for our officers, and they for him, which nothing could alter, and he has accompanied them through all their vicissitudes and changes of prison to Richmond. The stories told of this dog’s sagacity and devotion would seem incredulous had they not come from the most varied and reliable sources. On the road, when our parched men were fainting from thirst, he would always run forward, and whenever he discovered a pool of water would rush back, barking loudly, to tell them of it. When they were supplied with only five crackers to each man for five days—with no meat—and our poor fellows were literally dying from starvation, this noble animal has been known to go and catch chickens for them and to bring them in his mouth! Or he would waylay every rebel horse or wagon passing with food, and bark imploringly for them to bring relief. On one occasion, when a sick and exhausted Union soldier had been left behind, Jack staid with him for several hours until a wagon took him up.

But one of the most remarkable features in his character is his utter hatred of the rebels. His actions, in this respect, really seemed to go beyond brute instinct. No kindness, no attempt at caressing could get the “gray-coats” to win him over or even induce him to take food from them; but he growled and snapped at them upon all occasions, until many threatened to shoot him. When they got to the Richmond prison, another large dog was there being fondled by a secesh officer, and Jack stood looking at both, apparently with the greatest hatred and disgust. When the officer left, the secesh dog tried to scrape an acquaintance with Jack, but the latter did not covet any such friendship. He rushed upon the canine rebel, gave him a sound thrashing, and, although larger than himself, fairly tossed him over his head.

Jack is a great disciplinarian. When on duty, he knows the various roll-calls so well that he pays no attention to any of them but one—that of his officers. As soon as he heard this, he used to run about in the greatest excitement, as if to call his friends together, and then, placing himself alongside of the drummer, would put up his nose and commence a long howl—the boys used to say answering to his name. In traveling he seemed to take the whole responsibility upon himself. Whenever the cars stopped he was invariably the first to jump off, and the whistle no sooner sounded than he was the first to jump on again.

But no character is perfect, and we are sorry to say there is a serious blemish in Jack’s. He is an aristocrat of the first water; one of the regular out-and-out F.F.V.’s. From first to last—except to help them when in distress—he never would associate with privates, but always stuck fast to where the shoulder-straps were assembled. But, after all, in this respect poor Jack is only following the example of many a human toady and tuft-hunter that can be called to mind; and before we blame this young puppy for cringing to the rich and great, let us remember that he is not the only puppy who does so.

Upon the whole, Jack is an immense favorite with all who know him, but especially the First Maryland regiment, who claim him as their own, and who were tickled at the idea of seeing him handed down to immortality in the pages of Harper. They expressed a determination of having, as soon as they got to Baltimore, a splendid collar made expressly for their favorite; and we shall be surprised if this lucky dog does not become a great lion in the monumental city.

Anyway, those are my dog tales.

“My First Mistake Was Incurring the Hostility of a Senator.”

The last two posts focused on the writings of Orlando B. Willcox. As it is the 150^th Anniversary of the Battle of Crater (in which Willcox fought), I thought it best to give him another mention. Anyway, this post focuses on Willcox’s quest to win promotion to the rank of major general. It was a tough quest, rendered unnecessarily difficult due to an unwise decision that Willcox had made years earlier.

It all began way, way, back in 1843, when nineteen-year-old Willcox traveled to Congressman Jacob Merritt Howard’s office to acquire a letter of nomination for a cadetship to West Point. According to Willcox, Howard had written him a substandard letter, one was intended to sink Willcox’s hopes in favor of another candidate, one who aligned with the Whig Party. (Willcox was a Democrat.) Certainly, Howard acted unfairly, but Willcox did a pretty heinous thing in reply. He opened the letter and falsified it, sending it along to get his appointment. Years later, in 1856, Willcox furthered the rivalry with Howard by publishing a novel, Shoepac Recollections, in which he lampooned Howard as one of the book’s bumbling villains, O. H. P. Hustings. In short, Willcox had beaten Howard twice, once in the arena of promotion and once in the arena of literature.

(Here, you can see Senator Jacob Merritt Howard, Michigan's Radical Republican leader. "Put a knife in his hand," claimed Willcox, "and he will stab you in the back.")

 

 

(This the cover page to Shoepac Recollections, Willcox's novel. He published under a fake name, Walter March. Nevertheless, Howard figured out that Willcox was its author and that one of the idiotic villains was based on him.)

 

No doubt, Willcox expected he would never again have to beg for Howard’s help, but circumstances proved him wrong. Throughout the war, Willcox tried to acquire a major generalship, and promotion frequently eluded him. It did not take long to determine the cause. Senator Howard—who now sided with the Radical Republicans—did his best to thwart Willcox’s confirmation. All of this stemmed from the awkward system used by the Union army to promote its generals. All officers who wanted a promotion to brigadier general or to major general (either through brevet or substantive rank) had to apply to the War Department. After reviewing each applicant’s record, the Secretary of War sent a list of names to the White House. There, President Lincoln selected candidates from that list and “nominated” them for promotion. Usually, the Senate confirmed the President’s list of nominees as a matter of course, but at times, the Republican Senators intentionally found fault with a Lincoln’s Democratic nominees and employed legislative tricks to hold up their confirmation.

Willcox believed this kind of devious political trickery happened to him. He complained that Howard held a grudge, one that he had nursed ever since the publication of Shoepac Recollections. Later in life, Willcox penned a short denunciation of the aging Senator. It did not mince words: “Such a man never forgives an injury, fancied or real. Circumstances may conspire to make him pass over an offence, or the pressure of his party may compel him to make it up for the nonce. But after the settlement of a quarrel there is nothing of the pleasant fervor of forgiveness & peace. If you have put the knife in his hand, he will stab you in the back before the words of friendship have died upon his lips.”

Willcox’s quest for a second star became more troubled after the July 30, 1864, Battle of the Crater. Willcox’s 3rd Division, 9th Corps, had played a supporting role in this disastrous assault. The Joint Committee on the Conduct of the War had censured Willcox with a bad performance, and each time his name went to the Senate there afterwards, Howard referred to report, using it as an excuse to hold back his promotion. By 1865, as the war careened toward its conclusion, Willcox believed he would miss his opportunity to receive a major generalship. Out of options, he approached his boss, General Ulysses S. Grant, asking him to criticize publicly the Joint Committee’s report. This tactic worked. In March 1865, one month short of the war’s conclusion in the East, Grant handed Willcox a brevet commission to major general, telling him that Senate confirmation was imminent. No doubt, the news buoyed him. He had been a division commander for almost three years, and now he finally had recognition for his service. Jubilantly, Willcox wrote to his wife, “You can imagine whether or not I rode home with a light heart after so auspicious an interview & satisfactory results. The six miles to my headquarters seemed scarcely three.”

Although Willcox never forgave Howard for his interference, he soberly took stock of his own mistakes. He wrote, “During the War of the Rebellion I think I might have done some things better—& other things worse, as in the rest of my life. My 1^st mistake was incurring the hostility of a Senator in Shoepac Recollections. This prevented my confirmation as Maj. Gen’l from Antietam & subsequent battles.”

Let this be a lesson to all: Insult your enemies at your own peril. You never know when you’ll need their assistance later in life.

 

(Here, you can see Major General Orlando Willcox. It took a great deal of politicking to win the second star.)

 

The Anthony Burns Extradition

Each semester, whenever I teach the Civil War, I always mention the Anthony Burns riot of 1854. It is one of the many examples that I use to remind students that political debates over slavery caused the Civil War. Recently, I became aware of an account written by one of the federal soldiers who participated in this famous extradition. That soldier was Lieutenant Orlando Bolivar Willcox, who featured in the previous post. I read his memoir avidly, curious to see what he thought of his participation in that famous event. Did he consider it a job well done?

First, here’s a quick summary of the Anthony Burns case:

Anthony Burns was a slave born in Stafford County, Virginia. He was owned by a merchant named Colonel Charles Suttle, who later hired him out to a man from Falmouth named William Brent. In March 1854, Burns escaped from Virginia by stowing away on a ship bound for Boston. He found work as a pie maker, but he foolishly wrote a letter back to his brother, who was still a slave. Suttle intercepted the letter, which revealed Burns’s whereabouts, and both Suttle and Brent traveled to Boston to claim Burns under the authority of the Fugitive Slave Act. Suttle and Brent went through the proper channels, which required the U.S. Marshal Service to conduct the arrest. On May 24, 1854, the marshals apprehended Burns. When news of this got out, Boston’s abolitionists tried to stop the extradition, petitioning the state government to arrest Brent and Suttle on charges of kidnapping. Wendell Phillips even attempted to purchase Burns’s freedom. Neither plan worked. On May 26, a mob of abolitionists assaulted the courthouse, trying to rescue the slave. Using a battering ram, the mob knocked down the door, and in the ensuing struggle, stabbed one of the U.S. marshals, who later died. On June 2, a federal jury convicted Burns of being a fugitive slave. After news of the riot, President Franklin Pierce had sent a platoon of U.S. Marines to escort Burns from the federal courthouse to a revenue cutter bound for Virginia. Meanwhile, Boston’s mayor called out several companies of militia and members of the 4^th U.S. Artillery stationed at Fort Independence, assembling them at the courthouse. Altogether, Burns possessed an escort of 2,000 men.

(Here, you can see Anthony Burns, the focal point of the 1854 extradition case that involved the U.S. Army and the U.S. Marine Corps.)

 

The detachment had a single mission. It had to march Burns several blocks to Long Wharf, where the revenue cutter awaited him. At the head of the column was Lieutenant Orlando Willcox, a member of the 4^th U.S. Artillery. Willcox spoke poorly of the efforts to secure Burns’s safe passage. He wrote, “I soon found that the city authorities evinced a disposition to do no more than preserve the peace on the streets and protect their own citizens at their homes. Up to the night of the last day of the trial, . . . I could hear no steps [taken] by police or local soldiery to join the bodily escort of the slave to the revenue cutter.” Eventually, Willcox even confronted Mayor Jerome V. C. Smith, and as he told it, said, “Well, Mr. Mayor, if the streets of Boston are flowing with the blood of its citizens on the morrow, the responsibility will fall on yourself.”

(This image depicts Lt. Orlando B. Willcox, one of the young officers assigned to the 4th U.S. Artillery. On June 3, 1854, he found himself leading the strange procession through Boston.)

 

The next morning, June 3, the massed federal troops had to carry out their orders, escorting Burns to the revenue cutter. None of the soldiers quite knew what would happen. As Willcox remembered, “Thus the die was cast, with all the civil and military weight of a great city and center of abolitionism in favor of law and order.” Most of the soldiers feared they would be overpowered by the mob and Burns  released from their clutches. Before the soldiers and marines were even ready to march, an angry crowd had gathered outside the courthouse and started pelting it with stones.

Shortly before noon, General B. F. Edmands led the way out of the courthouse. Deputy marshals with swords and pistols followed him. They formed a hollow square around Burns, who had been given a new set of clothes. The federal forces came next and they formed an outer ring around the marshals. Willcox related:

The marshal and his group took position in the center of the hollow square, and amid mingled execrations, hurrahs and hisses of the multitude, the silent procession moved off. Major Ridgeley and our two companies from Fort Independence were at its head. Following the square of marshals with the negro, who now may be said to be “escorted,” came the marines, next a six-pounder gun under Lieutenant—afterwards General—[Darius] Couch, of the Fourth Artillery, and finally a rear guard of city cavalry.

(This illustration depicts the Anthony Burns extradition as it left the federal courthouse. If you look closely, you can see the hollow square formation. In the center of the square, you can see a dozen marshals surrounding Burns. Presumably, one of the officers at the outer edge of the square is Lt. Willcox.)

 

The weird procession marched its way down State Street, heading to the docks. Thousands of Bostonians line the route, cheering for Burns, hanging U.S. flags upside down, heckling the soldiers, and tossing hot peppers and bottles in their direction. Willcox continued:

At the corner of Court Square and Court Street, the demonstrations of the baffled mob were most uproarious, and all the way down Court Street we were greeted with theatrical-like thunder, a bottle or two of vitriol and cayenne pepper from the windows, and from the office of the Commonwealth newspaper were thrown a little shower of cayenne, cowitch and other noxious missiles. But no bones, and scarcely any flesh parts, were broken, and we continued to move in utter silence and indifference, more apparent than real, waiting to see what should happen next. The person most alarmed and the one who felt most relieved, as we reached the revenue cutter, was Anthony Burns. As he leaped on deck, he slapped his hand on his thigh, laughed and said: “No nigger ever had a whole brigade escort him afore.” He was quickly placed out of sight in the cabin. But one attempt had been made to break the column, and that was foiled by a detachment of National Lancers and others of the Massachusetts volunteers. After some delay occasioned by the labor of getting the field piece aboard, the word “cast off” was given, and the cutter, at 3 P.M., June 3, 1854, started for the South with her precious charge on board, and the troops returned to their stations.

(This illustration depicts the tense march along State Street. In the center of the image, bound by chains, you can see Anthony Burns. Note the citizens shaking their fists in disapproval. The soldiers in the shakos are meant to represent the 4th U.S. Artillery, the unit that led the procession through the city. Perhaps the young officer in the right-front is meant to be Lt. Willcox.)

 

Willcox considered the whole affair to be a job well done. Not long after this strange duty, he traveled to Washington to give his full report to President Franklin Peirce and to Secretary of War Jefferson Davis. The meeting with Davis ended poorly, with the Secretary telling Lieutenant Willcox that the whole affair had ended badly. Willcox couldn’t see Davis’s point: the federal troops had returned Burns to slavery with no loss of life. Writing about the interview in later years, Willcox explained, “He may have thought that the execution of the law by force was not a fair test of government sentiment, as tomorrow there might be a government opposed to the execution of that law. Or he might have thought the hostility in New England was nothing more than one might expect from the whole North. Or he might have felt chagrined that our employment of one hundred deputy marshals was a reflection on himself as the military commander.” Then, he added: “Or possibly he was already hoping if not scheming for pretexts looking to the dissolution of this great and glorious Union.”

Willcox wrote the above passage many years later, so we might be a little skeptical of its foreshadowing tone. However, I think his principal message is accurate. The young lieutenant had been abused by the citizens of Boston for carrying out his official duty and he reported to Washington expecting to receive a pat on the back. Instead, he got a mouthful of disdain and criticism. In the end, no one gave him any praise. The Anthony Burns extradition had turned into a political theater for both the pro-slavery forces and the anti-slavery forces, and Willcox felt as if he had become an unwilling participant in their game.

“The Irish Lion is an Ass.”

This tale is about bullies. Here’s how it begins:

After the Battle of Bull Run, Union forces counted up their casualties. Irvin McDowell’s defeated army had lost forty officers missing in action. Some of these officers were dead, but others had been captured by the Confederates and were now being held as prisoners of war. Due to curious diplomatic circumstances, the Union army could not negotiate their immediate release. The enemy held most of them in custody for a year.  The Confederates held onto their captives tightly, using them as bargaining chips, either to spur the release of captured Confederate diplomats (James Mason and John Slidell) or to prevent the execution of captured Confederate privateers (who were being tried as pirates in Union maritime courts).

Consequently, the captured Union officers bounced around from prison to prison. They started out at Castle Pinckney, and then went to Libby Prison, and finally, they went to Salisbury. Much like American POWs today, Union citizens knew the names of these prisoners. Their incarceration made them into minor celebrities, of sorts. Undoubtedly, the most well-known prisoner was Colonel Michael Corcoran, the commander of the 69^th New York State Militia. Corcoran was an Irish exile who had caused a considerable stir back in October 1860 when he refused to turn out his regiment for a parade intended to honor the visiting Prince of Wales. The affront angered many native-born Americans; in response, New York’s state militia commander initiated charges of “disobedience of orders” against Corcoran.  The Irish colonel stood a controversial court-martial, one that dragged on for months.

(Here is Colonel Michael Corcoran, the controversial commander of the 69th N.Y.S.M., later commander of the Irish Legion.)

 

After the militia call-up of April 15, 1861, state authorities suddenly dropped the charges against Corcoran and released him from arrest. They hoped this show of mercy might convince him to terminate his veneer of Irish nationalism and take up arms on behalf of the Union. For Irish-Americans everywhere, the moment was critical. Prior to the war, Corcoran had told fellow Irishmen to ignore the problems caused by southern secession; they should stay out of the war against the rebellion. Irishmen’s true war was against Britain, he said, not the Confederacy. However, the 1860-1861 court-martial seemed to have changed his mind; after the charges were dropped, Corcoran proudly marched the 69^th N.Y.S.M. down the main thoroughfares of New York City, bound for the battle-front.

Thus, Corcoran was free from New York custody for only three months before he ended up as a prisoner of another government. This time, it was the Confederate States of America that held him behind bars. Even though all of the captured U.S. officers suffered alike, Corcoran, it seems, believed he endured greater abuse than the others, and this, in turn, caused friction between him and his fellow captives. An ugly incident occurred in May 1862 when the Bull Run officers were still confined at Libby. Major Israel Vodges, a West Pointer who had been captured at the Battle of Santa Rosa Island, had been, as one observer wrote, “particularly indiscreet and severe in denouncing his compulsory association with the Irish members of our party.” An Irish lieutenant from Corcoran’s regiment overheard Vodges’s foul words and went to inform Corcoran about them. Another officer, Colonel Orlando B. Willcox, considered it best if someone diffused the anti-Irish sentiment right away. He went to Corcoran and made an attempt to convince him to say something publicly, something that might confirm Irish-Americans’ devotion to the Union cause. Essentially, Willcox wanted Corcoran to say that they were all in this war together, that the Irish were not fighting merely to prepare themselves for a coming rebellion against Great Britain.

(This is Major Israel Vodges--shown later on in the war, wearing brigadier general's insignia. He started the anti-Irish sentiment among the Union prisoners.)

Corcoran’s reply disappointed Willcox. He snapped back with equally vicious language. In fact, Corcoran indulged in anti-Semitism. He told Willcox that he would not associate with a “Damned Jew” (meaning Vodges). Willcox wrote:

I arose and went over to Colonel Corcoran, who lay on the floor near by, and denounced the proceeding as disgraceful to us all, and I requested the colonel to nip the thing in the bud—which he alone could do. I found him also very much put out with the major, and he flatly refused to comply at first, saying that the “d—d ‘Jew’ deserved a rousting,” and it was not until we had quite an argument and I convinced him that the major was “but a half-crazy mathematician” that he consented to interfere, saying it was only to oblige me.

Corcoran’s reluctance to speak to the other officers displeased Willcox. Indeed, Corcoran’s defamation of Willcox’s friend Vodges caused anti-foreign hatred to arise within him. Willcox admitted to being jealous of Corcoran’s popularity and he also admitted to being covetous at all the perks Corcoran received from the prison guards. (For instance, Willcox claimed that the guards never searched Corcoran’s mail, but they routinely opened his own.) Writing to his wife, Willcox revealed his true feelings about the Irish colonel:

The Irish Lion is as near an ass [as] can be, & yet he not only overshadows us all at home but has more privileges here than any one. I can speak my heart to no one but you on the subject, but it galls me to the quick to have a low-bred, uneducated, selfish, cunning foreigner toadied by our too generous people on all occasions. When I add to that he came into the war with no love for the country but at the instigation of Bishop [John R.] Hughes to practice himself & his countrymen in arms for acting in Ireland, you can still judge better of my indignation. Yet his name is mentioned in Congress & every where before mine & every other. Why, my dear, he has not expressed one intelligent idea, even on the subject of the war, in the whole nine months I have been with him.

(This is Colonel Orlando Bolivar Willcox, shown here later in the war with the rank of brigadier general. At Libby Prison, he tried to make people apologize for their anti-Irish and anti-Semitic slurs, but failed.)

 

In this particular incident, it would be pointless to say who was right and who was wrong. Surely, both the foreign-born officers and the native-born officers contributed to the toxic environment. The main point is this: Willcox’s letters revealed a deeply-divided, xenophobic officer corps. Even the suffering they endured inside the Confederacy’s horrible prison pens could not bring them together. You might think that the officers would have put aside their differences for the good of the cause, but alas, as experience has often shown, the bullies of life often rise to the occasion unbidden.

(This image was made by a Union veteran, Otto Botticher. It depicts Union officers who had been taken prisoner in 1861 being held at Libby Prison. You will note that Willcox and Corcoran stand in the center of the image.)

(Here's a close-up of Willcox and Corcoran. As Willcox's letters revealed, these two men would never have been so chummy.)

 

(Here is another image done by Botticher, this one depicting a baseball game played by Union prisoners at Salisbury Prison. Again, Botticher depicted Willcox and Corcoran. Can you pull a "Where's Waldo"? Do you see them?)

 

(Here's the close-up, if your Waldo skills failed you. That's Willcox on the left, Corcoran on the right.)

 

“I Made Some of Them Bite the Dust”

It is rare to find a letter from a Civil War soldier where the writer admitted to killing someone. Undoubtedly, each and every soldier understood that it was his job to make the enemy “bite the dust,” but few of them ever said so specifically. Why did so few admit that they participated in the act of killing? Surely, Victorian sentimentality prevented them from writing about certain unspeakable acts that they perpetrated. Also, during a battle, thick, white smoke choked the air, preventing ordinary enlisted men from seeing the people they killed. In short, written statements that describe killings are hard to find.

However, I have found a few. Here is one that I find interesting. It comes from Private Enos Bloom, a nineteen-year-old soldier from Company K, 1^st Pennsylvania Rifles, commonly known as the “Bucktails.” On the evening of June 30, 1862, Bloom found himself involved in the swirling Battle of Glendale Crossroads. (Now, before anyone tries to call me on this: Yes, I know that nearly all of Company K was captured four days earlier at Beaver Dam Creek. However, Private Bloom was one of only eight men from that company who escaped capture. He was one of only four men from Company K to participate in the Battle at Glendale.) So, what happened to Bloom at Glendale? During the fight, he became detached from his regiment. Two Confederate soldiers tried to capture him. Although he was outnumbered, somehow he managed to kill both of his assailants.

In July, he wrote to his father, William. He said:

I stopped behind the first tree I came to and thought I would fight a little on my own hook. I fired 18 rounds at them when they were not more than 150 yards from me. I made some of them bite the dust. Two of them started to take me prisoner. I did not see them until they came up, when I shot one of them. The other ordered me to give up and throw down my gun, but I put a cartridge down it when he drew up to shoot. I told him not to shoot, I would give up; and as he was coming up I put a cap on my gun and still held [it] at the hip; when I let the rammer fall to the ground he was no more than five steps from me. I did not sight the gun, but pulled the trigger. He jumped about two feet high and hollowed ‘My God I’m shot’ and fell to the ground dead. I then saw them coming up over the hill and had to skedaddle.

Obviously, two factors made it possible for Bloom to kill his adversaries face to face and live to tell the tale. First, because of the unusual nature of the battle, Bloom found himself fighting on his “own hook.” Had he been fighting in line-of-battle with his comrades, probably he would not have had the opportunity to confront the gray-coats face-to-face. Second, Bloom seemed to cut a few corners with standard loading procedure. He loaded from the hip and even dropped his ramrod. This enabled him to shoot, reload, and then shoot again before his second assailant could react. Without these two factors, Bloom would never have been close enough to see the people he killed. Or, quite probably, would have surrendered rather than test his luck.

In any case, I find it odd that Bloom admitted these killings to his father. I wonder what made him so forthcoming with the details. Was this attributable to the bravado of youth? Did the incident shake him so deeply that he just had to tell someone to get the confession off his chest? Or, was he a rare “born killer,” a man who spoke confidently of killing? One wonders.

Bloom survived the war, mustered out in 1864, and died in February 1928. According to his obituary, he was the second-to-last surviving veteran of the Bucktails.