Killed by a Train: The Career of Hobart Ward, Part 4.

John Henry Hobart Ward died on July 24, 1903. He died unusually. He was run over by a train belonging to the Erie Railroad in Monroe, Orange County, New York. At the turn of the twentieth-century, fatal train accidents were not at all uncommon, and depending upon how one frames the incident, it might be said, accurately, that his death was not that bizarre. However, Ward must have been the only Civil War general to have been killed by a train. (Perhaps some of you in internet-land might know a counterexample, but right now, I can’t think of one.)

I really wish I knew more about Ward’s death. Most historians who write about him tend to repeat lines from Erza Warner’s Generals in Blue, saying simply that Ward was hit by a train and because of that, he died. Even the few 1903 newspapers I’ve found were not generous with details. For instance, the New York Times’s obituary said only what I have already written here. Ward was killed by a train. Period.

I am left to wonder several things. How, exactly, did the train kill him? Did he not hear it coming? Did he purposefully step on the tracks? Were there no warning sirens? Was he killed instantly or did he linger from his injuries? So many questions remain unanswered.

What is certain is this. By 1903, everyone had forgotten Ward’s ignominious ousting from the army. The New York Times said, “He bore his eighty years well, and looked the veteran he was, his military bearing with his long white mustache attracting much attention.” Truly, Ward lived a quiet, uninteresting life. He lived in New York City at 230 East 50^th Street and summered at a home in Monroe.  From 1871 to 1896, he worked as a clerk for the Superior Court. He retired at age seventy-three and enjoyed seven additional years until that train got him.

As an aging veteran, Ward didn’t divorce himself from the memory of his Civil War service. Most obituaries remembered him fondly, reminding readers that he was a proud veteran of two wars. The Times said, “He was frequently favorably mentioned [in official reports] and highly commended [by his superiors].”

That statement is true, if—and I stress “if”—we consider the period between 1861 and 1863 only. After the summer of 1863, Ward became harder to admire. At Chancellorsville, he ran over his own soldiers in a frightened panic, trampling one of them to death. At Wapping Heights, he was drunk on the field. The day after, he threatened his hungry soldiers, perpetrating childish revenge fantasies. At the Battle of the Wilderness, he fled the front lines and refused to come down from his escape vehicle. At the Battle of Spotsylvania, he showed up drunk on the battlefield, and once again, he tried to flee to the rear at the height of the action. Somehow, years later, all those unsightly acts were forgotten by an exceedingly generous press corps.

As I have found, historians, much like trains, are not so forgiving.

 

 

This is a postcard depicting the Erie Railroad Station in Monroe sometime after the turn of the 20th century, presumably showing the location of Hobart Ward's death.

 

“Too Disgraceful to be Aired by a Hearing”: The Career of Hobart Ward, Part 3.

In the last two posts, I explored incidents from the life of General Hobart Ward. Today, I’m going to examine the moment when his army career came to a screeching halt. The story of Ward’s inglorious termination spanned several months, but it began with an incident that occurred during the second day of the Battle of the Wilderness. It is logical to start there.

Here’s what happened.

At 4:15 P.M., May 6, 1864, Lt. Gen. James Longstreet’s corps rumbled over Poplar Run on its way to attack Maj. Gen. Winfield S. Hancock’s 2^nd Corps. The Confederate attack fell heavily against the 3^rd and 4^th Divisions under Maj. Gen. David Birney and Maj. Gen. Gershom Mott. At the height of the Confederate attack, a breach opened up in the center of the Union line, near where the Orange Plank Road intersected with the Brock Road. A Union artilleryman remembered that the break occurred in the “most unexpected and unnecessary form.” As he described it, “Mott’s troops in the second line gave way without the slightest cause . . .  and a portion of Gen. J. H. Hobart Ward’s brigade, of Birney’s division, rushed pell-mell to the rear.”

The sudden panic propelled Ward to the rear as well, although he was not swept away, as if by a tidal wave of humanity, as so often happened with Civil War routs. Oddly enough, Ward walked away from the fighting. Without consultation with any of his superiors, he left the front lines, sauntering off like a man distracted. For the half-hour preceding the attack, Ward had been pacing behind the center of the 124^th New York. The commander of that regiment, Lieutenant Colonel Charles Weygant, remembered, “Up to that moment, he had not spoken a word to any one.” Then, as the Confederate bullets whistled around his ears, Ward sputtered an incomplete sentence. Speaking to Weygant, he said, “Take your regiment to the rear of those—” Without finishing the order, Ward walked rapidly away. Then, just as the Union troops began fleeing to the rear, Ward approached the 6^th Maine Light Artillery commanded by Captain Edwin B. Dow, whose battery held the vital junction of the Brock and Orange Plank Roads. A line of caissons (four-wheeled support vehicles with repair equipment and additional ammunition) stood in the rear of the guns. Ward hopped atop one of those caissons and ordered the drivers to make haste for the rear. Afterward, Captain Dow didn’t take kindly to Ward’s seizure of the vehicle, saying that Ward jeopardized the position his battery was defending, “owing to the scarcity of ammunition” caused by Ward taking the caisson and all its ammunition to the rear.

Ward’s inglorious retreat earned heavier criticism from infantrymen who watched him abandon the front lines. Although four of Ward’s regiments broke for the rear, five others gamely stood their ground. The men in those regiments expressed fury when they saw their commander flee in the moment of danger. Corporal Wyman S. White witnessed Ward’s hasty withdrawal. He later wrote, “[He] rushed back to one of the limber chests and jumped onto it and ordered the drivers to ‘drive like H— down the plank road to the rear,’ and they obeyed the order.”

The Battle of the Wilderness was later known for its confusion, but still, it wasn’t easy for a general to hide in the rear. It didn’t take long for headquarters staff to find Ward and call his decisions into question. Captain Charles Noble, Jr., commander of the 3^rd Division’s provost guard, found Ward about one half mile from the front lines, lingering in the vicinity of “a small pond,” possibly on the Hickman farm. With the assistance of Captain W. D. W. Miller (a staff officer attached to Maj. Gen. Hancock), Noble collected stragglers from Ward’s brigade and from Mott’s division and formed them into a new line. Ward, it seemed, didn’t do much to help the situation. In fact, he caused he routed men to break up because he ordered the drivers of his pilfered caisson to plough right through them. Noble later wrote, “General J. H. H. Ward came through the men sitting on a caisson, the horses moving down the road on a full trot. The troops seeing this broke through the obstructions, and followed the caisson down the road.” Likewise, Miller reported that Ward offered no help at all in rallying the men and even resisted the staff officers’ requests to do so. Miller wrote, “Gen’l. Ward was seated on one of the caissons. I rode up to him & asked if we had not better rally the men & form a line, he answered ‘yes,’ but did not get off the caisson or make any exertion to stop the men.”

At this point, another member of Hancock’s staff, Colonel Charles H. Morgan, came upon the confused scene and took charge, demanding that Ward exit his vehicle. Morgan asked Ward if he was wounded. Ward said, “no.” Morgan then asked if the disorganized troops milling around the pond belonged to his brigade. Ward replied, “Some of them are.” As Morgan remembered it, “I told him he had better get off that caisson and help rally his command.” Despite their annoyance with Ward, Noble and Miller admitted that Ward eventually responded to Morgan’s instructions. As Noble wrote, “Gen’l Ward then got down and assisted in rallying the troops.”

The Battle of the Wilderness ended that evening, and it didn’t take long for rumors to spread. Within hours, soldiers from the 2^nd Corps gossiped about Ward’s cowardly flight to the rear and his reluctance to help rally his men. In fact, Ward heard the whispers himself as early as May 10, just as his division was engaging Confederates along the Po River. Fearful for the future of his career, Ward wrote to 2^nd Corps headquarters, asking for a chance to defend his actions. He wrote, “It is with deep astonishment and regret I learn that my reputation as a soldier has been impugned.” Apparently shocked by the accusation, he wrote, “It would be difficult to convince those that know me in the army that I could be guilty of the offence described to me. I cannot conceive how my motives could be so misconstrued, for until within a few hours [ago] I was not aware of the specific accusations against me. It is almost with horror I regard the accusation, and were it true would forever abhor myself.”

Ward asked for a five-minute audience with General Hancock, and felt assured that he could convince him that his actions on May 6 had been misinterpreted. Ward never received his audience, although he did have a chance to write out a statement. The next day, May 11, Ward tried to set the record straight. He criticized three points about the accusations against him. First, he claimed that he had not appropriated a caisson. He wrote, “How or by what means the person who made the report could so have so misunderstood or misconstrued my action, it is impossible for me to conceive. . . . I believe sir there is not an officer in this army who knows me, will for one moment, believe this foul aspersion.” Second, Ward argued that he went to the rear after Longstreet’s attack had been repulsed, not before. He maintained, “The enemy had been repulsed and driven back before I started to the rear. How then can this charge be sustained? To the Gen’l. Commanding I would state, that hundreds of witnesses can testify to the facts above mentioned.” Finally, or so Ward claimed, when he finally did go to the rear after the attack—to find his troops who had retreated there—it was a decision that merited praise, not condemnation. He claimed, “That I did go to the rear is patent, hundreds, I may say thousands appreciated and applauded the motive, and the results, and until this accusation was brought forward, I deemed that I was committing an act that demanded praise stead of censure.”

The staff officers who witnessed Ward’s retreat denied his claims. They all confirmed that he went to the rear before the Confederate attack was over—not after—and that he went there atop a caisson. Colonel Morgan remembered, “My impression was and is that the original line was not reestablished when Gen. Ward left.” Captain Noble confirmed, “At the time Gen’l. Ward dismounted [the caisson] to rally his troops, the firing in the front had almost ceased—the enemy had been repulsed.” Even the divisional commander, Maj. Gen. David Birney, agreed with the staff officers’ conclusions. Having seen Ward pass to the rear, Birney stated, “It was before the repulse of the enemy and owing to their failure to make any success, that he passed to the rear.”

Ward had no opportunity to confront his accusers before a second incident intervened, worsening his tarnished reputation. On May 12, during the assault on the Mule Shoe Salient, General Hancock encountered Ward on the field, “laboring under great excitement.” In Hancock’s opinion, Ward acted strangely. As Hancock remembered it, “[he] was disposed to do some things which I thought foolish. He was being reckless and insisted upon making a charge upon the enemy’s works along the parapet. . . . Fearing that he would, in my absence, do some foolish thing during this excitement, I told him in the presence of the troops . . . to be careful and obey my directions. His appearance and actions indicated that he had been drinking more than proper.”

Ward’s divisional commander, General Birney, also noticed Ward’s erratic behavior. When Birney found him, Ward had dismounted and was apparently going to rear to claim his horse, which he said had been taken to the rear by his servant. Not seeing any reason for Ward to abandon the field while the fight was still going on, Birney instructed one of his orderlies to dismount and give Ward his horse. Ward mumbled something incoherent and then fumbled his way into the saddle, probably too drunk to ride. Shortly afterward, Birney met Hancock and explained the bizarre incident to him. Hancock told Birney that he suspected Ward had been drinking. Worried that it might be true, Birney spurred his horse to the Mule Shoe, where Ward’s infantry had made a lodgment, and after a longer interview with Ward, Birney concluded that his brigade commander was “grossly intoxicated.” Without further ado, Birney ordered Ward placed under arrest and he instructed the 1^st Brigade’s senior regimental commander, Colonel Thomas W. Egan, to take command of the men in the field.

The divisional provost held Ward under guard for the remainder of the Spotsylvania Campaign, and during that time, he participated in no more battles. By May 20, Hancock issued orders remanding Ward to Fort Monroe for court-martial, charged with “misbehavior and intoxication in the presence of the enemy.” Ward went home to New York to collect material for his trial and he arrived at Fort Monroe on June 17. Strangely, that trial never happened, and perhaps Ward was lucky to avoid it. In my opinion, had the U.S. Army convened a court-martial, it is highly likely that it would have gone against him.

Why didn’t the court-martial happen? It’s hard to say, but it seems that Ward avoided court-martial because General Hancock never found the opportunity to convene a court. Instead, on July 18, 1864, the 2^nd Corps staff issued Special Orders 241, which decreed that Ward should receive an honorable discharge. Not until mid-August, long after Ward had returned to New York City, did he learn that he was no longer part of the Army of the Potomac. Perhaps accurately, Ward stated that for two months he never had any knowledge of the charges preferred against him. Only with the intervention of a senator did he finally get a copy of the charges, but by that time, Special Orders 241 had already dismissed him.

Furious that he had been denied a chance to defend himself, Ward wrote to President Lincoln, asking him to revoke Special Order 241 and to convene a general court-martial “to make such disposition of my case as shall be commensurate with equity and justice.” Ward’s letter expressed confidence that he could redeem his actions. He wrote, “If I fail to make a successful defense, there will at least remain the proud satisfaction of knowing that the President of the United States, has not assented to the condemnation of a soldier without a hearing before his peers.” Further, Ward griped that the events that led to his arrest derived from “certain allegations made by a staff officer”—presumably Morgan—“who while reporting certain facts, suppressed the whole truth thereby deceiving his superiors.” Ward tried to make it seem as if Morgan’s actions were motivated by prejudice. He wrote, “The officer alluded to has on many occasions prior to my arrest in the presence of officers expressed sentiments of an inimical character toward myself, and has in this instance maliciously caused reports to be circulated to my detriment as a soldier.”

Complain as he might, officially, Ward’s record remained untarnished. Because the army held no court-martial, Ward retired in good standing. Of course, his reputation had been utterly destroyed. In guessing why Ward never had his day in court, Corporal Wyman White guessed, “He made an effort to get a hearing in the case but he did not succeed. I think the reason why he failed was that the government and army officers thought that such a cowardly case was too disgraceful to be aired by a hearing.”

It’s fair to say that Ward’s behavior merited his arrest. It’s indisputable that he rode to the rear atop a caisson, and at least once, he showed up to a battle too drunk to command. However, it’s strange that the Army never offered Ward a chance to defend himself. After all, Ward had fought at Bull Run, on the Peninsula, at 2^nd Manassas, Chantilly, Fredericksburg, Chancellorsville, Gettysburg, Wapping Heights, and Locust Grove before getting caught. As much as I don’t like to admit it, in the end, Ward was right. The army allowed a travesty of justice by not offering him a hearing—no matter how impossible it might have been to receive an acquittal.

This, I think, proves my point from the previous post. Ward must have been universally despised. The growing dissatisfaction with his personality made it such that the 2^nd Corps officers simply wanted him removed the most expedient way possible. I repeat what I wrote in that post: such is the fate of people who indulge in petty tyrannies. Without respect, they have nothing.



This image depicts Brig. Gen. Hobart Ward at his headquarters in Culpeper, shortly before the commencement of the Overland Campaign. Ward is seated at right. The officer seated at left is Brig. Gen. Gershom Mott (commander of the 4th Division, 2nd Corps). The officers standing are (left to right): Colonel John S. Austin (commander of the 72nd New York), Colonel William R. Brewster (commander of the 2nd Brigade, 4th Division, 2nd Corps), and Colonel John Egbert Farnum (commander of the 70th New York and notorious slave-trading pirate from the Wanderer affair.)

 

 

 



This is Colonel Charles Hale Morgan (shown later as brevet brigadier general). On May 6, 1864, he ordered General Ward to dismount a caisson he used to escape the Battle of the Wilderness.

“An Outburst of Passion and Profanity”: The Career of Hobart Ward, Part 2.

This is my second post about Brigadier General Hobart Ward, a forty-year-old officer who served with the Army of the Potomac. By the summer of 1863, Ward was a veteran of a dozen Civil War engagements. So far, he had fought at Bull Run, Yorktown, Williamsburg, Fair Oaks, Glendale Cross Roads, Malvern Hill, 2^nd Manassas, Chantilly, Fredericksburg, Chancellorsville, and Gettysburg. He was also commanding more troops than he ever had in his life. After Gettysburg, he became acting divisional commander, directing the maneuvers of the 1^st Division, 3^rd Corps.

One might think that Ward was something of a star on the rise, but in fact, as Ward’s responsibilities grew, he received less and less respect from his troops. As I mentioned in the previous post, Ward was not a nice man. He was petty, erratic, unlikeable, and fond of drink at inappropriate moments. Moreover, Ward did not think highly of his enlisted men or of the value of human life. As one soldier who served under him later related, “General Ward was formerly a prize fighter and, no doubt, much brutalized. He regards human life much as an angler does the worm he uses for bait.” Arguably, Ward’s lowest moment came when he acted out childish vengeance against a portion of his command the day after the Battle of Wapping Heights. His troops wanted food and Ward wanted them to shut the hell up.

The affair began when Ward’s division engaged in a furious but largely forgotten battle called Wapping Heights, which occurred on July 23, 1863. That day, the 3^rd Corps assaulted a portion of the Army of Northern Virginia in Manassas Gap. After a day-long engagement, Ward’s division took possession of the heights, driving off Colonel Edward Walker’s Georgia brigade. Despite the importance of the battle, Ward was rarely seen directing the action. According to one soldier, Ward stopped at a house near Linden Station to drink from a jug of whiskey offered by his corps commander, Major General William French, who was, likewise, no inspirational leader. At 4 P.M., just as the Union troops gained the summit, Ward and French came to check on the course of the battle, and both were, in the words of a witness, “in a highly exhilarated condition by this time.”

Although Ward’s misbehaviors earned the ire of his enlisted men, the real trouble occurred the next day, July 24. At 11 A.M., Ward’s division set out on a thirteen-mile trek to Springfield, a small village east of Markham. Having fought in a rigorous battle the day before and lacking rations, Ward’s soldiers were in a sour mood. Writing to friends, Chaplain Lorenzo Barber explained, “Our supplies were not up and our men were out of rations. Some of us had not had half a breakfast, and nothing left in our haversacks.” By the afternoon, after marching seven hours through the heat with nothing to eat, Ward’s 1^st Brigade demanded their overdue nourishment. Specifically, they began chanting, “Hardtack! Hardtack!” A private in the 2^nd U.S. Sharpshooters wrote in his journal, “The men of our regiment took up the cry and kept it up all afternoon.” Chaplain Barber of the same regiment noticed how quickly the chanting spread among the other regiments. Soon, the entire division was shouting loudly for the ill-loved army cracker. Barber wrote, “Tired with their hard work and with empty stomachs, they halted to rest at almost dark. As the officers were putting them into position, the whole division (Gen. Ward’s) good naturedly cried out, ‘Hard Tack!’ ‘Hard Tack!’” In a letter to friends, Barber insisted that the chanting started out genially, but he pointed out that it carried serious undertones: “The Colonels and Brigadiers took it good naturedly as it was intended, though their own empty larders must have reminded [them] it was a suggestive joke.”

The chanting caught the attention of Ward, who rode along the line with his staff. For whatever reason, Ward was in no mood to hear his soldiers’ pleas for a meal—even one as inadequate as hard tack. The chanting soldiers embarrassed him and he wanted them silenced immediately. Sensing bad blood, Chaplain Barber continued the story: “The thing was made serious by Gen. Ward and staff riding furiously among the men, and Gen. Ward saying: ‘God damn your souls, I’ll give you hard tack; I’ll shoot the first man that says hard tack again.’ Two or three brigades nearest him kept silence, but every other regiment in his division shouted ‘hard tack’ louder than before.”

Ward grew furious when the chanting would not cease, so he rode down the line and accosted the men of the 2^nd U.S. Sharpshooters, the unit that had started the ruckus. Private Wyman White described the scene: “The general rode to the right of the regiment, and turned his horse, and facing the regiment, drew his revolver and called out in the voice of a brigadier general, ‘G—D— your souls to hell. The next man that says ‘Hardtack’ I will put a ball through his head’.” (As an aside, White’s recollection of Ward’s threat must have been remarkably accurate. Another soldier in the same regiment jotted the words in his diary that evening, and with alarming similarity, they confirmed what White and Barber had both recorded: “God damn your souls! I will give you hardtack! The first man that says hardtack I will put a ball through!”)

Whatever might be said of Ward’s reaction, it did not have the desired effect. The Sharpshooters had no intention of letting Ward get away, not without one last jab. As White related, “All was still and the general turned his horse and in an instant every man in the regiment yelled, ‘Hardtack.’ He did not stop to shoot. If he had, I dare say it would have been his last, for I heard lots of rifles click.” Barber, meanwhile, heard Ward muttering under his breath. “Baffled and disgraced,” Barber narrated, “he rode off cursing officers and men, threatening them with terrible punishment in the way of picket duty, &c.”

Even so, Ward carried out something akin to revenge. When the division went into camp, he ordered several regiments placed under temporary arrest, keeping the men at full marching gear for several hours. Meanwhile, he called into his tent the officers of those regiments that had humiliated him and gave them a rigorous tongue-lashing. Although witnesses disagreed on the length of time he kept the men standing at attention, Private John Haley probably had it correct, saying that it lasted about two hours. Haley remembered, “After we went into bivouac, a portion of the division was made to stand in line for two hours, in marching order, for yelling ‘Hard Tack!’ at General Ward as he rode past. Although many hadn’t eaten for a day or two, and are nearly insane from hunger, they should realize that such behavior will not help.” When the officers returned to the 2^nd U.S. Sharpshooters, they told their men what Ward had said. According to Private White, “the old puff ball told the officers that he would hold them responsible for our good behavior thereafter and that ended the matter.”

Ward’s pomposity killed his reputation among his enlisted men. Chaplain Barber wrote home, making it clear that Ward was not a man to be admired: “I have not time to moralize on such an outburst of passion and profanity on the part of a commanding General, but I am sorry to say that we have some such in command of our brave and intelligent troops.”

For Ward, the incident began the downward spiral of his career. In a year, he’d find himself discharged and disgraced. One wonders, if he had been nicer to his men on July 24, would they have stuck up for him when the army threatened to remove him from command in the midst of the Overland Campaign? Such is the fate of people who indulge in petty tyrannies. Without respect, they have nothing.

Here's the photograph of Hobart Ward that everyone usually sees. Here he is as brigadier general, taken in 1863, presumably.

 

“I Always Supposed Him to Be Brave”: The Career of Hobart Ward, Part 1.

For the next few posts, I’d like to focus on the Civil War career of Brig. Gen. John Henry Hobart Ward, a soldier who served three years with the Army of the Potomac. Ward was an interesting character. As an officer, he enjoyed widespread praise from newspaper correspondents and from superior officers. Lofted to the rank of colonel early in the war, he eventually rose to divisional command by the summer of 1863. And yet, Ward was hardly a likable man. He was mean, condescending, intemperate, and ruthless. In short, he was a general who fooled a host of admirers (and I’m sad to say, still manages to bamboozle a cluster of historians who consider him an excellent officer). This is the story of a grade-A snot-bag who managed to wear general stars despite a series of personality defects that would have normally kept him from rising high in the ranks of the Army of the Potomac. This is the tale of Hobart Ward.

In some ways, Ward was destined to fight in the Civil War. He came from a family steeped in military tradition. His grandfather fought in the American Revolution and his father fought in the War of 1812. He was a huge man, over six feet in height, and it was rumored that he had been a pugilist in his teenage years. In 1841, at age eighteen, Hobart Ward followed in the family tradition and joined the Army. He enlisted in the 7^th U.S. Infantry, eventually reaching the rank of sergeant-major in 1845. In 1847, he served in the Mexican-American War, fighting at the Battle of Monterrey, where he was wounded, and also at the Battles of Cerro Gordo and Huamantla. After the war, Ward returned to New York and served as the state militia’s assistant commissary general from 1851 to 1855, then as the senior commissary general, which post he held until 1859. He joined the “Scott Life Guard,” a militia regiment that recruited only veterans from the Mexican-American War. When the Civil War began, Ward acquired a colonelcy from New York’s governor, Edwin Morgan, and he began raising a two-year regiment, the 38^th New York (informally known as the 2^nd Regiment, Scott Life Guard).

Ward and his regiment gained fame quickly. Ward was one the few officers who kept his cool during the rout at Bull Run. Later, on the Peninsula, Ward and his regiment fought several tough fights, losing eighty-eight officers and men at Williamsburg and another eighteen at Fair Oaks. At Williamsburg, Ward’s divisional commander claimed that Ward “conspicuously distinguished himself,” and has “already been noticed by me as one of the bravest of the brave.” Another officer believed that Ward was so talented that he should be elevated to the rank of major general. He wrote, “His experience during twenty years, and his services during the Rebellion, eminently fit him for the position recommended.” Major General Daniel Sickles called him a “an officer whose tact, discretion, and accomplishments fit him for command of a division, and his services have been so conspicuous and brilliant that he deserves this recognition of merit.”

Wherever Ward went, he received praise. Between 1861 and 1863, newspapers heaped commendation upon him. After Bull Run, a New York newspaper mentioned Ward’s coolness. It proclaimed, “Colonel J. H. Hobart Ward, who served during the war with Mexico, and was breveted for his good conduct on the field, throughout the late battle was collected, courageous and energetic. Wherever his men faltered, there he was to rally and encourage them, and where danger appeared he confronted it.” When Ward’s regiment, the 38^th New York, mustered out in New York City in May 1863, Mayor George Opdyke couldn’t say enough about Ward’s fine qualities as a commander. Opdyke wrote, “The excellent record you have made in the army must be attributed, in a large degree, to the skill, courage and coolness of . . . the brave veteran Colonel, who just commanded the Thirty-eighth, now Brig.-Gen. Ward.”

When Ward applied for a brigadier general’s commission, his superiors jumped at the chance to discuss his finer qualities. Not only did Major Generals Philip Kearney, John Sedgwick, David Birney, and Joseph Hooker offer endorsements, but even Winfield Scott—now in retirement—chose to write a testimonial based on his experience with Ward in Mexico. One of Ward’s superiors, Major General Samuel P. Heintzelman, wrote of Ward, saying, “There has been no Colonel in my command who has rendered more efficient and gallant service on the Peninsula, both as Colonel, and when temporarily in command of a brigade.”

With such esteemed opinions, the U.S. Senate confirmed Ward’s promotion to brigadier general on October 4, 1862. When he assumed command of the 2^nd Brigade, 1^st Division, 3^rd Corps, Army of the Potomac, Ward held his men enthralled by his stature and soldierly demeanor. Captain Charles Weygant, an officer who served in Ward’s brigade, remembered his first meeting with Ward. He later wrote, “Our new brigadier was a dark-complexioned, stern-looking man, about fifty years of age, stood six feet three, weighed about two hundred and forty pounds, and when mounted on his iron grey charger looked a very giant.”

Reading all these estimations, one might assume that Ward was a wonderful general, universally loved by his men and his peers. In truth, he was a brutish tyrant. Thin-skinned, petty, and foul-tempered, Hobart Ward lacked the graces held by his contemporaries. Ward’s foul behavior surfaced early on. When his regiment, the 38^th New York, was encamped in Washington in May 1861, Ward mercilessly beat an unarmed citizen for cheering on behalf of the Confederacy. Ward was standing on the steps of a hotel when he overheard three citizens cheering loudly for Jeff Davis followed by three more cheers for the Southern Confederacy. Ward was about to walk away when he heard the men propose three groans for the U.S. government. When he heard this, Ward snapped. He walked over, humorously accusing the men of acting “unconstitutionally,” and then Ward slugged one of them in the face. After their friend tumbled down the steps, the other two citizens bolted down the street, and Ward gave chase. He didn’t catch them, but the newspaper reporter who described the incident praised Ward—as any northern newspaper writer might—for standing up for the Union. Another crack in his reputation appeared a bit later, at Chancellorsville. On the evening of May 2, 1863, Ward gave way to panic (although, in all fairness, so did many Union soldiers who fought in the night action there). He put spurs to his horse and bolted for the rear, running over two men, one of whom was trampled so badly that he later died.

Probably, the beating of the southern sympathizer and the running over of the two soldiers were more emblematic of Ward’s character than all the newspaper reports or the endorsements from superiors.  As my future posts will show, all these people got Ward dead-wrong. Ward was nursing a sequence of bad behaviors that became more pronounced as the war dragged on. It is unclear how Ward was able to fool so many people for so long, but he did. In May 1864, when Ward was arrested for drunkenness during the Battle of Spotsylvania (the subject of a future post), Colonel Theodore Lyman—an officer attached to George Meade’s headquarters—expressed himself shocked  that he had misjudged Ward. Baffled by the fact that Ward’s career was coming to an inglorious end, Lyman wrote, “General Ward was relieved from his command, for misbehavior and intoxication in presence of the enemy at the Battle of the Wilderness. I had always supposed him to be a brave but rough man.”

How did Ward forfeit his reputation? Stay tuned!

Here, you can see John Henry Hobart Ward as colonel of the 38th New York.

 

A Gettysburg Casualty’s First Memorial Day

This post is about something topical. A Union soldier who was killed at Gettysburg is finally getting Memorial Day recognition by his hometown. His name is John Dolson and his hometown is Richfield, Minnesota.

First of all, how was he killed?

At 4 P.M., July 2, 1863, Brig. General Jerome Robertson’s Texas Brigade surged across the Slyder and Bushman farm fields south of Gettysburg. As the Confederate soldiers trampled down the crops, they came under fire from the expert riflemen belonging to the 2^nd U.S. Sharpshooters. Under heavy pressure from the Texans, several companies of U.S. Sharpshooters gave way, but not before losing a few men killed or captured when the Texans closed the distance.

Specifically, the Texans mortally wounded two soldiers from Company A, Corporal Benjamin O. Hamblet and Private John O. Dolson. One man who witnessed it was Second Lieutenant Dyer Burgess Pettijohn. He remembered, “While we were paying some attention, and not without effect, to the enemy troops in our immediate front and our left, another regiment of ‘Johnnies’ came up through a grove of timber on our right until they were within easy pistol range before we discovered their presence.” A Confederate officer commanding the Texas skirmish line called out to Pettijohn, Hamblet, and Dolson, demanding their surrender. Pettijohn threw up his hands, but Hamblet and Dolson decided to make a break for it. The Confederate officer ordered his men to fire, and according to Pettijohn, “a rattle of musketry was the response.” The musket balls hit both men as they tried to flee. Hamblet was struck in the left thigh and Dolson was struck in the left leg and lung. The Confederates made no effort to recover the men they had just shot. They shoved Pettijohn to the rear, and he became a prisoner of war, one of the unlucky officers sent to Libby Prison.

Hamblet and Dolson remained on the field overnight, still suffering from their wounds, but not subsequently touched by either side. On the morning of July 3, soldiers from Colonel William McCandless’s Pennsylvania Reserve Brigade reoccupied the ground, recovering Hamblet and Dolson. Both men lingered from the effects of their wounds for weeks. Surgeons amputated Hamblet’s leg, but he died on July 30. Dolson, meanwhile, succumbed to the effects of his wounds at Camp Letterman Hospital on September 3.

In one of the great mysteries of the Battle of Gettysburg, Private Dolson’s remains were terribly misidentified. Although Dolson lingered in a hospital tent for two months, when he died, the attendants seemed not to have remembered that he belonged to a Union regiment. When he was buried on the field, Samuel Weaver labeled his remains as: “John O. Dobson, 2^nd North Carolina Infantry.” Exactly how Weaver failed to correctly identify Dolson’s remains is the mystery. It seems utterly incomprehensible for a wounded man, who clearly told the surgeons and nurses that he was a northerner, to be buried in a Confederate’s grave, but that is what happened. Certainly, there is more to the story that has not yet come to light.

In any event, grave diggers committed Dolson’s corpse to a temporary graveyard near Camp Letterman, even though Dolson—as a U.S. soldier—was entitled to be buried in the Soldiers' National Cemetery, which was then seventy-seven days short of being dedicated by Abraham Lincoln. (Incidentally, Dolson’s comrade, Hamblet, was correctly identified and buried in the Soldiers' National Cemetery when he died. His remains are there today.) Meanwhile, Dolson’s corpse lay outside the cemetery, waiting for someone to come and claim it.

In 1871, eight years after his death, Dolson’s corpse made a long journey to North Carolina. Confederate remembrance organizations had recently erected a new cemetery called Oakwood in Raleigh and they paid for the transportation of 137 Tar Heels from the Gettysburg battlefield to be laid to rest there. Believing Dolson’s remains to be those of a Confederate, the North Carolinians exhumed his casket and sent it down south.

In reality, Dolson was a nineteen-year-old farmer from Richfield, Minnesota, when he was killed at Gettysburg. This truth was not uncovered until 2006, when a Civil War researcher in Pleasantville, New York, contacted the local chapter of the Sons of Confederate Veterans who looked after the graves in Oakwood, telling them that the Confederate cemetery contained a Union sharpshooter. In 2007, the Sons replaced the grave marker, putting in a new one with the correct information. Meanwhile, they sent the incorrect stone—with the Confederate unit and the name “Dobson” on it—to Richfield, Dolson’s hometown.

On this Memorial Day, May 30, the residents of Richfield, Minnesota, will attend a ceremony at the town’s Honoring All Veterans Memorial on Portland Avenue. The memorial will feature a new plaque in honor of Dolson, who gave his life at Gettysburg.

As some of you know, for eight years I worked as a seasonal ranger at Gettysburg. Every Memorial Day, the graves were  beautifully decorated with American and state flags. Dolson’s grave ought to have been included in this commemoration, but due to the mistake made in 1863, his earthly remains were denied that honor. Since 2007, Dolson’s grave has been honored at Oakwood, and now, his hometown in Minnesota joins in honoring him. It gives me a sense of satisfaction that this long forgotten Union soldier has finally been recognized.

 

Here is John Dolson's grave in Oakwood Cemetery.

 

All Except These Fellows Who Foolishly Signed Three-Year Papers.

Thanks to a certain movie, it’s kind of a well-known event among us Civil War nerds, that on May 23, 1863, 120 veterans from the from the defunct 2^nd Maine—a two-year regiment that mustered-out on May 19—had to join unwillingly the ranks of the 20^th Maine Volunteer Infantry. These 120 unfortunate soldiers had to undergo their unpleasant transfer because, back in 1861, they had foolishly signed on for a three-year tour-of-duty instead of a two-year tour-of-duty, unlike everyone else in their regiment. Understandably, this merger put the 20^th Maine’s commander, Colonel Joshua Chamberlain, in an unenviable position. His corps commander, Major General George Meade, had told him to force the 2^nd Maine men to join the 20^th Maine or to execute them; or as Meade wrote, “make them do duty, or shoot them down.” Famously, Chamberlain handled the dyspeptic 2^nd Maine veterans in a generous way, telling them that it was their choice to fight or not. He would not execute a single soldier for the crime of wanting to return home with his former unit. Amazingly, of those 120 “mutineers” from the 2^nd Maine, all but six elected to honor their enlistment contract, choosing to fight alongside the soldiers of the 20^th Maine for an additional year.

I prefer to remind people that the 20^th Maine was not the only regiment attached to the Army of the Potomac that received an influx of disgruntled soldiers in May 1863, men who formerly belonged to disbanded two-year regiments. In today’s tale, I’d like to profile a lesser-known group of “foolish” three-year soldiers who had to be transferred when their two-year regiments went home, the men of the 37^th and 38^th New York.

Here’s how their tale began.

When New York mobilized for war, Governor Edwin Morgan called up thirty-eight regiments to be officered, organized, and equipped at the state’s expense. (He numbered these units the 1^st through 38^th New York Volunteer Infantry Regiments.) As regiments go, they were not terribly unusual. They followed the standard protocols and regulations that governed regiments in federal service; however, unusually, Morgan decreed that all men who enlisted into these thirty-eight regiments would serve only two years in the army, instead of three. (At this point in the war, Union infantrymen typically enlisted for a three-year tour-of-duty.) Eventually, in late-May 1861, the War Department—which had grown desperate for more regiments to come to the defense of Washington—accepted Morgan’s two-year men into federal service, even promising to uphold the important stipulation that they would not serve no longer than two years. However, Secretary of War Simon Cameron insisted that Morgan must cease recruiting two-year men immediately. Thereafter, all soldiers from New York had to be enlisted for three years’ duty, the same as in other states.

The next unit raised in New York, the 39^th New York Volunteers (which mustered-in on June 6), became the state’s first three-year regiment. However, Cameron’s order created a problem for two of the two-year regiments, those that were still in the process of mobilizing. Neither the 37^th nor 38^th New York had filled their ranks by the time Cameron issued the order to cease recruiting two-year men. It took each regiment another week to fill, which meant that both units had to complete their organization by recruiting a sizable portion of men who were signed on for three years, even though the bulk of both regiments had signed on for only two years. (The 37^th New York mustered-in on June 6 and 7, and the 38^th New York mustered-in on June 3 and June 8.) After serving for several weeks in the defenses of Washington, both regiments joined the Army of the Potomac in the autumn, and by the spring of 1862, they were assigned to the same division in the 3^rd Corps. For the next year, the two New York regiments witnessed heavy action, fighting on the Peninsula, at Second Bull Run, at Chantilly, at Fredericksburg, and at Chancellorsville. By the end of May 1863, the 37^th New York counted up eighty-one killed-in-action and fifty-eight dead by other causes, while the 38^th New York tallied seventy-five killed-in-action and forty-six dead by other causes. During their short time in federal service, the two-year recruits from these two regiments had fought and bled copiously. It is no exaggeration to say that the volunteers of the 37^th and 38^th New York had made incredible sacrifices for their country.

When the Army of Potomac licked its wounds at Falmouth after the disastrous Battle of Chancellorsville, high command had to decide what to do about the three-year men who served in those two regiments. During the first week of June, the two-year men expected to return to New York City, 170 from the 37^th Regiment and fifty-seven from the 38^th. But what should be done about those who still had an additional year of service? Those contingents were not small in number. The 37^th New York contained 238, while the 38^th New York contained 387. Should they be sent home to muster-out with their regiments, or should the army find another way to use them? The New Yorkers’ divisional commander, Major General David Birney, decided to send the two-year men home as planned, while transferring the three-year men to another regiment, the 40^th New York. Under Birney’s order, the veterans from the 37^th New York joined their new regiment on May 29, while the veterans from the 38^th New York joined on June 3. “They were a valuable addition,” remembered the regimental historian of the 40^th (although was not present to witness the merger), “and they gave tone and vitality to our weakened ranks.”

In truth, the fusion of these three regiments was not at all cordial. Most of the three-year recruits from the 37^th and 38^th New York wanted to go home alongside their two-year brethren and they felt betrayed when the army denied their request. In fact, they became increasingly stubborn about it because Brig. Gen. Hobart Ward (the brigade commander and the former colonel of the 38^th New York) informed his men that they would go home on June 3, no matter what. Private William L. Hauptman, a twenty-three-year-old Bronx native who belonged to Company E, 38^th New York, recalled how he underwent a change of emotions thanks to Ward’s influence: “Before Genl. Ward told me that I was going home I had made up my mind to stay three years, but when he announced Publicly that the recruits of the 38^th N.Y. would go home, why I then made up my mind to go.”

What exactly happened during the discussion about what to do with the 37^th and 38^th New York is still a bit unclear, but it appears that a disagreement occurred between several high-ranking officers. General Ward insisted that all the members of his old regiment should be discharged on June 3, regardless of their enlistment contract, while General Birney believed that all the three-year men should serve out their time in the 40^th New York. Unable to come to an agreement, the two generals decided to consult the 38^th New York’s commander, Lieutenant Colonel Robert F. Allason. Unable to speak strongly or register any sort of convincing opinion on behalf of his men, Allason demurred to Birney’s wishes, refusing to ask for the three-year recruits’ early discharge. Private Hauptman described the complexity of this arrangement and the prejudice he believed actuated the decision:

Col. Allason is to blame for not taking the recruits home, he would not take the responsibility. I might say that Genl. Dead Beat Birney had a hand in the Pie, he never was a very great favorite of the 38^th or of Ward. Birney used to be the law partner to Secretary [of War Edwin] Stanton, its all in the family. Genl. Ward when he left [regimental command] made everything all right so there would be no difficulty about our going [home], but as soon as he left, Birney was Boss. . . . No doubt he dreams every night of the great Victory he gained over the 38^th[.] the boys all swear Vengeance against Allason, poor man, I would not [want to] be in his shoes for any amount.

With the decision thus rendered by Allason and Birney, the 565 three-year men of the 37^th and 38^th New York had to join the ranks of the 40^th New York, like it or not. Private Hauptman made it clear that this verdict cast a pall over the two regiments. He wrote to a friend: “my expectations, as well as others, ran very high, so high that it made the fall all the worse. . . . A great many were wounded (in the feelings) [when the news came].” Although he professed to have prepared himself for the possibility of staying on additional year, Hauptman admitted to homesickness. He wrote, “I would have given $100 to go home with the Regiment, even if I had to go back the next day. For the past twenty one months all I have been thinking about was going home with the Regiment but to be humbugged in this manner, makes the little I have done for the Union go for nothing, in my estimation.”

Unwillingly, Hauptman joined Company F, 40^th New York, but as he admitted to a friend, the word “mutiny” rumbled from lip to lip among the other three-year men. Hauptman believed, “Stack Arms will be the word.” The other 38^th New York soldiers “swear they will never go into a fight with the 40^th.” As for Hauptman, dark, perilous thoughts filled his mind as he contemplated his next move. He wrote, “If I was alone in the world and had no friends, why french leave [desertion] would be the [way to] go, but as I have a few friends that think a little of me, I will stay in the Army for their sake if not my own.”

Near as I can tell, the 40^th New York’s commander, Colonel Thomas Egan, did not have an inspirational speech to motivate his reluctant three-year men, quite unlike the situation involving Chamberlain and the 2^nd Maine. Egan demanded that all of his new soldiers respect his authority, and with that, he took his regiment north to fight at Gettysburg, where 150 of his soldiers fell killed or wounded. I wonder if those feelings of betrayal crept into the minds of the 37^th and 38^th New York soldiers as they battled their way across the “Valley of Death.”

Maybe those thoughts escaped Hauptman, at least. Despite all his grousing, he re-enlisted on January 18, 1864, and served with the 40^th New York for the rest of the war.

There aren't many photographs of the soldiers from the 37th and 38th New York Volunteers, but there is this one. This depicts the officers of the 37th New York (known as the "Irish Rifles"). The officer in the middle is Colonel Samuel B. Hayman.

 

On Behalf of a Grateful Nation: My Tribute to Dusty Kleiss

 

Tales from the Army of the Potomac is a blog dedicated to the valiant Union soldiers who fought in the Civil War, but occasionally I feel the need to let my interest in the Pacific War intrude in my Civil War affairs. Let this be one of those times.

For those of you who pay attention to the goings-on in my life, recently, I had to say farewell to a friend of mine, Captain Dusty Kleiss. He died on Friday, April 22, 2016. He was 100 years old.

Dusty was a dive bomber pilot who served in World War 2. During the opening days of the Pacific War, he belonged to Scouting Squadron Six, a carrier-based squadron attached to USS Enterprise (CV-6). He fought in several important engagements: The Battle of Pearl Harbor (Dec. 7, 1941), the Battle of the Marshall Islands (February 1, 1942), the Battle of Wake Island (February 24, 1942), the Battle of Marcus Island (March 4, 1942), and the Battle of Midway (June 4-6, 1942). At Midway, on June 4, Dusty piloted a Douglas SBD-3 Dauntless dive bomber labelled 6-S-7. Together with his squadron and his trusty gunner, RM 3/c John W. Snowden, Dusty participated in two missions that led to the sinking of four Japanese carriers. Dusty’s bombs scored direct hits on two of those carriers, the Kaga and the Hiryu. On June 6, Dusty participated in another mission. During this one, he made another direct hit, this time on a Japanese cruiser, the Mikuma. He was the only American pilot during the Battle of Midway to score three direct hits. As far as I’m concerned, he was the most indispensable American aviator at the battle because he caused the most physical damage of any U.S. pilot in the air during those three decisive days. During the war, he received the Distinguished Flying Cross and the Navy Cross. After the Battle of Midway, Dusty spent another twenty years in the Navy, retiring as a captain in 1962.

I first met Dusty back in January 2012. Together with my wife, I traveled to his apartment at the Air Force Village (now Blue Skies of Texas), a retirement community in San Antonio located just outside of Lackland Air Force Base. Originally, Laura and I wanted to interview him for a short article we were writing for the Hampton Roads Naval Museum’s historical journal, the Daybook. Our visit became a bit more involved than we thought. Soon, we came back a second time, and then a third, and we made many phone calls. In the end, we conducted hours upon hours of interviews, as Dusty shared his life story, his intimate tales, opinions, and confessions. He was a veteran with an interesting story to tell, and he wanted someone to remember it.

What struck me the most about Dusty was the fact that he hated to be called a hero. It bothered him greatly. He encountered the term often. Whenever he did public presentations on the Battle of Midway—and he did a great many for the nearby Museum of the Pacific War in Fredericksburg, Texas—visitors came up to him and called him a hero. This is no surprise. As is our custom nowadays, we tend to revere the World War 2 generation, calling them heroes whenever the opportunity presents itself. This was a tradition set in place by historians and politicians. For instance, in his 1997 book about World War 2 GIs, Stephen Ambrose wrote, “So they fought and won, and we all of us, living and yet to be born, must be profoundly grateful.” In 2004, President George W. Bush said: “They saved our country, and thereby saved the liberty of mankind.” I could go on. It’s fairly easy to find similar expressions of gratitude.

Dusty hated that kind of attention. “I’m anything but a hero,” he once told a reporter. “I was only doing what at the time was the proper thing to do.” During one of our conversations, he recollected an incident where the USAA invited him to be the guest of honor at their 2011 Memorial Day Commemoration. The whole event made him uncomfortable. He grumbled, “They just wanted to make me into some kind of hero. Just garbage!”

I watched the video of the event in question. The USAA showed a 12-minute clip that profiled Dusty and his actions at the Battle of Midway. At one point, Hugh Ambrose (son of Stephen Ambrose) asked Dusty to stand up and be recognized. Timidly, he arose from his seat in the corner, and the spotlight came on him. Without prompting, the audience surged from their seats and gave him a standing ovation. For two minutes the audience applauded loudly. My friend, Dusty, clutched a USS Enterprise ball cap nervously. Then, when the clapping subsided, he said, “I don’t deserve it, but I sure thank you.”

Dusty’s modesty only made me love him more. I rarely use the word, “hero.” After spending years in academia, I gained a healthy suspicion of the expression. Perhaps it is jaded of me to think this way, but whenever I hear the word, my eyebrows tilt in doubt. In my lifetime, I’ve only ever told one living person that he was my hero; that man was Dusty.

After one of our trips to San Antonio, my wife and I bid Dusty goodbye in the lobby of Air Force Village. After giving him a hug, I said: “Now, Dusty, I know you hate to be called a hero, but I want to let you know that you’re mine.” I expected him to grumble some self-effacing retort, but he didn’t. He giggled happily and stood there smiling. My wife Laura and I walked down a long hallway, bound for our rental car and a trip to the airport. When we looked back, we could see Dusty there, still in the hallway, still smiling happily.

I don’t know how to explain it. Dusty shrugged off every compliment he ever received about his service in World War 2, but for some reason, when I gave him the same effuse praise, he let it slide.

I prefer to think that my estimation of him is accurate. Back in 1941, the U.S. Navy asked a great deal from him. Effectively, the country said: “You will kill our foe. You will do this by dropping out of the sky like a meteor. You will plummet to earth and release your bomb at the last minute. Most likely, you will be killed in attempting this. You may be shot down. You may be hit by your own bomb blast. You might not pull out of your 240-knot dive. You might run out of gas on your trip back to your carrier. . . . But you will do this for us. We need to win and you must make the sacrifice.”

Dusty attempted to make the sacrifice. There were nineteen pilots in Dusty’s squadron at the Battle of Midway. Seven died in the battle. Two more died later in the war. As Dusty explained it, he just happened to be in the lucky half that lived. Even more luckily, he outlived the other nine who survived the war. In fact, Dusty was the last dive bomber veteran alive to have served at Midway, and I suspect, he was the last American pilot to have served at that battle. Four years ago, he wrote this for my wife’s museum’s publication: “At age ninety-six, I wonder why the Good Lord has spared me, perhaps the last dive bomber pilot that bombed a ship in the Battle of Midway? . . . The only thing I can presume is that He has not yet found me worthy to reach all those other Saints above us.”

On April 29, 2016, Dusty’s friends and family placed his earthly remains to rest in Fort Sam Houston National Cemetery. I had to honor to be there to witness it. As happens at military funerals, a Navy officer handed Dusty’s son, Jack, Jr., the flag that draped his father’s coffin and thanked him “on behalf of a grateful nation.” Lacking the talent to describe the emotion that impregnated those proceedings, I will say simply that I was truly moved by seeing it.

Dusty was my hero because he always knew that a living hero would be too proud. He didn’t die at Midway, and for that I am grateful; he lived long enough to become my cherished friend.

Now that I am back in Norfolk, I plan to have chicken wings and beer in his honor. (This was Dusty’s favorite meal, and incidentally, it’s also mine.) I respect the word “hero” too much not to keep his memory fresh in my mind.

Tally Ho! Dusty! You’re the bravest man I ever met.

 

 

This photograph depicts LTJG N. Jack "Dusty" Kleiss (1916-2016) in the summer of 1942. He is arm-in-arm with his wife, Jean Mochon.

 

This image depicts USS Enterprise (CV-6) in April 1942. That plane in the foreground is 6-S-7 with Dusty at the controls. 

 

 

 



That's Dusty in the middle. My wife and I are on either side.

 

April 29, 2016.