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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thus: Never eat a dead man’s cake!

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

“The Conduct of Hagood is Denounced as Treacherous”: Captain Dennis Dailey and the Capture of Hagood’s Brigade at the Battle of Globe Tavern, Introduction

 

This is a tale about an attempted flag capture. Well, actually, it’s about an attempted brigade capture with a Confederate flag in the middle. On August 21, 1864, at the Battle of Globe Tavern, a Union officer attempted to arrest an entire Confederate brigade, only to be thwarted at the last minute by a desperate Confederate officer and his handy revolver. In the immediate aftermath—and for years afterward—this incident became the battle’s most talked about event.

The Globe Tavern surrender incident involved two important characters: Brig. Gen. Johnson Hagood (whose brigade tried to surrender) and Captain Dennis Burke Dailey (who attempted to convince Hagood’s men to surrender).

Civil War enthusiasts might already know a little bit about these men. Hagood was a plantation owner, born on February 21, 1829, in Barnwell, South Carolina. In 1847, he graduated from the South Carolina Military Academy, and when the Civil War commenced, he was among the first men from his state to volunteer for Confederate military service. (He even participated in the bombardment of Fort Sumter.) In July 1862, Hagood received a promotion to brigadier general, and he oversaw the burial of the dead after the July 18, 1863, Battle of Battery Wagner. Infamously, he refused to return the body of Col. Robert Gould Shaw to Union lines, earning the ire of a generation of abolitionists. In the spring of 1864, his brigade reinforced Robert E. Lee’s army in Virginia. Thus, in the war’s last year, Hagood found himself in the thick of things at the Siege of Petersburg.

The other character, Captain Dailey, was born in County Galway, Ireland, on November 15, 1839. In 1845 or 1846, he immigrated to the United States with his parents, likely driven out of his homeland by the potato blight. He graduated from Antioch College in Ohio, and on April 18, 1861, enlisted in the ranks of Company B, 2^nd Wisconsin Infantry. He participated in many of the 2^nd Wisconsin’s major battles, and by the summer of 1864, he served on the staff of Brig. Gen. Lysander Cutler, a division commander in the 5^th Corps.

Several years ago, historian David Silkenat published a book entitled, Raising the White Flag: How Surrender Defined the American Civil War. As implied by its subtitle, Silkenat’s book argued that the concept of surrendering was endemic to American ideas about war, and despite its persistent ambiguities, it formed the primary interpersonal relationship between the warring factions of the Civil War. That is to say, if Union and Confederate soldiers encountered each other in battle, one of two events happened: they killed each other, in which case, no social interaction occurred; or, one side surrendered, forcing the other side to assume the role of captor.

I won’t venture to say whether or not Silkenat’s thesis is correct—I’ll leave that for readers to decide on their own—but I would like to say a word about his thesis’s relationship to the Globe Tavern surrender incident. You see, the relationship is nonexistent. Silkenat did not mention it. This surprised me, given the incident’s prominence in the memory of Civil War veterans. Surely, it warranted analysis and it would have assisted Silkenat’s purpose of explaining the growing sense of “un-Americanness” attached to the act of surrendering. As the Globe Tavern incident demonstrated, even though the surrender of the entire brigade could have spared Hagood’s Confederates a grisly fate, Hagood could not stomach the thought of his men obeying the orders of an enemy officer. To stop his men from raising the white flag, he shot Dailey through the side.

In essence, this is a tale about the ambiguities of surrender, and perhaps more importantly, it’s a tale of two officers: an Army of the Potomac officer who risked his own life to grant mercy to his foes, and a Confederate general who took advantage of that mercy.

This is a long tale, so it’s in several parts:

PART 1: THE BATTLE OF GLOBE TAVERN

PART 2: THE ATTACK OF HAGOOD’S BRIGADE

PART 3: THE STRUGGLE FOR THE 27^TH SOUTH CAROLINA’S FLAG

PART 4: THE POSTSCRIPT

This is Dennis Burke Dailey, shown as second lieutenant in the 2nd Wisconsin.

This is Brigadier General Johnson Hagood.

Captain Dennis Dailey and the Capture of Hagood’s Brigade at the Battle of Globe Tavern, Part 4: The Postscript

 

This is the last entry in a 4-part series. Check out the Introduction and Parts 1, 2, and 3.

In the aftermath of the Battle of Globe Tavern, the encounter between Dennis Dailey and Johnson Hagood became the talk of the Army of the Potomac. Brig. Gen. Edward S. Bragg, Dailey’s brigade commander, later recalled the scene, which he witnessed from his vantage point behind the earthworks. He wrote, “A braver or less discreet [man] in battle never lived. Without waiting for orders or considering [the consequences] he put spurs to his horse and, dashing across the few rods that lay between us and the unsuspecting rebels, rode up to the colors of the foremost regiment, seized the staff and with an audacity that seemed more sublime the more you think of it, [said], ‘Gentlemen, you are my prisoners.’”

Colonel Theodore Lyman, a staff officer for Maj. Gen. George Meade, learned about the incident only days after it happened. Even though he had not been there to witness it, Lyman had heard enough gossip that he felt as if he could describe the incident with authority:

The officer [Dailey] approached General Hagood and either demanded or seized the flag he held in his hand, when Hagood shot him mortally with a pistol, and shouted to his men to run. Some did so, others (about 300) gave themselves up, and others were shot down as they ran. The conduct of Hagood is denounced as treacherous, but this all depends on the details of the affair, which remain to be proved. The next time I think we shall go on shooting till some official announcement of surrender is made!

Amazingly, Dailey survived his injury. While recovering from his wound, he received promotion to major, and in 1865, he participated in the final battles of the Petersburg Campaign. Dailey he received a brevet promotion to lieutenant colonel “for gallant and meritorious services at the battle of White Oak Road in Virginia,” another engagement in which he was wounded, and he mustered out on July 14, 1865. Two years later, Dailey moved to Council Bluffs, Iowa, where he lived out the rest of his life. The governor of Iowa appointed him to the office of district attorney and he charted a long career as a prosecutor. In 1874, he married a woman named Mary E. Warren, and they raised seven children.

Although it is largely forgotten today, the Dailey-Hagood affair made it into the war’s earliest histories. In fact, William Swinton’s 1866 Campaigns of the Army of the Potomac mentioned it in a footnote. The Confederates told tales about the incident as well. They, likewise, credited Dailey for his daring deed. “All agreed, however,” recollected staff officer Thomas J. Mackey, who published his version of events in McClure’s Magazine, “that no braver deed was ever done than that of the Yankee captain who fell, still grasping that flag.” 

Most early accounts from former Confederates mistakenly believed that Dailey had been killed by Hagood’s gunshot wound. In 1878, the Philadelphia Inquirer published an article written by a Confederate captain claiming that Hagood’s pistol shot had ended the life of the Yankee officer.

Fifteen years later, Dailey decided to set the record straight, at least for Hagood anyway. He wrote Hagood a letter, introducing himself and informing him that he had survived the pistol shot. Dailey also had a financial reason to make contact. He planned to apply for a federal pension, and he needed proof that he had sustained a gunshot wound during the war. What better way to prove that his wound existed, he thought, than to contact the enemy soldier who had shot him.

Dailey sent this letter:

Council Bluffs, Ia., Aug. 7, 1879.

Gen. Hagood: I am the person whom you shot on the 21st day of August, 1864, at what is known with us as the battle of the Globe (or Yellow) Tavern, on the Weldon Railroad. Doubtless you remember the circumstances. In the many comments on the event of your shooting me, etc., I have been repeatedly reported as dead from the effects of the shot. The last report of the event, together with an account of that battle, that has been brought to my notice was one published in the weekly Philadelphia Enquirer of some week in June, 1878. The article was by a Capt. Young, of the Confederate service. In this publication I was reported as being shot dead at that time.

Your address has been sent me by Senator [John B.] Gordon. What I want is this: That if you do not deem it inconsistent or improper, you will furnish me with a certificate stating the facts and circumstances of your firing at and wounding a Federal officer on the occasion as above, and if you ever heard the name and rank of such officer, state upon information. My rank at the time was that of Captain, and I was then upon Gen. Cutler’s staff, who commanded the division with which yours came in contact.

I am making application for pension, desire to use your certificate in that way. Should you see fit to favor me with it, be kind enough to sign and verify the same before the clerk of one of your courts of record, who will affix his seal to the same. With the wound inflicted as above, and one afterwards received on the 31st of March, 1865, at Gravely Run, I am almost totally disabled. The ball from your pistol entered my right side and penetrated to my backbone, from which place it was, after a long time, extracted. Your certificate will be of great value to me. Should you see fit to favor me with it, please do so at your very earliest convenience.

I am very respectfully yours,

D. B. Dailey.

Johnson Hagood was easy to locate. Since the war, he had returned to politics. Like many white South Carolinians, he resented postwar Reconstruction, and he led a fierce campaign of violence against African American voters and against white Republican politicians. During the Election of 1876, he won the race for Comptroller General. His electoral victory, one of several big victories for the Democrats, helped spell an end to Reconstruction in South Carolina.

Hagood received Dailey’s letter, and immediately replied to it.

Columbia, S. C, Aug. 18, 1879.

Capt. D. B. Dailey, Council Bluffs, Iowa:

My Dear Sir- Your communication of the 7th instant, requesting from me a sworn statement of the facts connecting you and myself with the combat, on the 21st of August, 1864, upon the Weldon road, with the view of being used by you in an application for a pension, was received a few days ago.

Enclosed you will find an affidavit of the facts as I saw them, and which in all important particulars I believe to be correct. It is made out from memoranda taken at the time.

I have never before given a detailed statement of the incident to any one, nor have any of the publications upon the subject emanated, directly or indirectly, from me. Capt. Young, to whom you refer, was not a member of my brigade, and I do not now recollect ever having met him. His account is based upon the general army rumor of the day. I made a very brief official report of the part my brigade took in the action, which may or may not now be in Washington among the papers of the Confederate War Office.

Will you permit me to express the little pleasure given me by the receipt of your letter—the knowledge that your wound had not proved mortal. We were both, under different circumstances, endeavoring to do our duty, and your gallant bearing made a profound impression upon me. It will be a matter of great satisfaction to me if I shall have contributed in the least by the statement enclosed to your obtaining from the government the recognition of your services which they so well deserve.

I am, very respectfully,

Johnson Hagood.

Hagood’s affidavit was, likewise, laudatory to Dailey. Here’s a segment of it:

The attempt of this officer to secure the surrender of a whole brigade came very near succeeding. It was one of the most dashing feats witnessed by deponent on either side during the war. Upon the chance of securing a prize for the side he served, Captain Dailey doubly staked his life, for he was while in the Confederate line in as much danger from the fire of his own men as from his enemy.

Deponent further says that he makes this affidavit at the request, received through the mail, of D. B. Dailey, of Council Bluffs, Iowa, who informs him that he is the Capt. Dailey referred to; that he is disabled from this and other wounds, and is applying for a pension from the United States Government.

Deponent has never known Captain Dailey, except on the battle field as described; has no pecuniary interest whatever in the application by him for a pension, and complies with the request for a statement of facts in the hope, most sincerely entertained, that it may benefit a brave soldier.

Hagood didn’t waste time before telling his former comrades about what had happened. He let friends know that the unknown Union officer he had shot at Globe Tavern had survived. In 1880, one year after Dailey had contacted him, Hagood ran for governor and won in a landslide. His former staff officer, Thomas J. Mackey, was a circuit judge, holding court at Columbia. He called on the newly-elected governor to congratulate him. Mackey said that Hagood was “highly elated” to see him, and as soon as Mackey took his seat, Hagood said: “You recollect that Federal officer that I was obliged to shoot in the battle of Yellow Tavern, to recover the flag? Well, thank heaven, I did not kill him! He is still living. Here is a letter that I have just received from him. Please read it.”

According to Mackey, Hagood invited Dailey to visit the State House. Apparently, Hagood had the flag of the 27^th South Carolina on display there. He thought it would be appropriate to give Dailey another chance to hold it as a gesture of reconciliation. Dailey politely refused the invitation, citing health problems that prevented him from traveling.

This is Johnson Hagood, circa. 1887.

Now, to be clear, the recollections of Mackey and Hagood (whose memoir was published posthumously in 1910) need to be viewed with some care. Both men had gone to great lengths to restart their political careers amid an era of racial and sectional tension. I’m sure northerners had not forgotten that it had been Hagood who held command of Battery Wagner the day after the 54^th Massachusetts attacked it, and it been Hagood who refused to return the body of Col. Robert Gould Shaw to Union lines. To insult the abolitionists, Hagood ordered the garrison at Wagner to dig a trench grave for the dead of the 54^th Massachusetts. When Union authorities asked for Shaw’s body under a flag of truce, Hagood personally delivered the rebuff, “We have buried him with his niggers!” In the post-Reconstruction years, Hagood wished to create an impression that he was making nice with the people who had ended his dream of a slaveholders’ Confederacy.

But even with all this taken into consideration, Hagood did, in all likelihood, find it exhilarating that Dailey had survived. Despite the intense hatred of Yankees the war had engendered in him, he probably experienced what many war veterans eventually experience, begrudging respect for his former opponents. It is common phenomenon for veterans—especially those among the defeated faction—to view their former adversaries as respectable fighters, so long as considerable time has passed. Defeated veterans can often find it helpful to establish meaning for their own sacrifices by focusing on the bravery it took to survive combat. After a cause has been vanquished and forgotten, all that veterans have left are the memories of battle. Defeated veterans can tell themselves they fought a good fight because the adversaries they faced were equally tough. It was no shame losing a war, they could tell themselves, if their foes displayed admirable fighting qualities. Thus, Hagood could claim bravery for himself because he believed he confronted a brave man at Globe Tavern.

But I wonder if Dailey felt the same. In his own recollection of events, Dailey did not go out of his way to praise Hagood. I imagine that he may have, to some degree, resented Hagood’s intervention. After all, at the moment he grabbed the 27th South Carolina’s flag, Dailey had the surrender pretty much wrapped up. Hagood’s last-minute interference deprived Dailey of his trophy and cursed him with a painful wound that lasted the rest of his life. The comment made by Theodore Lyman strikes me as a most interesting interpretation of the entire affair. Lyman wrote, “The next time I think we shall go on shooting till some official announcement of surrender is made!” 

Civil War armies tended to follow semi-official customs about surrendering. Surrenders could not happen until a general agreed to it. But what if no general was present? How could anyone stop a trapped unit from getting slaughtered? Lyman seemed to think that Dailey had done the morally agreeable thing, ordering the whole brigade to surrender simply because it would spare the lives of the men trapped in the moat. Without a doubt, it was the principled thing to do. But such action ruffled the feathers of Hagood, who refused to tolerate an enemy officer issuing orders to his troops. Hagood believed that, in war, he was equal to his opponents, that, as brigade commander, he alone retained the right to decide whether his men fought, fled, or surrendered. To him, surrendering was an act of negotiation. But the incident at Globe Tavern suggests that his assumption was a fallacy. The act of surrendering frequently rejects the principle of choice. It enforces inequality rather than equality. The defeated, by nature, must accept the will of the victor. From his position of triumph, Dailey granted mercy and Hagood took advantage of it.

Both men died the same year. Hagood died on January 4, 1898, and was buried at the Church of the Holy Apostles in Barnwell. Dailey died two months later, on March 25, and was buried at Walnut Hill Cemetery in Council Bluffs.

This is Dennis Dailey's headstone in Council Bluffs.

Captain Dennis Dailey and the Capture of Hagood’s Brigade at the Battle of Globe Tavern, Part 3: The Struggle for the 27th South Carolina’s Flag

This post is part of a series. Check out the Introduction, Part 1, and Part 2.

Johnson Hagood’s men were trapped! Due to poor intelligence from their division commander, they had foolishly charged into a moat at the base of a reentry angle in the Union line. Union infantry fire hit them from front and left flank, and Union artillery blasted canister from their right. How would they get out of this?

At this crucial moment, a Union officer offered Hagood’s men an olive branch. Amid the chaotic exchange of gunfire, Captain Dennis Burke Dailey of Brig. Gen. Lysander Cutler’s staff rode between the lines. (Capt. Dailey served as Provost Marshal for the 4^th Division, 5^th Corps.) Mounting his bay horse, he galloped toward the nearest sally-port, ordering the nearby Union infantry to cease firing. Dailey came out in front of the 27^th South Carolina, and seeing the enemy color bearer in front of him, he demanded the surrender of the flag. It was a timely request. Hagood’s men had just reached their breaking point. In the center of the line, a cluster of men from the 27^th South Carolina raised their hands as a token of surrender. So remembered Confederate staff officer Thomas J. Mackey, “The color-sergeant, seemingly dazed, or perhaps paralyzed by the sublime effrontery of the demand, surrendered the colors.”

This photograph depicts Dennis Dailey as captain. This is probably how he looked during the Battle of Globe Tavern.

Promptly, Dailey grabbed the emblem, which happened to be a state flag with the arms of South Carolina emblazoned on it. With the captured flag in hand, Dailey shouted to all the rebels in the vicinity. If they surrendered, the Union troops behind the earthworks would cease firing and spare their lives. Dailey recollected, “A number of both officers and men, deeming their plight a hopeless one, obeyed the order almost mechanically.” They tossed their weapons aside. Slowly but surely, they forded the moat and began filing up the escarpment.

Brig. Gen. Hagood was only 75 yards away from this scene. He had other ideas. Believing he could still extract his brigade from the deathtrap into which it had charged, he shouted from his position behind the 21^st South Carolina that someone needed to shoot the intruding Union officer and reclaim the 27^th South Carolina’s flag. Unfortunately for him, no one listened. Recollected Hagood, “They either did not hear me or bewildered by the surrender of part of their number, failed to obey.”

Hagood was beside himself with shame. He was a diehard rebel with a vicious hatred of abolitionists; he couldn’t bear to witness his whole brigade march into enemy lines as prisoners. He recollected, “It was a critical moment and demanded instant and decided action. In a few minutes the disposition to surrender would have spread and the whole brigade [would] have been lost.”

With a wounded orderly—Pvt. Dwight Stoney—behind him, Hagood pushed his way through the ranks, turned right, and began running along the front of his brigade. The Union soldiers, who were still inside the parapet, and who were only 30 yards away, began firing at the fleet-footed general, but they failed to bring him down. As he ran along the line, Hagood drew his pistol and began firing at Dailey, but at such a great distance, his first shots had no effect. Eventually, Hagood came face to face with Dailey, who was superintending the movement of the Confederate prisoners into the Union earthworks. It was then that they had their parley.

There are several postwar versions of the conversation that followed. They are all basically the same, but there is a little variation between them. By combining these accounts, I’ve cobbled together the most plausible exchange of words. So please keep in mind, the dialogue that follows is a composite version of what happened.

As soon as he came on the scene, with his free hand, Hagood seized the bridle of Dailey’s horse. In his other hand, Hagood held his cocked revolver, which he leveled at Dailey’s chest. Meanwhile, Dailey had one hand on the reins and another hand on the furled flag, which he held upright, ferrule resting on the pommel of his saddle.

Angrily, Hagood barked, “Give me that flag, sir!”

A bit shocked, Dailey asked, “Who are you?”

Hagood replied, “I command this brigade. I admire your bravery. Give me the flag, and you shall return unmolested to your own lines.”

Dailey did not see any reason to believe Hagood’s bluster. He replied, “Your command has surrendered and you are a prisoner.”

Hagood rejoined, “No one but myself has any authority to surrender and I do not propose to do so. Return the flag and you are at liberty to return to your own lines!”

Hagood’s posturing still had no effect. Dailey replied, “You have made a brave fight, General, but if you will look behind you, you will see that you are lost.” Nodding, Dailey gestured to the west.

Hagood looked behind him and could see a crowd of Union troops—men from Griffin’s division—had exited from the protruding earthwork that encased Martin’s battery. They were now cutting off Hagood’s retreat.

Before Dailey could say anything else, Hagood cut him off. Peremptorily, he demanded, “Will you surrender that flag, sir, immediately, yes or no?”

Hagood had drawn his proverbial line in the sand.

This is the way Hagood later remembered what happened next:

Daly [sic] was a man of fine presence and sat with loosened rein upon a noble-looking bay that stood with head and tail erect and flashing eye and distended nostrils, quivering in every limb with excitement, but not moving in his tracks. In reply to [my] abrupt demand, the rider raised his head proudly and decisively answered, “No!”

As Dailey remembered it, his reply was: “By the living God, NO!”

This is the only known illustration of the Dailey-Hagood incident (of which I am aware). Dailey is depicted at left. Hagood is depicted at right. Incorrectly, Hagood is shown mounted. At the time of the battle, he was on foot.

With that, Hagood fired his pistol, just once, at close range. The ball entered Dailey’s right side, passed through his abdomen, but stopped inside his backbone. Dailey toppled over backwards, his hand still clutching the 27^th South Carolina’s flag.

Turning to the Confederate soldiers in his vicinity, Hagood shouted, “Run for it, men!”

Pvt. Stoney pulled the 27^th South Carolina’s flag from Dailey’s grip. Both he and Hagood assumed the pistol shot had killed him. Meanwhile, Hagood mounted Dailey’s horse, and putting spurs to him, dashed off to his own lines. Some of his soldiers obeyed his orders, turning about and attacking Dushane’s Marylanders, who were in between them and freedom. Shrapnel from an exploding shell likely fired by Hart’s battery mortally wounded Captain Dailey’s horse.

The horse—whose name is lost to history—received a wound in the loin. It went down in a tumble, trapping Hagood beneath him. Another officer—Second Lieut. William J. Taylor of the 7^th South Carolina Battalion—arrived to help Hagood, pulling him from beneath the dying animal. In the horse’s last gasps, he kicked Taylor in the head, which concussed him so badly that an enlisted soldier had to lead him to the rear. According to a postwar source, Taylor suffered a permanent brain injury from the kick. In 1894, Hagood’s staff officer, Mackey, said that Taylor “never entirely recovered.”

Only a portion of Hagood’s brigade managed to escape. When it collected near the Vaughn Road, 449 officers and men (60% of the original complement) were missing. Union forces reported the capture of 517 prisoners. Most of these came from Hagood’s brigade, but a few belonged to other units in Mahone’s division. The 5^th Corps infantry captured six enemy flags from the field and they buried 211 enemy soldiers. Although the 27^th South Carolina’s flag got away, thanks to the efforts of Captain Dailey, many of Hagood’s brigade did not.

What happened to Dailey and Hagood after the battle? Find out in the last part!

Captain Dennis Dailey and the Capture of Hagood’s Brigade at the Battle of Globe Tavern, Part 2: The Attack of Hagood’s Brigade

 

This post is part of a series. The Introduction is here and Part One is here.

After dawn, August 21, 1864, the Army of Northern Virginia executed a poorly coordinated attack against the Union line at Globe Tavern. The Union infantry and artillery easily blunted this rebel assault. However, one Confederate brigade suffered more than the others.

Mahone’s southern-most brigade, the one at the far right of the Confederate line, had the worst luck. Brig. Gen. Johnson Hagood commanded it. It consisted of five regiments from South Carolina and it numbered 741 officers and men altogether. Hagood’s men had been marching since 2 A.M., taking a circuitous route along the Squirrel Level Road, but they didn’t arrive at the front until well after dawn (and after all the other brigades had already gone into the fight). Mahone briefed Hagood, telling him that his brigade held the right flank of the Confederate line. Mahone said that if Hagood advanced steadily eastward, he would find the enemy flank and roll it up. Looking ahead from his brigade’s position along the Vaughn Road, Hagood could see only woods and swamp. Mahone assured him that, once his troops cleared the trees, he would find the enemy only 300 yards further on. Further, Mahone stated, “they are not entrenched.”

Hagood’s brigade began its advance at about 9 A.M. It passed through heavy woods and then it crossed a meandering swamp (now called Cernys Pond). After that, it broke into a clearing. The rebels pushed back a cloud of Union skirmishers, and then, after ascending a small hill, the primary Union line came into view. Of course, Mahone’s prediction did not hold true. Instead of finding an unprotected enemy flank, Hagood beheld a “strongly entrenched line, crowded with men and artillery, extending right and left as far as [I] could see.” Even worse, none of the other brigades from Mahone’s division could be seen. It appeared as if Hagood’s brigade was on its own. Hagood took position on foot behind the 21^st South Carolina. He ordered his men to carry their arms at “Right Shoulder Shift.” With that, his 740 South Carolinians advanced at the double-quick, straight ahead, moving across 250 yards of cleared, level farm fields.

Brig. Gen. Johnson Hagood (seen here) received poor instructions from his division commander, William Mahone.

From their earthworks, the soldiers from the 5^th Corps had an unobstructed view of Hagood’s attack. A 5^th Corps artilleryman recollected, “When near enough for execution, the flank batteries opened first, our infantry hugging the ground closely, the artillery shots passing over their heads, the rebels all the while pressing up nearer as our advanced line fell back on their supports. The ruse worked well. At a given signal the whole line of artillery opened, using up the enemy fearfully.”

A member of Hagood’s brigade staff agreed. The Union small arms and artillery savaged the South Carolinians as they made their run for the earthworks. The staff officer wrote, “Where the dead fell, the living stept; and their levelled bayonets soon sparkled within twenty feet of the line of intrenchments.”

As the South Carolinians approached the enemy works, they descended into a deep moat. Involuntarily, the whole line halted. In front of them, the rebels beheld a 10-foot-wide ditch filled with water from the previous day’s rains. Unable to judge the depth, none of the South Carolinians plunged in. Unable to advance, but unwilling to withdraw, the South Carolinians trained their guns at the 30-foot parapet and fired, doing little, if any, damage to the Union troops. The men of Col. James Gwyn’s 3^rd Brigade, 1^st Division, 5^th Corps confronted the South Carolinians. Having been hammered two days before, Gwyn’s infantry were eager to pay them back.

This Google Maps view depicts the modern topography of the Battle of Globe Tavern. Keep in mind, the modern railroad is on the incorrect side of the Halifax Road. In 1864, it would have been on the east side.

Here, I've crudely drawn in the 1864 positions of the various units. The light blue lines depict the Union earthworks. The dark blue lines depict the Union infantry and artillery positions. The red lines depict Hagood's brigade. The black line depicts the 1864 railroad. Keep in mind, I'm not entirely sure of the order of Hagood's regiments. I'm certain of the placement of the 21st and 25th South Carolina, but the position of the other three regiments in his brigade is speculative.

Hagood’s men were in a pickle. Not only were they trapped in the moat, but they had struck a portion of the Union works that formed a reentry angle. (In ordinary terms, this meant that the rebels faced a concave bend.) A portion of the Union line—Gwyn’s brigade—was in front of them, but another portion of the Union line fired at them from the left. Col. Hofmann’s brigade was on that side of the reentry. Meanwhile, on the right side of Hagood’s line, the Confederates faced a protruding earthwork manned by Capt. Augustus Martin’s Battery C, 3^rd Massachusetts Light Artillery, which swept the position with canister. In this position, the South Carolinians could not hope to stand for long.

To make matters worse, Hagood had lost control of his brigade. From his position behind the 21^st South Carolina, he shouted for his men to redress their line, but no one responded. He recalled, “[I] shouted again and again, [ordering] the command to halt; but the crash and rattle of twelve or fifteen pieces of artillery, and probably 2,500 rifles, which had now opened upon us at close range, drowned [my] voice and the fury of the battle was upon [my] men.”

How did his men get out of this fix? The story continues here.

Captain Dennis Dailey and the Capture of Hagood’s Brigade at the Battle of Globe Tavern, Part 1: The Battle of Globe Tavern

This is the first part of of a longer series. The introduction can be found here.

The story of the Dailey-Hagood incident begins with the Battle of Globe Tavern, one of several battles that occurred on the south side of Petersburg during the summer of 1864. By this point in the war, Lt. Gen. Ulysses S. Grant had settled for a siege as a means of destroying Lee’s army. But to make it work, Grant had to send his troops to cut the main arteries into Petersburg. The first one that had to go was the Weldon Railroad, the line that connected the city to central North Carolina and thence to the vital seaport of Wilmington. The Army of the Potomac’s commander, Maj. Gen. George Meade, believed Maj. Gen. Gouverneur Warren’s 5^th Corps could handle this operation. In mid-August, the 5^th Corps set out for its target—Globe Tavern—a three-story brick structure near the railroad. Meanwhile, to keep Lee’s attention directed elsewhere, soldiers from the 2^nd Corps made a diversionary attack on the north side of the James River. If things went according to plan, the 5^th Corps infantry would destroy the railroad before Lee could react.

This photo depicts the Globe Tavern, which served as Warren's headquarters.

Warren’s troops arrived in the vicinity of Globe Tavern on August 18, 1864. Immediately, the Yankees went to work, tearing up the railroad tracks and bending them around the trunks of nearby trees. Humorously, they twisted the rails into the shape of a Maltese Cross, the symbol of their corps.

Here, 5th Corps soldiers bend the rails of the Weldon Railroad.

The destruction of the railroad went according to plan, but unfortunately, the soldiers of the 5^th Corps faced a Confederate counterattack. Unwilling to sit passively and let the Union troops sever this important rail line, Lieut. Gen. A. P. Hill’s corps sallied forth from Petersburg on a mission to drive the bluecoats from their position. On the afternoon of August 18, one of Hill’s divisions—Maj. Gen. Henry Heth’s—attacked Warren’s vanguard, driving the bluecoats southward, pushing them along the path of the railroad. Although driven from the field, the Union troops did not panic. Instead, they fell back to a more defensible position, one closer to the tavern. There, they dug in. The next day, Maj. Gen. William Mahone’s division renewed the attack. One 5^th Corps division—Maj. Gen. Samuel W. Crawford’s—routed. However, Warren brought up reinforcements (mainly units from the nearby 9^th Corps), and once again, he stabilized his line. The next day, August 20, rainy weather moved in, preventing the armies from engaging, but the Union troops continued to reinforce their breastworks.

By the morning of Sunday, August 21, the weather—although still a bit misty—had begun to clear. The Union earthworks resembled a backwards number 7, with a line of infantry and artillery extending east-west across the Halifax Road and another line running northwest-southeast along the west side of the Weldon Railroad. Captain Patrick Hart’s 15^th New York Independent Battery held the apex of the Union line. Col. Nathan Dushane’s Maryland Brigade formed on the right of Hart’s battery and Brig. Gen. Edward S. Bragg’s Iron Brigade formed on the left. Col. J. William Hofmann’s brigade extended the Iron Brigade’s line to the southeast, connecting with Maj. Gen. Charles Griffin’s Division, which continued the 5^th Corps line to its terminus.

This map depicts the situation on August 21, 1864. The main Confederate effort targeted the apex of the Union line near the Blick farm; however, one errant brigade--Hagood's--attacked the position near the reentry angle.

Over the nighttime hours, the Confederates prepared to make their last assault. Lieut. Gen. Hill ordered his division commanders—Heth and Mahone—to attack the Union line at dawn. Heth planned to strike the Union right flank, and Mahone planned to strike Union apex, which curved around a farm owned by the Blick family.

The Confederate attack did not occur in a coordinated manner. Misty rain hampered the deployment of the infantry, and, as consequence, the two Confederate divisions set off at different times. Thus, when the Confederates made their grand assault, they delivered two uncoordinated punches, both easily repulsed by Warren’s 5^th Corps.

So, how did one Confederate brigade get trapped? Find that out in the next post.

The tale continues here.

Captain of the Coehorn Battery

 

On June 17, 1864, Confederate sharpshooters killed the commander of the Army of the Potomac’s first Coehorn mortar battery. At the time, the Confederates considered it a minor victory over a treacherous new adversary, one that threatened to make life in the trenches around Petersburg a veritable hell. For the Army of the Potomac, the death of the Coehorn battery commander signaled a terrible first sacrifice, but one that resulted from the addition of a powerful new tool—a weapon with immeasurable importance that ultimately helped the Army of the Potomac dislocate the rebels from their underground burrows.

This is tale is about the death of Captain D. K. Smith Jones, Captain of the Coehorn mortars.

This is the captain of the Coehorn mortars, Capt. D. K. S. Jones.

But first: what was a Coehorn mortar?

In short, a Coehorn was a lightweight, portable artillery tube. We might rightly consider it as the predecessor to the 60-mm mortar used by soldiers in modern times. The Coehorn made its first appearance back in 1673. A Dutch engineer, Menno van Coehorn, developed the concept as a means of dealing with prolonged siege operations—a troublesome problem for most European commanders. High walls and Vaubanian bastions made it difficult for besieging armies to capture towns quickly. Menno Coehorn believed that vertical trajectory weapons might offer an answer. Thus, he developed the mortar that bore his name. The Coehorn mortar’s first combat occurred during the Siege of Kaiserswerth in 1702, and following that, Coehorns became a mainstay of European siege operations for the next 100 years. In the nineteenth century, Coehorns existed in various sizes. For U.S. forces during the Civil War, they generally operated at twelve or twenty-four pounds. The twenty-four pound version could fire a 17-inch shell up to 1,200 yards. When fully loaded, a Coehorn mortar mounted on its carriage weighed 313 pounds.

Typically, a four-man squad carried a single Coehorn into its firing position. Then, a team of gunners loaded the shell into the tube, which was fixed at a 45-degree angle. The size of the powder charge determined the range and height of the round. When the shell was fired, it shot high into the air, nearly vertical, moving in a slow arc, and witnesses marveled at how the naked eye could see the fuse fizzing away as the shell careened toward its target. When the shell finally landed and exploded, it produced a monstrous fireball, an explosion much larger than standard light artillery rounds. Coehorn batteries possessed a major advantage in that the gunners did not need to reposition each gun after firing it. The Coehorns sat on flat wooden carriages. The concussion caused the Coehorns to buck, but they didn’t roll backwards because they did not possess any wheels.

This is a rare image of Model 1841 Coehorn mortars, the kind used by Battery D, 4th New York Heavy Artillery. They are seen in park with tompions affixed.

From 1861 to 1864, the Army of the Potomac had no use for Coehorns because they army did not normally engage in prolonged siege operations. (The one exception was Yorktown; there, the army employed 13-inch seacoast mortars, but the smaller Coehorns remained back at the arsenal.) The flat trajectory of light artillery batteries—and their easy evacuation through the limbering up process—made wheel-mounted guns preferable for combat situations.

However, all that changed in 1864 when the Army of the Potomac found itself embroiled in the Overland Campaign, which created a sprawling web of earthworks across Spotsylvania and Hanover Counties.

The first Coehorns—eight of them—joined the Army of the Potomac at the commencement of the Overland Campaign. They were attached to Battery F, 15^th New York Heavy Artillery. During the Battle of the Mule Shoe Salient, the 15^th New York fired its Coehorns at the rebel-occupied Bloody Angle. Sadly, it was not a marvelous debut. Many of the rounds overshot their targets and some shells even landed among the lines of prone Union infantry on the west side of the Angle. Apparently, Coehorn mortars required very exacting sighting methods. With such a high-angle trajectory, any miscalculation could send an errant mortar shell spiraling far away from its intended target.

This sketch by Alfred Waud depicts the Coehorn mortars in action during the Overland Campaign.

Despite the weapon’s lackluster first appearance, the Army of the Potomac’s Chief of Artillery, Brigadier General Henry J. Hunt, admired the premise. Coehorns were portable and if placed in the right hands, they might weaken impressive defenses built by Lee’s army. Even after the failure of the Coehorns at Spotsylvania, Hunt ordered twenty-two additional Coehorns shipped to the army. By the end of the Overland Campaign, the Army of the Potomac had forty on hand.

The first battery of Coehorns remained attached to the 15^th New York Heavy Artillery until May 30. Many of the Army of the Potomac’s professionally-trained artillery officers did not want the 15^th handling these unique weapons. The 15^th New York Heavy Artillery was a German-speaking regiment and it lacked a sufficient number officers who understood English, which displeased the xenophobic West Pointers. Also, some of the infantry officers believed the 15^th New York would be better suited if the entire regiment were armed as infantry. As a consequence, the commander of the 2^nd Corps artillery brigade, Colonel John C. Tidball, insisted that the Coehorns go to an English-speaking unit with extensive garrison experience. General Hunt agreed. Thus, he transferred the Coehorns to Battery D, 4^th New York Heavy Artillery, a regiment that had been in service since December 1861.

This photograph depicts the officers of the 4th New York Heavy Artillery in garrison at Fort Corcoran. Captain Jones is hard to spot. He's thirteenth from the left.

Here's a close-up of Captain Jones. Only a portion of his face is visible.

On May 30, the 4^th New York received its new weapons and deployed them against the Army of the Potomac’s immediate threat, the Confederate positions near Totopotomoy Creek. Specifically, Battery D was stationed near Edwin Shelton’s brick mansion, “Rural Plains.” (This house is still in existence, part of Totopotomoy Creek Battlefield Park.) A sixteen-year-old soldier in the 11^th New York Light Artillery, Private Frank Wilkeson, recalled the scene. Wilkeson marveled at the sight of the Coehorn battery’s commander, Captain Jones. Wilkeson spoke to him, and Jones gladly offered his time to instruct the youngster on mortar tactics. Wilkeson later wrote:

 

One day during this protracted Cold Harbor fight, a battery of Cohorn mortars was placed in position in the ravine behind us. The captain of this battery was a tall, handsome, sweet-voiced man. He spent a large portion of his time in our earthworks, watching the fire of his mortars. He would jump on a gun and look over the works, or he would look out through the embrasures. Boy-like, I talked to him. I would have talked to a field-marshal if I had met one. He told me many things relative to mortar practice, and I, in turn, showed him how to get a fair look at the Confederate lines without exposing himself to the fire of the sharpshooters, most of whom we had “marked down.” He playfully accused me of being afraid, and insisted that at six hundred yards a sharpshooter could not hit a man. But I had seen too many men killed in our battery to believe that. So he continued to jump on guns and to poke his head into embrasures.

 

This image depicts Pvt. Frank Wilkeson of the 11th New York Light Artillery. (This is how he looked later in the war, after he received a commission as second lieutenant.) Wilkeson's father served as a war correspondent for the New York Times. Also, his aunt was feminist Elizabeth Cady Stanton.

Private Wilkeson concluded that the Coehorn mortars were an innovative weapon, and he gladly watched as the shells eviscerated the Confederates in front of the Shelton mansion. Those Confederates belonged to Major General John C. Breckinridge’s division. One of them, Captain T. C. Morton of the 26^th Virginia Battalion, recalled the harm the Coehorn mortars did to his command. He wrote:

Before this shelling of our position commenced, [Private] John Ford had been placed on the advanced picket line and his position happened to be in a sandy bottom near the creek, where he had sheltered himself behind an uprooted tree. He could be plainly seen by many of the men, crouching low in the sand. In the midst of the cannonading a large mortar shell without exploding, fell in the sand a few feet from him, the fuse still smoking and spitting and an explosion momentarily imminent. John took in the situation at a glance, and doubtless arguing that if he jumped up to run, the shell might explode before he got out of reach and tear him to pieces, and that the safest thing for him to do was to get down into the ground, commenced at once to work down into the sand with hands, legs and head. My attention was attracted by the men hollering, “Scratch [Run!] John! Scratch! She’s a-going off!” and looking in the direction where I had last seen him, I witnessed an amusing spectacle. Never was a man more dead in earnest. The sand all around him was in commotion, and in the few seconds that the fizzing fuse gave him, he burrowed like a great gopher till nothing but the top of his hump could be seen as the loose sand settled around it. I held my breath expecting the next second to see the poor fellow blown to atoms. Then the explosion came with a tremendous jar that shook the ground and sent a hundred pieces of iron singing through the air. We all kept our eyes fixed upon the spot as the smoke and dust slowly lifted, when the first sight that came to view was the head of Ford, happily, still on his shoulders, and as he realized that he was all right, he looked back at us and sang out “Who-eeh” as cheerily as if he had treed a coon instead of been face to face with death a second before. An answering cheer and a laugh went up from the boys on the line, and the incident was the next minute forgotten.

But not all incidents were so comical. Captain Morton also remembered a more gruesome incident from his regiment’s first encounter with the Coehorns:

I do not know what our loss was in this artillery fight, [I] only recollect that two men in my own company were killed. One of them while lying down was struck on the back by a large piece of descending shell and cut in two, poor fellow. The other had gone to the rear a mile with a detail to cook and was on his way back to the line with a camp-kettle full of corn-bread and beef on his arm when the cannonading commenced. He ran towards the breastworks for protection, while the hungry men in the trenches watched his race through the ploughing shot and shell, almost as solicitous for the safety of their breakfast, perhaps, as for that of their comrade. Just before the poor fellow reached us, however, a shell exploded directly in front of him, and when the smoke cleared away the bloody fragments of the man and the scattered contents of the camp-kettle lay mingled together on the ground before our eyes. It is said that from the fullness of the heart the mouth speaketh, but on this occasion speech came from the emptiness of one poor soldier’s stomach, when looking upon the ghastly wreck before us, he exclaimed: “Lor’, boys, just look, Joe Flint is all mixed up with our breakfast, and it ain’t fit for nothing!” Such want of sentiment, or feeling if you like, sounds strange and heartless to us now, but in those times of courage and every-day suffering, the hungry soldier’s remark, finding an echo in the empty stomachs of his fellows, did not seem so much out of place.

In their second encounter with the Coehorns, the Confederates did not like what they saw.

After leaving the battlefield at Cold Harbor, the Army of the Potomac drifted south. It crossed the James River and moved against Petersburg from the east. As soon as the Army of the Potomac’s infantry made contact with the Dimmock Line—the long string of redans that encircled Petersburg—Battery D was again called to the front. On June 17, it was posted north of the William Shands house in support of two divisions of 2^nd Corps and 9^th Corps that attempted (unsuccessfully) to penetrate Confederate earthworks at Hare House Hill. The mortars plied their work of death, weakening the rebel position. Eventually, word got passed to a Confederate brigade commander, Colonel Matt Ransom, whose unit was directly opposite the Coehorns. Ransom had to silence the battery. Ransom selected his ten best marksmen and sent them to the parapet with specific instructions to kill the Coehorn gunners.

This illustration depicts the Coehorn Battery at work. Likely, it is based upon the Waud sketch shown above. Note that it depicts Captain Jones standing at right.

During the assault, Captain Jones noticed the increased volume of enemy sharpshooter fire and gave orders declaring that no one in Battery D could show his head above the breastworks. Apparently, Jones had taken young Wilkeson’s advice to heart—at least so far as his gunners were concerned.

Sadly, Jones did not apply the same orders to himself; he routinely peeked his head over the parapet to get a good look at where the mortar rounds fell. (Later on, one of Jones’s lieutenants surmised that Jones had poor eyesight. He lingered too long at the parapet because he needed to wait until the slow-burning fuse triggered the explosion of the shell in order to see where the shell had hit.)

As the sharpshooter fire increased, Jones took a seat atop an ammunition box and began conversing with his chief of ammunition, Corporal H. Page Burnell. Suddenly, a brigade from the 9^th Corps—Col. Jacob P. Gould’s—came running back in retreat over the works in front of the Coehorn battery, its attack having failed. In haste, Captain Jones arose from his seat and said, “Corporal, hand me a fifteen and a half second fuse, I am going to give them a shell!”

Over in the Confederate works, Colonel Ransom cautioned his men. He noticed how the Union captain of the Coehorns always poked his head above the works right after he issued a command. Ransom told his sharpshooters that as soon as they heard the Union commander shout, they must fire on that spot!

Colonel Matthew W. Ransom commanded the North Carolina brigade that took credit for killing Captain Jones. After the war, he was elected as a U.S. Senator and became President Pro Tempore of the Senate for three days in 1895.

Apparently, the words, “I am going to give them a shell!” sounded like orders to Ransom’s sharpshooters, because all of them fired. One of those ten bullets found its mark.

As Corporal Burnell recollected, “As he [Jones] uttered the words a bullet struck him in the left temple and came out by his right ear. He dropped, quivered a minute, perhaps, and all was over.”

As Burnell grasped his dead commander, Private John H. Mead arrived on the scene. Mead had gone to the rear along with another man in search of ammunition, and together, they found Captain Jones dead near the ammunition box. Soon, First Lieutenant Abram G. Bradt arrived and took charge. He ordered four men to gather up Captain Jones’s remains and bury them. One of the men that Bradt selected was Private Sylvester Simpson. (Presumably, Burnell, Mead, and the unnamed man with Mead were the other three.) Together, they unrolled a blanket and placed Jones’s body onto it. With that, they carried the corpse to the rear.

As it happened, the four-man detail passed by Private Wilkeson of the 11^th New York battery, the young soldier who had shadowed Captain Jones eighteen days earlier. Wilkeson remembered the scene:

One day I went to the spring after water. While walking back I met four men carrying a body in a blanket. “Who is that?” I asked. “The captain of the mortars,” was the reply. Stopping, they uncovered his head for me. I saw where the ball had struck him in the eye, and saw the great hole in the back of his head where it had passed out.

Private Simpson and his four companions buried Captain Jones in a garden, probably somewhere on the Shands property. A few days later, Lieutenant Bradt made arrangements to have Jones’s body exhumed and shipped back to Saratoga, New York, to its permanent burial site.

In the larger story of the Civil War, Captain Jones’s death is a minor footnote. However, we might pause and reflect upon the legacy that he and the men of Battery D left upon the larger arc of U.S. military history. The shelling of May 30 and June 17 were not the last time that the U.S. Army used Coehorn mortars. Mortars of all sizes saw extensive use in the Eastern Theater after the Coehorns arrived in 1864. Famously, the Army of the Potomac deployed a giant, 13-inch mortar known as the Dictator. Beyond that, mortars stayed in the army for the next 150 years. Infantry mortars have been an integral part of the Great War, World War 2, Korea, Vietnam, and the War on Terror. (Rare is the day I see a book about the War in Afghanistan that does not mention them.) 

“Stovepipe Boys” of the modern era might do well to remember the name of Captain D. K. Smith Jones, their Civil War counterpart.

This image depicts the Dictator, the Army of the Potomac's famous siege mortar near Petersburg. Brig. Gen. Henry J. Hunt and Col. John C. Tidball--two of the biggest champions of the Coehorn mortars--can be seen standing closest to the camera.

Too often we remember the weapon and not the soldiers who pioneered them. Weapons are, after all, only what humans make them. Jones, the captain of the Coehorn mortars, made them something to be feared.

U.S. soldiers in Afghanistan aim their M224 60-mm mortar at the enemy. In a way, the Army of the Potomac's Coehorn battery has left a lasting legacy upon U.S. Army.