Never Eat a Dead Man’s Cake, Part 5; Or, When Charlie Pruyn Went Back to the Front (Twice)

For the past several posts, I’ve been exploring the career of Charlie Pruyn, an Albany officer who resigned his commission after he learned about the disparaging comments made by Maj. Gen. George McClellan concerning the fighting qualities of Brig. Gen. Silas Casey’s division. Pruyn regretted his decision to resign almost immediately. As soon as the War Department provided another opportunity to join the army, he took it, and for the remainder of the war, he made it his personal mission never to be absent from the front for too long.

Charlie Pruyn returned home to Albany in late June 1862. He expected to take care of his mother, who had been recently widowed; but in actuality, she ended up taking care of him. He had contracted an illness on the Peninsula. By the time he reached New York, it hit him full force. When he came home to Albany, he could barely stand.

Pruyn spent the next few weeks bedridden. On July 4, the Albany Independence Day procession passed his house at 109 North Pearl Street, and although he was quite sick, he went to the front door to watch it. The massive parade included militia companies full of military-age men. After a few minutes, Pruyn came inside and told his mother, “I cannot stand here. It makes me indignant to see that it is possible to get up so large a company of men in the city of Albany. No wonder the South can beat us, when the men of the North would rather stay at home and parade the streets.” Mary Pruyn must have been shocked. Her son had only just returned. But she recognized the same earnestness in his eyes that had actuated him the previous year. He said, “It is a shame and disgrace for a young man like me to be at home in comfort while the country is imperiled.” As soon as he regained his health, he planned to return to duty.

It seemed as if the government, too, wanted Pruyn to come back. On July 2, the War Department called for 300,000 more U.S. Volunteers, and the nation underwent another surge of mobilization. The U.S. barracks in Plattsburgh, where Pruyn’s old regiment, the 96^th New York, had organized, needed veteran officers to run it. Thus, on July 16, 1862, even as Pruyn still lay abed, he received a commission as adjutant of that post. He departed as soon as his health allowed it, heading to Plattsburgh sometime in late July. He took command of the recruits who had already arrived to fill the ranks of Colonel Samuel T. Richards’s “Adirondack Regiment.” Pruyn’s military experience garnered the attention of Colonel Richards, who insisted that he accompany the Adirondack regiment to the front as its adjutant. Here, Pruyn faced another tough choice. The adjutant-general of New York had already made a promise to him. If he stayed in Plattsburgh, he could become major of the next regiment to organize. But Richards wouldn’t take “no” for an answer. He called his officers together, telling them that he needed Pruyn to be his adjutant. If a position later opened up as major, Pruyn would have to receive it. The other officers agreed to this. Thus, Richards made the offer to Pruyn, who agreed to accompany the Adirondack Regiment to the front.

Orders arrived on September 1, 1862, and the Adirondack Regiment, now officially mustered in as the 118^th New York Volunteer Infantry, boarded a steamboat that carried it down Lake Champlain. The regiment unloaded at White Hall, and there it boarded a train bound for Saratoga Springs and then Albany. (It was a rough trip because many of the poor soldiers were packed into cattle cars.) At Albany, Pruyn’s mother, Mary, prepared a luncheon for the 118^th. Remembered First Lieutenant John L. Cunningham, “We were served by Albany ladies and it was a well-handled and enjoyable affair.” 

Near as I can tell, this was the last time Pruyn and his mother ever saw each other.

The 118^th New York continued its way south on a serious of additional train rides, reaching Fort Ethan Allen in Northern Virginia on September 4. The regiment joined the 7^th Corps, which was assigned to the defenses of Washington, and it remained on garrison duty until the spring of 1863, when it received assignment to Suffolk, and from there, in the summer of 1863, it moved to the Yorktown Peninsula.

On August 28, 1863, Pruyn received his commission as major; however, it took some work to get it. On July 8, Colonel Richards resigned. The colonel had reported sick with rheumatism before the 118^th New York left for Washington. When his condition failed to improve, he decided to leave the army. The lieutenant colonel and major were promoted to colonel and lieutenant colonel, respectively, leaving the major’s position vacant. The company officers remembered how they had promised Colonel Richards that if that position ever became vacant, they would endorse Pruyn’s right to take it. They held a vote, and the majority recommended Pruyn for the position. However, the two field officers, Colonel Oliver Keese, Jr. and Lieutenant Colonel George F. Nichols, had other ideas. They wanted to recommend one of the captains for that position. To ensure his promotion, Colonel Keese secured a leave of absence and went to Albany to recommend that captain’s appointment. Meanwhile, Pruyn’s supporters drafted a statement based upon the company officers’ vote, explaining the promise made to him by Colonel Richards. They mailed this document to Pruyn’s mother. Ever protective of her son, she took the document to Governor Horatio Seymour, who, at once, appointed Pruyn to the rank of major. By the time Colonel Keese reached Albany to present his own recommendation, he was informed that he had arrived too late.

Lieutenant Cunningham noted how this incident created distress within the 118^th New York’s officer corps. He remembered, “Naturally this division of opinion and its result caused some regimental friction; but be it said to the credit of the defeated officers, it was finally pleasantly accepted and all was forgotten in a few weeks. There were many other instances which evidenced the fine respect for harmony and mutual good-will which prevailed in our regiment and which added to the pleasure of serving in it.”

Major Charles E. Pruyn

The 118^th New York remained encamped at Yorktown and Portsmouth (as two separate battalions) until May 4, 1864. At that time, the two battalions reassembled and the regiment became attached to Maj. Gen. Benjamin Butler’s Army of the James. Under Butler’s leadership, Pruyn and his comrades embarked upon the Bermuda Hundred Campaign. On May 16, 1864, the 118^th New York took part in the Battle of Relay House, losing 55 officers and men. The battle resulted in the wounding of Lieut. Col. Nichols, who had to be evacuated by ambulance. Meanwhile, Colonel Keese had fallen ill before the campaign began; he was not with the regiment. Thus, on May 16, Major Pruyn assumed command. Undoubtedly, the moment proved to be a challenging one. Not only had he survived a brutal engagement, but he had to assume greater responsibility because of it. That evening, he wrote a letter to his mother. Typically religious, Pruyn credited the power of his mother’s prayers in getting him through another bloodbath.

Near Bermuda Hundreds, May 16th, 1864.

My dear Mother — Thank God I am safe. Never before have I so felt the kind protection of my Heavenly Father, and with His assistance I will serve Him more faithfully than I have ever done before. I am worn out, used up, sick, sick at heart, but I trust a few days rest will restore me. We have been for eight days fighting all the time, (bushwhacking) and had worked our way up to within nine miles of Richmond, so that from the top of a high pine we could see the place. We carried their outer line of defences; but this morning they came upon us in overwhelming numbers, and, after several hours murderous fighting; on both sides, they drove us back.

But our gallant regiment did nobly, and stood their ground till the last regiment had left the field. Indeed, they stood their ground till they were nearly all shot down. Oh, my heart aches so to-night! Some of my best friends are killed. Those I had learned to love so well are gone. Oh! when will this cruel, wicked war end. We have lost heavily, I fear, but know nothing except the thousand rumors that are floating around. But, still, there is something for which Ave may congratulate ourselves. This action has called away a large force, which would otherwise have been with Lee, so Gen. Grant reaps the benefit.

I was not hurt in the least. It was your prayers my dearest mother, that saved me. Oh, I know it; I feel it. I trust I shall live hereafter as a true Christian. Never before have I felt as I do to-night. I am not excited as I write this, though all worn out. Your good long letter just received; will study it. Yes, I will try.

Ever,

Charlie.

On May 31, 1864, the 18^th Corps (to which the 118^th New York belonged) received a transfer to the Army of the Potomac. It arrived in time to be present for the assault against the Confederate position at Cold Harbor. On June 3, the 118^th New York was slated to participate in the morning attack—the infamous assault that Lt. Gen. Ulysses S. Grant later regretted. As the regiment deployed in line-of-battle in the morning mist, an enemy ball struck Pruyn in the foot, passing completely through it. His soldiers carried him to the rear, and while at an aide station, he had his wound dressed. At this point, he could hear the noise from the great Union attack arising from the western horizon. The 118^th New York was scheduled to go in with the 18^th Corps’ third wave. Pruyn wanted to head back straight away, thinking he might have enough time to reach his regiment and participate in the attack. His horse had been wounded the previous day, which meant he had to hobble back on foot. As soon as a surgeon dressed the wound, Pruyn was off. Along the way, he passed his corps commander, Maj. Gen. Baldy Smith, who, upon seeing Pruyn hobbling, presumed he was going to the rear to have his wound treated. Promptly, Smith sent an orderly to assist Pruyn into an ambulance. Pruyn thanked him, but told him that he was on his way back to his men. A few minutes later, as Pruyn closed in on his regiment, the same orderly rode up, holding a glass of brandy. He said, “Major Gen. Smith sent this to you, and says you are a brave officer.”

Pruyn reached his regiment, which had just watched two waves of assault troops head into the mist and come tumbling back out, broken and bloodied. Captain Cunningham remembered that Pruyn addressed the regiment, intending to steady them prior to the attack. He recalled, “Major Pruyn, commanding our regiment, who had been slightly wounded, addressed the regiment in pertinent and manly words of courage. I do not believe a heart faltered in this terrible hour.” But the orders to attack never came. Having sent four brigades into the fray with no discernible result, Smith ordered Brig. Gen. Hiram Burnham’s brigade—to which the 118^th New York belonged—to stay put. Thus, Pruyn was one of the only casualties suffered by the 118^th New York on June 3, 1864.

That evening, Pruyn went to the hospital to have his wound treated. The surgeons urged him to resign his commission. With a wound so aggravating, they said, he had no right to remain in the army. An officer had to be able to keep on his feet when his men were in combat. This prognosis annoyed him. According to biographer Rufus Clark, “no argument could convince him, neither could he be induced to remain in the hospital but a few days.” Pruyn wrote his mother, “I write you from this hospital to-day, but I expect to leave it to-morrow. The doctor says it will be several weeks before my foot is well, and I cannot think of staying away from the regiment so long. I am needed there, and must go back.”

He stayed at the hospital only seven days, returning to the front on June 10, 1864. One day later, he penned his last letter.

In the Rifle Pits, June 11, 1864.

My dear Mother — I received a few lines from you this a. m. . . . I joined the regiment yesterday. My foot is not well, but I cannot stay back. It seems wrong for me to do so, especially as the doctors tell me it will be four or five weeks before it is entirely healed; but it is only a flesh wound, and if it was on my face or hand, would heal in a short time; but a wound in the foot, no matter how slight, always takes a long time to heal, as the circulation in that part of the body is so slow.

My general health is tolerable. Of course, I don’t feel as well as if I was at home, and could get my sleep and meals regularly, and where I would not have the care and responsibilities which the commanding officer of a regiment always has, especially a young man like me, entrusted with the lives of more than two hundred men. But I do not mean to complain, but rather thank God that he has kept me alive, and from being severely wounded, as so many have been in this terrible struggle.

We had one poor fellow killed yesterday, our only casualty during the day. Our regiment has now been in the rifle pits, under constant fire, ever since we came here, ten days. Of course, we are protected by the breastworks, but ‘familiarity breeds contempt,’ and the men become so accustomed to it that they get careless, and in this way many lose their lives. Besides, it is impossible for them to stay in the pits all the time, they must leave once in a while.

I thank you, dearest mother, for writing to me so often. Even if it is only a few lines, it cheers me, and makes me feel better when I am thus constantly reminded that the dear ones at home think of me, and it seems to bring me near to you. As I lie on the ground at night and look up at the stars, I think those same stars are looking down on you, and I go to sleep, dreaming of home and mother. Don’t think me romantic; the army is the last place for that; and although I do feel anxious that this dreadful war should end, and that I may be spared to return to you, yet I do not get homesick. I do not allow myself to do that. Love to all.

Your affectionate, Charlie.

Charlie Pruyn had made a promise to himself never to leave the front, so long as he had two feet. On June 11, 1864, he still had two feet—barely.

His last battle was only four days away.

Never Eat a Dead Man’s Cake, Part 4; Or, “With the Exception of Casey’s Division . . .”

 

In the past several posts, I’ve been exploring the military career of Adjutant Charles E. Pruyn. You might think that, given his earnestness to serve in the War of the Rebellion—even persuading his reluctant mother to allow him to enlist—he would have stayed with his regiment for the full three years. But if you made that guess, you’d be incorrect. In fact, barely three weeks after his first battle, Adjutant Pruyn resigned his commission. A single phrase from one of George McClellan’s telegrams drove him out.

Here’s how it happened.

On the morning of June 2, 1862, the survivors of the 96^th New York returned to the battlefield at Seven Pines. They discovered that little remained of their old encampment. Their tents were riddled with holes from shot and shell and the ground was covered with shell craters and detritus. Nearly all their equipment and personal belongings had been pilfered by the rebels. Luckily, Adjutant Pruyn still had his trunk, which was inside one of the regimental wagons on the other side of Chickahominy River, but his knapsack and all his regimental papers were gone.

In the end, the Confederate attack had been a fizzle. Although the rebels had overrun the position at Casey’s redoubt, reinforcements from the 2^nd and 3^rd Corps had turned the tide. These troops arrived late in the day on May 31 and during the predawn hours of June 1. The Confederates made a series of attacks near Fair Oaks Station on the morning of June 1, but they could not dislodge the new Union line. In addition, the Confederate army commander, Maj. Gen. Joseph Johnston, received a wound from Union artillery near the close of the fighting on May 31. The Confederate army’s interim commander, Maj. Gen. Gustavus W. Smith, proved unwilling to continue the engagement after Johnston’s fall. He allowed the morning attacks on June 1, but after that, Smith called off any further offensive moves. With that, the rebels abandoned the ground they had taken on the 31^st. Since the Army of the Potomac had held its position, and also because none of the Confederacy’s tactical plans had been achieved, the Battle of Seven Pines could only be called a Union victory.

Still, that victory had come at high cost. The two-day engagement—which sprawled across Casey’s redoubt, the Seven Pines Crossroads, and Fair Oaks Station—had cost the Army of the Potomac 5,031 casualties. Casey’s division had suffered some of the heaviest losses. It taken over 6,000 men into the fight and it reported a loss of 1,433.

Brig. Gen. Silas Casey

Even though it had formed the Army of the Potomac’s first line, and rightly ought to have been praised for its plucky defense, Casey’s Division suffered a public relations nightmare. Neither the army commander nor the public at large were willing to award Casey’s men any credit for their defense of the Williamsburg Stage Road. It all began with a series of poorly-worded messages issued by the army’s Left Wing commander, Brig. Gen. Samuel Heintzelman. When interpreted broadly, these messages seemed to disparage the fighting qualities of Casey’s troops. On May 31, Heintzelman was the overall commander of the troops on the south side of the Chickahominy, the 3^rd and 4^th Corps. The defense of the Williamsburg Stage Road fell under his jurisdiction. In the evening, after the Confederate attack, Heintzelman sent a series of panicked messages to the army commander, Maj. Gen. George McClellan, complaining that Casey’s troops could not be relied upon to hold the line. At 9:15 P.M., May 31, Heintzelman wrote McClellan that, “I soon met the fugitives of Casey’s Division and I learned that most of them had given way.” Forty-five minutes later, he sent another message, saying that, “Gen. Casey’s Division cannot, however be relied upon for any purpose whatever.”

Surely, Heintzelman intended these messages to inform McClellan that he needed a sizeable number of reinforcements to patch the breach at Seven Pines because, as things stood, he could not rally Casey’s division. It had sustained heavy damage during the afternoon engagement—a point that Heintzelman conveniently forgot to mention in his dispatches. Taken together, Heintzelman’s messages had a subtle effect on McClellan, who took them to mean that Casey’s division was full of poor fighters. Reading between the lines, McClellan believed that Heintzelman was insinuating that Casey’s men had unnecessarily given way. At midnight, after the Union line had been shored up by the 2^nd and 3^rd Corps, McClellan telegraphed Secretary of War Edwin Stanton, informing him that, “Casey’s Division was in [the] first line [and] gave way unaccountably & discreditably. This caused a temporary confusion during which some guns & baggage were lost. . . . Our loss is heavy, but that of the enemy must be enormous. With the exception of Casey’s Division our men behaved splendidly.”

McClellan’s message was unfair. Casey’s division had held its position for almost four hours before giving way to superior numbers. To his credit, McClellan retracted his comment after he received the action reports from the 4^th Corps, but that retraction occurred weeks later. Unfortunately, McClellan’s message to Stanton became national news almost immediately. Somehow, the dispatch got leaked to the press. By the end of the week, all the major newspapers across the U.S. were sharing it. There, in big print, the nation learned McClellan’s opinion. Every unit in the Army of the Potomac had behaved well in the recent fight, he said, “with the exception of Casey’s Division.”

Here's an example of the leaked dispatch, reprinted in a Pennsylvania newspaper.

Naturally, the soldiers of Casey’s division took umbrage at McClellan’s ridicule. Adjutant Pruyn was vexed by it. From his perspective, it appeared as if his regiment had fought heroically, against overwhelming odds, and had done so in an exposed position, holding on until it became impossible to defend it any longer. Writing to his mother, Pruyn vented his bitter opinions. Here’s what he said:

But now that it is all over, we are told by Gen. McClellan in his dispatch that ‘the troops all did nobly, except Casey’s Division.’ Or, in other words, because six thousand men did not beat back fifty thousand, they are cowards. This makes us all sick of fighting. To stand in front of such a superior force, and fight as we know we did, and then be branded as cowards, is certainly too much to bear. And then to have it go before the world over McClellan’s signature, of course it will be believed, and we shall be sneered at forever. Why it would have been far better if we had not been in the fight at all, for then nothing would have been said about us. Oh, it does seem to me I can’t get over this! If you see me coming home soon, don’t be surprised. But enough of it. It makes me so indignant I don't want to think of it—if I can help it.

As the month dragged on, the fury of being labeled a coward by General McClellan seemed to have overtaken Pruyn. He could not let go of that phrase: “with the exception of Casey’s Division.” In the middle of June, he wrote to friends in Albany, remarking:

Now every one [in our regiment] is utterly disheartened. How much a few words from one in authority can do. Those words of McClellan’s so unjustly delivered—‘The men all done splendidly except Casey’s Division’—this is what has broken us down. For whatever others have done, the Ninety-sixth New York fought as well as men could fight, and only left the field when the enemy was on three sides of them, and then retired with their faces to the foe, loading and firing as they walked, for they did not run. If the public need proof of what we did, we can give the best of proof—our list of killed and wounded—one man out of every four actually on the field—did any other regiment do this? Our division hardly six thousand strong, held in check more than thirty thousand rebels. Did any other division do this? Oh, is it not hard after all this to be branded as cowards?

In the end, it became too much for him. Pruyn wanted to leave the army as soon as possible. As it happened, he had a legitimate excuse. His father had died only four months earlier, on February 18, leaving his mother widowed. Pruyn felt a deep responsibility to see to her safety and comfort. When he learned of his father’s death, he offered to resign his commission and return home immediately. His mother refused to allow this. She recalled how intent he had been to serve in the army. She would have felt guilty if her son gave up his commission on her account. As Pruyn’s biographer later claimed, “finding her willing to sacrifice every personal consideration to her country’s good, he decided that the claims of his country were paramount.”

Adjutant Charlie Pruyn

But Adjutant Pruyn’s opinion seemed to change after McClellan’s disparagement of Casey’s division hit the press. He could not bring himself to sacrifice his life for a general who did not respect the sacrifice already made by his comrades. Although McClellan eventually retracted his comments, it was too late to keep Pruyn in the field. He approached his regimental commander, Colonel James Fairman, explaining his need to return home to get his family’s affairs in order. With that, Colonel Fairman drafted orders, accepting Pruyn’s resignation. Clearly, Fairman was sorry to see his young adjutant leave:

Camp Ninety-sixth Regiment N. Y. S. Volunteers, Before Richmond, June 17, 1862.

Lieutenant Charles E. Pruyn:

Dear Sir—I herewith transmit your honorable discharge from the service of the United States, and in so doing would express my unfeigned regret at the loss of your companionship and service as a man and officer. I cheerfully give my attestation to your courage and devotion as a soldier of the Union, to which I was witness in the terrific battle of Fair Oaks, before Richmond, May 31^st. And I shall ever remember you with peculiar interest as a soldier, who stood by my side while one out of four was killed or wounded, and one out of three of our regiment was lost in battle. With cordial wishes for your future success, I am truly yours, &c.,

James Fairman, Col. 96^th Reg’t N.Y.S. Vols.

The next day, Pruyn boarded a transport at White House Landing, ready to begin the long journey back to Albany. The ship had barely pulled away from the dock when Pruyn experienced a tinge of regret. Only moments after becoming a civilian, knew he had made a mistake.

Never Eat a Dead Man’s Cake, Part 3; Or, the White Flag at Casey’s Redoubt

 

In the last post, I narrated the tale of Adjutant Charlie Pruyn, an Albany-born soldier who convinced his devoutly Christian mother to allow him to enlist. As a member of the 96^th New York, Pruyn found himself accompanying the vanguard of the Army of the Potomac during the opening of the Peninsula Campaign.

Pruyn experienced his first combat on May 31, 1862, at the Battle of Seven Pines. In the last post, we learned that Pruyn possessed a gentle heart. According to his mother, “he will never come down to anything vicious.” At Seven Pines, Pruyn acted somewhat contrary to his mother’s expectations. He did something that some might call vicious. He ordered his men to fire on a white flag.

As it turned out, it was the correct course of action. Here’s how it happened.

At noon, May 31, 1862, Lieutenant Pruyn walked to the headquarters tent of his regimental commander, Colonel James Fairman. Pruyn handed Fairman a pile of reports. Pruyn, who was quite ill (as were a great many Union soldiers at the time), had taken all night to complete them. At the moment, Pruyn’s regiment, the 96^th New York, was bivouacked at Seven Pines Crossroads, a stopping point along the Williamsburg Stage Road named for a distinctive cluster of pine trees. The rest of the division, Brig. Gen. Silas Casey’s 2^nd Division, 4^th Corps, (6,200 aggregate) was congregated in the same area, forming a vast tent city. The previous week, the area had been hit by heavy rains, turning the landscape into a vast mudpit. The 96^th New York was positioned behind an earthwork called “Casey’s Redoubt,” a pentagonal fortification that housed a battery of artillery. Pruyn’s regiment was not far from the famous twin farm houses that became the battlefield’s primary landmarks. The whole area was full of puddles. Many of the Union earthworks and rifle pits had become small ponds, unusable as defensive positions because of the standing water.

This photograph depicts the battlefield of Seven Pines. Casey's Redoubt is in the foreground. The Twin Houses--landmarks of the battlefield--are in the middle distance. The 96th New York's bivouac was located near the Twin Houses, in the right background.

Pruyn and Fairman had just begun to converse when a Confederate shell came whizzing overhead, exploding only fifty paces from Fairman’s tent. Pruyn said, “If it had been a little lower, . . .” Then, another enemy shot came whirring past, striking a little nearer, interrupting Pruyn mid-sentence. (These were undoubtedly the famous “signal shots” fired by the Confederates, shells meant to indicate the beginning of their attack.) Pruyn’s brigade commander, Brig. Gen. Henry W. Wessells, whose tent was nearby, came over. Yelling at Fairman and Pruyn, he said, “This will never do, if we don’t get out of this some of these boys will get hit!” Fearing a Confederate infantry attack was on its way, Wessells told Pruyn to form the regiment near the road. As more artillery fire came crashing in, splashing the men with mud, the drummers of the 96^th New York beat the long roll. Everywhere, frantic Union soldiers grabbed their weapons from the stacks and formed into line-of-battle. Soon, Casey’s division stretched across the Williamsburg Stage Road, the infantrymen manning the muddy earthworks as best they could. The 96^th New York held a position immediately to the south and on the outside of the pentagonal redoubt. Another regiment, the 81^st New York, joined on the 96^th New York’s left. As Casey’s line took shape, Pruyn could hear the popping of rifle fire coming from the west. The division’s skirmishers were engaging!

Colonel James Fairman commanded the 96th New York at Seven Pines.

Brigade commander Wessells was correct. A massive Confederate attack was on its way. This was part of Maj. Gen. Joseph Johnston’s plan to drive the Army of the Potomac from the gates of Richmond. Four Confederate divisions were concentrating on Brig. Gen. Erasmus Keyes’s 4^th Corps, of which the 96^th New York formed a part. The vanguard of the Confederate attack, Maj. Gen. D. H. Hill’s division, was making its way toward Seven Pines, where thirteen untested regiments of Brig. Gen. Casey’s division were posted. The 96^th New York was about to face its first test of battle.

After Pruyn’s regiment stood at attention, a hail of small arms fire sailed in from overhead, hitting the men as they stood in formation. One soldier fell dead. Colonel Fairman decided to move the regiment to cover. The only protection that could be seen was a tree line to the southwest. Fairman assumed the division’s skirmishers were there, so he decided to go to their support. But when the regiment got halfway across the field, the men saw puffs of smoke. Suspecting they belonged to the oncoming Confederates, and not to the Union skirmishers, Colonel Fairman halted his regiment.

This Google Earth view depicts the location of the Battle of Seven Pines, which is essentially erased by the development of Sandston, Virginia, and the Richmond Airport. The light blue line depicts the Union earthworks. (Take note of the bulge formed by Casey's Redoubt.) The green line depicts the edge of the wartime tree line. At that tree line, the men of the 96th New York encountered the phony white flag.

Nearby, some of the New Yorkers saw a white flag being raised behind a fence. They cried out, “Don’t shoot!” Pruyn’s instincts kicked in. He smelled a rat. Without hesitating, he countermanded the order. As he wrote, “But I remembered the treachery of the rascals, and shouted, ‘It’s them, but they are trying to deceive you, take good aim and let them have it!’”

Apparently, the men of the 96^th New York responded to their adjutant’s orders, delivering their first volley of the war. Pruyn narrated what happened next:

If you could have heard the volley that followed this order of mine you would have heard something. As soon as our boys opened on them they rose up, and then we saw what an escape we had had. There were several thousand men there, and if we had gone down where we were ordered, it is not possible that [any] one [of us] could have escaped alive.

Pruyn’s decision to fire on the phony white flag had flushed out an enemy brigade, the one commanded by Brig. Gen. Robert Rodes, which was coming up from the south in an attempt to flank Casey’s line. Caught in the open, the 96^th New York and the 81^st New York, which came up on its left, returned fire, trying to hold back the Confederate attack. Pruyn recalled, “Oh! how they opened on us. It is a miracle that any of us came off alive. Our boys dropped like sheep, but still they did not flinch. They stood right up to it till the regiment which joined on to us gave way, then our boys fell back to the rifle pits.”

As Pruyn wrote, the two New York regiments beat a retreat back to the muddy earthworks adjoining Casey’s redoubt. Unfortunately, there was not much that could be done to defend this portion of the line. D. H. Hill’s division fell upon the Union earthworks like an avalanche, and two brigades—the one under Rodes and another under Brig. Gen. Gabriel Rains—flanked Casey’s line to the south. Unable to stay at the earthworks, Pruyn and his comrades found themselves having to defend their bivouac. He wrote:

Here [at the earthworks] we only staid a short time, for we found the enemy had what is called a ‘raking fire’ on us, which swept down the ditch in such a manner that one shot would wound or kill several. Here it was that we lost the most, so we fell back to our former position [at the bivouac] and made our last stand. Our men fought nobly, bravely; never flinched under a murderous fire. I was proud of them. The man next to me was shot down dead with the colors in his hand. The Colonel caught them and looked around for some one to take them. I sprang forward and took and held them till a sergeant came and relieved me.

The color bearer who fell dead was Sergeant William Henry Trombly, age twenty, of Plattsburgh. Apparently, in the past few months, Pruyn had become quite attached to him. As Pruyn related to his mother, “The color bearer who was killed, was one that I had always taken a great interest in, for the reason that I had promised his father, in Plattsburgh, that I would exercise a care over him. He did not belong to my company, but that made no difference. Poor fellow, he died nobly, but how I pity his poor father!”

Sergeant William H. Trombly

The whole experienced was shocking, to say the least, but Pruyn was able to manage his fear. He told his mother this:

Perhaps it was caused by excitement, but I really knew no fear; and although the bullets flew around me thick as hail, I thought no more of them than of so many pebble stones. You may think I want to brag, but it is not so; and this is not my case only. If a man is going to show fear, he will do it before the fight. Once in it, and there is no time to think of self. How long we were here I know not. I was busy exhorting the men to stand up to it, ‘give it to them,’ ‘pop them down, boys,’ ‘take good aim and bring down one of the rascals;’ until, finally, on looking around, I saw that, with the exception of the Colonel, two or three officers, and about a dozen men, we were alone.

The Confederate attack against Casey’s division reached its climax at 3:30 P.M. At that moment, the whole of D. H. Hill’s division overran the Union bivouac, seizing the area around the twin houses. Dislodged from the redoubt and the adjoining earthworks, the bulk of Casey’s division fled eastward, heading for a line of abatis near the cluster of seven pine trees. There, Keyes’s other division—the one under Brig. Gen. Darius Couch—was arriving as reinforcements. Pruyn, who had stayed at the bivouac for a bit too long, now had to make a difficult decision. Should he surrender to the Confederates or run for safety? He narrated his thoughts:

I looked across the open ground, and thought that my chance of getting over it safely was out of the question. Actually, at that moment, I would not have given two cents for my life. Thus I soliloquized: ‘Pruyn, my boy, it’s impossible for you to get over there in safety. You haven’t one chance in ten thousand; but then you know, my boy, the rebels don’t give quarter, and they will be in here in less than two minutes; so, if you don't get there, you’re done for anyway. So here goes.’ I started; I did not run, mother—I never will do that; but I walked, and it did seem to me I never should reach the woods.

But he did reach them—and without a scratch. As the rebels took possession of the bivouac, they began looting it. This might explain why no Confederate soldier attempted to kill or capture Pruyn as he made his slow-paced retreat. As Couch’s division took up the fight at the abatis, Pruyn went looking for his comrades. Not many could be found. The retreat from Casey’s redoubt had happened so messily that none of the regiments in the division could be reformed that night. Pruyn wrote, “Our regiment was all gone in—broken and scattered. I met all that was left of it that night; fragments that the Colonel had collected together and marched about two miles to the rear.” Total losses in the 96^th New York amounted to fifty-eight: eleven enlisted men killed or mortally wounded, twenty-seven officers and men wounded, and twenty officers and enlisted men missing or captured.

This illustration depicts the Confederate attack against Casey's Redoubt. This view is from the Confederate line, looking east. The redoubt and twin houses are visible in the left middle-distance. The woods where the white flag appeared are in the right background. The woods where Lt. Pruyn walked in retreat are in the far background.

Pruyn survived the Battle of Seven Pines without a scratch, even though he had been in the thick of it. To me, it seems as if his fate had been determined by two assumptions he held concerning the nature of his enemy: 1) he believed the rebels were known for their dirty tricks, and 2) he believed the rebels didn’t take prisoners. The former conjecture caused Pruyn to order his men to fire on the white flag and the latter conjecture convinced Pruyn not to surrender.

It’s not really the purpose of this post to analyze from where these assumptions came. It’s enough to say that more men in his regiment would have fallen if Pruyn hadn’t ordered them to fire on that white flag. Clearly, Pruyn had good instincts in combat, enough to convince him to cast aside his soft-heartedness and be a little more vicious than his mother would have wanted him to be.

Never Eat a Dead Man’s Cake, Part 2; Or, Charlie Pruyn Goes to War

 

In the previous post, I introduced readers to the end of the story, an unclaimed box of cake on the docks at City Point. To whom was it addressed? Answering that question is purpose of this installment.

Charles Elisha Pruyn was born on November 11, 1840, in Albany, New York. His parents were Colonel Samuel Pruyn and Mary Putman Pruyn. “Charlie,” as he was known to his family, grew up in a well-to-do Christian household. He received his education at the Albany Academy and at the Middle Dutch Church of Albany, where he started as a pupil and eventually became a teacher at the Sabbath School. His mother appears to have had a strong influence on his personality, driving him to lead a life of purity and piety. At one point, a family friend wanted his own son to associate with Charlie Pruyn, hoping he would be a good influence. But this same friend was also worried that his own son’s wild behavior might rub off on Charlie. Mary Pruyn was not afraid of this. She responded to the request with a maternal sense of certainty: “You may rest assured your fears for Charlie are groundless; he will never come down to anything vicious; his morals are impregnable, and I feel sure his course will always be to draw others up to his level.”

Adjutant Charles E. Pruyn

It’s important to recognize that much of what we know about Charlie Pruyn comes through the filter of his mother, Mary, and his biographer, Reverend Rufus Clark, a Presbyterian minister who meticulously scripted a story that Mary Pruyn wanted to tell. The result was Clark’s epic, Heroes of Albany. As an historian with a critical eye, I am quick to doubt the sincerity of a book written for the purpose of spreading religious propaganda. Clark told only the stories of Christian soldiers who went to war. He wanted his book to inspire other church-goers by showcasing the connections between Christianity and the Union victory. Thus, Clark was not an historian, but a religious booster. At the bottom line, we must be wary of the selective way he described Charlie Pruyn. But that being said, there are certain truths we can draw from Mary Pruyn’s and Rufus Clark’s presentation of Charlie. It’s clear that Mary Pruyn expected much from her son, particularly when it came to his moral values. Did he really “draw others up to his level?” I don’t think the answer to that question is important. But that particular assertion is important in another way, because it forces us to recognize that Mary Pruyn wanted her son to adhere to specific principles as he grew into manhood. Notwithstanding what Charlie himself wanted, Mary Pruyn envisioned her eldest son encompassing a life of piety, one that would benefit her family’s standing within the Christian community.

There is some evidence to suggest that Charlie Pruyn did not want what his mother wanted—not exactly, anyway. When the Civil War began, Pruyn was only twenty years old, and like many young men, he wanted to participate in it. According to Clark, Charlie Pruyn was keen to enlist right away. He contended, “When the news of the fall of Sumter was received, his face glowed with shame and indignation. He seemed to feel it a personal insult, and for many days he was too excited to eat or sleep.” Both of his parents resisted the idea, particularly his mother, who believed her son was destined for something greater than military service. Thus denied, Charlie Pruyn stayed at home. During the war’s first summer, the first wave of U.S. Volunteers went to the front, emptying Albany of Charlie Pruyn’s friends and peers. As the weeks went by and the war continued without result, he grew restless. The narrative of what happened next, which seems to have been constructed by his mother’s recollections, paints the picture of a reluctant parent acquiescing to her child’s earnest desire to be a soldier:

Hearing him restlessly pacing the floor one night, after midnight, she went up to his room and said: ‘Charlie, my dear son, why are you so excited?’ He answered: ‘Mother, how can I help it; how can I remain here at home and sleep quietly in my bed, when the country is in such a state? Why, mother, I don’t want to go into the street anymore; I am ashamed to look people in the face; a strong, healthy fellow like me, staying at home and enjoying all these comforts when the country is in danger, and needs my services.’ His mother then told him, that God had made her feel that it was his duty to go, and that his parents had no right to interpose obstacles in the way. She engaged to obtain his father’s consent, only stipulating that he should first endeavor to procure a commission; but if he failed to do so in a reasonable time, she would not object to his going as a private. The change immediately produced by this conversation was wonderful. He expressed the greatest delight and gratitude, and at once set himself to work to obtain a commission in some regiment already in the field.

It was now autumn 1861, and another wave of U.S. Volunteers was being raised by the War Department. Pruyn learned that a new regiment was being raised up in Plattsburgh, New York, 160 miles to the north, on the western shore of Lake Champlain. Knowing there were positions available for officers, Charlie Pruyn packed his bags and left. On October 19, he enlisted in the newly-formed unit, which was then known as “Macomb’s Regiment,” and he applied to become an officer. The regiment filled slowly over the next few months, and Pruyn’s commission as first lieutenant arrived on February 20, 1862. Upon muster, Pruyn belonged to Company A, 96^th New York Volunteer Infantry, but for much of his time with his regiment, he served as acting adjutant, completing paperwork at regimental headquarters. On March 11, 1862, the regiment, finally full, left for the front. At Washington, the 96^th New York was brigaded with three Pennsylvania regiments, forming the 2^nd Brigade, 3^rd Division, 4^th Corps, under the command of Brig. Gen. William H. Keim. Along with the rest of the Army of the Potomac, the 96^th New York embarked on transports bound for the Yorktown Peninsula. Pruyn and his comrades participated in the last three weeks of the Siege of Yorktown (April 17 to May 4), and on May 5, the regiment participated in the pursuit of Confederate forces at Williamsburg, Virginia. The 96^th New York came under fire there, but it lost none killed or wounded.

The next day, May 6, the 96^th New York marched onto the Williamsburg battlefield and Charlie Pruyn saw the dead lying in heaps. The bulk of the combat had been carried on by Brig. Gen. Samuel Heintzelman’s 3^rd Corps against Maj. Gen. James Longstreet’s Confederate division. The sight of the battlefield shocked Pruyn. He wrote home to his mother:

What I saw I cannot attempt to describe, but never, never shall I forget it. I thought, what a horrible thing is war! And as I saw men lying dead, torn into all imaginable shapes by cannon and grape-shot, I thought of the homes made desolate, and the hearts that would bleed, and the many who would remember this day when they were made widows and orphans, with sorrow as long as they lived. And I thanked God most fervently that my poor life was spared, and that in His great goodness He had not permitted me even to be wounded.

Given this sentiment, I think it’s quite likely that much his mother’s estimation of Charlie was correct. She told a friend that Charlie “will never come down to anything vicious.” Even though he had chosen to become an officer in the Union army, he still felt sympathy for the families of the enemy dead, the widows and orphans would experience “sorrow as long as they lived.” Truly, he was his mother’s child.

This sketch by E. S. Hall depicts the field of Williamsburg, where Lt. Charlie Pruyn first saw the war's tragedy.

As Adjutant Pruyn would soon find out, he would, in fact, see this sight again, a mere twenty-five days later, and he would have the misfortune of being in the thick of it.

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.