Friday, November 30, 2018

In his footsteps at Franklin: 'Suffering more or less all the time'

Stuart Hoskinson wrote about his experience at Franklin in a letter to The National Tribune,
a Civil War veterans newspaper. (Find A Grave)

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Long before their arrival on the Franklin battlefield, 73rd Illinois soldiers Riley and Stuart F. Hoskinson endured great hardship. At Chickamauga on Sept. 20, 1863, Confederates captured father and son at a Federal field hospital, where each had been assigned to care for wounded.  "As we were perfectly powerless," recalled Riley, a sergeant, "we made the best we could of a bad bargain."

Five days later, Riley and his son escaped -- "God's will," the father called their plan. Eluding scores of Confederates during a journey through woods, up and over Lookout Mountain and down a stream on a makeshift raft, the Hoskinsons remarkably found their way back to Federal lines near Chattanooga. Neither man suffered a serious injury.

73rd Illinois Private Stuart Hoskinson was
 wounded near the Carter house, perhaps
by friendly fire.
At the Battle of Franklin on Nov. 30, 1864, Stuart wasn't as fortunate.

About 5:30 p.m., Confederates threatened to smash through both lines of Union works near Fountain Carter's house. Urged on by Major Thomas Motherspaw, the 73rd Illinois, one of seven regiments in Emerson Opdycke 1st Brigade, rushed to help fill the gap. Stuart recalled firing nearly 60 rounds during the desperate fighting on Carter's Hill, wounding at least one Confederate. The 21-year-old private suffered severe wounds himself, perhaps from friendly fire, when a bullet crashed into his collarbone. 

"Sergeant," a captain told 45-year-old Riley M. Hoskinson, "your son is killed; he is shot through the lungs and is bleeding from his mouth and nose.' "

Taken to a makeshift hospital at a church in Franklin, Stuart became a prisoner again when the Confederates retook the town. But Hoskinson survived his grievous wounds thanks, in part, to the care of a local mother and daughter. "... They waited on us," he remembered, "just as well as they could have done if we had belonged to the other side."

Nearly 20 years after the battle, Stuart Hoskinson recalled his harrowing experience at Franklin in a letter published in The National Tribune, a newspaper for Civil War veterans. The physical toll from Franklin was still evident: "I am suffering more or less all the time from it," he wrote of his war wound.

Let's follow in Stuart's footsteps at Franklin:


An Illinois Soldier's Experience


Emerson Opdycke:
Died in 1884 after

 accidentally
shooting himself.
To the Editor: In The National Tribune of July 10 I saw a letter from J. D. Remington, Co. I, 73d Ill, Ill., in which he refers to the death of Brig.-Gen. [Emerson] Opdycke and the part taken by him and our brigade at Franklin, Tenn. As he says in his letter, we all loved the General as a commander, and I was deeply grieved to hear of his death and the manner in which it came. I have good reason to remember that eventful evening of Nov. 30, 1864, and well remember seeing our troops who were holding the works in front of us falling back in confusion before the charge of the rebels; then hearing our Major (Motherspaw, not Motherspan) give the order to the 73d to charge to the front; then of the confused mass of our retreating men who tried in vain to check right in front of Carter's house, they rushing to the rear pell-mell through the gaps in the picket-fence, and we in as big a hurry to get to the front to salute the Johnnies. When we got to the inside line of works the rebels had full possession of the outer line and many were between the two. Our fire, given as fast as we got into position, soon checked their advance and sent them to grass or to the rear.

"When we got to the inside line of works," Stuart Hoskinson recalled, "the rebels had full possession of the  outer line," about 20 yards in front of Fountain Carter's smokehouse (left).

Some few of our men had failed to make good their retreat to the rear from their position behind the outer works and were crouched close down, not seeing any way to get out of a bad fix. One rebel, I noticed in particular, was on the works above the head of one of our men and, I suppose, having fired his gun, had raised it in an act of clubbing the man below. I quickly brought my gun to bear on him about his waist-belt and fired, and the last I saw of him he was falling backward with his hands in the air. He might have received other shots than mine, but as he was not over 100 feet from me I could have wagered he carried my first shot of the battle with him. I never knew just what hour the fight ended, but at about 8 o'clock, as near as I should judge, for I had fired nearly 60 rounds.

"I managed to get to the rear, behind Carter's house, where I lay down ...," Stuart Hoskinson recalled.
I received a shot in my left shoulder, which (barring accidents) I will carry to my grave, striking me on the point of collar-bone and coming out at the backbone near the bottom of the shoulder-blade. At the time, and for three or four days, till suppuration set in and the pieces of cloth came out of the wound, I was not certain but what I had been accidentally shot by some of our men in rear of me. The blood rushed from my mouth in a stream and I thought my last hour was near, but after a short time the inward bleeding stopped and I took courage. A lull in the firing taking place shortly after, I managed to get to the rear, behind Carter's house, where I lay down for an hour or more, when I heard some one inquire if there were any of the 73d there. I answered "here," and three or four of our regiment came to me and carried me into town and left me in the brick church on the east of the turnpike, with about 100 others of our severely wounded. Having been on picket at Spring Hill the night before and rear-guard all day from there to Franklin, I was worn out, so I fell into a troubled sleep, and about midnight wakened to find we were prisoners.

"Three or four of our regiment came to me
 and carried me into 
 town and left me in
 the brick church on the east of the

 turnpike," recalled Stuart Hoskinson.
The Presbyterian church, 

severely damaged during the war, was replaced by 
another church in Franklin in 1888.
There were 190 of our wounded taken there, and at the end of 17 days, at the recapture of Franklin, we were reduced to 140. One Surgeon staid with us, and with the assistance of one or two resident physicians cared for our wounds. Had it not been for the kindness of some of the ladies of Franklin I do not know how we would have fared, as what little rations of flour and poor beef was issued to us had to be cooked, and no one to do it but them. One old lady and her daughter, named Courtney, we will never forget. for although they had a son and brother who was a Lieutenant in the rebel service, yet they waited on us just as well as they could have done if we had belonged to the other side.

"As brave an officer as we ever had
 in the regiment," Stuart Hoskinson wrote of
 Major Thomas Motherspaw, who was
mortally wounded at Franklin.

(Find A Grave)
Our Major (Motherspaw) was shot in the groin, and I saw him clap his hand to the wound, but had too much to attend to in my front to see more. He was on his horse close to the turnpike and near where [Confederate General Patrick] Cleburne was killed. He died December 18, in Nashville, one day after we were recaptured by our forces. As brave an officer as we ever had in the regiment, kind and considerate to his men and loved by all. He was formerly Captain of Co. D, and commanded the regiment, as our Lieutenant-Colonel was on service in Nashville, and Col. Jas. F. Jacques was in Washington, having been called there by President Lincoln to go to .Richmond in May preceding. There were only two others of my regiment among the wounded left in Franklin besides myself -- Serg't [Joseph] Allison, Co. C, and a young man of Co. D, I have forgotten his name. [In the 73rd regimental history, Stuart notes it was James D. Branch.] Allison was shot in the small of the back and died Dec. 10, 1864; the other man lived long enough to reach the station seven miles from his home, on the Wabash Railroad, east of Springfield, Ill., and died there. He was shot through the neck and both collar bones broken. I should like some of his friends to let me know what his name was.

I received my discharge Feb. 10, 1865 from "gunshot wound of left shoulder" but after reaching home it proved to be an injury to the left lung also, and for nearly 30 months the wound in my back remained open, so I could blow by breath through the opening. I am suffering more or less all the time from it, and am at present drawing $12 per month pension. The loss of the rebels at Franklin must have been greatly understated in their official report, for more than one of their men told me while prisoners that their loss was 6,000 killed, and I know when our men recaptured the town there were 1,500 or more rebel wounded there.

-- Stuart F. Hoskinson, Co. G, 73d Ill., Seattle, King Co.. W. T.

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SOURCES

-- A History of the Seventy-Third Regiment of Illinois Infantry Volunteers, Regimental Reunion Association, Springfield, Ill., 1890.
-- The National Tribune, Aug. 7, 1884.

Wednesday, November 28, 2018

In 10 images, the Irish Brigade monument at Gettysburg

The monument honors the 63rd, 69th and 88th New York Infantry and 14th New York Independent Battery.
The brigade, weakened in severe fighting at Antietam and Fredericksburg, fought in the Wheatfield,
 Rose Woods and at Stony Hill at Gettysburg. (CLICK ON IMAGES TO ENLARGE.)
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“We have unveiled this pile, and it will stand to perpetuate the fame of those heroes," Father William Corby said at the dedication of the Irish Brigade monument at Gettysburg on July 2, 1888. "To keep their memory green in the American heart, this Celtic Cross has been erected. It is an emblem of Ireland, typical of faith and devotion, and the most appropriate that could be raised to hand down to posterity the bravery of our race in the great cause of American liberty.”

Nearly 20 feet high, a Celtic cross rests on a granite base.
The monument in Rose Woods was dedicated on July 2, 1888. The sculptor was a 
Confederate veteran who fought at Gettysburg.
A closeup of a life-sized Irish wolfhound at the foot of the Celtic cross.
"This, in the matter of size and structure, truthfully represents the Irish wolf-hound, a dog which has been
 extinct for more than a hundred years," reads a small plaque below the dog.
Two wolfhounds were mascots for the Irish Brigade's 69th New York.
A plaque honoring the 14th New York Independent Battery.
A closeup of a dew-covered artillerist in action.
The 14th New York Independent Battery lost five men at the Bloody Angle on July 3, 1863.
A plaque on the monument notes the brigade's war-time service. The Irish Brigade suffered 17 killed
 and 41 wounded at Gettysburg. Eighteen soldiers were listed as missing.

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Saturday, November 24, 2018

Witness to war: On a Tennessee plantation, a lone slave cabin

Of the 12 slave cabins that once stood on the Rippavilla Plantation, this is the last one that remains. 
(CLICK ON IMAGES TO ENLARGE.)
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A witness to lots of living -- and plenty of dying -- the one-room slave cabin rests uneasily near the edge of 21st-century America. A massive, ugly dirt berm for a modern housing development looms ominously nearby. A window missing a pane of glass beckons visitors to peer inside the circa-1850s frame structure. Sunlight squeezes between beams. In a barren room, signs of long-ago life appear: a crumbling brick fireplace, an ancient wooden door, peeling white paint. Above the living space, a loft below a red tin roof.

On Nov. 29, 1864, Yankees and Rebels swept over this ground on the Rippavilla Plantation during the Battle of Spring Hill. The remains of one of the soldiers who was killed that day, 22-year-old Sergeant John Hall of the 26th Ohio, may rest within sight of the cabin. Perhaps his wounded comrades were briefly cared for within the structure's walls.

Before departing, the visitors examine the exterior. Large, white stone blocks provide a foundation. Stone steps rise to a door but fail to complete the connection. A slim coat of fading reddish-brown paint covers small sections of weather-beaten boards. A guide points out curiosities: thumbprints in the brickwork of the fireplace. The marks beg many questions, perhaps unanswerable:

Who were the slaves who lived here? What happened to them? How were they treated by their masters, Nathaniel and Susan Cheairs? Were they fearful on that late-fall day when war raged on the rolling fields near Spring Hill, Tenn.?

Four visitors inspect the slave cabin on the Spring Hill battlefield.
Well-worn steps lead to the entrance.
Weather-beaten side of the cabin.
A window into the interior of the old slave cabin.
The barren interior.
Sunlight streams into the one-room cabin, once heated by this small brick fireplace.

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Thursday, November 22, 2018

Climb with me to top of Antietam's War Department tower


The War Department tower at the east end of Bloody Lane was built in 1897 to provide 
a panoramic view of the battlefield. (CLICK ON IMAGES TO ENLARGE.)
The Irish Brigade monument, dedicated in 1997, and the War Department tower at Bloody Lane.
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Tablets on the ledge of the tower note battlefield
 landmarks. They were made from an old cannon tube.
Shortly after it opened in 1897, the War Department tower at the east end Bloody Lane at Antietam became a hit with visitors. Before monument dedications, veterans of the battle ascended the iron steps to the small observation deck, where they enjoyed a spectacular view of the field. Over the years, longtime battlefield guide O.T. Reilly — who claimed he witnessed the battle when he was 5 years old — frequently took tourists to the top of the nearly 60-foot tower.

"The observation tower at ... 'Bloody Lane' is a great help to the proper view of the field and should be visited by all," the Altoona (Pa.) Tribune noted on Sept. 21, 1903.

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On the observation deck ledges, bronze tablets note distances to battlefield landmarks such as the Dunker Church and Bloody Cornfield. The tablets were made from a repurposed cannon tube "whose power doubtless [was] felt during the most bloody struggle" of the Civil War, according to an account in a Philadelphia newspaper in 1897. The cannon was melted at a foundry in Baltimore, where it lost "its present identity," the report noted, "only to reappear in another condition of far more peaceful utility."

Early on a frosty Wednesday morning, only one visitor enjoyed the panoramic view from the tower. (Insert guess here.) Here's what you missed. Be sure to check out the video at the top of this post.

Inside the tower, a warning  ... and a wreath left to honor the Irish Brigade.
The iron steps leading up to the observation deck.
On a fall morning, the tower casts a lengthy shadow in William Roulette's field. The Irish Brigade
attacked from right to left here on Sept. 17, 1862. To the left, Bloody Lane. 

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SOURCE
  • Philadelphia Inquirer, Nov. 7, 1897

Friday, November 16, 2018

10 'outtakes' from my story on epic 1923 Franklin battle film

Director Allen Holubar (right) poses with extras for the epic battle scene.
(Nashville Tennessean via newspapers.com)
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In 1923, 16 years before Gone With The Wind debuted in American movie theaters, a Civil War-themed movie was filmed on location in Tennessee. The Human Mill, the first Hollywood-produced film made in the state, featured an epic Battle of Franklin scene shot on the very plain upon which John Bell Hood's Army of Tennessee charged on Nov. 30, 1864. Think of it as Saving Private Ryan before all the whiz-bang special effects of late-20th century movie-making.

Allen Holubar, the 33-year-old director
of The Human Mill.
California-based director Allen Holubar, a 33-year-old former silent movie actor, set up home base at The Hermitage, the first million-dollar hotel in Nashville. Almost immediately, he sought thousands of soldier extras for the filming of the great battle scene. Tennessee did not disappoint. A military academy in nearby Columbia and two schools in Spring Hill supplied their entire student bodies. Franklin’s Battle Ground Academy and high school also offered up their male students. World War I and Spanish-American War veterans -- even Confederate vets -- eagerly volunteered for bit parts.

The day of the battle scene filming, Sept. 27, 1923, was one of the more eventful in Franklin history. A holiday was declared, schools and businesses closed, and between 10,000-12,000 people gathered on the outskirts of small town 17 miles south of Nashville to watch Hollywood movie magic. (Check out my lengthy feature story about the filming in the February 2019 issue of Civil War Times. The story is online here.)

Don't look for The Human Mill on YouTube. In fact, you won't find it ... ah, read my CWT piece for viewing information. In the meantime, pop some popcorn, grab a drink and enjoy these "outtakes" from one of the cooler stories I have written.

Director Allen Holubar (right) was loaned Tennessee's "oldest stage coach," according
to the Nashville Tennessean, for use in his movie. (Newspapers.com)
Blanche Sweet, shown in the
 Nashville Tennessean on 
Sept. 26, 1923, had a starring role
 in the film. (Newspapers.com)
WANNA BE A MOVIE STAR? Days before filming began, the director put out word in a Nashville newspaper (right) seeking a local for a big part in the film:
Here's a piece of news that will interest local screen aspirants: Allen Holubar, prominent motion picture director, who is making Nashville his headquarters while filming a number of big scenes for "The Human Mill," stated this morning that he is still looking for some Nashville miss who resembles Blanche Sweet to take one of the big parts in the production he is filming. Every theatre-goer has seen Blanche Sweet on the screen many, many times. Above is a new picture of her. If you believe there Is a resemblance between yourself and. this well known screen star, get in touch with Mr. Holubar immediately at the Hermitage hotel. If you meet with the requirements, you will be given a real part in "The Human Mill." This offer is not in the nature of a contest, but is a sincere attempt to secure a Nashville girl for the role. Many local girls have already called on the director to apply for the part, but the exact type preferred has not as yet put in her appearance at the Metro headquarters.
It's unknown if Holubar found his Blanche Sweet lookalike.

WHERE, OH WHERE:. The battle scene was filmed on the farm of J.W. Yowell, known as "the old Fly place," about a mile south of Franklin and about a half-mile west of Columbia Pike. Like nearly the entire plain upon which Hood's men marched, the farmland where the movie was shot was developed long ago. No marker notes the site of The Human Mill filming. (Hood's army suffered 7,000 casualties at Franklin; six Confederate generals, including Patrick Cleburne, died of wounds suffered in the battle.)

Masonic Lodge in Franklin, wardrobe depot
for the movie and hospital in the aftermath of the real 

Battle of Franklin on Nov. 30, 1864.
GET YOUR UNIS: 2,000 soldier extras received their military uniforms and other accoutrements at Franklin's old Masonic Lodge,  which served as a wardrobe depot. The hall, used as a makeshift hospital following the real Battle of Franklin, still stands on 2nd Avenue South. "Gives us Confederate uniforms!" shouted many of the extras. "We don't want any damn Yankee uniforms!" Unsurprisingly, sentiment in Tennessee was pro-Confederate in 1923, although the state did supply 31,000 soldiers to the Union army.

ABOUT THOSE OL' REBELS: The director was adamant about using them in the film. "Mr. Holubar declared ... that the Battle of Franklin would not be realistic, nor would it be satisfactory to him, without the presence of real Confederate soldiers in the lines," according to a newspaper account.

SPEAKING OF EPIC: Marshall Morgan crafted an outstanding, two-part account about the filming of the battle scene for the Nashville Tennessean in 1950.  In Part II of "Second Hour of Glory," he wrote:
Although the battle was not scheduled to begin until 10 o'clock, daylight found the Columbia highway almost impassable under its burden of automobiles, buggies, wagons, bicycles, baby carriages and plodding hundreds of pedestrians. Twenty special deputies had been sworn in to augment the everyday forces of law; and as fast as the movie-spellbound throngs arrived on the scene they were herded into a roped-off hillside area. 
LOTS OF BANG: Beginning about daybreak, the "battlefield" was mined with explosives that, when exploded, simulated the results of artillery fire. "For its explosive effects," director Holubar said, "this battle scene surpasses any I have seen taken."

The Human Mill coverage on Page 1 of the Nashville Tennessean on Sept. 28, 1923. (Newspapers.com)
STOP THE PRESSES! The filming of The Human Mill received extensive coverage in the Nashville Tennessean, including Page 1 stories the day after the movie's battle scenes were shot in Franklin. Wrote the newspaper:
Shells burst overhead, gallant troops of the Confederacy charged recklessly forward, only to recoil and then return to the attack; federal gunners and foot soldiers fought silently and doggedly and the plain was strewn with the dead as shells and mines sent up showers of dirt and rock near Franklin, Thursday while thousands watched the Battle of Franklin re-enacted as Allen Holubar, of the Metro forces directed the big scene in the filming of "The Human Mill," movie version of John Trotwood Moore's "Bishop of Cottontown."
Isaac Sherwood
A REAL FRANKLIN VETERAN'S TAKE: Congressman Isaac Sherwood, who fought in the 1864 battle as an officer in the 111th Ohio, was "deeply" interested in the film. The 88-year-old veteran reportedly attended the filming of the battle scene, serving as an unofficial advisor.  "...but no moving picture," he wrote in a letter published in the Nasvhille Tennessean after the filming, "can move like the stalwart host moved at Franklin November 30, 1864, and the world will never again see a battle to compare with Franklin.

"But I am going to travel many miles," he added. "to see the mock Franklin when it is ready."

HURRAH FOR HOLUBAR! Days after the battle scene filming was completed, praise for the director was published in the Nashville Tennessean:
Mr. Holubar had conjured better than he knew. The day of the 60's was back again. In that tense retrospect, the past itself was here. What had been done to bring it back was a matter of little moment. All the more praise for him that he made us forget the quick lire of his imagination, his art, and all his dominance of a thousand details, in the grip of the thing he had produced. It is not Allen Holubar that we remember as the thrill of the scene still strikes at our hearts, but the gray ghosts that he brought to life and the old battle that roared again across a famous field because of him."
 WHAT HAPPENED TO THE DIRECTOR? Oh, no!

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Monday, November 12, 2018

Antietam souvenir hunt: What two veterans snatched in 1889

At a reunion of 16th Connecticut veterans at Antietam in 1889, Alonzo Case took this piece from the
"stone wall where the 16th Conn. received their terrible fire." (Simsbury Historical Society collection)
Alonzo Case also took this piece of stone from the Dunker Church on the Antietam battlefield
at the 1889 reunion of 16th Connecticut veterans. (Simsbury, Conn., Historical Society collection)
A Page 1 story in the Hartford Courant on Sept. 27, 1889, detailed Julian Pomeroy's souvenir hunt. 
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Years after the Civil War, veterans returned to battlefields for reunions or monument dedications, events that allowed them to relive memories and to renew acquaintances with old comrades. Many also returned to the battlegrounds for another reason: to snatch a war souvenir.

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At a veterans' gathering at Antietam on Sept. 17, 1889, Alonzo Case took a small piece from a stone wall in the 40-Acre Cornfield where, according to a period tag on the relic, "the 16th Conn received their terrible fire." On the northern end of the battlefield, "within a few rods where Gen. [Joseph] Mansfield fell," Case snatched a stone from the famous Dunker Church. (Perhaps Dunker Church souvenir-seekers' efforts led to the structure's collapse in a wind storm in 1921.) Case was a officer in 16th Connecticut. His brother, Oliver, a private in the 8th Connecticut, was killed at Antietam.

Not to be outdone, 16th Connecticut veteran Julian Pomeroy also found time to collect a souvenir at the same veterans' gathering. Twenty-seven years earlier, the 16th Connecticut was routed in the 40-Acre Cornfield. To shield himself from Confederate fire that afternoon, Captain Pomeroy briefly rested behind a large tree, "about half the size of his body."

It may have saved his life.

During his 1889 battlefield visit, Pomeroy claimed he found the same tree he hid behind on Sept. 17, 1862. He removed "the bullet that tried to kill him" from it, and, according to a newspaper account, returned to New England with it.

Believe it or not.

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Tuesday, November 06, 2018

'Tears and love for the Gray': Walk among Franklin unknowns

CLICK ON ALL IMAGES TO ENLARGE
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Cloaked in fall colors (and in sadness), the headstones and monuments at McGavock Confederate Cemetery in Franklin, Tenn., draw visitors near, holding them tight. The remains of a 16-year-old boy-soldier, killed in battle here nearly 154 years ago, rest under the shade of a massive tree. We know his story. The markers with the most power are inscribed "Unknown." They lure us in, never letting go.


The Blue And The Gray (Francis Miles Finch, 1827-1907)


By the flow of the inland river,
Whence the fleets of iron have fled,
Where the blades of the grave-grass quiver,
Asleep are the ranks of the dead:
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the judgment-day;
Under the one, the Blue,
Under the other, the Gray


These in the robings of glory,
Those in the gloom of defeat,
All with the battle-blood gory,
In the dusk of eternity meet:
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the judgement-day
Under the laurel, the Blue,
Under the willow, the Gray


From the silence of sorrowful hours
The desolate mourners go,
Lovingly laden with flowers
Alike for the friend and the foe;
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the judgement-day;
Under the roses, the Blue,
Under the lilies, the Gray


So with an equal splendor,
The morning sun-rays fall,
With a touch impartially tender,
On the blossoms blooming for all:
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the judgment-day;
Broidered with gold, the Blue,
Mellowed with gold, the Gray


So, when the summer calleth,
On forest and field of grain,
With an equal murmur falleth
The cooling drip of the rain:
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the judgment -day,
Wet with the rain, the Blue
Wet with the rain, the Gray


Sadly, but not with upbraiding,
The generous deed was done,
In the storm of the years that are fading
No braver battle was won:
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the judgment-day;
Under the blossoms, the Blue,
Under the garlands, the Gray


No more shall the war cry sever,
Or the winding rivers be red;
They banish our anger forever
When they laurel the graves of our dead!
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the judgment-day,
Love and tears for the Blue,
Tears and love for the Gray

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Thursday, November 01, 2018

A walk in Antietam's 40-Acre Cornfield, where stories linger


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Under a blue sky and billowy gray and white clouds, a lone Antietam battlefield visitor walks to the crest of the hill, stands for a minute next to a tall, granite monument and stares into a rolling field. A fall chill invigorates in the 40-Acre Cornfield this morning. In the distance, silent sentinels stand guard while a large bird circles... circles ... circles until it finally drifts away. Few visit this ground on the battlefield's southern end, a pity because stories linger here like mist over nearby Antietam Creek.

Mortally wounded Newton Manross, a captain in the 16th Connecticut, was found in this field, his chest and shoulder carved open by artillery on Sept. 17, 1862.

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Seriously wounded Private Henry Adams, Manross' comrade, lay in this field for more than 40 hours before he was discovered. "Why did I not die?" he wondered years later.

On a slope steps from the 16th Connecticut monument, Samuel Brown's body was discovered, riddled with bullets. The 16th Connecticut captain was a school teacher in civilian life.

Somewhere in this field, Bridgeman J. Hollister, a 16th Connecticut private, was shot through the throat as he helped carry a comrade away from hell. He died eight days later.

Visit this place for the gorgeous scenery and solitude. And visit it for the stories, too.
16th Connecticut monument in the 40-Acre Cornfield.

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