On trail of serial killer, a Civil War explosion and grub in Philly

Dr. H.H. Holmes, a serial killer whose real name was Herman Webster Mudgett, was executed
 in 1896 at Moyamensing Prison in Philadelphia, across the street from the site of a deadly
 explosion in a munitions factory in 1862.

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Sometimes the pursuit of history takes you to strange places, such as the South Philly neighborhood where:

• a corner pub stands on the site of one of the Civil War's deadliest munitions factory explosions.
• a serial killer was executed in a prison where Edgar Allan Poe slept off a drinking spree.
• chickens meet their maker in a most brutal way.
• and a famous fast-food joint provides around-the-clock service.

Whew.

There's a lot to unpack there, so let's start with those birds and forget most of the rest of that opening sentence. The clucks of chickens in a live poultry market on 9th Street horrified Mrs. B and Philadelphia Daughter B, who accompanied me on this history excursion. Perhaps they'll be comforted that they are not alone in their disgust. Online reviews of Shun Da Market range from horrible ("I can't stand to walk by that place") to the really horrible ("smells like shit.") 

While my wife and daughter absorbed City of Brotherly Love ambience, I explored the 'hood, a working-class area of Italians, recent immigrants from Central America, hardcore liberals and Republicans, row houses, and narrow side streets with lots of potholes.

 "Rugged elegance," a resident told me. 

This ballfield, dedicated in memory of a prominent South Philadelphia physician, was built
on the grounds of a former cemetery. Are bodies still there?

On 10th Street, a ballfield dedicated in memory of a local physician occupies ground once part of a  massive cemetery. Workers disinterred most of the bodies — including those of Civil War vets — for reburial elsewhere in the 1940s. But the contractor who did the grisly work botched the job. So, there's no telling what might be under third base or the pitcher's mound.

But what really caught my eye was a historical marker at the corner of Passyunk and Reed streets denoting the site of Moyamensing Prison: "H.H. Holmes, considered America's first serial killer, was executed here. The city razed the castle-like prison, opened in 1835, in 1968. An Acme stands there now. 

A 1901 image of Moyamensing Prison, razed in 1968.
 (Philadelphia Prison Society)

Now I didn't have the heart to tell shoppers in the supermarket's cereal aisle that a serial killer dangled at end of a rope near stacks of Frosty Flakes, Cheerios, and Lucky Charms. But I was determined to find out more about Mr. Holmes, better known as Dr. Henry Howard Holmes and sometimes by his real name, Herman Webster Mudgett.

In the 1890s, Holmes left a trail of dead, mainly young women, from Chicago and Toronto to Philadelphia and who-knows-where-else. Besides being a murderer, he was a con artist, liar, horse thief, employee of the State Lunatic Asylum at Norristown (Pa.), graduate of the University of Michigan's Department of Medicine and Surgery, subject of dozens of lawsuits, and a trigamist, which I had to look up in the dictionary. (Holmes enjoyed marriage, often to many women at the same time, which is illegal unless you are the star of Sister Wives.)

Dr. H.H. Holmes' "Murder Castle" in Chicago.
(The Holmes-Pitezel Case:  A History of the Greatest Crime
 of the Century and of the Search for
 the Missing Pitezel Children, 1896).

In Chicago, where he apparently commited most of his murders, Holmes owned an apartment building, later dubbed the "Murder Castle." The place reportedly had soundproofed rooms, mazes of hallways, and chutes in which Holmes dropped victims into a basement, where he had acid vats, quicklime, and a crematorium. The bad doctor's killing spree ended in Boston in November 1894, when he was captured by Pinkertons.

After a trial and conviction for the murder of his business partner in Philly, Holmes was hanged at Moyamensing Prison on May 7, 1896, nine days before his 35th birthday. "Take your time," he told the hangman, "you know I'm in no hurry." It took the hangman 15 minutes to execute Holmes, who calmly met his fate. "Cool to the End," the New York Times proclaimed. 

"That Holmes was a criminal, such as the world has ever seen, cannot be questioned," the Philadelphia Inquirer wrote. "It is known of him that he was many times a murderer, a villain, that he lived by plunder and was the most accomplished liar that ever walked the face of the earth."

Naturally, this story gets even weirder. Apparently fearful his body might be stolen and dissected, Holmes requested — and somehow was granted — burial 10 feet underground in a pine coffin encased in concrete. In 2017, amid allegations Holmes had escaped execution, his body was exhumed for testing. Holmes—whose mustache was well preserved but body was goo—was positively identified by his teeth. 

An artist's impression in Frank Leslie's Illustrated of ruins of a Philadelphia munitions factory after explosions on March 29, 1862. (House Divided: The Civil War Research Engine at Dickinson College)

A cropped enlargement of an 1862 lithograph shows the grim aftermath of the munitions factory explosion in Philadelphia. (Artist John L. Magee | Library Company of Philadelphia)

An approximate view of the scene in the lithograph above.

Dazed by the serial killer historical marker — and a mesmerizing Flyers mascot painted on the wall of the Triangle Tavern —  I wandered through the narrow side streets. Holmes' execution was far from the only macabre event in this neighborhood. 

I was mesmerized by the Flyers' mascot.

On March 29, 1862, gunpowder and cartridges ignited in Professor Samuel Jackson's fireworks-turned-munitions factory on 10th Street. Many of the 78 factory workers, mostly women and girls, never had a chance to escape the explosion and conflagration. Eighteen employees died — including Jackson's 23-year-old son. Dozens of survivors suffered from burns or other injuries in the war's first munitions factory accident that involved a major loss of life. 

"Heads, legs and arms were hurled through the air, and in some instances were picked up hundreds of feet from the scene." the Inquirer reported. "Portions of flesh, brains, limbs, entrails, etc. were found in the yards of houses, on roofs and in the adjacent streets." A "whole human head, afterwards recognized as that of John Mehaffey, was found in an open lot" against the wall of Moyamensing Prison, a New York Herald reporter observed.

A policeman filled a barrel with human remains, and a man told an Inquirer reporter that he saw a boy going home with a human head in his basket. The lad said it was his father's. Blown across the street into a prison wall by the blast, Mary Jane Curtin -- the superintendent of children at the factory -- somehow escaped physical injury.

The Philadelphia Inquirer provided
extensive coverage of the deadly
munitions factory explosion.

While Mrs. B and Daughter B dined on wings in the Triangle Tavern — built on the site of Jackson's doomed factory — I asked a waitress there if she knew anything about the catastrophe. No, she told me, but the place had a "weird, vacant bar" vibe before it became Triangle Tavern. No historical tablet marks the site of this deadly tragedy, an omission someone must rectify.

Someone also must rectify the long lines at Pat's King of Steaks, a fixture in the South Philly neighborhood since 1930. The joint at 9th and Wharton, near where those chickens suffer horrid deaths, has the tourist schtick down pat (sorry), with T-shirts ($25), hats ($30), and sweatshirts ($35) available for the masses. I stuck with food, ordering a cheese steak with sweet peppers ($14) that was out of my comfort zone. 

What a weird day.

Pat's King of Steaks, where I got a great cheese steak sandwich with sweet peppers.

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-- Have something to add (or correct) in this post? Email me here.

SOURCES

• New York Herald, March 31, April 1, 1862.
• New York Times, May 7, 1896.
• Philadelphia Inquirer, March 31, April 1, April 5, April 7, April 12, May 2, 1862, May 8, 1896.
• Philadelphia Times, May 8, 1896.

Communing with George Meade's spirit in ritzy Philly 'hood

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No visit to Philadelphia is complete for me without a visit to the former home of George Gordon Meade. The general -- who booted the Army of Northern Virginia from The Great State of Pennsylvania in 1863 --  lived at 1836 Delancey Place from 1866 until his death in 1872. Some of the city's leading citizens lived in the tony neighborhood near Rittenhouse Square. Meade's former home has been divided into apartments -- here are units 2 and 4.  Probably at least 2 grand a month. For those who can afford that, oh my, what a cool place to live. 

Historical marker outside the general's former residence (right) at 1836 Delancey Place.

                        GOOGLE STREET VIEW: Explore Meade's former neighborhood.

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'Frightful': A deadly munitions factory blast rocks Philadelphia

A cropped enlargement of an 1862 lithograph shows the grim aftermath of the munitions factory explosion  in Philadelphia. (Artist John L. Magee | Library Company of Philadelphia)

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At about 8:45 a.m. on March 29, 1862, neighbors of Professor Samuel Jackson's fireworks-turned-munitions factory heard a low rumble like the sound of distant thunder. Moments later came the roar of an explosion, followed by an even louder blast, as gunpowder and cartridges ignited in the south Philadelphia factory across the street from a prison.

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'Human gore': More on deadly Civil War explosions on my blog

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Many of the 78 factory workers, mostly women and girls, never had a chance to escape the conflagration unharmed. Eighteen employees died — including Jackson's own son, 23-year-old Edwin. Dozens of survivors suffered from burns or other injuries in the catastrophe — the Civil War's first munitions factory accident involving a major loss of life.

Like a scene from an Edgar Allan Poe horror story, dazed, burned and blackened survivors stumbled from the flaming and smoking ruins of the one-story building on Tenth Street. Others writhed in agony. "Their clothes all aflame," several female victims ran about "shrieking most pitifully."

Hundreds of curiosity-seekers rushed to the site, followed by firemen, who extinguished the blaze. Alerted by telegraph, the mayor soon arrived with the police chief. The city had not seen such an "intense state of excitement," the Philadelphia Press reported, since a huge fire at the Race Street wharf in 1850.

"Frightful calamity," the New York Herald called the disaster.

Frantic parents and friends of factory workers searched for loved ones among the crowd or in the ruins — "looking shudderingly," the Philadelphia Inquirer reported, "among the fragments of clothing which still clung to the almost quivering remains of the mutilated dead." Rescuers commandeered several milk and farm wagons that happened by for use as ambulances. To keep gawkers at bay, police roped off the scene.

An artist's impression in Frank Leslie's Illustrated of ruins of a Philadelphia munitions factory
 after explosions on March 29, 1862.  (House Divided: The Civil War Research Engine at Dickinson College)

Some injured received care in nearby tenements, but most were sent to the city's Pennsylvania Hospital. Several even had bullet wounds from exploding cartridges. Covered with soot, a badly burned young survivor ended up at a segregated hospital's area for Black patients. "[I]t was some time," the Inquirer reported, "before the mistake was discovered and rectified." He died the next day.

At least five of the victims were teens; one was 12. When the blast rocked the building, 14-year-old John Yeager was carrying a box of bullet cartridges that also exploded, knocking out his eyes. His sister, Sarah, also suffered injuries. They helped support a widowed mother.

Twenty-two-year-old Richard Hutson spent the last hours of his life at the house of Margaret Smith, who lived on Wharton Street, near the factory. His face was as "black as a man's hat" because of severe burns. "He seemed to be troubled with the idea that he had caused the mischief," recalled Smith, "but we tried to comfort him."

The Philadelphia Inquirer provided extensive
coverage of the disaster.

Widows Margaret Brown and her sister, Mary Jane Curtin, suffered terribly. Five of Brown's children who worked in the factory suffered injuries. Blown across the street into a wall of Moyamensing Prison by the blast, Mrs. Curtin — the superintendent of children at the factory — somehow escaped physical injury. But Mary Jane lost the $60 in gold she was carrying. Her three children, also munitions workers, suffered severe burns.

Rescuers found Edwin Jackson's body, "shockingly burned and multilated," among the charred factory ruins. He was overheard the previous evening saying he was unafraid of any explosion at his father's facility. Also employed in the factory, Samuel Jackson's daughters, 20-year-old Josephine and 18-year-old Selina, suffered severe burns.

Thankfully, heroes emerged to aid the sufferers: A woman cut her shawl in two, wrapping the pieces around two "half-naked" young girls, both factory workers. A court officer put his coat around a burning girl, putting out the flames and perhaps saving her life. And a Union cavalry officer, who happened to be riding past the factory, picked up a horribly burned victim and dropped him off at a drug store for medical aid. (When the soldier returned to his camp, he found a detached hand in his carriage.)

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Do you know more about this Philadelphia disaster? Email me at jbankstx@comcast.net

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But the catastrophe also brought out the worst in humankind: In the chaos, scoundrels snatched clothes from Mrs. Conrad's explosion-battered tenement on Austin Street, a block or so from the blast. A ragpicker offered fragments of clothes from the explosions for 25 cents. And when two victims sought aid at a residence in the neighborhood, the lady of the house indignantly slammed the door in the women's faces, telling them "she did not keep a house for working girls to enter." The local newspaper heaped scorn on the door-slammer: "Was the woman insane, or a fiend, or was it merely an instance of what utter vulgarity is capable of?"

Heard a great distance away, the explosions shattered windows, damaged shutters and sashes, blew doors off hinges, wrecked plaster and toppled furniture in nearby homes. The blast catapulted a man cleaning a lamp in front of a tavern headfirst through the building's doorway. He survived, but the lamp got "broken to atoms." Even inmates in gloomy Moyamensing Prison — the castle-like structure nearby where Poe once slept off a bender — got rattled.

Grisly discoveries put an exclamation point on this Saturday horror show.

A 1901 photo of Moyamensing Prison. Mary Jane Curtin, superintendent of children at Jackson's factory, 
was sent sailing into the prison wall by the blast. (Philadelphia Prison Society)

An illustration of the disaster in the Philadelphia Inquirer on March 31, 1862.

Blood of the victims streaked the walls of houses in the neighborhood. A cheek from a victim's face stuck to a building on Tenth Street. A portion of a thigh plopped in a yard, near where it left a bloody mark on the rear brick wall of a tavern. A stomach landed atop a tenement building, A severed arm hit a woman in the head, knocking her down, and a scorched and fractured skull with gray hair landed in the street. It probably was from Yarnall Bailey, a 60ish factory worker from West Chester.

"Heads, legs and arms were hurled through the air, and in some instances were picked up hundreds of feet from the scene." the Inquirer reported. "Portions of flesh, brains, limbs, entrails, etc. were found in the yards of houses, on roofs and in the adjacent streets." A policeman filled a barrel with human remains.

On April 7, 1862, the Philadelphia Inquirer
 wrote of the death of another munitions
 factory worker.

"I picked up a bit of skull, with the hair adhering to it, more than a block (an eighth of a mile) from the place," a  Herald correspondent wrote, "and a whole human head, afterwards recognized as that of John Mehaffey, was found in an open lot against the prison wall."

In perhaps the ghastliest news from this awful day, a man told an Inquirer reporter that he saw a boy going home with a human head in his basket. The lad said it was his father's.

Two days after the disaster, more than 2,000 people sought admission to Pennsylvania Hospital to check on the injured. "Such a rush to this institution," the Press wrote, "was never before known."

This illustration of the disaster appeared in a German publication in Philadelphia.  
(Free Library of Philadelphia,  Print and Picture Collection |  "Castner Scrapbook v.19, Disasters,
 Criminal Prisons 1, page 10")

         
        GOOGLE STREET VIEW: Present-day view of  long-gone munitions factory site.
        Moyamensing Prison site at left; it's now site of a supermarket and a parking lot.

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Authorities worked quickly to determine the cause of the explosions. The fire marshal convened a coroner's jury, whose gruesome tasks included examining remains of victims at the First Ward police station, some "blown literally to atoms." In the vest pocket of one of the victims, it found a note: "J.H. Mooney, No. 440 Walnut St. Brotherly Love Section."

The day after the explosions, the six-person jury also stopped at the home of Professor Jackson, who was not in his factory when the blasts occurred. The 45-year-old pyrotechnic wizard had to be strong this day: The jury examined his son's battered body in Jackson's Federal Street house before Edwin's burial in Odd Fellows Cemetery.

On April 3, 1862, the Philadelphia Inquirer
told readers about
funerals for victims of the explosions. 

After the war broke out, the U.S. government had contracted Jackson's fireworks factory to make  millions of "Dr. Bartholow's solid water-proof patent cartridges," a "peculiarly made" ammunition for cavalry pistols.

"Innocent labors upon visions of beauty and delight have thus been diverted towards preparing necessary means for the destruction of demon-impelled men who have involved the country in war, from which it can only be rescued by their death or disperson," the Inquirer wrote.

In the three weeks previous to the tragedy, Professor Jackson reportedly suffered from the strain to produce 1.5 million cartridges for the Army of the Potomac.

The factory, which made about 7,500 cartridges a day, consisted of frame structures and a brick structure about 10 x 12 feet. Boards covered the powder magazine — "merely a large hole dug in the ground," the Press reported.

Workers stored about 50,000 cartridges in the factory moulding room, where eight men and four boys worked, and a finishing room, where women and girls placed bullets into cartridges. Fifty pounds of loose black powder and several kegs of the highly combustible material occupied other areas in the tight quarters.

Samuel Jackson's factory produced Bartholow's
cartridges for cavalry pistols.

The day after the disaster, the fire marshal concluded the first explosion occurred in the moulding room, where the strike of a mallet may have caused the spark that set off a 30-second chain reaction of death and destruction. But he didn't know for sure — all the witnesses in that area were either dead or too badly injured to aid the investigation. Ultimately, the jury determined the detonation of a scale of dry powder caused the castastrophe. 

"[M]any obviously essential precautions to prevent [the] accident," it concluded, "seemed to have been entirely neglected." But no one faced charges for the disaster.

Wrote the Herald about the tragedy: "It is a solemn and terrible warning to those working in similar establishment, and we trust that its effect will be to make [munitions workers] more careful of their own safety by the strict observance of those cautions, the neglect of which may consign hundreds to untimely graves and carry suffering and desolations into many homes."

Well into June 1862, the Philadelphia Inquirer
 reported, victims from the munitions factory
 explosions remained hospitalized.

Two weeks after the disaster, a concert was held in Philadelphia to aid explosion victims. Those who attended paid 25 cents for the event, which raised nearly $400.

Professor Jackson's factory eventually re-opened in nearby Chester, Pa., along the Delaware River. Jackson storied black powder for the operation on a boat offshore, a safe distance from the factory. Despite the deadly accident, the professor had no trouble filling his ranks with female workers, who earned the princely sum of 40 cents per thousand cartridges made.

 "[T]hey would rather earn a living salary, at risk of their lives," the Inquirer wrote in a sad commentary of the era, "than endure the indignities and hardships to many forms of female occupation."

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Post-Civil War view of the Allegheny Arsenal in
the Lawrenceville section of Pittsburgh.
(University of Pittsburgh Historic Photographs)

POSTSCRIPT: Were any other lessons learned from the Philadelphia disaster? Perhaps not. On Sept. 17, 1862, 78 workers, mostly women, were killed in an explosion at the Allegheny Arsenal near Pittsburgh. Within the next five months, dozens were killed in arsenal explosions in Jackson, Miss., and Richmond. And on June 17, 1864 — a brutally hot day in the U.S. capital — 21 women died in an explosion at the Washington Arsenal. Most of the victims were young, Irish immigrants. President Lincoln attended their mass funeral.

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-- Have something to add, correct? E-mail me at jbankstx@comcast.net

SOURCES

— Baltimore Sun, March 31, 1862
— New York Herald, March 31, April 1, 1862
— Philadelphia Inqurier, March 31, April 1, April 5, April 7, April 12, May 2, 1862
— Philadelphia Press, March 31, 1862

'Killed with kindness’: A journey with Union nurse Maria Hall

In 1886, Union nurse Maria Hall wrote about her war-time experiences for a newspaper.
 (The Foard Collection of Civil War Nursing)

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Philadelphia may have a less-than-brotherly reputation today, but nurse Maria Hall was impressed with the city’s embrace of Union soldiers during the Civil War.

“But was there ever a city that so warmly welcomed the boys to her gates,” she wrote in The Springfield (Mass.) Republican in 1886, "as did Philadelphia.” In Part 2 of the newspaper series about her experiences early in the war, Hall recalled the scene as she arrived at a wharf in the city aboard a steamer filled with wounded soldiers.

“Women wearing the lovely drab bonnets and gowns, and the lovelier faces of the Friends, came bringing baskets of bread, biscuits and cookies, pails of lemonade, pitchers of milk and bottles of wine,” she wrote, “knowing that the boys had come from a barren land, and so welcoming them to plenty and comfort. Our only fear for our patients now was lest they should be killed with kindness.”

In the account published in The Republican on Dec. 20, 1886, Hall – who married a man from Unionville, Conn., after the war – also recalled her experiences at the massive Union encampment at Harrison’s Landing, Va., in the summer of 1862; feeding famished soldiers; the perils of sailing down the James River under fire from Confederates and much more. (My thanks to Connecticut historian Clifford Alderman for transcribing this installment of Hall’s war-time remembrances. Click here and here for previous installments on my blog.)

Written for The Republican by Mrs. M.M.C, Richards of Unionville, Ct.

Entrance to Fort Monroe in 1864. The fort was also site of a major hospital during the Civil War.
(Library of Congress)

The head-quarters of the hospital transports in service was at Fortress Monroe. Here they were reported to the medical director, and received orders as to the destination of their wounded. The hasty and imperfect diary of this time relates that having taken a load of 350 men to Baltimore, we were once more at Fortress Monroe, and there ordered to receive passengers from the State of Maine which had become disabled by an accident to the machinery. We took on board 320 men, wounded in the seven days’ battles, and having had only the hasty care that could be given on the field; many were in sorrowful plight, tossing with fever or deranged in mind, and some were dying when we first saw them. They were laid wherever a blanket could be spread for a bed, after the steamer’s bunks and state-rooms were filled.

Nurse Almira Fales: "How these ravens do eat," 
she remarked about famished Union soldiers.
(The Foard Collection of Civil War Nursing)

Here as elsewhere, the right man was not always in the right place and the tallest man of the lot was laid across the narrow end of the cabin. He grimly complained of being “too long at both ends,” but as the trip was to be short, he concluded things would average about right. Among the names recorded as patients on these trips are Col. [Ebenezer] Pierce of Big Bethel fame, having lost an arm, Col. Morrison, Col. [Edward Winslow] Hinks of Massachusetts, Robert Way of a New York regiment, seriously wounded in the lungs, and Charles Smith of Boston or vicinity.

Drs. Davenport and Brown of Detroit were among the surgeons, and Mr. Harland from the Young Men’s Christian association of Philadelphia, a most tender and devoted agent in caring for the sufferers. I quote from a letter: “I have not time to tell of the many interesting cases we have cared for. Individuals are merged in the whole when the acquaintance is so short, the services rendered so hurried and divided among so many. Dressing wounds is a new business, but you should have seen me bandage an arm broken by a ball in two places, doing it up in a splint, and that before breakfast. I won’t spoil your appetite as I did my own by telling you in what condition the poor arm was when I first saw the soldier trying to help himself. Assisted Dr. B. two or three hours this morning, washing and dressing the wounds. Many of these boys are the zouaves, wounded in the arms and legs. Their scarlet uniforms must be fatally conspicuous marks for the enemy’s fire.”

Mrs. [Almira] Fales’s heart had been gladdened by new and generous supplies of comforts and delicacies for her “ravens.” She remarks occasionally, “How these ravens do eat,” at the same time finding it the joy of her heart to feed them to the full. Her supplies were all that we had for the comfort of the sufferers on these trips. Having carried two loads of the wounded to Baltimore, we were ordered to Philadelphia with the third.

Philadelphia Hospitality to the Soldiers

Lithograph of citizens greeting Union soldiers in Philadelphia.
(National Archives)

There was little difference in the experiences on these short voyages. It was the same story of suffering bravely endured with a cheerful courage that always excited my wonder. But was there ever a city that so warmly welcomed the boys to her gates, as did Philadelphia. Our steamer had scarcely touched the wharf before we were taken captive by the wonderfully organized hospital agencies of the city. Policemen lifted the feeble ones in their arms, as if they were brothers, taking special care of the little ones. Women wearing the lovely drab bonnets and gowns, and the lovelier faces of the Friends, came bringing baskets of bread, biscuits and cookies, pails of lemonade, pitchers of milk and bottles of wine, knowing that the boys had come from a barren land, and so welcoming them to plenty and comfort.

Our only fear for our patients now was lest they should be killed with kindness. In later years of the war a soldier could not mention Philadelphia without a grateful apostrophe to the kindness of the people, and the “good meal of victuals” we got there. One little boy we saw lifted by a big policeman who said with tears in his eyes, “We’ll take you to a good place.” We had called him a drummer boy, but he resented the idea, and declared that he “carried a musket till — till — it — got so heavy.” He was taken to the Cooper shop, and recovered after a very serious illness.

Running a Rebel Battery

Confederate batteries at Fort Powhaton fire on the Union hospital ship Daniel Webster
 in the James River in this illustration in Harper's Weekly, a war-time newspaper.

On the 8th we left the city of Brotherly Love, and reached Fortress Monroe the next day. We were most bountifully supplied with stores for the sick by the ladies’ aid of the city, and Mrs. Fales anticipated great delight in feeding her next flock of ravens. At Fort Monroe we saw the Burnside fleet anchored; in the evening it started away up the James river, and next morning at 5 o’clock, we were following in its wake. At this time we were informed that the “rebs” were doing mischief firing upon our transports, mail boats, etc., and were soon assured by our own experiences of the correctness of this information.

About 8 or 10 miles below Harrison’s Landing we came alongside the gunboat Sebago. Our captain hailed the officer on deck inquiring if there were danger ahead. His reply was “keep well to the port side.” As we rounded a bend of the river at the eminence known as Fort Powhatan, whiz! went the bullets over our heads. A hurried retreat was made by all from the upper deck close by the pilot-house where we had gathered to enjoy the quiet resting time. The boat was skillfully managed by the captain, and as soon as we were out of range, the gun-boat swung round, and with a few forcible remarks shut up the little battery.

The Webster was pierced from side to side with four solid shot and two shells were found in its side. More than 100 musket balls were found, and two or three shells burst over our heads. We all had our tale of hair-breadth escapes and I still cherish one bullet which did not hit me as I looked out of the captain’s office to see how the fray was going. We reached Harrison’s Landing in safety, but the Webster was disabled for further use as a transport. After waiting orders and being thrown into great excitement by reports that we were to go to Richmond for our released prisoners, the boat is totally taken as head-quarters of the medical purveyor.

A war-time illustration of Harrison's Landing in Harper's Weekly.

       PANORAMA: James River at Harrison's Landing, where nurse Maria Hall served.
                                       (Click at upper right for full-screen experience.)

Amidst Cities of Tents

On Tuesday we made our exit from the Webster, having accepted the invitation of Dr. Barnes and Col. Adams to make their regiment our base of operations (the 27th New York volunteers). We are in Bartlett’s brigade, Slocum’s division — on high ground in the edge of a pine grove. It is strange to think we are living so near the head-quarters of our grand army; within a short ride of Gen. McClellan’s tent, and in the midst of cities of tens, and within two miles of the outmost pickets we are told. The scene on the plain near the river is novel, indeed. Ambulances, horses, army wagons are constantly gathered about the landing, and the quartermaster’s tent; solitary horsemen galloping about in frantic haste, contrabands idling, orderly working and singing, guards pacing to and fro; cannon, freight, horses, mules and muskets mixed promiscuously together, now and then a [illegible] soldier carried by and buried near the hospital.

"It's strange to think we are living so near
the head-quarters of our grand army" and
George McClellan's tent, Maria Hall
wrote about her stay at Harrison's Landing.

Col. Adams and Dr. Barnes furnished us with every luxury at their command, including a carpet of hemlock boughs (or was it pine?) and stretchers for beds. These were swung on forked sticks driven into the ground, and proved luxurious conches, though it must be owned our slumbers were sometimes disturbed by the unaccustomed sounds of the camps, among these being the nightly concerts given by the army mules. Our kitchen was under the sky, the fire easily made as we had no smoky chimney, and our cooking readily done. We became veritable tramps and after ministering each day to the wants of those nearest to us would walk miles hunting up individuals, or to fill wants made known to us day by day.

Carrying Goodies to the Sick and Wounded

Our basket was furnished with a pocket-stove, tea-pot, condensed milk, cups, spoons, forks, knives, etc., so that in about five minutes after entering a tent Mrs. Fales was prepared to furnish a square meal to the sick ones. We were accompanied by an orderly detailed by the colonel and so easily three baskets of supplies could be carried.

One day we visited the hospital tent of a New York regiment. One poor fellow longed for some of the currant-jelly he saw but could not be prevailed on to touch it. After it had been given to others he discovered that it was given and not sold. He had refused because he had no money to buy it and the next day he received a tumbler of it much to his comfort; and his wonder that he could have it without pay was very touching.

Mrs. Fales’s coming into one of these tents had the effect of magic. Her cheery words were as ready and helpful as any part of her equipment. “Come, come.” She would say, “Cheer up. The secretary of war doesn’t want such long-faces here, he sent me down on purpose to make you stretch out your faces this way.” – at the same time giving a pair of thin, sunken cheeks a friendly pinch. By this time the tea was simmered, the boys were smiling, and the real needs of one and another were made known, so that the stores from the baskets could be judiciously applied.

A Visit to the Vermont Brigade

Berkeley Plantation mansion was used as headquarters for a Union hospital at Harrison's Landing.

On a certain Sunday we set out to visit the Vermont brigade not far away. We found Chaplain Mark of the 3d Vermont just about going to hold service in a quaint, old brick church in the Westover place. Of course, we were glad to accompany him, and attend the service. The building was crowded, and all who could not find room within were crowding about the door and windows. The service was heartily enjoyed, and afterward we joined a group of officers and privates about the little organ, singing the Gloria in Excelsis, and other chants of the dear old church we loved. We are called away from the singing and the talk of home which followed, to visit and extemporized hospital outside the church. Here were very sick men lying on benches of a sort of rustic summer house, sheltered from the sun by canvas and boughs.

We had not forgotten our big baskets when we came to church and now they were invaluable. A cup of tea was soon made for one, a bit of jelly tempted another to eat a little food, hot water served to prepare a mustard draught for one who was suffering for want of it. These were men on detailed duty, away from their regiments and without care or comforts. We visited them afterward and carried them such help as we could till they were removed to the general hospital at the landing.

"We had occasional salutes
 from our friends, 'the enemy.'"
 Hall wrote about her stay 
at Harrison's Landing.
(U.S. Military History Institute)

And to that point my own services were soon afterward transferred. Mrs. Fales being called home by some family cares I became assistant to Mrs. John Harris, agent of the ladies aid society of Philadelphia. The old family mansion of the Harrison plantation was located at the Landing, and this building was occupied as head-quarters of the hospital, and offices of various sorts, the cupola and upper rooms being used as a signal station. Here Mrs. Harris had a room, with tents for her stores close by. Here were brought the sick from the army all about, and here indeed was an army of sick men.

A letter dated August 6 gives a glimpse of the work at this point: —

Every day is more or less occupied in preparing delicacies for the sick in the numerous hospital tents. Yesterday afternoon and this morning large numbers were brought in for whom the division were not prepared. Before breakfast I was passing through the hall of the mansion when a sick man called me; he proved to be an old patent office patient and very sick. He could not eat his breakfast and begged me to prepare him something. This I did, and had hardly finished breakfast when I was handed an order for a box to be prepared for an Ohio regiment.

Before this was finished a ward master came for Mrs. Harris; in her absence I went with him, and was requested by a surgeon to provide breakfast for a dozen men who had eaten nothing since the day before at noon. We made up a kettle of chocolate and spread bread and butter for them. While dealing this out other men came to the tent begging for something for their ward; there I found 25 more men with nothing to eat. Before we could feed them all it was dinner time but we went on feeding the hungry and doing the little deeds of kindness as the chances occurred until night came on finding us weary enough. Then Mr. Sloan was chaplain, Mrs. Harris, mother of our little family, Mrs. Lee and Mr. Alvord of the Boston tract society came into the tent as is our custom and held family prayers. We sang “Rise my soul.” And Mr. Alvord prayed , thanking God for the cares and toils and trials of the day and for any spirit of faith in which we had borne them, “for so we may assure ourselves that we are thy children and striving to do thy work.

Occasional Shots From the Enemy

                PANORAMA: Present-day view of Harrison's Landing, site of massive
        Union presence during Civil War.  (Click at upper right for full-screen experience.)

We had occasional salutes from our friends, “the enemy.” As we were one day engaged in the usual routine of bread and butter, we heard heavy firing from the opposite side of the river. But the signal officer soon gave such instructions to our gun-boats that they were glad enough to quit that. Again we were wakened once in the night by the screaming of the “Dutch ovens.” And presently we heard the order to “put out lights — no lights allowed.” So in the darkness a hasty consultation was held, we decided to put on the clean dress, secure all our hair-pins and so be ready for any emergency. Being dressed, we went out of the tent to find a general state of alarm in the camp. The firing, however, soon ceased, and we learned that no great harm had been done.

There seems to be scarce time to tell of a horseback ride on a McClellan saddle in a rainy day through the camps and to see the out-works. But I must not forget the beautiful camp of the Massachusetts regiment I saw one day; How clean the streets, and how nice everything was. No sickness or want here surely! One man sat in the door of his tent busily sewing on buttons. As we came near he looked up and gazing at us said: “Well, it does look scarce to see a woman around.” He looked too, as if he would like to put out his sewing, but we did not step in to take it in.

           Google Earth view of Harrison's Landing and Berkeley Plantation in Virginia.

About the middle of August an order was given to break up the hospital. Some sort of a move was on foot, and we were officially advised to go to New York with a load of the sick, by the Daniel Webster, No. 2. When the final order came to go I was carrying a plate of raw tomatoes to an officer, sick with the fever in one of the buildings. He ate nothing and longed for nothing but a raw tomato cut up in vinegar. I had hired a little negro boy to get me some, and had just time to prepare them and carry them to the sick man. I left him enjoying the tomato and the next summer on going into a hospital ward at Annapolis, I found the same lieutenant wounded and a paroled prisoner. As the news of our going became known, we had applications from some of the contrabands to join the party. One bright boy begged me to “ax de doctor for to let him go. I interceded for him and reported to Charley. “What he say, miss?”

“He thinks you can go.”

Said I. “Well, I guess he better had, or else I’d do like I done down to Williamsport.”

“How was that, Charles?”

“Oh I just borrowed a hoss to go, and I went and don’t forget to take de hoss back, too.” Aunt Rosie, an old family servant, also joined the party, leaving behind her a little flock of grandchildren. We took both these servants North, and heard afterward of their well-doing in new homes.

On a bright Sunday morning we wake to the sight of the beautiful shores of Staten Island. As we heard the church bells pealing over the waters, we fancied we had reached the gates of paradise, and begin to realize the desolation and sorrow from which we had come. At the New Jersey depot our party separated to meet no more, but all again became workers in hospital service till the close of the war.

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A visit to modest grave of George Meade, 'hero of Gettysburg'

                 Panoramic view from behind Meade family plot in Laurel Hill Cemetery.
                                   (Click at upper right for full-screen experience.)

George Meade's modest gravestone in Laurel Hill Cemetery in Philadelphia.

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ABOUT THIS PLACE:  On a slope 100 feet above the Schuylkill River, the body of former Army of the Potomac commander George Meade, the "hero of Gettysburg," rests under a modest gravestone. In eternity, he has plenty of army company: The remains of 40 other Union generals and Confederate General John Pemberton also were buried in Philadelphia's Laurel Hill Cemetery, once a rural setting but now a dense, urban area.

As Meade's funeral cortege wound through the beautiful grounds on Nov. 11, 1872, "the sides of the avenues were lined with people anxious to get a glimpse of the distinguished gentlemen in the procession," the Philadelphia Inquirer reported. Among them was President Ulysses Grant, Meade's Civil War comrade and one-time superior officer. The graveside service was brief, the newspaper reported. No prayers were read, and no speeches were delivered.

George Meade died on Nov. 6, 1872.
(Library of Congress)

NOTABLE: Meade died at his home in Philadelphia on Nov. 6, 1872, reportedly from complications of pneumonia and the effects of wounds suffered during the Civil War. At the Battle of Glendale on June 30, 1862, a bullet tore into Meade's arm and another penetrated just above the hip bone, "and, passing round the body, made its exit just before reaching the spine," an obituary in the Philadelphia Inquirer noted.

The general's funeral procession through Philadelphia was, according to the Inquirer, "one of the grandest ever witnessed in the country." Headlines in the newspaper trumpeted, "The Day an Epoch in the City's History" and "An Immense Funeral Cortege." Grant and former Union generals Phil Sheridan, William Sherman and Winfield Hancock were among the thousands who came to honor the 56-year-old war hero.

A massive Norway maple once stood near Meade's grave, providing shade for Sheridan, Grant, Sherman, Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain, Dan Sickles and other famous visitors to the general's grave over the years. On Memorial Day weekend 2016, the treasured, 160-year-old tree was removed, a victim of old age.

Every New Year's Eve — the general's birthday — members of the General Meade Society hold a ceremony at the grave to honor him. Meade was born in Cadiz, Spain, on Dec. 31, 1815. A docent in the cemetery gift shop told me as many as 400 people have attended the annual event at Meade's gravesite.

QUOTABLE: "Philadelphia yesterday, in a manner that greatly honored it, testified to its regard for simple manly worth. Its places of trade were closed, its looms and hammers were still, its streets were filled with crowds, and yet were hushed with a stillness that was full of gloom. Only one man gone from among her million of people; but he was a soldier who had swept back forever the enemy that marched across the mountain wall to threaten commonwealth and city alike with carnage and plunder. George Gordon Meade was the hero of Gettysburg, who, called at a moment's notice, while on the march, to take command of a vast army, commanded it so well that the final conquest of the foe whom he met and defeated at Gettysburg was but a matter of time."

 -- Philadelphia Inquirer, Nov. 12, 1872

In mid-February, wreaths remained from the Meade Society New Year's Day remembrance ceremony.

Meade family plot in Laurel Hill Cemetery in Philadelphia.
(CLICK ON IMAGES TO ENLARGE.)

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— See Then & Now of Meade's Gettysburg headquarters here.

Photo gallery: Where General George Meade died in 1872

Meade's name appears just above the entryway at 1836 Delancey Street.

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On Nov. 11, 1872, five days after he died of  pneumonia in his house at 1836 Delancey Street in Philadelphia, a massive funeral was held for George Meade, the commander of the Army of the Potomac at Gettysburg. It was an "imposing affair," according to a contemporary newspaper account, attended by former Union army brass that included President Ulysses Grant, Phil Sheridan, Winfield Hancock and William Sherman.

George Meade was 56 when he died 
in 1872.  (Library of Congress)

The city had “never witnessed such a representation of the power and greatness and genius of the nation, as that which assembled within its limits today, to pay the last tribute of honor and respect to the memory of Major-Gen. George Gordon Meade," the New York Times reported the next day. "The solemn ceremonials, the impressive display, the gathering of thousands from all portions of the country, were well worthy the patriotism, the distinguished services, and the general excellence of character of the departed hero.”

"Business was almost entirely suspended today," the Pittsburgh Daily Post noted, "and the city wore a holiday appearance. Flags everywhere were draped in mourning, and even the buildings, out of respect to the memory of  General Meade."

Meade's body was taken from the house for a service at St. Mark's Church, and the route along the funeral procession was "filled with people" and "took nearly an hour to pass a given point," the Pittsburgh newspaper reported. Dressed as a civilian, Grant rode in an open carriage while Sherman and Sheridan appeared in full uniform. Even "Old Baldy," Meade's beloved horse, was part of the procession.

Meade's coffin, draped with an American flag and a wreath, was carried on a gun carriage pulled by six horses. The 56-year-old officer, still on active duty when he died, was buried at Laurel Hill Cemetery in Philadelphia.

On Thursday, we maneuvered through mind-numbing Philadelphia traffic for a brief visit to Meade's last home, which has been altered since he lived there from 1866-72. Marked by a blue-and-yellow painted historical sign on the sidewalk, the residence includes Meade's name carved in stone just above the entryway. The building has been sub-divided, turned into apartments over the years. Asking price to rent a one-bedroom, one-bath piece of history in tony Center City Philly: $1,500 a month.

For more on this historic property, check out this, this, this and this, and here's a cool story on the demise of the witness tree at Meade's grave and more photos of the giant, old Norway maple here.


                    Click at upper right for full-screen panoramas (on desktop only).

Meade died at his residence on Nov. 6, 1872.

Units are for rent at 1836 Delancey Street.

Meade's former residence is in Center City Philadelphia.

Historical sign just outside Meade's former Philadelphia residence.