Tales from the road: The dead of Falling Waters, a forgotten Gettysburg Campaign battle

The Donnelly House on the Falling Waters (Md.) battlefield. The remains of a battlefield
"witness" tree stand at right.

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Fifteen yards or so into George Franks’ backyard, Confederate Brig. Gen. James Pettigrew fell mortally wounded — by far the most famous of the casualties in the unheralded Battle of Falling Waters (Md.), fought July 14, 1863.

James Pettigrew
suffered a mortal wound
at Falling Waters.

But I’m less interested in the famous than in the common soldiers whose names rarely appear in the record: men of the 6th Michigan Cavalry, part of George Armstrong Custer’s famed “Wolverine Brigade.” They charged weary Confederate troops at Falling Waters in a rearguard action during Robert E. Lee’s retreat from Gettysburg — the final fight of the campaign.

Falling Waters paled in comparison to the big battles. The U.S. Army captured about 500 prisoners and killed or wounded dozens of Confederates. The bluecoats lost about a dozen dead and perhaps as many as 40 wounded. Small numbers, by Civil War standards. But not small to the families who received the news.

Sergeant Monroe Livingstone’s father made the nearly 600-mile journey from Michigan to recover his son’s remains from the battlefield. “Pierced by a bayonet,” Livingstone’s local newspaper reported. [1]

Recently promoted, Livingstone fell just outside hasty entrenchments dug by Confederate troops. His hometown paper later charged that his body had been rifled and stripped of clothes, adding, “Such is the chivalry of traitors.”

A cropped enlargement of a wartime sketch by Edwin Forbes of fighting at Falling Waters.
Forbes depicted the Donnelly House and barn, which no longer stands. (Library of Congress)

This ugly scene likely unfolded near the Donnelly House — Franks’ home and a makeshift hospital on the Falling Waters battlefield. (He and Melissa Cooperson restored the house from 2003 to 2011.) In a contemporary sketch of the fighting, Civil War artist Edwin Forbes depicted the nearby barn already showing its age, a quiet witness to the chaos around it.  

George T. Patten
(Image courtesy Richard Howell)

Livingstone was described as a “kind-hearted and dutiful son,” barely 21. His younger brother John, a corporal in the same company, survived the charge.

The death of Capt. David Royce of the 6th Michigan “cast a pall of gloom” over the men in his company.  [2]

“He was always cool and collected, of a very even temper,” the Grand Rapids [Mich.] Eagle wrote of the officer, who was approaching 30.

On Christmas Day 1862, Quartermaster Sgt. George T. Patten wrote to his wife Lydia from a camp in Washington. “The people of Michigan know but little about war compared with the inhabitants here,” he observed, “and God grant that they never may.” [3]

Patten, only 28, closed with thoughts of family.

“Don’t forget to kiss little Georgy for me and do not let him forget his papa,” he wrote. “How I would like to see him and kiss him. Teach him to be a good boy and to fear God and obey his mother.”

Seven months later, both he and Lydia were dead. They were buried side by side in a cemetery in Kent County, Michigan. “Consigned to dust,” read the headline over his funeral notice. [4]

Charles Bolza
(Courtesy Richard
Howell)

Lt. Charles Bolza, a New York City native and jewelry store owner, adopted Grand Rapids as his home in 1856. He taught Bible class and served as acting assistant superintendent, a role in which he was described as “regular, punctual, and faithful.” 

“He is gone from the earth,” the Eagle wrote of the mid-20s officer who fell at Falling Waters, “but he will not be forgotten while those who have walked and worked with him live.” [5]

Major Peter Weber, a civilian clerk before the war, enlisted in the 3rd Michigan as a private.

“I have commenced at the lowest round,” he reportedly told a friend who spotted him in a private’s uniform, “and, one step at a time, I am going up, up, up.” [6]

After surviving Gettysburg, Weber — who rose rapidly through the army — wrote home of his good fortune, raising his family’s hopes.

“The gleam was but a lightning flash, portending the approaching storm,” wrote a correspondent for the Eagle, perhaps a soldier of the 6th Michigan Cavalry. “The burden was raised from the mother’s heart only to sink back, a dead weight. Twelve short hours of happy musing over the letter which brought good tidings — and then came the telegram.”

 Weber was barely 22.

---

SOURCES

[1] Grand Rapids (Michigan) Daily Eagle, Aug. 4, 1863
[2] Grand Rapids (Michigan) Daily Eagle, Aug. 5, 1863
[3] Hamilton, Richard L., Dearest Lydia: 1856-1864 Courtship & Civil War Letters from George T. & Lydia Ann Denton-Patten, 2016, Page 31
[4] Grand Rapids (Michigan) Daily Eagle, Aug. 8, 1863
[5] Grand Rapids (Michigan) Daily Eagle, July 27, 1863
[6] Ibid

Podcast: An all-star cast of Antietam historians

On a special 60th edition of "The Antietam And Beyond Podcast," an all-star lineup of guests — Scott Hartwig, Dr. Jennifer Murray, Doug Douds, Dr. Jim Broomall and Dan Welch — joins co-hosts John Banks and Tom McMillan for a whirlwind discussion of topics before a live audience at the Antietam Institute spring symposium in Shepherdstown, West Virginia.

A flood of memories: How rising water imperiled Shiloh wounded

View of U.S. Naval Station at Mound City during the Civil War. (Library of Congress) 

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Days of heavy rain in late April 1862 sent the Ohio River over its banks at Mound City, Illinois, flooding a brick warehouse turned hospital and imperiling wounded soldiers from the Battle of Shiloh.

"Mound City is entirely underwater," the Chicago Tribune warned, noting that pools of stagnant water could breed malaria and kill patients. “If we do not remove the wounded quickly, our men will die like sheep.” [1]

“A wild waste of waters,” a witness called the surreal scene near the junction of the Ohio and Mississippi rivers. [2]

“Old Father Mississippi is on a bender,” another newspaper warned. [3]

“MOUND CITY HOSPITAL SUBMERGED!” shouted a headline in an Ohio newspaper. [4]

A 1912 image of a building in Mound City
used as the U.S. Naval Hospital. The warehouse
was destroyed by fire in 1976.
(A History of Southern Illinois)

Floodwater crept into the hospital’s first floor, scrambling caregivers, who placed 24-year-old Otto Heimberger, 22-year-old Charles Kimbell and four other soldiers from Battery A of the 1st Illinois Light Artillery onto cots and slipped them through second-floor windows to safety.

The flooding briefly turned the hospital into a rescue operation within its own walls, as caregivers carried patients to higher floors or elsewhere and later moved them by boat and rail. But the facility continued operating as Union casualties poured in along the river.

Heimberger had arrived by steamer around April 20, nursing a leg wound from the battle’s first day, April 6. His fiancée soon joined him, watching him “with incessant solicitude and love." [5]

“Many anxious hearts here await tidings of their condition,” wrote the hometown newspaper about Kimbell and another gunner from the battery. [6]

Mound City had been transformed by the war into a Union hospital complex, supply depot and naval base supporting the Mississippi Squadron. Steamers and flatboats crowded the docks, ferrying wounded soldiers ashore. Carts and stretcher-bearers moved through the streets while brick buildings, warehouses and hastily erected tents served as hospital wards and storehouses for medical supplies.

Headlines in The Cleveland Leader
on April 21, 1862.

About two weeks after the battle, “upwards of one thousand wounded officers and soldiers” were receiving care in Mound City — more than doubling the town’s pre-war population of 900. In all, the town accommodated roughly 1,500 beds for patients.

Amid the surge, soldiers assigned to hospital duty moved through the wards alongside surgeons and nurses. A 15th Illinois soldier, designated to aid patients, described one hospital as a “splendid building.” The previous day, he had helped move 900 soldiers into it. [7]

“We are detailed to take care of the poor fellows, and shall probably remain some time,” he wrote in the aftermath of Shiloh. “You cannot think of the various ways men are shot in; most of ours are arm and leg wounds.” [8]

Another witness found the wounded in “every conceivable form.” Yet despite the rising waters, “an air of comfort” pervaded the hospital complex. [9] “Admirably arranged” and “well ventilated,” a Wisconsin newspaper called the complex, adding it provided “abundant and excellent” care. [10]

After his arrival at Mound City, Kimbell pleaded with surgeons not to amputate his wounded leg. He and the others in his regiment — “all Chicago boys,” according to the Tribune — had suffered leg wounds while hauling a cannon off the battlefield.

After arriving via Paducah, Kentucky, Kimbell’s father persuaded doctors to cancel the operation, and they reluctantly complied. (Charles survived, living until 1905.) The elder Kimbell even paid to send three other “Chicago boys” home, and the Illinois Central Railroad placed them in one of its best cars.

Not all were as fortunate.

Union vessels at Mound City. (Library of Congress)

Private Charles Augustus Brier of the 14th Wisconsin reached Mound City with a severe gunshot wound to the knee. Pneumonia soon followed, killing the 18-year-old from Webster’s Prairie on April 26.

“[W]e look around and behold a lovely family circle broken — a father in tears, a mother in anguish, brother and sisters bowed in sorrow and sadness,” William Thompson, a Baraboo, Wisconsin, businessman, wrote about Brier in a letter published in the local paper. [11]

Reflecting on the private's death, Thomson added:

An aerial view of flooding at flood-prone
Mound City in 1937. (Chronicling Illinois)

“Who then shall be held responsible for the sacrifice of the thousands of our young men, who have gone forth in the hour of our country's peril, to save us and our posterity from the otherwise fearful doom which awaits us? But the record has been made! Thus fell Charles Brier, of Baraboo, Wis., at the battle of Shiloh, in the 19th year of his age; and died at the Mound City Hospital, April 26, 1862.” 

After leaving the Mound City hospital, caregivers loaded Heimberger, Kimbell and other wounded onto a northeastbound flatboat, navigating the flooded docks and churning riverfront. Attendants later transferred them to an Illinois Central Railroad train, placing stretchers across the tops of the last car’s seats for the journey to Chicago, where friends met them and cared for them in private homes. [12]

Despite that care, Heimberger — one of more than 13,000 Union casualties at Shiloh — died on May 16, shattering his fiancée and a “large circle of friends.” The next day at 2 p.m., Chicago Light Artillery soldiers and members of the Cigar Makers’ Association attended the former fireman’s funeral at 220 East Van Buren Street, a short walk from Lake Michigan. [13]

These dramas began at Shiloh. In Mound City — a nondescript river town remade by war — they played out under the most trying circumstances and often ended in tragedy. Nearly 4,700 Civil War soldiers rest in the town's national cemetery.

---

SOURCES

[1] Chicago Tribune, April 25, 1862
[2] Chicago Tribune, April 22, 1862
[3] Salem [Illinois] Weekly Advocate, April 24, 1862
[4] The Cleveland Leader, April 21, 1862
[5] Chicago Tribune, May 17, 1862
[6] Baraboo [Wisconsin] Republic, May 7, 1862
[7] Chicago Tribune, April 22, 1862
[8]  The Woodstock [Illinois] Sentinel, April 23, 1862
[9] Chicago Tribune, April 22, 1862
[10] Wisconsin State Journal, April 19, 1862
[11] Baraboo [Wisconsin] Republic, May 7, 1862
[12] First Illinois Light Artillery Volunteers, Chicago, Cushing Printing Co., 1899, Page 48
[13] Chicago Tribune, May 17, 1862

Secrets of Nashville's Hospital No. 11, the 'Pest House'

The Bostick property, site of Hospital No. 11 in Nashville. (Tennessee State Library and Archives)

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In West Nashville, traffic drones along busy Charlotte Pike, while a mile away, downtown Nashville flashes construction cranes and flexes its prosperity. Bus fumes and the smell of fast-food hamburger meat linger in the air.

In spring 1862, weeks after the United States Army occupied Nashville, the scene looked very different on the sparsely populated edge of Tennessee’s capital city. Along the pike stood the abandoned, 10-room brick house of Hardin Perkins Bostick, a wealthy attorney and slaveholder who had died of typhoid fever two years earlier. In Bostick's backyard, caregivers and patients – including soldiers, citizens, convalescents and contrabands – clustered in scores of canvas military tents.

A warning at the "Pest House."

This lonely outpost served as the U.S. Army’s Smallpox Hospital — Hospital No. 11, as the military called it. Others called it the “Pest House.” A sign on a fence warned: “Keep Out.” Nearby, the Hospital No. 11 cemetery eventually would hold more than 1,500 souls.

Both the long-gone hospital and its cemetery have become objects of my fascination — mainly for what may still lie beneath the soil: bones.

“They never got them all,” an archaeologist recently told me.

Shortly after the war — perhaps just north of the present-day Sonic on Charlotte Pike or steps from Smiley Dental Associates — crews exhumed bodies from the Hospital No. 11 cemetery and transferred them to the newly established national cemetery in Madison, Tennessee, and elsewhere.

The forgotten Hospital No. 11 cemetery likely once held Private Valentine White of the 84th Indiana. Stricken with smallpox, he leaped to his death from a Nashville "pest house" in late spring 1863. “Delirious,” an Indiana newspaper wrote of the soldier who rests today in Nashville National Cemetery. [1] 

At Hospital No. 11 on April 20, 1864, smallpox killed 141st New York Corporal Dwight Murphy, who also rests in the national cemetery. "He wished me when dying to write and tele you," an officer in the regiment wrote to Murphy's mother, "but was not able to speak so as to leave any message." [2]

Despite a vaccination, Private Hugh Scott joined White among those afflicted in the 84th Indiana. In late winter 1865, smallpox claimed the 32-year-old, blue-eyed, brown-haired farmer. Scott left behind a wife named Elizabeth, six children — and a pocketknife valued at 71 cents. [3] His remains eventually found their way back to Indiana.

Hospital No. 11 tents in a field near the Bostick house. (Tennessee State Library and Archives)

Smallpox didn’t rival typhoid, dysentery and malaria as a mass killer during the Civil War. A crude (by modern standards) vaccine existed, but many never received it. The disease – “heaven’s particular scourge,” a Richmond newspaper called it [4] – brought terrifying symptoms: fever, headache, body aches and a rash of pus-filled bumps and scabs that often left permanent scars. Soldiers, many unaccustomed to close-quarters military life, often contracted the highly communicable disease. 

A Nashville newspaper sounded the alarm in early 1863. "We regret to notice this disease is now in our city," the Daily Union reported. "We would advise our citizens to use the necessary precautions to prevent its spread. Be vaccinated at once."  [5] A year later, it was spreading in Nashville with a "fearful rapidity" – and without discriminating against rich or poor, Black or white, young or old. [6]

“It is distressing to hear that slaves are dying of smallpox,” the Daily Union wrote, “but it is certainly not more distressing than to see our gallant soldiers led to ravages of disease.” [7]

Smallpox patients often faced strict quarantine. Treatments ranged from herbal remedies to chemical concoctions. In 1864, an Illinois newspaper touted a less-scientific cure: cream of tartar and rhubarb mixed with cold water – “a remedy which cured three thousand cases in England.” [8]

“In cases characterized by delirium, great benefits have been obtained by applying a bottle of hot water to the feet,” added the paper. But this cure apparently never caught on — not with the U.S. military, and not with George W. France, the doctor in his early 30s who ran Hospital No. 11.

The Nashville Daily Union
frequently published a list
of military hospitals.

France’s hospital carried a fearsome reputation. Townspeople called it the “Plague House” and assumed no one left alive, yet inside the canvas tents, care and vigilance shaped every day. Newly in charge in April 1864, France patrolled the tents while others dispensed care. He ran a tight operation. Patients noticed. 

“I expected to be crowded into a tent with a motley gathering of all classes," wrote 22nd Michigan quartermaster Thomas Boughton, a smallpox patient at Hospital No. 11, in a letter in a Nashville newspaper. "I of course knew that the Doctors would prescribe for me. But I imagined a parched tongue with no one to administer my wants. I imagined myself hungry with no one near to answer my call. [9]

“My mind,” he added, “conjured up every idea that could tend to make me miserable.”

But France impressed Boughton, who spent eight days alone in a tent, delirious. An “ever-kind” nurse – a soldier in the 102nd Ohio – cared for him for about a week. 

“I was treated well and every arrangement was made for my comfort by Dr. France, who in my opinion deserves some mark of approbation for his untiring efforts,” he wrote.

Another newspaper correspondent also challenged the hospital’s negative reputation. “Physicians, stewards, nurses, all, more or less, are included in the category of practicing brutality, ordering coffins hourly, that they may the more readily get rid of the infernal disease,” wrote the unknown correspondent, likely a patient. [10] 

But the hospital was nothing like that, the letter writer insisted, adding France “combines all the essentials of a refined and feeling gentleman, courteous and affable to the lowest, rendering all the aid and assistance to the inmates … He never relinquishes his post to engage in the frivolities of the day or the gaieties of the night, but, like a faithful sentinel, his tramp can be heard at morn, noon and night, alleviating the sufferings of the sufferer.” 

Now back to that cemetery … and those old bones.

I make a slow pass around the neighborhood — first in my SUV, then on foot. Within sight of the pike stands an African American Baptist church. I quiz a parishioner in a hurry about “Jefferson Street” Joe Gilliam, the former Pittsburgh Steelers quarterback who made a name for himself here decades ago. But I don’t have the heart to ask him about the Pest House.

And so I’m left to wonder: Who was Valentine White, delirious and disease-ridden, who killed himself at a Nashville pest house? What would Dr. France think of this place today, virtually in the shadow of modern hospitals?

And, finally, is the archaeologist right? Do remains of soldiers, contrabands and other forgotten souls still rest somewhere in this unremarkable Charlotte Pike neighborhood — and what other secrets endure from Hospital No. 11, the Pest House?

---

SOURCES

[1] The Indiana State Sentinel, June 1, 1863
[2] Dwight Murphy "widow's" pension, fold3.com via National Archives (WC50543)
[3] Hugh Scott pension file document, courtesy descendant Sean Smart
[4] The Athens (Tenn.) Post, Dec. 13, 1862
[5] Nashville Daily Union, Feb. 26, 1863
[6] The Indianapolis Sentinel, Feb. 19, 1864
[7] Nashville Daily Union, March 19, 1863
[8] Nashville [Illinois] Journal, March 25, 1863
[9] Nashville Daily Union, May 11, 1864
[10] Nashville Daily Union, April 12, 1864

'Gobbling up': What happened to 22nd Wisconsin at Brentwood, Tennessee?

22nd Wisconsin soldiers (Wisconsin Historical Society)

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We often make the short trip from our little Nashville enclave to Brentwood — for groceries, for chicken tenders at Waldo’s, for the tuna fish sandwich at my favorite deli. It’s an easy, familiar drive.

But lately, after some deep dives into old newspaper accounts of the long-forgotten Battle of Brentwood, fought March 25, 1863, I won’t be making that trip quite the same way. I’ll be thinking about the 22nd Wisconsin soldiers who were captured there — on ground now buried beneath subdivisions and shopping centers. They had been guarding a depot, while two miles south, comrades held a stockade and a railroad bridge near the Little Harpeth River.

A lone historical marker on the heavily
developed Brentwood battlefield.

It’s almost impossible to picture the Brentwood battlefield now, with traffic humming and parking lots filling and emptying, while virtually nothing along Franklin Road hints at what happened here. Only one out-of-the-way historical marker, roughly 10 yards from a service station, commemorates the battlefield. 

Yet the soldiers left us something better than markers or monuments: their words.

“One of the best camping grounds that the 22nd has had the good fortune to encamp on,” a soldier in the 22nd Wisconsin — signing his letter “Goldower” — wrote home in early March 1863 about the small Union garrison at Brentwood. His account appeared in a Racine newspaper, offering a glimpse of life before the battle.

Another soldier in Company F wrote home: “Do not feel alarmed about us, as we have a good stockade to rally on and plenty of cold lead for the rebels.”

But neither cold lead nor the Brentwood stockade protected the 22nd Wisconsin, whose Middle Tennessee experience can best be termed a nightmare. At the Battle of Thompson’s Station on March 5, 1863, Nathan Bedford Forrest captured dozens of 22nd Wisconsin soldiers (and other Midwesterners); at Brentwood, “The Wizard” finished the job. Few U.S. soldiers were killed or wounded, but more than 300 became POWs. 

“Gobbling up,” a Wisconsin soldier wrote of the Brentwood mass capture — words we could use today about real estate developers and Middle Tennessee land.

1863 map of Brentwood stockade that guarded a railroad bridge at the Little Harpeth River.
(Library of Congress via Wikipedia)

“Dear Brother,” paroled Private Edward Pullan of Company E wrote, “I write you to let you know I am still in the land of the living.” He went on to tell a harrowing tale of quietly cooking breakfast when the Rebels attacked. 

“We had barely formed line of battle, with skirmishers thrown out in front, when the rebels, in overwhelming numbers … pounced upon us,” Pullan wrote. I'll always wonder if this occurred near where my favorite oil change place now stands. 

In “dilapidated” Columbia, Tennessee, en route to Libby prison in Richmond, Pullan described sleeping among the “filth and vermin” in the courthouse and complained of “blistered feet, tired limbs and empty stomachs.”

Others told similar stories.

“We have seen hardships enough ... to make a young man old," wrote Private Webster C. Pope, then about 19 and another parolee. He described being marched after his capture by the Rebels — “miserable sneaking whelps,” he called them — “across lots and every other way, half the time on the double quick.” He’d be amazed at all the tony Brentwood neighborhoods he’d pass on his way over that ground today. 

The Brentwood stockade is believed to have stood in the middle distance at right,
beyond the railroad track.

But at least there was one ray of sunshine for Pope, who died of disease in April 1864.

“Through the kindness of a Union woman I got a cup of milk and some warm corn bread for supper,” he wrote.

In another letter to his family, Pullan — who said imprisonment turned him into "skin and bones" — vowed to get even. 

"I want to see you all in a few days," he wrote, "and then I am ready to fight those villanous rebels to the death."

"I know," he continued, "just how to hate them."

The obscure Brentwood battlefield 
was long ago lost to development.

Others focused on the embarrassment of the Brentwood surrender. 

“Mother, it was not my wish to surrender at Brentwood,” wrote paroled prisoner Claron I. Miltimore, an adjutant, adding: “We would rather die than surrender.” He also concluded: “I am somewhat wiser in the war question than I was a month ago.”

For some, the aftermath of Brentwood proved even more tragic.

One 22nd Wisconsin soldier pounded his loaded musket against a tree in indignation over the surrender; it discharged into his thigh, and he later died in a Nashville hospital. “Another Brave Boy Gone,” read the headline in a Wisconsin paper atop the story of death of John D. Morgan of Company F.

Others, though, were simply grateful to have survived.  

"Free! Free!" adjutant William Bones wrote after weeks of capitivity by "Jeff Davis' rebel horde." "Thank God we are free once more." 

Chaplain Caleb D. Pillsbury made a circuitous journey across the Confederacy before his release in Vicksburg, Mississippi. He seemed resigned to it. "War is war," wrote Pillsbury, who had no complaints about his treatment in captivity.  

By June, capture, parole and death were apparently distant, ugly memories for at least one soldier in the 22nd Wisconsin. For him, music had replaced mayhem.

“Having lost our instruments at Brentwood, Tenn., when captured, a subscription is being taken up for a new set,” he wrote, “and we shall again have fine music to enhance the pleasure of these fine evenings.”

Perhaps he played a tuba where the cooks now fry tenders at Waldo's.

---

SOURCES

• Janesville Weekly Gazette, April 21, 24, 1863 
• The Beloit [Wis.] Free Press, April 23, 1863
• The Manitowoc [Wis.] Pilot, April 3, 1863
• The Milwaukee Daily, June 13, 1863 
• The Racine [Wis.] Advocate, March 4 and 18, 1863 
• The Weekly Racine Advocate, April 8, April 27, May 20, 1863

Then & Now in Columbia, Tennessee: Where the armies slept

Beechlawn Then & Now: The mansion stands on Pulaski Pike, south of Columbia, Tennessee.
The sketch was drawn by 7th Minnesota Chaplain Elijah Edwards, who stayed at Beechlawn.

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Just before dark in December 1864, in the aftermath of the Battle of Nashville, Union soldiers rode up to a house on Pulaski Pike (present-day U.S. Route 31) south of Columbia and asked for shelter.

Among them was Elijah Evan Edwards, the 33-year-old chaplain in the 7th Minnesota Infantry. He recorded the experience in his diary and even sketched the house they made a temporary home: Beechlawn.

Chaplain Elijah Edwards
(Battle of Nashville
Trust)

Inside was the wife of a Confederate officer — her husband, Major Amos Wiley Warfield, apparently was off somewhere with John Bell Hood’s ragtag Army of Tennessee, retreating toward Alabama. She let them in.

"We accepted her hospitality as cheerfully as it was offered, posted a guard on the outside, and took our station within, where, for the first time in our campaigning, we were treated to the complete luxuries of civilized entertainment," Edwards wrote. 

Beechlawn had already served as headquarters for Hood during his advance on Nashville. Soon, Union General Andrew J. Smith would sleep here too.

Inside the circa 1853 home, a wounded Confederate told Edwards that Hood was a “butcher,” driving his men into slaughter at the Battle of Franklin. He had one leg left.

“[H]e could neither fight nor run away,” Edwards wrote. His war was over.

Here is the excerpt of Edwards' diary, as posted by the Huntsville [Ala.] Historical Review (April 1, 1973, Volume 3, No. 2).

---

Toward evening we reached Columbia and crossed the Duck River on a pontoon bridge. This is (at the present) a deep and rapid stream with high banks, and we had some difficulty in crossing. Columbia is an old town with a rather dilapidated appearance. There were many ornamental trees shading the streets, the most conspicuous being the holly and mimosa.

John Bell Hood made Beechlawn
his headquarters in the lead-up
to the Battle of Nashville.

As it was getting near evening, we began to look out for a camping place. All the dwellings in the town seemed to be inhabited, and we proceeded some distance into the country, hoping to find a deserted mansion like the one in which we had dined. But finding none, we drew up in front of a palatial brick home, the windows of which were already lighted, and applied for shelter. 

The tenant proved to be the wife of a Confederate Major Warfield, supposed to be somewhere in Hood’s scattered army. She received us most graciously, not only giving permission for us to remain, but cordially inviting us, assuring us that our presence would be a protection from the stragglers and robbers that were prowling in bands over the country.

We accepted her hospitality as cheerfully as it was offered, posted a guard on the outside, and took our station within, where, for the first time in our campaigning, we were treated to the complete luxuries of civilized entertainment. However, owing to the hard conditions of the war, the larder of our hostess was incomplete, we contributed liberally of our own, and spent a delightful evening in conversation.

U.S. Gen. Andrew J. Smith
slept in the Warfield mansion.

Facing page 41 is a hasty sketch of the Warfield Mansion. It has been well preserved from the fate that has been measured out to so many Southern homes, probably from the fact that, from its commodiousness, it has been generally selected as a headquarters for both armies. Thus, Hood, in his advance on Nashville, and retreat as well, made it his headquarters, and on the 24th Gen. A. J. Smith pillowed his weary head in the best bedroom.

Lastly came our squad of surgeons and chaplains. The building was thus protected from pillagers and from the torch. It has been used also in a small way as a hospital.

We found here a badly wounded Confederate soldier. He was quite friendly and communicative, and criticized his late commander Hood most unsparingly, pronouncing him a butcher for driving his men into the shambles at Franklin, where they were slaughtered like so many dumb animals. He believed for himself that the time for fighting was over. It certainly was for him, he musingly remarked, since he had but one leg left and could neither fight nor run away. He was a lieutenant.

There was a sick and badly disabled Confederate soldier in one of the outer buildings, that had been used as negro quarters (sic), whose feet were badly frozen. He told me that many of Hood’s soldiers were absolutely barefooted—and that, too, at a time when the temperature, a very unusual thing in the South, marked as low as 10 above zero. (I do not recall any such frosty weather as that, but can testify that while we were at Nashville it was frequently several degrees below freezing.) We left the Warfield home quite early this morning, with friendly adieus to the lady hostess and kind words to the wounded soldiers.

Podcast: Medal of Honor stories, Antietam insights with guide Jess Rowley

In Episode 58, Antietam battlefield guide Jess Rowley — a former National Park Service ranger — joins co-hosts John Banks and Tom McMillan for a freewheeling discussion about Antietam Medal of Honor recipients, famed Union Army officer Francis Barlow and interacting with the public. Plus, we learn about a New England regiment in which each soldier received a Medal of Honor.

A gruesome execution on Granny White Pike in Nashville

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Granny White Pike bore witness to its share of Civil War activity beyond the Battle of Nashville. Soldiers skirmished along its stretches, pitched tents beside it and stood at attention nearby for musters and reviews. But on May 15, 1863, the road became the stage for a grisly spectacle: a public execution.

That day, Private Julius Milika of Company E, 10th Michigan Infantry, faced a 12-man firing squad for desertion — “one of the gravest military crimes,” the Nashville Daily Union warned. The punishment was swift.

The Daily Missouri Democrat of St. Louis
 (May 16, 1863) was among the newspapers
that published accounts of the execution.

Around noon, about a mile and a half from Nashville, soldiers and townspeople lined the pike in tense silence. In their midst in a field astride the pike, Milika arrived in an ambulance, seated atop his own coffin. Later, kneeling in prayer, he appeared unnervingly calm.

"All the troops at this post were called out," an 18th Michigan soldier wrote. "The Battallions in position, formed three sides of a square, with the open side near a piece of woods. There was a small tree near the center of the square, under which the grave of the unfortunate man was dug."

The ugly event seared itself into the mind of William Painter of the 22nd Michigan. “Awful,” he wrote in a letter to his wife, adding: “The worst thing I ever witnessed in my life.”

Painter described how the Prussian-born Milika, blindfolded, prayed with four ministers, who then shook hands with the condemned man. Milika stood, saluted the firing squad and told his executioners that he was ready to die. Six of them had loads in their guns, six had nothing but powder.

“Take good aim, men; all is over now,” Milika said in German, his voice steady, according to the Daily Union. 

Then came the command — and the volley.

“One shot hit him in the mouth, two in the neck, one in the breast and one in the belly,” Painter wrote. “I did not learn where the sixth hit, but all six struck him, as the [executioners] stood only ten paces away.” Within thirty minutes, Milika had been placed in his coffin and buried. 

"[I]t is hard to think of the horrors of such a death, yet all acknowledge the justice of the law," the 18th Michigan witness wrote, "and I am sure that no man that witnessed the execution will ever forget the lesson."

Milika’s crimes were serious. About 30 years old, he had deserted his regiment, joined another for bounty money and deserted again. Arrested in Louisville, he was returned to Nashville to face a court-martial.

“Until he joined the army his habits were praiseworthy; but in the service, he neglected his religious duties, contracted intemperate habits, and grew fond of bad company,” the Nashville paper reported.

Rev. Herman Egger, who was present that day, later reflected that Milika accepted his fate as the will of God and seemed to hope his death might serve as a warning to other soldiers. The scene left such an impression on Egger that he resolved to make it the subject of his next Sunday sermon, posing a sobering question to his congregation:

“What brought Julius Milika to his untimely end?”

POSTSCRIPT: Despite his execution for desertion, Milika may rest today in Nashville National Cemetery in Madison. According to the government’s 1869 Roll of Honor, a “Julius Malika” of the 10th Michigan Infantry is listed among the dead buried on its vast grounds. If the entry refers to the same man, the condemned deserter now lies among thousands of Union soldiers who died in service. I have yet to locate his grave.

---

SOURCES 

• Jackson (Mich.) Eagle, May 23, 1863 
• Monroe (Mich.) Commericial, May 28, 1863
• Nashville Daily Union, May 16, 1863 
• Nashville National Cemetery “Roll Of Honor” 
• Painter letter (May 15, 1863) sold on Heritage Auctions, Dec. 6, 2020 

Podcast: William Griffing of Spared & Shared on transcribing, posting soldier letters

In Episode 57, William Griffing joins co-host John Banks (with Tom McMillan off this week) for a conversation about his remarkable transcriptions of Civil War soldier letters — including many tied to Antietam — which he shares on his Spared & Shared website. “Griff” has transcribed and posted more than 15,000 letters so far — and he types every single one, one-handed.

'Fatal blunders': A soldier's letter about Battle of Thompson's Station

An aerial view of the battlefield and a postwar railroad station. Midwestern troops
 — the 85th and 33rd Indiana— retreated from right to left. 

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On March 6, 1863, from a camp at Franklin, Tennessee, a soldier in the 22nd Wisconsin wrote about the disastrous defeat suffered by the U.S. Army the day before.

Along the wooded ridges and cedar-crowned hills at Thompson’s Station — ground many Middle Tennesseans now drive past without a second thought — his brigade had been surrounded and forced to surrender. What began as a reconnaissance south on the Franklin Pike ended in one of the sharpest U.S. Army defeats in Middle Tennessee.

His letter captures the terrors of combat — the “shrill scream of a flying ball,” the “demoniac sound” of rifled shells — and defends the courage of men who believed they had been sent into a trap.

Here are excerpts from that nearly 3,000-word account, published in The Racine (Wis.) Advocate on March 25, 1863 — the same day most of the 22nd Wisconsin became captives of Nathan Bedford Forrest at Brentwood, Tennessee. (See my video on that battle.) (The unknown letter writer, who avoided capture at Thompson's Station, may have been among them.)

"There are many personal incidents of the fight worthy of record," wrote the soldier from Company A about Thompson's Station, "but I fear my communication is already too long for your columns and must close."

'Another of those fatal blunders'

A cropped enlargement of an American Battlefield Trust map of Thompson's Station battle
shows the position of the 22nd Wisconsin near the Columbia Pike. (See the full map.)

It is my painful task to inform you of the details of one of the most terrible defeats ever sustained by any portion of the National army in the war. The 22d [Wisconsin] has made for itself a history — a glorious history — but that history has well-nigh ended where it began. Another of those fatal blunders of sending out a small force against an enemy ten times their number, for which this war is famous, has been perpetrated, and as fine a brigade as Gen. [William] Rosecrans’ army can boast has been utterly annihilated.

'Screaming missiles'

An aerial view of the battlefield.

The country here consists of a series of parallel ranges of hills, crossing transversely to the pike and covered, except in the cleared fields, with heavy timber, thus preventing the movements of the enemy to be seen for but a short distance ahead.

As we approached Thompson station, 9 miles from Franklin and 4 miles from Spring Hill, the firing by the skirmishers became rapid, and soon their cheers indicated that they had gained an advantage. On hearing this we advanced at a quick step and soon discovered that they had gained the top of a high hill crowned with cedars, and had there halted. 

On the right of this hill was another one of equal height, and between the two the turnpike and railroad crossed each other, while at their southern base was the little village of Thompson [Station]. The reserve cavalry with Col. [John] Coburn, his staff, and body guard, had just reached the R. R. crossing between the two hills when we were suddenly surprised by the report of cannon from the vicinity of the station, which caused a precipitate retreat of the cavalry from their dangerous proximity, and immediately thereafter another of the screaming missiles passed along close to the right of our ranks, causing the boys involuntarily to crouch to the earth to avoid their unwelcome visitor. 

'Leaden messengers about our ears'

The armies exchanged fire along the railroad track.

The boys would dodge as much for the shells from our own battery for those from the rebels, for I never heard a more demoniac sound than that made by a shell from a rifled gun. Soon, far to the left, a long line of rebel cavalry could be seen passing directly toward our rear, with the evident intention of outflanking us and capturing our train, while at the same time their battery could be seen taking a new position farther to the left, where nothing could prevent their raking the whole length of our regimental line.

Just here, too, the battery, by some unexplained want of precaution, ran out of ammunition, and were obliged to leave their position, when the alarm was given that a body of infantry were coming around the hill to outflank us. We were quickly moved out of our position and formed another line at right angles with our previous one, and just under the brow of the hill on which the battery had been, where, as the rebel battery had again opened, we were ordered to lie down.

Battle relics may be seen at Homestead Manor,
used as a hospital during and after the battle.

The design of that fire we soon saw, however, was to shell the pike, probably to prevent our retreat, though one shell exploded directly in front of Co. A, too far off, however, to do any damage. We had lain there but a few minutes when a rebel regiment appeared among the cedars on the opposite hill, and then the 22d fired its first volley at its country's enemies, and those who were in a position to see the rebel line say that it was a most effective one.

And the rebels were by no means idle, for whiz! zip! spud! came the little leaden missiles above one's ears, making music of a different character, but no more agreeable than the howling shells. But no one appeared too excited for perfect control of himself; the boys would run up to the top of the hill, take deliberate aim at the smoke among the cedars, (for no rebels were openly visible,) fire, and then return to the line to reload.

But not long could we remain here. The party which had attempted to flank us were now making for the pike to cut off the whole brigade, and we were ordered to fall back from our exposed position. The ranks being so broken by the boys selecting good positions for shooting, that the movement down the hill was accomplished in some confusion, but the line was reformed in perfect order behind the railroad bank at the foot, the right resting at the crossing of the railroad and pike.

'Fought like heroes'

Both armies used the railroad embankments for cover.

The 33d Ind. is Col. Coburn's own regiment and has been in service eighteen months, having been a part of Morgan's Cumberland Gap army. They were led by Col. Coburn himself in a charge on the rebel battery on the right of the station before the attack was made on our regiment. They had advanced nearly to the battery when a large body of infantry, whose presence they had not previously suspected, rose from behind a stone fence and poured a volley directly into their faces. 

They were compelled to retreat over a long stretch of low, wet land, exposed to the deadly fire of the enemy, and were, of course, terribly cut up, but formed their lines and fought like heroes, only surrendering when their cartridge boxes were empty. 

The whole Brigade fought gallantly, but they had been drawn into well laid trap, [Confederate Gen. Earl] Van Dorn's vastly superior numbers prevailed against the most obstinate bravery, and they were obliged to surrender as prisoners of war. 

Battlefield historical marker on Columbia Pike at Thompson's Station, Tennessee.

Lt. Col. [Edward] Bloodgood was the coolest man I saw upon the field; dressed in full uniform, his tall, commanding form was a conspicuous mark for rebel bullets, but he kept his seat upon his horse and gave orders with all the precision and coolness of a battalion drill. It seems almost a miracle that he was not struck as he rode down the pike in that tempest of bullets. ....

Our brave commander, Col. Coburn, is also a prisoner, and the country is thus deprived of the services of one of her noblest and best men. Whatever may be the opinion of others, such is the confidence that Col. Coburn's men have in his caution and skill as a General, that no news can be more welcome to us than to hear that he will again be our commander. 

The author of the disaster is undoubtedly Gen. [Charles] Gilbert, the commander at Franklin, who sent out so small a force against one he knew to be superior, and then refused to reinforce it. I learn that this miscreant has been placed under arrest, and if the facts are as reported, hanging is too good for him.

---

Postscript: The defeat was an embarrassing setback for Union forces operating south of Nashville and reflected poorly on Gilbert's command. He received no further significant field command.

Podcast: Author Brad Gottfried compares Antietam, Gettysburg

In Episode 56, prolific author/historian Brad Gottfried joins co-hosts John Banks and Tom McMillan for a discussion about his latest book, Lee Invades The North: A Comparison of the Antietam and Gettysburg Campaigns. In a freewheeling podcast, we hit all the big names — Lee, Lincoln, Meade, Burnside and McClellan. Plus, Gottfried dishes on guide exams and April's Antietam Institute conference.

'Hidden' Fort Donelson: A butcher who returned home in a coffin

Markers for 45th Illinois commissary sergeant John Travis in Greenwood Cemetery
in Rockford, Ill. (Find A Grave)

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John Travis, a 42-year-old butcher from Rockford, Ill., and commissary sergeant in the 45th Illinois, was carrying rations well behind the fighting at the Battle of Fort Donelson (Tenn.) on Feb. 15, 1862. But distance served as no protection. A Confederate grape shot tore through his right arm and chest, killing

him instantly.

“A squad of eight men, under Sergeant Jack Blaisdell, an old messmate, was detailed to bury the body,” the Rockford Register reported. “Upon approaching it, they found it had been rifled by some fiend incarnate of a gold watch and forty dollars in money.” 

A map shows the position of the 45th Illinois
on Feb. 15, 1862. Full American Battlefield
Trust map here.

Travis, much older than most soldiers at Fort Donelson, was born in New York and ran a meat market with a partner on State House Street, opposite the court house. The former Rockford street commissioner had earned the admiration of his neighbors as a man “universally respected for his many sterling qualities,” his hometown newspaper noted.

Wrote 45th Illinois Major Melancthon Smith:

 “Poor Travis fell a victim to this unholy war, but his death was the death of a brave soldier in a noble cause. No man was more respected in our regiment. As commissary sergeant, he performed his duty faithfully and with great satisfaction to both officers and men. His death is one we deeply sympathize with, along with his afflicted family."

Sergeant Travis left behind his wife of nearly 23 years, Amanda, and their three children: William, Hannah and Delphene. Back home in Rockford, rumors swirled — some “utterly destitute of truth” — about who had fallen on the battlefield. “The Rockford Band lost about half of their instruments on the field, but none of the Band were wounded,” the Register reported.

The 45th Illinois, the “Lead Mine Regiment,” saw fierce fighting positioned on the Union army’s exposed right wing — along the left portion of its brigade line. Even amid the chaos, soldiers of the regiment fought stubbornly. An Illinois soldier “fired as deliberately and coolly at the rebels as if he was shooting prairie chickens,” Smith recalled.

Court Street United Methodist Church
in Rockford, Ill. — site of 45th Illinois
commissary sergeant John Travis’
 funeral service following his
 death at Fort Donelson.
(Google Street View)

After confirmation of Travis’ death finally reached town, Rockford merchant Israel Sovereign — a dealer of stoves and hardware on South Main — traveled south to retrieve the body. In mid-March, after an arduous journey, he returned home with the remains. (Sovereign contracted typhoid fever during the trip, leaving him dangerously ill, but he recovered.)

Rockford held Travis’ funeral at the Court Street Methodist Church. The building filled early, and hundreds were turned away. The Rev. John H. Vincent, who ministered to Ulysses Grant himself in his final days, delivered the sermon, remembered as one of his finest. Newspapers described Travis as having died “the death of a brave soldier” and predicted his memory would long be cherished by Rockford’s loyal and patriotic citizens.

The next time I visit Fort Donelson — to search for eagles’ nests or to stand beside the massive guns at the Lower Battery — I hope to also visit the ground where Travis once unloaded rations. A small tip of the cap to the butcher from Rockford.

Fort Donelson claimed 17,000 casualties and is remembered as a major United States victory, but for Rockford, it was an early reckoning. John Travis went south to serve. He returned home in a coffin.

---

SOURCES

• Rockford (Illinois) Register, Feb. 25 & 27, March 13 & 20, 1862 
• Rockford (Illinois) Democrat, March 18 & 25, 1862

Tales from the road: Remembering 2nd Iowa fallen from Fort Donelson

On Feb. 15, 1862, the 2nd Iowa attacked Confederates at the outer defenses of Fort Donelson.

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On a gloomy-gray Saturday morning, we walk the steep ground where the 2nd Iowa charged at the Battle of Fort Donelson on Feb. 15, 1862 — a profound experience, especially near the battle’s anniversary.

Near the crest of the hill — perhaps along the lip of a Confederate trench marked today by a weathered historical tablet — the Iowans buried their dead, Private Newton Haldeman of Company C wrote. These poor souls were part of the roughly three dozen soldiers in the regiment killed that day: 

• Private George Washington Howell, the 10th of 13 children and son of a cotton-batting manufacturer.
• Captain Jonathan Slaymaker, whose obituary did not spare grisly detail: slivers of his pocketknife exploded by a Minié ball severed his femoral artery.
• Captain Charles Cloutman, son of a postmaster.
  

As I tramp the hallowed ground, Haldeman’s words bring the grim aftermath of battle to life: 

“I have read of the glaring eyes and gaping mouth[s] of dead soldiers, but here lay my friends asleep; the eyes are closed, the mouth retains its natural position. This is not like the dead of our homestead. I could not but kneel by some of those that I thought must still be alive, but their foreheads were cold; they slept the sleep that knows no waking. There in silent repose lay friend and foe side by side.”

But the story did not end on that hill at Fort Donelson. Families and neighbors journeyed from across Iowa to reclaim their loved ones. In the days and weeks that followed, towns came together for funerals marked by quiet processions, folded flags and overflowing churches.

From left, the gravestones in Iowa of 2nd Iowa Captain Charles Cloutman,
Private George Washington Howell and Captain Jonathan Slaymaker. (Find A Grave)

On March 8, Howell and the bodies of five other 2nd Iowa soldiers — all in “rough board boxes” — arrived in Davenport on the same train. A local newspaper called their joint funeral "one of the most solemn hours" in city history. The final journeys of Captains Slaymaker, the nephew of a Mexican War general, and Cloutman, the married father of four children, included a trip on the steamer John D. Perry.

“The corpse was as perfectly natural as we ever saw, though life had been extinct for the space of twelve days,” a local newspaper wrote of Slaymaker, 26. “Every feature was perfect and possessed no traces of severity which is said sometimes to settle upon the countenances of those who fall in battle.”

Nearly 100 soldiers escorted Slaymaker’s coffin to St. Luke’s Church in Davenport, packed for the occasion. A silver plate with his name, company and regiment inscribed adorned the coffin.

“Among the young men of our city,” the newspaper wrote, “he was in the first rank.” Howell’s death, it noted, “plunged into sorrow a numerous family, of which he was almost the idol.”

After his remains arrived by train in Ottumwa, the bullet that killed Cloutman was removed from his body, perhaps as a macabre memento. A local newspaper noted the 38-year-old officer never got to see his youngest child.

“It is an interesting circumstance that it was born on the morning after its father was followed to the grave,” the paper reported.

As we walk the battleground amid trees with barren limbs and piles of rusty-brown leaves, the 21st century seems so far away. These stories, once recounted in letters, diaries and newspapers, are now mostly forgotten. Yet they linger at Fort Donelson, waiting to be remembered.

---

SOURCES

• The Morning Democrat, Davenport, Iowa, Feb. 21, 27, 28, March 10, 1862
• Ottumwa Semi-Weekly Courier, Ottumwa, Iowa, Feb. 26, 1862