Badges of excellence: Tiny 'artwork' carved by Union soldiers

Unknown soldier wearing a four-pointed star 19th Corps badge. See dug example below.
(Photo courtesy Richard Clem)

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During a visit to Antietam in September, my friend Richard Clem showed John Rogers and me rare Civil War artwork. This art wasn't painted on canvas; this handiwork of Civil War soldiers was carved in lead, undoubtedly from melted bullets.  A retired woodworker from Hagerstown, Md., Clem and his brother have hunted for Civil War relics in Maryland, West Virginia and Virginia for more than 40 years. Here's Richard's story of that rare Civil War artwork that he and his brother discovered in old Union campsites in Virginia and West Virginia: 

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Richard Clem

By Richard E. Clem

Movie and television specials on the Civil War give a false impression that it was all about blood and guts. Those who have studied the War Between the States or any war soon realize the greatest percentage of a soldier’s time consisted of drilling, marching and mostly enduring countless hours and days battling boredom -- especially while in winter quarters.

The boys far from home passed time reading or writing letters, cleaning and repairing equipment and playing poker and other forms of gambling. Participating in baseball games and snowball battles (when the “white stuff” was available) were other favorite pastimes.

After more than 40 years metal detecting for Civil War relics in Maryland, Virginia and West Virginia, my brother Don and I discovered another unusual way soldiers “killed time” in the lonely hours: carving bullets and creating other small objects from lead. The endeavor here is to share with the reader examples of unique lead corps badges we have dug that were hand-carved more than 150 years ago by these unknown campfire craftsmen.

In July 1864, following a failed invasion into Maryland and threatening Washington, General Jubal A. Early escorted his Confederate forces back to the Shenandoah Valley. Visibly shaken, the Lincoln administration called up Federal units from the Gulf region to support General Philip Sheridan’s Army of the Shenandoah. Orders for “Little Phil” were to deprive the Confederacy of food supplies and, if the opportunity surfaced, defeat if not destroy Early’s army.

In March 1986, with hope of finding Civil War relics left from Sheridan’s Valley Campaign, Don and I crossed the Potomac River at Shepherdstown, W. Va., and drove south. Referring to my dug relics journal, I had recorded: “May 14, 1988 – Hunted Dorsey’s orchard near Berryville, dug 12 bullets + 19th Corps badge – carved lead. Don dug 21 bullets + cannon shell (Hotchkiss) from fire pit. Very warm.” (Keeping a record of items found with a metal detector, including the date and other info, is a must for any serious Civil War relic hunter.)

DUG 19th CORPS BADGES
From top:  badge with traces of red paint designating
  First Division; beginning of carving for a badge;
and an incomplete badge, fan-leaved design.
Richard Clem found the last two badges. Don, his 
brother and fellow relic hunter, found the first badge.
(Photos: Richard Clem)

Civil War corps badges were first introduced to the Federal armies in the early 1860s. Worn on uniform lapels or caps, these small medals were to distinguish troops from different corps and divisions. Made mostly from brass, they were essential, especially after a battle, to pull together soldiers of the same outfit.

Each corps had a designated symbol or shape of badge. For an example, the 1st Corps was a plain circle, 2nd Corps was a clover leaf, 3rd Corps was a diamond, etc. However, the 19th Corps was the only one of Union army corps to claim two different corps badges. This unit “unofficially” adopted a “four-pointed star” badge at its headquarters, Department of the Gulf, New Orleans, Feb. 18, 1863. The second badge described as a “fan-leaved cross with an octagonal center” was “officially” adopted on Nov. 17, 1864. It is not reported why the second emblem was designed. Perhaps the four-pointed star was unpopular with the troops and it became necessary to produce the fan-leaved cross.

The hand-carved badge I dug in the apple orchard along the Charlestown-Berryville Pike was the fan-leaved cross variety. If a soldier lost or damaged his army-issued corps badge, with some degree of craftsmanship he could carve or cast one from bullet lead. But how do you produce one of these intricate medals (lead) in the field? It is the author’s opinion that first to manufacture the fan-leaved style of badge several bullets were melted over the campfire and poured into the shape of a circle about the size of a quarter. Next, the lead circle was cut with a pocket knife into a square. The “slots” were then cut out from the four corners, leaving the octagonal center.

As rare as my find was, three years later Don dug a far more interesting lead 19th Corps badge of the 1863 four-pointed star design. So, let’s return to the relic logbook: “November 25, 1991 – Searched land just west of Charlestown (Jefferson County, W. Va.) dug 16 bullets + 2 brass bayonet scabbard tips. Don dug 34 bullets + 19th Corps badge – hand-made with number “114.”

When my brother excitingly handed me the little gem about the size of a quarter, my first question was: “What is it?” Automatically we assumed the “114” was the number of a Union Civil War regiment. After some thought, the mystery began to unravel: the hand-carved piece of lead, shaped like a four-pointed star, was the first badge design of 19th Corps.

During the War Between the States, each corps badge was “color – coded” according to divisions to make individual soldier even more identifiable; red signified 1st division, white, 2nd division, blue, 3rd division. A closer examination of Don’s find in the field revealed traces of “red paint.” This indicated the person who carved this work-of-art was a member of the 1st division. A quick search of Phisterer’s New York in the War of the Rebellion indicated the 114 stood for the 114th New York Volunteers.

It appears the soldier who made this badge carved away the background, leaving the border and number 114 “raised.” Using this method left a sunken area for the red paint to be applied. To produce this delicate object in the field took skill, patience, good eyesight and a sharp pocket knife.

Recruited in New York, the 114th regiment mustered in Sept. 3, 1862, attached to 19th Corps, and was ordered to the Department of the Gulf. In July 1864, two divisions of this corps were sent (114th New York included) to General Sheridan in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia. In July 1864, attached to the Army of the Shenandoah, the 144th New York fought with gallantry at Winchester, Fisher’s Hill and Cedar Creek. In official reports, the 114th New York was “bivouacked west of Charlestown, Va. (West Virginia today) September 4, 1864.” This is probably the exact campsite where Don dug his 19th Corps badge.

Don Clem's 19th Corps badge in my hand, next to my
wedding ring. Yup, these badges are tiny works of art.

Two days after brother made his discovery, I dug in the same area what resembled a round, lead disc (see photo above) with a four-pointed star cut into its face. After some head-scratching, it became obvious this was the beginning of another corps badge. It’s very possible it was made by the same soldier of 19th Corps who crafted Don’s little masterpiece.

The 114th New York Regiment was mustered out of service on June 8, 1865, at Bladensburgh, Md. Returning to the Empire State, some of the boys who wore “The Blue” left behind in an embattled valley in Virginia their handcrafted corps badges. More than 120 years later,  two brothers from Maryland would recover their campfire handiwork for future Civil War relic hunters to read about, admire and dream about the “Good Ole Days.”

SOURCES:

--Yoseloff, Thomas, Battles and Leaders of the Civil War – Volume IX,  A. S. Barnes & Co., Inc., New York, 1956.
-- Crouch, Howard R., Civil War Artifacts – A Guide For The Historian,  SCS Publications, Fairfax, Va.,  1995.
-- Phillips, Stanley S., Civil War Corps Badges and Other Related Awards, Badges, Medals of the Period, Lanham, Md., 1982.
-- Echoes of Glory: Arms and Equipment of the Union, Time-Life Books, Alexandria, Virginia, 1991.
-- Sylvia, Stephen W. and  O'Donnell, Michael J., The Illustrated History of American Civil War Relics,  Moss Publications, Orange, Va.,  1978.
-- Cowles, Capt. Calvin D., The Official Military Atlas of the Civil War, Arno Press, Crown Publishers Inc., 1978.
-- Phisterer, Frederick, New York in the War of the Rebellion, Albany, N.Y., J. B. Lyon Co., 1912.
-- New York State Military Museum and Veterans Research Center.

'No sweet dream': Remarkable life of a Gettysburg casualty

Armless vet George Warner (on rock) at 20th Connecticut monument dedication at Gettysburg.

      (HOVER ON IMAGE FOR PRESENT-DAY VIEW OF THIS SCENE ON CULP'S HILL)

 Adapted from my book, Hidden History of Connecticut Union Soldiers. E-mail me here for information on how to purchase an autographed copy.

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In the months and years after George Washington Warner had both his arms nearly completely blown off by friendly fire at Gettysburg , a stark picture was presented of the former 20th Connecticut private. “This case calls for unusual sympathy,” a Hartford surgeon wrote after a medical visit by Warner in the winter of 1864. "He is entirely helpless -- so far as that he cannot dress himself nor eat his food without the aid of others,” Homer Buchanon and John Richardson, Warner’s neighbors in New Haven, Connecticut, noted ten years later. “… it is unsafe for him to walk out from his home alone and consequently [he] is always attended by a young man … he [is] entirely incapacitated from performing any act without the aid and assistance of one or more persons.”

And yet despite his handicaps, Warner led a remarkable, eventful life after the Civil War.

“… the former soldier radiates cheerfulness and optimism as he sits on the veranda of his cosy [sic] little home and nods to passers-by or chats with his neighbors,” Warner’s hometown newspaper reported five decades after he was grievously wounded. “Life has been no sweet dream for Mr. [Warner], but he has made the best of it, and intends to enjoy things to the utmost for a good many years to come.”

Married with five children before the war, Warner fathered three more children with wife Catherine after he was discharged from the army on October 17, 1863. A frequent attendee at Grand Army of the Republic veterans’ events, Warner was a familiar figure for years in New Haven at Memorial Day parades and monument dedications.

"Life has been no sweet dream" for 
George Warner, his hometown newspaper
wrote five decades after he was
severely wounded at Gettysburg.
(Bob O'Brien collection) 

At the dedication of the 20th Connecticut monument in Gettysburg on July 3, 1885, Warner was given the honor of raising a huge American flag from atop the monument near the crest of Culp’s Hill, about 300 yards from where he was terribly wounded 22 years earlier. A special pulley was constructed that allowed him to do the honors by simply moving backward with a rope tied around his waist. Afterward, Warner, wearing a regimental ribbon and a bowler hat and sitting atop a boulder near the monument, posed with his comrades for an image shot by renowned Gettysburg battlefield photographer William Tipton.

Nearly two years later, on June 17, 1887, Warner was called upon to unveil one of the four statues at the base of the 110-foot Soldiers and Sailors monument at the summit of East Rock Park in New Haven. In one of the grandest events in the city’s history, thousands marched on a hot, hazy day from the center of town to East Rock, 400 feet above New Haven and Long Island Sound. “The crowd surged where it pleased,” the New Haven Morning News reported. “Its very magnitude made it omnipotent.”

A huge procession that included hundreds of veterans crossed a bridge and wound its way to the park, where merchants were “busy as bees” selling ice cream and beer. “The river of moving blue coats, brass buttons and the various uniforms of the civic societies presented a magnificent appearance …,” another local newspaper reported. While cannons of three warships offshore boomed in celebration, many in the crowd at East Rock, estimated by some at 100,000, sought shade in the woods. At about 2 p.m., former Union generals William Tecumseh Sherman and Philip Sheridan were in attendance as Warner, again using a special pulley and a rope, remarkably removed the drapery on the statue with his teeth.

On June 16, 1905, at the dedication of a Civil War monument on New Haven's Broadway, near Yale University, Warner used another special contraption that also allowed him to use his teeth to remove a flag to unveil the 33-foot granite monument. Afterward, he presented in his clenched teeth a small American flag to Gen. Edwin Greeley, a former 10th Connecticut colonel.

In the decades after the war, Warner’s son, William, frequently accompanied him, helping him scratch out a living selling books and paying the trolley fare for his armless father. Warner also peddled carte de visites of himself -- in one he looks forlorn, empty sleeves of a coat dangling by his side, while in another George sits with his five children and his wife, who holds a cannon ball. A device attached to doors in Warner’s three-story house on Edgewood Street, near the Yale Bowl in New Haven, allowed the veteran to open them with his feet. In his later years, Warner sometimes rode the trolley alone (with the fare in his coat pocket for the conductor), played records on his phonograph and loved to play pinochle. Son Charles, a cabinet maker, built his father a box on which he could place his cards so he could easily point out which one he wanted to play with his stump.

JULY 3, 1885:: 20th Connecticut veterans at  dedication of their monument at Gettysburg.
Randy Bieler collection.  (CLICK ON IMAGE TO ENLARGE.)

Born May 9, 1832 in Glastonbury, Connecticut, George was one of 10 children of Andrew and Phoebe Warner, who squeaked out a living as farmers. When he was 12, Warner was employed as a laborer on a local man’s huge farm along the Connecticut River, earning $12 a month – enough to purchase a cow as a present for his mother. (The family apparently sold the animal for a profit two years later.) After Warner’s father died, George, several of his siblings and his mother found employment in a cotton mill.

On August 5, 1862, Warner enlisted in the 20th Connecticut in Derby, leaving behind his wife and children in nearby Beacon Falls, where George was employed as a mill worker. “It was a sacrifice,” the New Haven Register reported in 1922, “but it showed the stuff of which the men of those hectic days were made.”

At Chancellorsville, Virginia, on May 2, 1863 -- the 20th Connecticut’s first battle of the war -- Warner and his comrades held a small trench at the foot of a hill. Union artillery was positioned to the rear of the regiment, near a patch of woods. When Rebels appeared at the top of a hill, the regiment was caught in a crossfire fire between the two armies, sending Warner and his comrades running for the lives into the woods “to keep from being cut to pieces.”

“I escaped unhurt,” Warner recalled years later, “but one piece of lead struck my knapsack and took it clear off my back. I lost all my little keepsakes, including a picture of my wife, but I couldn’t stop then.” Lt. Col.William Wooster, the 20th Connecticut’s commander, was among those who were captured.

Two months later at Gettysburg, Warner was terribly mangled when a fragment of an artillery shell fired from Federal batteries on Baltimore Pike or Powers Hill struck his right arm as the 20th Connecticut made its way up the south side of Culp’s Hill early on the morning of July 3, 1863. The regiment was attempting to re-capture earthworks it had constructed the previous day. The fragment severed the arm a few inches below Warner’s shoulder, shockingly carrying the limb several feet from him; another fragment, perhaps from the same round, struck the thirty-one-year-old private’s left arm and forearm, lacerating the soft parts badly and breaking bones. Warner also suffered severe flesh wounds on his scalp and left knee.

Post-war image of George and Catherine Warner and six of their children. 
Mrs. Warner holds a cannonball. (Bob O'Brien collection)

Incensed by the toll his army’s own artillery took on his men, Wooster, released by the Rebels after Chancellorsville, threatened to turn his regiment on the Union battery responsible. “He [Wooster] was not only required to keep the enemy in check, but encountered great difficulty, while resisting the enemy, in protecting himself against the fire of our own artillery, aimed partly over his command at the enemy in and near our intrenchments,” 1st Brigade commander Archibald L. McDougall of the 123rd New York recalled. “His greatest embarrassment was the farther he pushed the enemy the more directly he was placed under the fire of our own guns. Some of his men became severely wounded by our artillery fire.” Another officer threatened to personally shoot members of the battery responsible.

Circa-1910 image of Warner and his wife,
Catherine. (Courtesy Bob O'Brien)

An hour after he was wounded, Warner’s left arm was amputated by regimental surgeon J. Wadsworth Terry. Initially unaware that he had lost both arms, Warner soon came to a sober realization: "Why, surgeon, I've lost my right arm too," he told Terry. "I thought I had only lost my left!"

Nearly a month after his wounding, a Soldiers’ Aid Association volunteer observed Warner in a XII Corps hospital near Gettysburg, noting the private had “both arms off” and was also wounded in the legs, but was “apparently doing well.” On July 29, 1863, a doctor wrote that Warner’s condition was good and that he slept well and took long walks about the grounds of the hospital. His wounds, the doctor noted, were “quite open and discharging freely.” Three months later, at an army hospital in Philadelphia, a surgeon wrote the obvious: “He is unfit for Invalid Corps.” Catherine traveled from Connecticut to escort her crippled husband home.

Not surprisingly, shortly after Warner applied for a pension in 1863, it was quickly granted. He received $8 a month in October 1863, with an increase to $25 a month in 1864, $50 a month in 1878 and later another increase to $100 a month in 1889. In 1918, Warner sought another increase, noting in a letter to the Bureau of Pensions that he had “been told that all Civil War veterans are getting an increase in pension and [I] would like to know if I benefit by it.” Already receiving the maximum allowed by Congress, he was denied more government aid.

“In the hospital, they treated me fine, too. I couldn’t have asked for anything better."

-- George Warner, recalling his treatment during the Civil War
Despite what the war did to him, Warner said he didn’t regret his service. “I was treated good and had plenty to eat all the time… although there wasn’t much strawberry shortcake,” he said shortly after his 90th birthday. “In the hospital, they treated me fine, too. I couldn’t have asked for anything better.”

Outliving his wife and five of his eight children, Warner died October 12, 1923. The 91-year-old veteran was laid to rest next to his wife in Evergreen Cemetery in New Haven, where he lived for fifty-eight years.

SOURCES:

-- George Warner pension file, National Archives and Records Administratoion, Washhington D.C.
-- Hartford Daily Courant, July 30, 1863
-- Hartford Courant, June 17, 1905
-- New Haven Morning News, June 18, 1887
-- New Haven Journal-Courier, May 26, 1981
-- New Haven Register, May 21, 1922
-- “Program For The Dedication of a Soldiers Monument, First Light Battery and the Sixth, Seventh and Tenth Connecticut Volunteers Monument Association”, 1905
-- The War of the Rebellion: a Compilation of the Official Records of the Union and Confederate Armies, Washington, D.C., Government Printing Office, 1901
-- Storrs, John W., The Twentieth Connecticut, A Regimental History, Ansonia, Conn., The Press of the Naugatuck Valley Sentinel, 1886

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Author Q&A: Ron Coddington's Faces of the Civil War Navies

Newly published, Faces of the Civil War Navies is available on amazon.com and elsewhere.

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It didn't take long for me to identify a favorite story in Ron Coddington's excellent new book, Faces of the Civil War Navies: An Album of Union and Confederate Sailors. 

On April 4, 1865, Acting Lieutenant Amos P. Foster commanded the Commodore Perry as the steamer quickly headed up the James River to Richmond, recently abandoned by the Rebel army and navy. "The good old boat began to move up the river over waters that no Union vessel had touched since the war began," a Union signalmen noted.

Ron Coddington, editor and publisher
of Military Images magazine, is author
of four books on the Civil War.

Foster's route to the Rebel capital was treacherous, Coddington writes. The Confederates had littered the river with mines, and an underwater obstruction near the city temporarily blocked the Commodore Perry's progress. Soon, another vessel, the Malvern, arrived on the scene with two very important passengers: Admiral David Dixon Porter and President Lincoln himself. Like Foster, the VIPs were eager to get to Richmond ASAP, but their trip too was stalled. So the admiral and the president took seats in a barge that had been lowered into the water and re-started their journey, followed by a boat filled with Marine bodyguards.

As the barge slowly made its way through the James River, it came perilously close to the massive turning side-wheel paddle of the Commodore Perry, whose engineer had no idea the president and his party were nearby.  Foster rushed to the engine room and prevented a potential disaster a half turn before the wheel of the Commodore Perry would have smashed into the VIP barge.

The admiral was incensed, but Porter's life and the life of the president thankfully were spared.

In the 401-page book (Johns Hopkins University Press), Foster's biography is one of 77 profiles of sailors, most of which may have been lost in the shadows of history were it not for Coddington. A fine researcher, he scoured old newspapers, pension records and other resources -- many of them online -- for the micro-history, the fourth of his series profiling Civil War military personnel. Faces of the Civil War Navies follows the format of Coddington's three other books. Each short sailor bio -- none is longer than six pages -- comes with a wartime image of its subject, some from the author's own photography collection. (Coddington bought some of the images on eBay soon after he began research for the book.) I especially like that Coddington follows each sailor's story to the end of his life. If you're like me, you'll skip around from profile to profile and not feel guilty.

In his day job, Coddington is an editor for The Chronicle of Higher Education. An avid and longtime collector of Civil War images, especially cartes-de-visites, he's also editor and publisher of the outstanding Military Images magazine, which he took over in August 2013.

Coddington recently took time out to answer my questions about why he wrote the book, how he collected images for it and more:

Previously published books by Ron Coddington.

Why did you write a book about Civil War naval personnel?

Coddington: The book has its origins in the spring of 2013. This time was a period of reflection on my then recently released third book, African American Faces of the Civil War: An Album. Learning about these men of color fundamentally altered my views of the war. I had glimpsed the Civil War through a different lens and came away with fresh perspectives -- and a strong desire to investigate another larger narrative.

My thoughts turned to the naval war. This was uncharted territory for me and fertile ground to explore. My preliminary research revealed compelling images and powerful stories that inspired me to push forward.

Each story in your book has an image. Given the relative scarcity of photographs of naval personnel from the Civil War, how hard was it to track down images?

Coddington: Sailor portraits are relatively scarce compared to army images mainly due to the disparity in numbers. In the North, for example, for every 25 men who served in the army, only one served in the navy. Data for the Southern side are less reliable, but they indicate that the ratio was even less. So the pool of surviving images is smaller. Factor in my criteria -- original, identified, wartime cartes de visite, ambrotypes and tintypes -- and the pool shrinks to a puddle.

I first turned to my network of collectors to find out who was focused on the navy. I eventually discovered a passionate group who collected these wonderful portraits: Ron Field, Jerry Roxbury, Lynda Setty and Earl Sheck. About half of the 77 portraits in the book come from these four individuals. Many of the remaining images came from other collectors who have navy images in their collections but are not specifically focused on this branch of the military: Orton Begner, Dan Binder, Rick Brown, Greg French, Steve Karnes, Tom Liljenquist, Mike McAfee, Ronn Palm, Marty Schoenfeld and David Vaughan.

All of these collectors have played and continue to play a critical role in preserving these unique images. In my view, these portraits are an important part of our country’s visual record, on par with Mathew Brady’s battlefield photos. The study of Civil War portraits, by the way, is a relatively new field that dates to about 1970, the time when these photos became collectible following the centennial commemorations less than a decade earlier.

When I started the book, my own collection included only a few navy photos and none of them were identified. As my awareness grew, I began to find sailor photos for auction on eBay and for sale by dealers. I purchased as many as my budget would allow!

A few months after this project began, I became editor and publisher of Military Images magazine. This role introduced me to many collectors, including Ron Field and other collectors that I had not met before. My connection to the magazine, which was founded in 1979, has opened many doors into the collecting community. I’m grateful for this.

An engineer, Eugene Brown  was part of a daring Confederate operation in the
 harbor in Portland, Maine.  (Gerald Roxbury collection)

What are your two favorite stories in the book?

Coddington: Tough question to answer! Every personal account contains details that fascinate and inspire me. Each story is a unique entry point into the larger history of the war.

Take the story of Nathan Hopkins, a seaman on the Union frigate Minnesota stationed along Virginia’s James River in 1864. He and two of his comrades asked and were granted permission to leave the vessel and stretch their legs. The trio ran into Confederates, and this is when Hopkins learned his two buddies were bounty jumpers looking to escape. For Hopkins, the episode ended in a trip to Andersonville.

Then there is the story of Eugene Brown. An engineer in the Confederate navy, he was part of the crew of the captured schooner Archer that eased unobserved into the harbor of Portland, Maine, one evening in late June 1863. The next morning, he and his crewmates captured the Caleb Cushing, a state-of-the-art U.S. revenue cutter. But Brown could not operate the newfangled engines and what might have been one of the greatest navy stories of the war ended in capture about 20 miles outside the harbor. This was major news across the country, but was quickly overshadowed by the Battle of Gettysburg.

Union seaman Nathan Hopkins was captured by Confederates and sent to Andersonville,
the notorious POW camp in Georgia.  He survived imprisonment and the war.
 (Lynda Setty, manager of Jerry and Teresa Rinker collection)

How did you go about the research for your book?

Coddington: The vast majority of my research is done online. This is a major change from when I first began back in 2000. So much more information is now available digitally, especially databases. Fold3 and Newspapers.com were particularly helpful. If you’re interested in learning more about these resources and others, I strongly recommend “The Photo Sleuth’s Digital Toolkit.” The article appeared in the Summer 2015 issue of Military Images. Written by Photo Sleuth columnist Kurt Luther, it is the best single account I’ve seen for those interested in researching Union and Confederate soldiers and sailors.

In the course of your research, what did you learn that surprised you?

Acting Master’s Mate Francis Bartow Beville
of  the CSN, one of 12 Confederates profiled
in Coddington's book.

Coddington: I was surprised by the lack of navy records. In researching my other books, I relied on military service records (MSRs) at the National Archives. These records provide the basic facts of a soldier’s service, and they include monthly muster records and other related papers -- furlough requests, casualty reports and other documents. Sailors do not have an equivalent. Fortunately, most of the men or their widows applied for pensions and so I was able to reconstruct the basic facts of their service from these documents. Hometown newspapers turned out to be a big help, too. They did a great job tracking the comings and goings of their local sons.

Once I dug into their Civil War experiences, I became aware of the close nature of the fighting. Masked Confederate batteries hidden along riverbanks that fired on Union convoys. Blockade duties that involved parties of Union sailors leaving their vessels in small boats to attack bands of Confederates soldiers or to capture grounded privateers. Union expeditionary forces establishing beachheads on enemy soil without the support of ground forces. All of this required more personal combat than I had imagined. I came to understand that the Civil War naval experience was a series of small-scale, running skirmishes rather than major battles. Many ship-to-ship actions were like prize fights. The best known, of course, are the Virginia and the Monitor and the Alabama and the Kearsarge. There were many more, each fascinating in their own ways. There were large-scale operations -- New Orleans, Mobile Bay, Fort Fisher -- and they were big events in the media. But they paled in comparison to the land battles in terms of numbers engaged.

For those who enjoy researching soldiers/sailors, what advice do you have?

Coddington: Read Kurt Luther’s column and get to know the sites he recommends. Have patience, as there are many stones to overturn and you never know what you’ll find beneath them. Also, context is important. Once you’ve ascertained the what, when and where, don’t stop. Try to answer why and how. It is these questions that sometimes help us to best understand the action or inaction of an individual.

Perhaps most importantly, remember that you are dealing with human beings. You want to tell their stories in a balanced way that fairly represents their actions.

Finally, you're researching for another book, this one on Civil War nurses. How is that going?

Coddington: I announced this book project in June and am in the first stage of my research, locating the images. So far, finding them has proven significantly more difficult than sailors or soldiers. Still, it is early in the hunt and I am confident that they are out there. If you have any, I want to hear from you! Here's my e-mail address: rcoddington@facesofwar.com.

Gettysburg Then & Now: Evergreen Cemetery gateway

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Walk through this gateway into an outdoor museum. Among the notables buried here at Evergreen Cemetery in Gettysburg are 20-year-old Jennie Wade, the only town citizen killed during the battle, and crusty War of 1812 veteran John Burns, who famously took his musket into action to fight the Rebs on July 1, 1863, the first day of the battle. Wounded during the fighting, Burns crawled to the safety of a nearby house.

      Click here for a larger presentation of Then & Now images for desktop and tablet.

Figure of an angel atop Jennie Wade's gravestone in Evergreen Cemetery.

Wade was the only Gettysburg citizen killed during the battle.

On the front of her gravestone, the circumstances of Wade's death are noted.

Another view of the angel atop Jennie Wade's grave.

Flowers and a small flag left by visitors at Wade's grave.

Gettysburg Then & Now: Fallen Confederate 'sharpshooter'

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When nearly 100 Civil War photo geeks crowded around the (in)famous nest of a fallen Confederate "sharpshooter" in Devil's Den on Saturday afternoon, we were in for a rare treat: a real, live re-enactor willing to play dead. It didn't take much for the Center For Civil War Photography's Gary Adelman to persuade Bryan Parkhurst of Seven Valleys, Pa., who just happened to be on the scene, to duplicate the lifeless form of a Rebel photographed by Alexander Gardner assistant Timothy O'Sullivan on July 6, 1863, three days after the Battle of Gettysburg. Adelman, the CCWP's vice president/ball of kinetic energy, carefully posed Parkhurst, who lay motionless for 20 minutes or so while we CCWP "Image of War" attendees shot our own images at one of the most visited spots on the battlefield.

While I didn't nail this "Then  & Now," the chance to feature on the blog a re-enactor replicating one of the war's iconic images was too good to pass up. Download a high-res version of the 1863 photograph at the Library of Congress' excellent web site. And here's a detailed explanation of how the body of the young Confederate "sharpshooter" ended up behind the stone barricade.

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For a "Then & Now" on steroids of the images above, visit my companion Civil War blog here.

Bryan Parkhust plays dead while Tim Smith of Center For Civil War Photography explains the scene.

Gary Adelman, VP of the Center For Civil War Photography,  holds a  copy of the iconic 1863 image.

Re-enactor Bryan Parkhurst, who represents a  2nd Maryland CSA private, was a popular 
photo subject at the Center For Civil War Photography's  annual "Image of War" seminar.

Hidden Antietam: Seldom-seen Alfred Poffenberger farm

In early 1960s,  Rt. 65 bypass construction cut through a major section of the Antietam battlefield.
(Antietam Library and Research Center | Click on image to enlarge.)

       Google Street View of Rt. 65. 15th Massachusetts monument in far distance at right.
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Every time I drive down this road, especially in the eerie, inky blackness of a western Maryland night, I feel like I am trampling on hallowed ground. This is Rt. 65, which cuts through a section of the Antietam battlefield probably unknown except to diehards. Imagine a busy highway slicing through Devil's Den at Gettysburg or cutting across the slope at Malvern Hill or, as my friend Jim Buchanan of Walking the West Woods blog notes, through Bloody Lane at Antietam.

Pan to the right in the Google Street View to see the West Woods, scene of savage fighting on the morning of Sept. 17, 1862. Just beyond the woods is the iconic Dunker Church. To the left, behind the trees, is site of the seldom-visited Alfred Poffenberger farm, also scene of bitter fighting; a staging area for Confederate troops funneled into the West Woods and beyond; and a Rebel aid station. On Hauser's Ridge, beyond the farm, Confederate artillery fire rained on the Federals.

In the early 1960s, construction of the Rt. 65 bypass cut through the heart of this area of the battlefield, leaving the original terrain largely to our imagination. The road is roughly a dividing line between Confederate and Union troops.

For an excellent, detailed account of the fighting here, read The Maryland Campaign of September 1862 Vol. II, Antietam by Civil War veteran and battle participant Ezra Carman and edited by the foremost Antietam expert, Tom Clemens. Or for a good overview of the fighting here, check out the recently published A Field Guide to Antietam by Carol Reardon and Tom Vossler. Or find Buchanan, an Antietam battlefield guide, at the Antietam visitor's center or sitting in a chair on weekends near the Philadelphia Brigade monument in the West Woods. (See Jim's posts on the Poffenberger farm here, here, here and here.)

On the 154th anniversary of the battle, I walked through the West Woods and over to the old Poffenberger farm. Here's a look at a part of the battlefield you may not have realized existed.

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PLEASE NOTE: Consult with park rangers before visiting this site.

        PANORAMA: 15th Massachusetts dead were buried (foreground) near the cabin.

Protected by a canopy, the Mary Locher cabin is an ongoing restoration project.

A section of the cabin may date to the 1760s.

This rare sketch entitled "Antietam: The Fight at Poffinberger's [sic} Farm" shows the barn 
and house (enlargement below)  in the right background on Sept. 17, 1862.  Schell was a 
sketch artist during  the Civil War.  (Francis Schell | The Becker collection, used with permission)

An enlargement of the sketch above. (The Becker collection, used with permission)

This sketch is believed to show Rebels firing toward the West Woods  from behind a rock ledge 
on the Alfred Poffenberger farm. (Alfred Waud | Library of Congress collection)

In 1862, Alfred Poffenberger, who leased this farmstead from Mary Locher, lived here with his wife and two young children. He and his family fled once it was clear a battle would be fought.

Justus Wellington: 
15th Massachusetts
private was killed
 in the West Woods.
(Read more here.)

The 15th Massachusetts, which suffered 75 killed and 255 wounded in about 20 minutes in the West Woods, advanced to Poffenberger's farm, where it was attacked by regiments from Georgia and Virginia. After the battle, 15th Massachusetts dead were buried on the northwest side of the Mary Locher cabin in a trench that was "25 feet long, 6 feet wide and 3 feet deep," according to a Roland E. Bowen, a private in the regiment.

"The corpes [corpses]," he noted, "were buried by Co., that is the members of each Co. Are put together. Co. H was buried first in the uper [sic] end of the trench next [to] the woods. They are laid in two tiers, one [on] top of the other. The bottom tier was laid in, then straw laid over the head and feet, then the top tier laid on them and covered with dirt about 18 inches deep."

15th Massachusetts Private Justus Wellington, a 23-year-old shoemaker from West Brookfield, Mass., was killed in the West Woods and probably buried here.  The bodies were later re-interred, many in Antietam National Cemetery.

The cabin, a section of which is believed to have been built in the 1760s, is an ongoing restoration project and protected by a canopy..

The cabin is beyond this old root cellar, which dates to the battle.

The foundation is all that remains from the old Poffenberger barn, where wounded huddled during 
and after the battle. Confederate artillery was stationed on Hauser's Ridge, beyond the barn.

             Google Earth: Barn foundation and cabin to left of Rt.-65 (Sharpsburg Pike) .

PLEASE NOTE: Consult with park rangers before visiting this site.

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SOURCE:

From Ball’s Bluff to Gettysburg…And Beyond: The Civil War Letters of Private Roland E. Bowen, 15th Massachusetts Infantry, 1861-1864. Gregory A. Coco, editor, Gettysburg, Pa: Thomas Publications, 1994.

Antietam: Echoes from Susan Hoffman Farm hospital

Susan Hoffman farmhouse, built in 1840s. PLEASE NOTE: This is private property. Do not trespass.
(CLICK ON ALL IMAGES AND INTERACTIVE PANORAMAS TO ENLARGE)

    PANORAMA: Scores of wounded were treated here on Sept. 17, 1862, and afterward. 
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For many readers of The New York Times on Oct. 12, 1862, the death list of Union soldiers published on Page 1 must have rocked their souls. More than 300 men and boys in blue, according to the report that filled two full columns, had been buried or died at makeshift Federal hospitals near the Antietam battlefield.

On Oct. 21, 1862, The New York Times
published a lengthy list of soldiers
who had died at Antietam hospitals.

At George Line's farm,  known as the "White House Hospital" because of Line's white-washed log cabin, the death toll was 156 soldiers — 101 Union and 55 Confederate. At the "Stone-House Hospital," Samuel Poffenberger's farm, the total number of deaths was listed as 37. At a hospital run by 12th Massachusetts surgeon John Hayward, 11 soldiers were buried "whose names could not be ascertained."

And at the "Hoffman Farm Hospital," the beautiful home of 56-year-old widow Susan Hoffman, 57 soldiers had died — mostly from General Edwin Sumner's II Corps that fought in David R. Miller's cornfield and in the East and West Woods. Among them, according to the Times report, were eight unknown soldiers, including a "large man" who wore a "red woolen shirt."

A  newspaper correspondent who happened upon Widow Hoffman's farm along the Keedysville Road the morning of Sept. 17 found an  "appalling sight."

"The wounded were lying in rows awaiting their turns at the surgeons' tables," Charles Carleton Coffin wrote. "The hospital stewards had a corps of men distributing straw over the field for their comfort."

                    Google Earth: Hoffman barn is the large building near center of image.

With a large farmhouse, barn and several other outbuildings and an ample water supply from a spring, Widow Hoffman's 284-acre farm was ideal for a military hospital. On Sept. 21, the U.S. Christian Commission established its headquarters at the farm, supplying a beleaguered Union medical staff with bandages, linens, medicine and the soldiers with Bibles and religious literature. Rev. Isaac O. Sloan, a member of the commission, described a harrowing scene:

Reverend Issac O. Sloan of the
U.S. Christian Commission
(University of North Dakota)

At the Hoffman Hospital there were at least fifteen hundred [wounded], and at the Stone House as many if not more. On Sunday succeeding the battle we established ourselves permanently at the Hoffman House, thinking it better to concentrate our energies upon one point. In every spot here -- the barn, the stable, carriage-house, sheds, straw stacks, orchards, and indeed everywhere --  were to be seen wounded and dying men. 

For the first few days, of course, all was bustle and confusion. Nothing scarcely could be thought of but affording relief to the sufferers. Prayer only could be made at the side of one drawing near to his end, or words of Scripture whispered into the ear of the moaning patient as we dressed his wound or gave him nourishment. We had scarcely a moment for sleep. Many incidents of thrilling interest occurred here. A great proportion of the sufferers were youths, ranging from sixteen up to twenty-one years. After a few days, when matters were somewhat systematized, we had religious services every evening, in the barn, in the dwelling-house, carriage-house, and wherever there was a large number collected.

On Sept. 17, 2016, the 154th anniversary of the battle, the owners of the farm gave me a tour of their circa-1840s brick farmhouse, the old slave quarters behind the house and a circa-1810 springhouse, perhaps the first dwelling on the property. Afterward, they graciously allowed me to examine the rest of the grounds.

I heard echoes of the past almost everywhere.

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(PLEASE NOTE: This is private property. Do not trespass.)

Religious services were held in the farmhouse (above), carriage house and elsewhere on the farm.

                               PANORAMA: Springhouse, circa 1810, and farmhouse.

Nearly two weeks after the battle, about 200 wounded remained at the Hoffman farm hospital, reported a New York Times correspondent, who made special mention of a woman who comforted soldiers there. Helen Gilson, a 26-year-old nurse from Chelsea, Mass., arrived at Antietam the day after the battle.

Nurse Helen Gilson arrived
at Antietam the
 day after the battle.
(Photo: Our Army Nurses)

"She had been a very angel of goodness to the soldiers," the reporter wrote, "and her presence and conversation seem to inspire new life and courage wherever she goes." As she made her rounds one day, a wounded soldier asked Gilson if she would sing. She "instantly complied" with "inimitable spirit" with a rendition of The Star Spangled Banner.

"The effect on these wounded soldiers was almost inspiring," the reporter wrote. "They clapped their hands and manifested the greatest pleasure. One poor fellow, who had lost a hand, cried out: 'I cannot clap, Miss, but I can pound,' and sitting the action to the word, struck his wounded stump upon the floor where he was lying, with impassioned earnestness. Miss G. is neither over 30 nor very homely, and in these particulars does not come up to the required standard of army nurses."

While working for the U.S. Sanitary Commission in Fredericksburg, Va., in the spring of 1864, Gilson received praise from a doctor who met her there for the first time:

"One afternoon just before the evacuation of Fredericksburg, when the atmosphere of our rooms was close and foul and we were longing for a breath of our cooler Northern air, and the men were moaning in pain or restless with fever and our hearts were sick with pity for the sufferers, I heard a light step upon the stairs; and looking up I saw a young lady enter who brought with her such an atmosphere of calm and cheerful courage, so much freshness, such an expression of gentle womanly sympathy that her mere presence seemed to revive the drooping spirits of the men... "

Alarmed that ill and wounded black soldiers did not receive proper care at City Point, Va. in 1864, Gilson — who served as a nurse through the end of the war — went to their aid. "These stories of suffering reached Miss Gilson at a moment when the previous efforts of the campaign had nearly exhausted her strength," a post-war account noted, "But her duty seemed plain."

In 1866, Gilson married E. Hamilton Osgood in Chelsea. Apparently still sufferring the effects of malaria from the war, she died in childbirth on April 20, 1868. She was only 32.

Hundreds of wounded lay in and around the Hoffman barn.

                    PANORAMA: Barn, carriage shed and farmhouse date to the battle.

After advancing past the dead and wounded from both armies that covered David R. Miller's cornfield, the 1st Minnesota pushed into the West Woods. "At last we halted at the edge of a cornfield by a rail fence," Color Sergeant Samuel Bloomer of Company B wrote in his journal, "but still we were in the woods. Had not been at the fence more than 15 minutes before a most terrific fire was poured into the left of our brigade from the rear & front & which fire came quickly down the line to the right where we were."

Color Sergeant Samuel Bloomer of the
1st Minnesota was wounded in the West Woods.
(Minnesota Historical Society)

As Bloomer lay the flagstaff on the fence, a Rebel bullet tore into his right leg, leaving a ghastly wound just below the knee. Soon, his regiment  retreated, leaving behind the 26-year-old soldier from Stillwater, in the Minnesota Territory. Desperate to avoid being shot again, Bloomer crawled behind a large oak tree and dressed the wound, bathing it with water from his canteen.

"The advance of the secesh soon made their appearance &  passed by me but did not go a great ways further but formed their picket line about 40 rods in front of  me," Bloomer wrote. "Shortly their line came up & formed just where our line had stood, which left me about 40 rods in front of their line."

Captured by the Rebels, Bloomer lay on the field, "watching shells of both armies playing in or about there all day cutting off limbs of trees & tearing up the ground all around me, which made it a very dangerous place." After the war, Bloomer said several Rebels, including Sergeant William H. Andrews of the 1st Georgia, piled cord wood about him to prevent him from getting shot again.

The act of kindness may have saved Bloomer's life.

"I have no doubt," he recalled, "that more than 100 bullets struck that barricade that day."

Later, Stonewall Jackson himself rode by, asked Bloomer what regiment he belonged to and ordered his men to make him as comfortable as possible. That night, a North Carolina captain struck up a conversation with Bloomer, giving the Yankee a canteen of water that the officer later replenished. Perhaps their kindly treatment of him made up for the behavior earlier of another Confederate officer, who caused Bloomer to seethe when the man cursed him and called him a "nigger thief."

1902 newspaper image of Bloomer, 
whose right leg was amputated
in the Hoffman barn. 
(Walter Jorgenson's 1st Minnesota site)

"I had a revolver and short sword under by rubber blanket on which I lay," Bloomer said, "and in my rage I attempted to get at my revolver, intending to shoot that fellow. But he had his eyes on me and shouted, 'Disarm that man!' " Luckily for Bloomer, the Rebels didn't harm him, but they compelled him to part with his prized sword and two revolvers.

Until later the next day, Bloomer lay in the same spot, within sight of the bodies of his comrades. At about 6 p.m. on Sept. 18, Rebel soldiers took him on a  stretcher to a nearby barn "surrounded with straw stacks," perhaps on Alfred Poffenberger's farm, where the enemy kept more than 100 Union prisoners. Lee's army slipped across the Potomac River into Virginia that night, leaving the seriously wounded Bloomer and his comrades behind. 

"I for one," the Swiss-born soldier wrote in his journal, "slept but little last night for pain."

Early on the morning of Sept. 19, Union troops finally appeared, among them Bloomer's cousin, Adam Marty of Company B. About noon, comrades transported Bloomer by ambulance to the Hoffman farm, where he lay all night "with most dreadful pain." In and around the barn on a hill near the farmhouse, Bloomer saw "some 5 or 600 wounded soldiers."

At 8 a.m, the next morning — a "day that will long be remembered by me," he wrote — Bloomer found himself on an operating table in Hoffman's barn. Regimental surgeon Edwin Pugsley amputated the  sergeant's right leg above the knee. "And from then," Bloomer wrote, "the suffering commenced in earnest."

Less than three months after Antietam, Bloomer received a discharge from the United States Army. (He served briefly in the Veterans Reserve Corps as a lieutenant.) On Dec. 6, 1863, one year after his discharge, he married Matilda J. Burns, with whom he had four children.

A local newspaper trumpeted his return home.

"In the fierce struggle of Antietam, where so many brave hearts beat out their last pulses Sam lost one of his faithful legs and was forced to relinquish his glorious charge which he had so faithfully guarded to other hands," the Glencoe (Minn.) Register and Soldiers Budget reported on Jan. 10, 1863. "And so he is back again, a cripple for life ... his fund of good humor in no way diminished. Long may he live!"

After the war, Bloomer worked as prison guard, insurance agent and sewing machine salesman and served in the Grand Army of the Republic, a veterans' organization. Shortly after he caught Matilda with another man, the couple divorced in 1875. He re-married in 1882 and lived out his days in Stillwater, Minn. By the time he was 80, the old soldier who lost his leg in a barn near the Antietam battlefield could barely walk. Bloomer died on Oct. 4, 1917 at 81.

Diary of Hallowell Dunham, a private in the 19th Massachusetts, who died at the Hoffman farm.

Twelve days before Rebels routed his regiment at Antietam, 21-year-old Hallowell R. Dunham, a private in Company B of the 19th Massachusetts, wrote an entry in his leather-covered journal.

"Today is Sunday 7 a.m. but how different from our quiet New England Sunday. Nothing round me to remind one that it is God's day of rest. Much would I give if I could spend only one more Sabbath at home. But that cannot be. It may never be again. But I pray God that it may be. God help me to live so that if I never spend an earthly Sabbath at home with friends I love, that I may meet them in Heaven." 

Hallowell Dunham's leather-covered
 diary was discovered in the Hoffman barn. 

On the morning of Sept. 17, the youngest son of Marcia Dunham suffered a wound in the foot in the West Woods. Transported to the Hoffman farm, Dunham — known as "Hal" to his friends — died there on Oct. 2, perhaps from infection caused by the wound.

For Marcia Dunham, the mother of nine children, the death of her son was another cruel blow. Her husband, Julius, had died in 1841, and before and after Hallowell enlisted in the Union army on July 26, 1861, the 62-year-old woman relied on her son's financial support. A clerk before the war, Hallowell paid the rent for his mother, a boarder at the home of a 38-year-old farmer named William Hoar in Littleton, Mass.

"We well know that her said son contributed the greater part of his earnings for her support prior to his enlistment and that he left her an allotment of his pay and has regularly paid her board and for her clothing," an affidavit in Marcia's claim for her son's pension noted. Shortly after her son died, Marcia filed a claim, and she soon was granted a payment of $8 a month.

Old slave quarters behind the Hoffman farmhouse.

The Hoffman family's slaves lived in this small outbuilding in back of the farmhouse.

Interior of slave quarters, now used for storage.

By 1868, Benjamin Remick Sr. was a broken-down man, "afflicted with atony ... which approaches a general collapse of the whole mental and physical condition." Only 58, he was "prematurely old and infirm," a physician wrote, "so that he can do but little work at his usual trade" and was "unable to support himself or his family."

Perhaps it was no wonder. Six years earlier, the bootmaker from Milford, Mass., had suffered immense loss. 

At Antietam, his 22-year-old son, Benjamin Jr., a private in Company H of the 2nd Massachusetts, was killed instantly during brutal fighting in Miller's cornfield. He left behind an 18-year-old wife named Susan and a 1-year-old son, Nathaniel. Moments before Benjamin was killed, his younger brother, 17-year-old Prescott, suffered a severe wound. A bootmaker like his father, the private in Company G of the 2nd Massachusetts stood 5 feet tall and had hazel eyes, dark hair and a dark complexion.

2nd Massachusetts Private Prescott Remick's 
gravestone at Antietam National Cemetery.

"I noticed him in particular, as his position was very near my own," Lieutenant John F. George recalled about Prescott, "and I noticed with admiration the coolness and contempt of danger with which he performed his duty. He was shot (I think) in the shoulder while standing near his brother, who was killed almost immediately after. During the turmoil and confusion, I lost sight of him but, on making enquiries, ascertained that he had been sent to the rear."

On Sept. 24, a week after the battle, a Wisconsin soldier wrote to Benjamin Sr, about the condition of his son, who received care at the Hoffman farm, and broke grim news about Benjamin Jr.:

"Last Sunday on visiting the hospitals near the battlefield near Sharpsburgh, Md., I saw your son Prescott, who is wounded through the back. He suffered considerably — the next day (Monday) I saw him again, when I found him much more easy — having had the ball extracted. He requested me to write you, which I promised to do. He has the sad news to add to that of his fate — the death of his brother Benjamin — who was shot at his side just as he himself fell. I could not stay long with him. I am detailed to see to wounded and am permitted to travel at all times between Washington and the battle fields, and may meet him again. I will be happy to answer any enquiries you may make in regard to him as far as I know if you address me at 329 New York Avenue Washington. If I don't answer at once you may know that I am out on the field but on my return will attend to it.  

 Respectfully yours Wm. P. Taylor 2nd Wis. Vol.

Three days later, on Sept. 27, Prescott died. His remains were buried at a small cemetery at the Smoketown Hospital, a short distance from Hoffman's farm. A battlefield visitor, probably a soldier from Massachusetts, discovered Remick's grave there in the summer of 1863. In a lengthy letter rich with detail about Antietam, he wrote:

"The shade on this summer morning is calm, deep and holy. From the field there is the odor of clover blossoms. There is not wanting the hum of bees and the songs of birds to lend a charm to the hour. The paling is neatly whitewashed which surrounds the consecrated spot. There are a hundred and fifty-nine graves, each with its rounded, white headboard, and rude lettering, with name, company and regiment of the dead. A loving heart, a faithful hand has planted a rose bush above the dust of Prescott Remic, of Company G, 2nd Massachusetts. It is fresh and green; its roots are creeping down to the coffin lid, and will draw its nourishment from the mouldering form beneath. Another year and the crimson flower will bloom with rarest beauty and richest fragrance.

After the war, Prescott remains were disinterred from the Smoketown hospital cemetery and reburied in Antietam National Cemetery. His remains lie there today under grave marker No. 978.

The springhouse may be the original dwelling on the property.

A view of the springhouse from the second-floor porch.

Back of the two-story farmhouse. Amputated limbs were tossed from windows,
 according to family lore.

Sign on Keedysville Road noting historic significance of the Hoffman farm. Please note: This is
private property. Do not trespass.

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

SOURCES:

• 1860 U.S. Federal census
• Antietam on the Web, accessed Oct. 14, 2016
• Hallowell Dunham, Benjamin and Prescott Remick pension files, National Archives and Records Administration, Washington, D.C. via fold3.com
• Confederate Veteran Magazine, April, 1909, Page 169
• New York Times, Oct. 6 and 12, 1862
• Find a Grave
• Gallipolis (Ohio) Journal, Sept. 3, 1863. The Antietam account of Prescott Remick's grave came from this Ohio newspaper. The account evidently was printed in several U.S. newspapers in 1863
• Gardner Holland, Mary A., Our Army Nurses, Boston, B. Wilkins & Co. Publishers, 1895
• Moss, Rev. Lemuel, Annals of the U.S. Christian Commission, Philadelphia, J.P. Lippincott & Co., 1868
• Nelson, John H, As Grain Falls Before The Reaper, The Federal Hospital Sites And Identified Federal Casualties at Antietam, Privately published CD, Hagerstown, Md., 2004. (Nelson's outstanding work is a terrific resource on Antietam hospitals.)
• Samuel Bloomer's journal excerpts are from Walter Jorgenson's excellent 1st Minnesota web site.  The journal is part of the Minnesota Historical Society collection, which Jorgenson cites on his web site
• The Century Magazine, "Antietam Scenes" by Charles Carleton Coffin, June 1886