Fate Decreed Otherwise: A Pennsylvanian Captured in Gettysburg

Lieutenant Samuel G. Boone of the 88th Pennsylvania thought he had escaped capture at Gettysburg on July 1, 1863, until he literally walked into the hands of the enemy. He had a split-second life or death decision to make.

          “For an instant we both stood transfixed,” he recalled.  “Neither of us knew which was the victor and which was vanquished, but it required only about three seconds to decide that question as he was evidently prepared to fire when we met having his musket full cocked and at a ready. As it was, chances were all against me. My life was in his hands and I had the choice of being shot down or being captured.  I chose the latter as anyone else would have done under the circumstances.  Throwing up my right hand, I said excitedly, “You’ve got the best of me.”

          Lieutenant Boone’s description of his capture comes from two sources, one being an article shared in the 1895 book Sparks from the Camp Fire and the second being an unpublished memoir held by at the U.S. Army’s Military History Institute in Carlisle, Pennsylvania.

 

Second Lieutenant Samuel G. Boone (1838-1923) of Co. B of the 88th Pennsylvania saw three months' service with Co. G of the 1st Pennsylvania Infantry during the summer of 1861. The Philadelphia resident joined Co. B of the 88th in September 1861 and in the spring of 1863 was promoted to the rank of sergeant major then commissioned a second lieutenant in April. Following his capture at Gettysburg, he spent 19 months in several prisons including Richmond, Danville, Macon, Charleston, and Columbia. He escaped from Columbia on February 17, 1865, and made it back to Federal lines. 

          When Robinson’s division of the First Corps was driven back through Gettysburg on that fatal July 1, 1863, some of the soldiers on the extreme right were cut off from the main body and forced to beat a personal retreat through the town which by that time was filled with Confederate troops. My course was along the north side of the graded embankment of the old Stephens Railroad and I came near running into the right flank of a skirmish line. I ran up and crossed the embankment and, strange to say, was not fired at or even challenged although I was only 60 paces from the nearest skirmisher. The 11th Corps had been swept from our right, but I continued my course into town. I was delayed a few moments by the Confederate firing from the diamond at our soldiers crossing Chambersburg Street.

I reached Gettysburg in safety, but in my attempt to get to high ground, Cemetery Hill, where, judging by the nature of the situation I knew a stand would be made, I kept too much to my left. I got well into town but was checked for a few moments in the yard of what appeared to be a church, fronting on a street running east and west, the enemy’s infantry having possession of Baltimore Street, the next one on my left. Hoke’s and Hays’s brigades, it appears, were in excess of what was necessary to confront our army; and coming in on the right flank of the 11th Corps, they entered the east side of town with little opposition, evidently with the purpose of cutting off our retreat. In this they are partially successful. I was not aware of the presence of the enemy in this locality and came near running straight into their hands. Standing against the fence and against the building above mentioned and lying around on the grass were numbers of small arms- evidence that many of our troops had taken shelter in the building. A few like myself were watching an opportunity to cross the street. I had not long to wait. A brave fellow who had reached the open gate ahead of me suddenly darted across the street amid a perfect shower of bullets from Baltimore Street.

This was my opportunity and before they could reload their pieces I followed and also crossed in safety. I soon reached high ground in the southern suburbs of the town, from where I could see a short distance ahead of me, our retreating troops cutting across in a diagonal direction from Washington Street on my right to the junction of Emmitsburg Road and Baltimore Street on the left, moving toward Cemetery Hill. As the troops were not interfered with, I concluded that I had got far beyond range of the force which had checked me before and considered it safe to make a fresh effort to join our troops. But my powers of endurance were now nearly exhausted. After crossing one fence of the intervening lane, I attempted to cross the other, but my strength failed me and I fell back into the lane.

A breathing spell of a few moments revived me enough to gather myself up and continue my retreat. I ran down the lane which ended against a board fence. One of the boards had been removed and I crept through this opening, ran down through the garden of a house fronting Baltimore Street and passed along the side or private alley with the intention of joining my comrades whom I could have reached in from two to three minutes later.

But fate decreed otherwise. An ominous silence seemed to pervade this locality. There was no firing and our troops were permitted to come into the street unopposed; but neither friend nor foe could be seen on the street between my position and the point where our retreating troops were coming into Baltimore Street. I cautiously approached the street line with the intention of looking to my left to see if the way was clear before venturing out. But the instant I put my head beyond the building line, I came face to face with one of the most desperate soldiers in the Confederate army, a Louisiana Tiger. He had been creeping along close to the houses to get a good shot at the fleeing Yankees.

The stern reality of war: "When a death-dealing musket in the hands of your most deadly enemy with finger on the trigger is suddenly and unexpectedly pointed directly at you with the black muzzle only four feet from your breast and you are ordered to surrender, you don't say, 'Hold there," I said so and so before I left home."

For an instant we both stood transfixed. Neither of us knew which was the victor and which was vanquished, but it required only about three seconds to decide that question as he was evidently prepared to fire when we met having his musket full cocked and at a ready. I had no side arms except my sword and this was in the scabbard at the time. Terror was depicted on his countenance but he was quick to notice that I was unprepared to defend myself; he jumped away far enough to bring his pieces to bear on me and quick as a flash leveled it at my breast, very excitedly ordered me to surrender.

Soldiers, you remember how at the commencement of hostilities in 1861, many of us were armed to the teeth. Our belts were stuck full of huge Bowie knives, daggers, revolvers, etc., and we resembled walking arsenals. In our patriotic outbursts we solemnly declared that we would fight until the last armed foe expired and never surrender under any circumstances but prefer death in the field rather than capture. Oh, we were brave! But we said all this at home. Well, I was one of these.

By and by, we faced the stern realities of war. We met a foe worthy of our steel and thousands upon thousands of us submitted to the inevitable. When a death-dealing musket in the hands of your most deadly enemy with finger on the trigger is suddenly and unexpectedly pointed directly at you, with the black muzzle only about four feet from your breast just a little beyond your reach and ready to belch forth fire and lead enough to send you into eternity the next instant and you are ordered to surrender, you don’t say “Hold on there, I said so and so before I left home.” You suddenly forget that you were ever brave. It is hard to acknowledge defeat but the above case was mine exactly. Had we met on an equal footing, both prepared and unprepared, even in my exhausted condition, I should certainly have contested for the mastery. As it was, chances were all against me. My life was in his hands and I had the choice of being shot down or being captured and I chose the latter as anyone else would have done under the circumstances.  Throwing up my right hand, I said excitedly, “You’ve got the best of me.”

I stepped toward him to show him I was not going to resist when he said, “Give me that sword.” Coming to a left face to go up Baltimore Street, I raised my hands to my belt buckle to unbuckle it when he again jumped away from me. He brought his piece to bear on me and demanded “Have you got any pistols about?” This I thought was the most critical moment of my life; the Tiger thought I was reaching to my belt for a pistol. I again faced him to show him what I was doing and threw the sword, belt and all, on the pavement against the house saying, “If you want it, pick it up yourself.” That was the last I ever saw of the sword and belt.

Although Lieutenant Boone would spend the next 19 months in captivity, he would survive the war and return home to Pennsylvania where he married and had nine children. He passed away April 27, 1923, in Reading, Pennsylvania at the age of 85.

 

Sources:

“Captured by a Louisiana Tiger,” Second Lieutenant Samuel G. Boone, Co. B, 88th Pennsylvania Volunteer Infantry, from Joseph W. Morton’s Sparks from the Camp Fire or Tales of the Old Veterans. Philadelphia: Keystone Publishing Co., 1895, pgs. 47-51

Find-A-Grave entry for Samuel G. Boone which includes a portion of Boone’s unpublished memoir describing his capture at Gettysburg held by the U.S. Army Military History Institute at Carlisle, Pennsylvania

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