Dan Masters' Civil War Chronicles

S ergeant Fred True of the 41 st Illinois numbered among the lucky survivors of Shiloh as he explained in a letter to his sisters back home in Illinois.           The regiment went into action on the morning of April 6, 1862, and soon found itself in a pounding firefight with advancing Confederates. “I was hit twice. One ball struck my leg and numbed it considerably without entering the pants. The other struck me on the chin or throat and drove me from the field. The wound bled severely so that I was worse scared than hurt,” True confessed. “Buell’s forces came to our relief Sunday night and on Monday by desperate fighting we forced them to fall back as steadily as they had advanced on Sunday. But for Buell’s forces, I believe we would all have been whipped and killed or taken prisoner.”           Sergeant True’s letter originally was published in the April 17, 1862, edition of the Mattoon Gazette , making it one of the earliest firsthand accounts published about the Battle of Shi

T he 12 th Illinois fell into line at Shiloh morning of Sunday April 6, 1862, attired in gray jackets with spirits at “very low ebb” as one soldier remembered. The sounds of battle thundered in the dim distance and the Illinoisans fell into line led by a “superannuated and inexperienced captain” in “gloomy silence.”           The cause of the gloom had to do with the fact that both their regimental commander Augustus Chetlain and their brigade commander (and former regimental commander) General John McArthur were under arrest. The prospects of going into combat under an inexperienced leader proved disheartening, but within moments all that would change.           First came the order for the men to take off their old gray jackets and throw them in a pile along the road, to be replaced by black frock coats. Then General McArthur and Colonel Chetlain rode in amongst the men. “12 th , I am permitted to lead ye once more,” bellowed General McArthur in his “broadest Scotch. This seemed

B y the time John Baker of Battery B, 1 st Michigan Light Artillery was exchanged more than six months after being captured at the Battle of Shiloh, the artilleryman had traveled through seven of the eleven states of the Confederacy, and lost his brother to typhoid fever at Cahaba, Alabama. “We have suffered everything but death and that has started us in the face,” he wrote to the editors of the Hillsdale Standard . “There has been 270 men who have died since our captivity began. We have been without clothing and have been obliged to live upon corn meal and bacon. I have never seen any meat but what was rotten, and no one but God can tell what we have suffered.” John Baker’s travelogue of Confederate captivity was compiled from a pair of letters he wrote to his hometown newspaper the Hillsdale Standard in 1862.

I n the early twilight hours of September 19, 1863, at Chickamauga, Sergeant William Richey of the 15 th Ohio was dispatched between the lines to try and ascertain the location of the Confederates. “Presently I saw an officer on horseback approaching me from the right only a short distance from me,” he later wrote. “We were no sooner side by side than I discovered that we were enemies. As quickly as I could, I said to the man on horseback in a loud, bold tone, “You are my prisoner! Surrender, or I will blow out your brains!” Instantly the officer reached for his pistol but, pointing my weapon at him, I repeated my demand with increased determination and ordered him to dismount. He complied and became my prisoner.” For this act, Sergeant Richey would be awarded the Medal of Honor in 1893. He explains the story of his regiment on the first day of Chickamauga in this harrowing account published in Walter Beyer and Oscar Keydel’s 1901 tome Deeds of Valor: How America’s Heroes Won the

I n a war defined by the theme of brother against brother, the amazing tale of Granville and George Moody and their journey through the Civil War highlights the interconnected nature of family and social life in the 19th century. It's a story that starts in Maine, weaves through the histories of both the Army of Northern Virginia and the Army of the Cumberland, twists in and out of prisoner of war camps, and ultimately involves President Jefferson Davis in the final days of the Civil War and President Andrew Johnson in its immediate aftermath.            Granville Moody was born January 2, 1812, in Portland, Maine to William and Harriet Brooks Moody while his younger brother George Vernon Moody was born there in February 1816. One technically could say that the brothers were born in Portland, Massachusetts, as Maine did not become a state until 1820. Regardless, the Moody family moved to the state of Maryland in 1817 and there in 1830 the paths of the brothers parted. Granville

T he first commissioner of major league baseball was Judge Kenesaw Mountain Landis who was appointed by the team owners in November 1920. His unusual first name was chosen by his parents in remembrance of one of the bloodiest engagements of the Atlanta campaign, the Battle of Kenesaw Mountain which was fought on June 27, 1864. But had his father not been wounded at Kenesaw, its possible he would have named his later famous son Chickamauga Landis after the horrors he experienced at that engagement.  Kenesaw Mountain Landis was born November 20, 1866, in Millville in Butler County, Ohio to Doctor Abraham Hoch Landis and his wife Mary (Kumler) Landis. The future judge was the sixth of seven children; among his notable siblings was an older brother John Howard Landis who followed his father in the practice of medicine and two brothers who became Congressmen: Charles B. Landis (served from 1897-1909) and Frederick D. Landis (served from 1903-1907). Dr. Landis moved his family from Ohio to

F or Second Lieutenant Hugh Siverd of the 1st Ohio Cavalry, the death of his regimental commander Colonel Minor Millikin during the Battle of Stones River proved a singularly depressing event in his military experience.       "W ith Colonel Minor Millikin went my nearest hope," he lamented in a letter to a friend in Ohio. " Colonel Minor Millikin is no more and bitterly do his men bear the cup. For certain it is that he won the unlimited confidence of all, and while he may sleep the long calm sleep of death, there ever will linger around his grave that devotion that men only bear for officers departed that have been brave, cautious, and kind, such was Colonel Minor Millikin."       Lieutenant Siverd witnessed the death of his beloved commander firsthand on December 31, 1862. The situation was that Colonel Millikin, seeing the the ammunition train of the Right Wing was about to overrun by General John Wharton's cavalry brigade, ordered a daring saber charge to sa

M oments into his regiment’s attack on the bastion of Vicksburg on May 22, 1863, Corporal Charles Morris of the 33 rd Illinois found himself pinned down in front of the Confederate works “with the missiles of death raining around, the hot sun pouring down, amidst the wail of the wounded, the fierce yell of the victors, and the incessant roar of musketry. Death stared us in the face if we remained or if we attempted to get down. We knew it was madness to send men there. The Rebel rifle pits to our left could fire upon us and every now and then some poor fellow would go down. The terrors of that day made men grow old.” The Illinoisan called the attack a “dark spot” in his memory, commenting that “scarcely one of the old guard who either does not carry a reminder of it on his person or points to that fatal day as the last on earth of some cherished comrade.” Morris’s vivid description of his brigade’s assault against Vicksburg originally saw publication in Wilbur Hinman’s 1892 compendi

Q uietly sitting in the collections of the Hardin County Historical Museum in Kenton, Ohio is a collection of medals that belonged to local resident Delano Morey . Among them is the Medal of Honor Morey was awarded in 1893 for his courage at the Battle of McDowell when he was just a 16-year-old private in the ranks of Co. B of the 82nd Ohio. Private Morey described the circumstances under which he was later awarded the medal to the editors of Deeds of Valor in the late 1890s.

T he Battle of Perryville, Kentucky, was raging when the life of Major Anson G. McCook of the 2 nd Ohio Infantry was saved by the daring act of a 17-year-old private in Co. G named William Surles. As Surles, “a mere boy, weighing less than a hundred pounds and of almost girlish appearance,” remembered it, it was a spur of the moment decision.           “A Confederate soldier, a veritable giant in appearance, presently sprang from behind a tree close by and took deliberate aim at McCook,” recalled Surles. “I had observed this fellow’s movements and realized the great danger of my beloved commander. My blood froze in my veins as I saw the Rebel raise his gun and take aim at our brave leader. Presently, on the spur of the moment and moved by the love and admiration I felt toward our commander, I sprang directly in front of Colonel McCook, ready to receive the bullet which was to strike him.”           That leap, combined with a timely shot from of Surles’s comrades that dispatched th

T hirty years after witnessing the carnage of Stones River as a 17-year-old drummer boy in the ranks of the 94 th Ohio, Dr. James E. Shellenberger returned to visit the area while journeying to Chickamauga in company with several fellow Buckeyes. In some ways, it was as if he had never left.           “Soon we arrived at LaVergne, the scene of a cavalry engagement during the Battle of Stones River and the place of Wheeler’s raid on our trains. It was found just as we left it 30 years ago,” commented Shellenberger. Once in Murfreesboro, the men hired a guide, a local soldier named H.C. Moore who had fought in the battle in the ranks of the 18 th Tennessee. “We came out by the courthouse out towards the line of earthworks or forts on both sides of Stones River. The large one is on the east side of the pike near the river and called Fortress Rosecrans. These works, all plainly marked, remain undisturbed by the natives living about them.”           Dr. Shellenberger’s account of visi

C aptain Alfred E. Lee’s return to Delaware, Ohio in July 1863 caused a sensation among the citizens of that small middle Ohio town. On Friday the 10 th , the Delaware Gazette newspaper reported somberly that “we regret to notice among the deaths in the late battle at Gettysburg our friend and correspondent Captain A.E. Lee. He was a young man of decided ability, a good soldier, and his whole heart was enlisted in the cause for which he gave up his life.”             At the Battle of Gettysburg while commanding his company in the 82 nd Ohio on July 1, 1863, he was wounded and left for dead upon the field by his retreating comrades. [see " Alfred E. Lee and the 82nd Ohio at Gettysburg ."] “The enemy taking possession of the ground, one of Jubal Early’s aides carried him off the field with certain Rebel wounded and deposited them in an obscure farmhouse where he had no means of communication with his regiment or friends,” recalled Emma Janes. Captain Alfred E. Lee through t

E very object has a story to tell.... ...in this case, a few reminders of the 4th Indiana Battery's fight along Wilkinson Pike at Stones River.

S econd Lieutenant H. Charles Lynch of the 2nd Delaware took understandable pride in recounting to his parents how his regiment fought at the Battle of Antietam.       " Our division met the flower of the Southern army and we whipped them badly," he noted. "The Irish brigade and our brigade were fighting against General Jackson’s best men. " I came through safe (thanks be to God) but not so with our company. We went into the fight with 23 men and came off with 17. None were killed, however, that I know of but we had five wounded and one missing. I have hopes that the missing one will turn up yet. My men fought well and I feel proud of them. I thought that I would never be able to stand fire, but I soon found out differently for I was as cool and could be through the whole engagement and never thought once of being shot or backing off the field."       Lieutenant Lynch's account, written just three days after the battle, first saw publication in the October

C orporal Reuben Scott of the 67 th Indiana was scarcely two weeks from the plow when his regiment arrived in Louisville, Kentucky in the opening days of September 1862. With threatening news that two Rebel armies under Generals Braxton Bragg and Edmund Kirby Smith were invading Kentucky, the 67 th Indiana was dispatched south to guard the vital Louisville & Nashville railroad bridge over Green River at Munfordville. The Hoosiers scarcely had time to finish their first squad drill before called upon to defend the bridge during the Battle of Munfordville on September 14 th . General James Chalmers, commanding one of Bragg’s advance brigades, impetuously tried to take the bridge in a frontal assault against stout Union defenses.             The Hoosiers lacked discipline but showed plenty of fighting spirit, using their Belgium muskets to good effect during their clash with the Rebels. “Our boys filled the air with deadly missiles and a Hoosier yell which was echoed by the 89

I n the closing days of November 1864, John Van Arsdel and battery mates in the 22 nd Indiana Battery drew the unenviable assignment of holding the railroad bridge at Columbia, Tennessee. Under orders to hold the bridge at all hazards and destroy it if they couldn’t hold it, it wasn’t long until Van Arsdel and 50 th Ohio infantry came under attack from determined Confederates.             “I was on the skirmish line with the Ohio boys; there were 14 of them and they put their loaded guns down by a rock in the railroad cut and went out on the bridge to fire it,” he recalled. “ I saw the Rebels advance and deploy their skirmish line and come on the double quick. The skirmish line advanced in an oblique direction towards me. I picked up one of the guns and, having a good rest, fired at the coming line of men. They kept coming. The ball went somewhere in one Johnny’s neighborhood. At any rate, he heard it and fell down, but when the smoke cleared away, he was still on his course. I fir

W riting in the early morning hours of October 10, 1862 “by a light of oak boards with their smoke occasionally drifting” past his eyes, First Lieutenant E.J. Fitzpatrick of Semple’s Battery noted with pride the role his battery played in the recent fight at Perryville.             Stationed to protect the town, the Alabamians were not called upon to fight until late in the day when Federal troops approached along Springfield Pike. “We fought them from about 5 p.m. till dark and had the satisfaction of stopping their advance which threatened to be disastrous to our side,” Fitzpatrick noted. “A disabled piece and broken caisson with many dead and wounded men (we are told) was the result of our practice. The casualties in our company were only two men: Greene Mitchell, wounded in the hand, and Peyton Bolling, struck by a spent spherical case bullet on the ankle, neither much hurt. Our boys behaved nobly, and today Semple’s Battery is a familiar name in this army.”             Lieuten

I n the early morning hours of December 20, 1862, General Earl Van Dorn led 3,500 Confederate troopers in a successful raid upon the Federal supply depot at Holly Springs, Mississippi. Swooping in at dawn from three directions, the Confederates quickly subdued the 1,500-man garrison and torched $1.5 million of supplies, all destined to support General U.S. Grant’s overland drive on Vicksburg.             A remarkable account of this raid was written by a sutler attached to an Illinois regiment at Holly Springs who describes the terror-filled opening moments of the Confederate attack, and his own subsequent capture. “As is usual with me, I arose early and went out into the street in front of the store and at once saw the dash of the Rebel cavalry as they entered the city yelling and shooting,” he wrote. “At once, I tried to regain the store but in vain. It was fastened on the inside and before I could gain an entrance, the word “Halt!” and a shot, the ball just missing me came togethe

P rivate Henry H. Bowles of the 6 th Maine Volunteers observed that successful assault of the 6 th Army Corps upon Marye’s Heights at Fredericksburg during the Chancellorsville campaign turned into a vicious hand-to-hand struggle. “The men fought with the courage of despair, maddened both by their heavy loss and the perfidy of the Rebels. Men became fiends. The lumbermen of Maine and Wisconsin, who had handled picks and spikes all their lives on the rivers and logjams, used their guns in the same manner. Mike Carey cried out when he saw the Johnnies breaking, “Hang Palfrey, boys! Boom ‘em, damn ‘em, boom ‘em!” Jumping on the works, he kicked a giant Confederate to the ground and drove his bayonet to the hilt in his breast. Corporal Brown used his gun as a club and, like a mad demon, brained five men. A wiry little Frenchman named Willet bayonetted man after man, and when implored by a Rebel to spare his life for God’s sake cried, “Me know no God! You kill me, me kill you!” Bowles