Many, many, MANY letters that I find every day are from chaplains, captains, and comrades telling wives and mothers that their soldiers have died. These letters have a wide range of appropriateness. Those from chaplains attempt to give comforting words quoting from the Bible or referencing heaven. Those from captains tell the widows and mothers what a wonderful soldier their loved one was-- in such exulting terms that it's easy to be a cynic, and stop believing that every soldier killed was the greatest soldier that company ever saw. Today, I have some extremes to share. One is a touching letter that every mother or widow should have gotten about the death of her son. One is an example of the depressing reality of the business of war. The last is an interesting example- a letter from a Confederate doctor, taking the time to politely address the enemy's wife to inform her of her husband's death. So, without further adieu: How to appropriately tell someone their son/husband has died:
Transcription:
New Orleans
July 9th 1863
To the Mother of Thomas Fox, late member of Co G 133 Reg’t N.Y. Vol,
Dear Madam,
I address you as a stranger, but be assured not with the feelings of such a one—for I write this with deep sympathy and with tears, and O if such could bring back him—must I say it—your son Thomas Fox, as this might would witness him as I oft have, but all these will not return your son to us. God has seen fit to take him from us.
This day has brought to me the sad intelligence of his death, and now the sad and painful duty devolves upon me to communicate the same to you—I am in tears. I loved your boy. He was a true and willing soldier, always ready to do his duty. I never had occasion to find any fault with him. I felt long since him worthy of promotion, and should have done so had I been with my company (I have been detailed away since March 1st 63). But Tommy is in truth promoted to a higher and better position than any I could give him. God in truth has taken him to himself where there is no sorrow, no war, no dying. But with all this to comfort us, to me this death is sorrowful. What shall I say will be this sad news to you and his relatives. May God bind up the broken hearts, and give grace to help in these sad hours of affliction is the prayer of one who loved your boy, and now is in deep distress. I have for many days been anxious to learn of the whereabouts of Thomas, having heard he was left sick at Opertusus. I heard he had been sent to this city and supposed he was in some convalescent camp, or hospital. I therefore sent my men to inquire but could not find out any thing about him. I visited the hospital myself but all to no avail. I could not learn of where he was. I visited algier a place opposite this city where there were some paroled prisoners, our own men, who had been taken at Breascher City on the 23rd of June 1863, and there I learned of one who saw him die. That such was the case, that he died June 22nd 1863, at 12 M. Could I have known he was there I should lost no time in going for him but it is now too late, his spirit has gone to God who are in his body. He’s at Breascher City, which now is in the hands of the Rebels, when we have again got possession of it I will visit the place where the body rests. His effects I cannot learn any thing about. I suppose they are all lost. Should I hear what has become of them I will get them and see that they are sent to you, if you wish, and indeed I should like very much to have you write if there is any thing I can do for you. Should you, direct to New Orleans, care of General Bowen Provost Marshal General. And now I will add to my deep feelings of sympathy those of my company who I know will be saddened with this intelligence. Tommy had the love of all who knew him, had he been my own son I think I could have loved him but littler more. We leave him in the hands of God. Amen.
I cannot write more.
Am truly with great sympathy,
C.W. Rudyard
Captain, Co. G 133 Regiment NY Vols
Conversely, how NOT to appropriately tell someone their world has come crashing down:
Form letter? Really, Union? Isn't the death of a soldier the one time when you shouldn't use a form letter with a rubber stamp at the bottom?
Finally, an interesting letter from the enemy:
Infirmary
12th Miss Regiment
Oct 28th 1864
Mary Westmoreland
Madam,
I regret to announce the death of your husband, George Westmoreland. He was wounded in the fight of yesterday, and fell into our hands. Both his legs were badly broken-- his right led was amputated and he died soon after. Every attention was paid him, but his wound was too severe for human endurance. Nothing valuable was found upon his person and this letter is written at his request. He was decently buried in a grave yard near Petersburg. I extend to you my sincere condolence.
Most respectfully,
R.S. Epperson
Hospital Steward, 12th Miss. Regt.
I'm fascinated by this last one. It's terse, but considerate. Consider our mortal enemies today. Would anyone out there write a letter to Osama bin Laden's family to politely tell them of his death? Is this Southern manners, or is it the 19th century way? It's not even a particularly nice letter, and yet I'm in awe of its common courtesy.
There are so many examples I could share of such letters. Some are devastating, some are touching, and some are just laughable. But all of them remind me of what is quickly becoming the theme of this blog: every individual life lost in this war was significant, tragic, and real. These letters were to individuals who were, undoubtedly, devastated by the news of their loss, and not simply emotionally. Reading these files, you can't help but remember that widows and mothers often had no way of supporting themselves after their husbands and sons gave their lives for the Union. These letters told women that their lives would be forever marred by this tragedy, but they also told that they would be on their own, and that their lives from now on would be unfathomably difficult. I hate to repeat myself, but these letters are reminders to us of the terrible reality of war, of the realities of 19th century, and the unspeakable horrors of what happened in America from 1861-1865.
Anachronism much? Bear with me. Every historian (hopefully) has their niche. In fact, in today's academy, it's vital that you have one. The more obscure the better. Academics sneer at general historians, and professors loathe teaching survey classes. They would much rather teach you a semester's worth of that one foreign policy decision, that one presidency, or that one battle that they know everything about. It's not ideal for popularity's sake, but it's the only way specialties can be carved out these days.
I've never had a niche. I know, it's tragic, having existed two whole months in the world of graduate history education. Due to professors I loved and advisers I blindly followed during undergrad, I have always been benignly interested in the Cold War. It just happened that it was something I learned a lot about, and so as things got on, it was easier for me to focus on those topics than to learn anything new. Even though I work with the Civil War, through a series of unfortunate events I have never gotten to take a class on it. And so while I know more useless Civil War regiment intricacies than most people, I don't actually know too much about the war itself.
I have a point, I promise.
Today, I found my niche. I'm not saying I will write a PhD dissertation on this or anything. But I have found what every historian must eventually find: that one illusive thread of history that you get so tangled up in, it becomes viscerally invigorating, deeply personal, and a permanent part of your very own history.
His name was George H. Lanning. He started out as a 1st Sergeant in the 1st Missouri Light Artillery, and eventually ended up a Major commanding the 6th United States Colored Troops (USCT) Heavy Artillery.
What made George's file special? Not much. I mechanically turned the pages of the file for QA, and my eyes flickered to the appealingly dwindling pile of files I had left for the day. It was a widow's pension. No children. Easy enough. Proof of service, killed in action, proof of marriage, done. But there was one more thing I had to check. In the back of the file, where normally I wouldn't look during QA, was a document tabbed for conservation. Adding the file number to my growing list, I flipped open the PermaLife folder to see whether it was torn, glued, creased, etc. That is when I found this letter (I will upload the original later):
Ft. Riley KS
Apr 30th
Mary,
I am ashamed to attempt to write to you, yet I must for my conscience smites me so at times that I would rather be dead than alive. I would write to my Mother but I am ashamed to. I have terribly wronged her. She that was my best and kindest of Mothers. I pray from the bottom of my heart that she will forgive. Tell her for me that I have sinned both against her and heaven and earth, and tell her that I have wronged deeply wronged her, yet I will redeem the past if she has not cast me forth. I will return as the Prodigal Son and say am not worthy to be called her child. The reality of what I have passed through is at times enough to set me wild. Tell my Mother I ask her forgiveness and her blessing and I feel almost confident that she will give it me. I am doing very well and have been for the past two years. I am also well and have not had a days sickness since I left. I hope that you are all well and enjoying good health, and my Mother especially. It sometimes flashes over my mind that my Mother is no more, and then remorse seizes me and that terrible monster conscience that never can be quiet. My brother Edward perhaps has forgotten me too if you only knew what trials I have passed through the anguish and despair my present conduct has caused me then you would know what I have not forgotten you. Perhaps you may be glad to hear from me at least I thought you would. I know that it will ease my conscience, for a while if my conduct has not been too heinous in your sight, and if you have not cast me forth although I am not worthy to be remembered by you anyone else Mary I hope I beg of you to write to about my Mother. I ask you Mary and Edward and Eli and all the rest to forgive me to forget the past and I promise as there is a heaven above to be more dutiful. I would come see if I dared to. Write soon and tell me if my Mother be alive or no. I must close my letter as I have no more news to write. I ask you all to forgive me and pardon the past. I am ashamed to sign myself Brother because I am not worthy. So I close wishing you all well.
Yours, George.
Write soon.
That is how I met George. I had to know what he was apologizing for, why a letter to his sister would end up in his widow's pension file, and whether he was ever forgiven. Although the letter doesn't give a year, it is safe to assume it was written in 1863, just under a year before Major Lanning would be killed in action at Fort Pillow.
But there is so much more to the story.
Lanning, a fairly high ranking officer, went by the alias of Lionel F. Booth. Aliases were common in the war, mostly for soldiers to hide their fates from their worrying loved ones. Lanning, however, writes to his family openly. They know he is in the army; they are even told where he is stationed. However, in some of the other letters (below) Lanning tells his correspondents to direct his letters for a Major L.F. Booth, who will kindly pass them along. Who was he hiding from? A couple months later, he writes to his aunt:
Ft. Riley, KS
Oct. 28th, 160
Dear Aunt,
I received yours of the 26th last night and was very glad indeed to hear from you the letter much have remained in the Post Office some time as it was advertised. I am glad to learn that you are all well, I myself am in very good health, and doing very well at present with good prospects in and for the future. You say that my Mother was with you when she died. I am satisfied, for I know that she was well taken care off. You tell me that it was her wish to be buried with my father, and that you did it. I am contented. You speak of them in Iowa. Had it not been for them and their Father I might have been a different and a better man, but let it rest as it is. I forgive and with him let all his injuries and faults be buried with them that remain let their faults be buried in oblivion. I forgive them, it was them that caused be to be driven from the presence of those who needed my protection, and they knew it, that if they got me once out of the way they would have things their own way, but there is a fearful account between me and them that by rights should have a final settlement, let that rest for the present.
You tell me that Edward has a place you did not tell me if he was learning a trade or no any way if he can get along with you and if it is impossible for him to get along where he now is I would rather have him with you, because I do not want him to be or have any intercourse with men who are addicted to drinking liquor of any kind. I have seen the consequences and they have proved fatal. You cannot imagine what my feelings were when I received that letter from Mary of my Mother’s death. I would not recall the thoughts which I them experienced for worlds. Had I not known that Edward still had a friend in you I know not what would have been the consequences. I am indeed glad to hear that Uncle Sam is well give him my best respects and well wishes hoping that we may soon meet and Grandfather too, give him my best respects and tell him that I have often thought of him and I still thinks when I was a little boy of the first pair of boots he bought me. I hope that I shall see him soon too. Give my best respects and well wishes to all enquiring friends. Write soon. Give my love to Edward and tell him to write soon.
Your absent though affectionate nephew,
Geo. H. Lanning
Direct to L. F. Booth, as he gets my mail and he will forward it to me.
Who could this family be? Lanning seems to have run away from home-- whether it was for the war or otherwise is unknown. Was it an abusive stepfather? A jealous family of vindictive siblings or cousins? We can never know.
Earlier in 1863, George writes to his aunt:
Corinth, MS, March 10th 1863.
Dear Aunt,
It is with pleasure I take my pen in hand to write you a few lines, although I am ashamed of my past conduct in not writing to you yet it is not too late to ask you forgiveness, promising to do better for the future. I have kept up a correspondence with Edward and received a letter from him night before last which I have answered and shall mail it along with this. It is needless for me to inform you of the ups and downs that I have passed through during this war. Suffice it to say that I have done my share of it since the commencement. What is still before me to go through I must leave for the future to decide.
Yet I wish that this war was over, but not until the Union is restored and the Stars and Stripes float once more over our entire land will I consent to lay down the sword, unless it should please our Father in Heaven to remove me from the terrible conflict which yet has to come, it is unnecessary for me to depict the scenes that I have seen, nor to horror your mind with the dreadful slaughter of human beings that has so frequently has been my lot to behold. History alone must do that. I do not wish to extol myself yet so far I have through this terrible ordeal safe and sound, for which I must praise our Father who art in Heaven for guiding me safe through the various changes, which it has been my lot to pass through.
Your absent, though undutiful nephew
G.H. Lanning
Write Soon
When you write place your letter in an envelope directed to me, then place it in another directed to Sargt. L. F. Booth 1st MO Lt. Artillery in case of Maj. Geo. H. Stone.
George Lanning's stunning reflections on the cruelties of war rival the likes of Lee and Sherman. Unfortunately, Lanning's fate fit what he described in this letter. April 12, 1864 marked the Battle of Fort Pillow, widely known as a massacre. While Lanning was white, as were all USCT officers, his troops were black. Fort Pillow was guarded by about 600 men, about one half of them black. They were the 2nd USCT Light Artillery, Lanning's 6th, and the 13th Tennessee Cavalry. In the spring of 1864, Confederate General Nathan Bedford Forrest set his sights-- and his 2,000 rebel troops-- on Fort Pillow.
The Union troops could not surrender. A surrender, they all knew, would mean a slaughter of every black man in uniform, and every white man fighting alongside him. The fort was besieged, and Lanning (or, Major Booth) was shot dead almost immediately. It is a blessing that he did not have to witness the massacre that followed. Accounts report of rebel soldiers screaming "no quarter!" before shooting in cold blood the Union soldiers who begged for mercy. The Union troops never officially surrendered. Once the siege began, they were never given the chance.
14 Confederates died in the siege. Close to 300 Union soldiers were killed, the vast majority of them black. Fort Pillow is remembered as one of the most terrible engagements of the war, not for its casualty count but for the savagery it demonstrated in Rebel soldiers who saw, many for the first time, black soldiers fighting for the Union.
This is a battle that I had never even heard of. But George Lanning's stunning words led me to follow his trail, and I discovered that he was a piece of one of the most culturally significant battles of the Civil War. I can feel George watching me discover his story, and I hope he understands the fresh anguish I feel in witnessing his passion and death. I will always feel connected to him now. It is stories like Lanning's that remind me of the men behind the hundreds of files I glaze over every day, and the lives and personal dramas that absorbed them even in the midst of the "dreadful slaughter of human beings" happening all around them.
Sorry for the recent lack of posts, world. Until I figure out a new scanner situation I can't do some of my recent finds much justice. But here is a teaser for what's coming up:
People joke so often about the government being inefficient that it's not funny anymore. In fact, it probably hasn't been funny besides that first time someone joked about it.
Don't get me wrong-- I'm not complaining about the stereotype. It's true, in many respects-- but it's true of any huge bureaucracy. But speaking from one the hardest working offices in the entire building, it's frustrating at times when people make passing jokes about government hang-ups we have no control over.
In our case, sometimes these government office hiccups mistakes happened decades ago. Sometimes over a century ago. Almost every day, for example, I correct at least one "split file"-- a file that transferred to another dependent (usually a widow remarries, so her children get a pension) under a new number. When this happens, all the papers from the original number should move to the new number, leaving only a place holder card behind to inform you where the documents have moved. Often, this never happens. Because of what can only be assumed to be the (understandable) laziness of those late nineteenth century pension officers, many papers simply don't get moved. Carolyn to the rescue! A century later, little files, I will right this wrong.
This find, then, was too hilarious not to post. In fact, a copy of it is now hanging on my cubicle wall.
Ought not they indeed, Mr. E.C.P? Yes. Someone noticed this split file on February 2, 1910. Yesterday, October 4, 2010, E.C.P.'s request was filled, and the entirety of this soldier's files have moved to WC76850 where they belong. 100 years turnover? Not too shabby, National Archives. Not too shabby at all. You're welcome.
So I already think my job is pretty cool. This blog is evidence to the fact that I am a complete history nerd, so it’s pretty easy to get me excited about random old papers. But every once in a while, I get to see some TRULY awesome things.
Today, as I do every Friday, I went down to the conservation lab to pick up the past week’s boxes and drop off a new batch. One of the conservators opened the door to let me in, and said those magic words: “wanna see something really cool?”
Um, absolutely I do.
As luck would have it, earlier today CSPAN had paid a visit to the Archives to cover the recently acquired Nuremburg documents. And even more as luck would have it, the conservator hadn’t put them away yet.
Believe it or not, there’s more. The conservation lab also happened to be working on several Ben Franklin letters at the moment I walked in.
Adolf Hitler and Benjamin Franklin, side by side. I hope your mind just exploded, because mine definitely did.
The most important thing I learned is this: by the handwriting alone, it was clear which belonged to the mild-mannered inventor of bifocals, and which belonged to the crazed mass-murderer. If your signature ends with a delightful flourish, and you sign your beautifully legible letters with nice things like "your obedient servant," you're probably doing pretty okay in life. But if your signature looks like it might be a prototype for a swastika, I would probably recommend that you seriously reevaluate your handwriting and lifestyle choices.
(Pictures from Google images)
So be careful, folks. In two hundred years, people might look at letters you wrote or receipts you signed and wonder… that sloppy handwriting just might call your moral character into question.
So many of the stories I read are about desperation. The Act of July 14, 1862 was, above all, in recognition of the fact that widows, mothers, and children of slain soldiers literally had no way of supporting themselves. In many states women could not own property, and sometimes lost custody of their children. Mothers who were already in tenuous positions depending on their sons (either having been widowed or having disabled husbands) lost, in many cases, their last hope of support.
Through our 21st century eyes, it is shocking what these women and children would do to get their $8 a month. It seems to me an almost herculean effort just to have gotten all the correct documentation to the pension office. Consider that many soldiers were recent immigrants to America. How could their widows be expected to prove legal marriage when they were married in Bavaria in the 1840s? The officiating priest might be long dead, and all the witnesses to the ceremony could still be in Bavaria or could have scattered across the globe in the age of mass immigration. I have even seen the files of widows who were still in Europe-- most often Ireland, Denmark, and Germany-- when their husbands died fighting for the Union. How's that for the land of opportunity?
In light of the desperate situation these women were thrown into, it is no surprise that many, many, many files I see are of widows who eventually lost or came close to losing their pensions because of "adulterous immoral behavior." More often, this simply means that the woman ended up living with a man she did not marry, in order that he might support her but that she could still collect her pension. Sometimes, though, this indicates that the woman had to turn to prostitution. We also see many files with letters of complaint from neighbors, revealing that the woman had become an alcoholic and was not taking proper care of her children. But having lost her husband and her only means of support in a world that had virtually no public place for women-- can you blame her?
Last week, I came across a particularly striking act of desperation. In October of 1865, Sarah Richards wrote a letter to President Andrew Johnson begging for her pension. The process of receiving her certificate was a slow one, and she was barely surviving in the waiting period. Her language in the letter in particular is strikingly elegant and pleading. Consider this: how desperate would you have to be to sit down and write a letter to the President? The letter was too faded to scan, but see the transcript below:
North Troy, Oct 18th/65
Mr. President/Honorable Sir,
Poverty sometimes drives people to desperation-- although it may not be considered a desperate act in writing to you-- yet under almost any other circumstances I should not presume or attempt to force this illiterate communication upon you. I have written once before and now again and in the name of the Lord through whose dispensations I have been deprived of a kind companion and left a widow. I appeal to you as one who sympathizes with and feels for the interests of the widows and orphans of one land made so through one common cause. And now my dear Sir-- it is useless to multiply words-- and you will pardon me if I thereby trespass upon your patience-- what I want to say it this-- will you for the sake of suffering humanity endeavor to hurry on my pension? That is if I am entitled to it-- and I am, am I not? Does it many any difference as long as my husband contracted his disease while doing his duty whether he died out of service or in it was chronic diarrhea and he lived only 5 weeks after coming home. He never asked for his dischrage and did not know that he was for several days after the doctor marked him down. Then as he felt impressed that he could not survive long he felt an anxiety to die in his own home and native land. My attorney C.M. Lander has collected many pensions, and he says he has got those whose cases are precisely like mine-- and he gives me great encouragement. But Oh-- you don't know how much I need it. I am not able to do anything of consequence towards a living-- have been teaching school, but now my health is so feeble that I cannot do that-- and I am depending from day to day upon the charity and sympathy of the public. Although I feel thankful for their favors-- yet I suffer for many comforts which I could have if I had the means in my own hands. Oh, well you help me get it immediately-- and the widows God will help you. I am sitting in my room tonight and although cold enough for a grand fire-- I have none-- no wood or money to buy it with. I have got to go out in the morning feeble as I am and try to raise some somewhere and where to go I know not it is not time for the city to give out coal and wood to the poor, and my neighbors and acquaintances have helped me so much. I have not the (illegible) to ask them for more and thus I live from day to day, trusting, trusting, hoping, praying, looking forward to better and brighter days-- but Oh if my (illegible) should all perish-- then what. Why God only knows what poor lonely (illegible) we would be tempted to do. I know I am poor and humble-- perhaps-- unworthy of your notice-- but the efforts on my behalf will be rewarded by One who ever pleads the case of the poor.
Yours respectfully,
Mrs. S Richards
(WC 58842, Horace G Richards, Co C, 169 New York Infantry)
God, they just wrote better back then, didn't they? Sarah's letter might sound melodramatic, but when you consider the times you have to believe that her situation was indeed every bit as desperate as she writes it to be. All too many letters I see echo Sarah's frustration. It becomes easy to demonize pension agents when we read heart-wrenching letters like these (or, in my case, when it's clear that the pension agent was in fact an ADHD 3rd grader with a glue stick. Beside the point.). We have to remember, of course, that pension agents were just doing their job-- there were certain proofs that had to be furnished, and all we can hope is that if they were slow in approving pensions, it was only because they were so thorough. But in the meantime, Sarah paints a melancholy portrait of the many widows, mothers, and orphans who, like her, only got colder and hungrier while they waited for the pensions to be approved.
Many pension files contain letters from soldiers at the front. Because it was harder for a mother to prove her dependence on her son than for a widow to prove dependence on a husband, the vast majority of soldiers' letters we find are in mothers' pension files. Letters are usually submitted because they contain a passing reference to "that $10 I sent you," or inquiries to confirm the mother is surviving off the money sent home.
The letters we find range from the hilarious to the heartbreaking. I once read a letter from a soldier to his wife, clearly in reply to a nagging note she had sent him, assuring her that he thought she was "a darn sight prettier than Ed Curtain's wife." Whether they are mundane notes from half-literate privates, elegant love letters, or last wishes composed from hospital beds, all these letters carry the words of the noble ghosts who gave their lives for the Union. It is impossible to forget that even the happy stories we read ended badly; we deal only in widows and orphans. I'll be honest. The first time I found a soldier letter, I was a little overcome. The room happened to be empty at the time, and I definitely cried. You cannot imagine how different it is to actually hold the piece of paper that the soldier wrote upon and lovingly sent home. Reading a transcription cannot do it justice. And so, while it is by no means the most interesting letter I've found (in fact, it's comparatively boring), for my first real post, I will share with you the first soldier letter I found. From widow's certificate (WC) #52775, it is a letter from Private Thomas W. Simpson of Company A in the 91st Pennsylvania Infantry.
Transcription:
Camp near Pegram's Farm
October 9th 1864
Dear Mother,
Mary's letter of the 5th was received this (Sunday) morning and am glad to hear that you are all well, and that you received the money $150. I sent as I before mentioned $50 by Lieut. Brass, which I guess you have received before this. I was unable to get change at the time, as I expected to go into a fight soon, I thought I would send it home with Brass as he was going home that day. I wrote for a shirt in the last latter. I suppose you have sent. You will please to send me $10 as soon as you receive this as I have a use for it, and have no change left. We are once more settled in a camp, and the shovel and pick is again in use. We were out all day yesterday establishing a new picket line and advancing the pickets. We had some difficulty from sharpshooters who were lodged in a house, and the 2nd Division played a battery on it, and they soon got up and got away, and the house was soon in flames. I hope the money sent will be of some service to you all this winter as I guess things must be pretty dear in Philadelphia. There is a very perceptible change in the weather here, it is beginning to grow cold. Dear Mother I hope you will not let news worry you, as I feel as safe here, as if I was at home, as I will not die before my time comes. No more at present.
Your affectionate son,
Tom
Eighteen days later, on October 27, 1864, Pvt. Tom Simpson was killed in action at the Battle of Hatcher's Run. This letter to his mother is almost boring- he rambles on, asks for new shirts, and talks about the weather. But in a brilliant flash of sentimentality at the end of his note, Tom shows his innocence and hope in the face of devastating uncertainty. The 91st Pennsylvania had seen Antietam, Gettysburg, Cold Harbor, and the siege of Petersburg, to name only a few of the Civil War's bloodiest engagements. Tom's enduring hope and affection is exemplary of the very soldiers we love most to remember.
