Category Archives: The Civil War

George and the President

From February 16,1861 through May 5, 1865 Jefferson Davis was the elected President of the Confederate States. Even though his appearance was shockingly similar to that of President Abraham Lincoln, he was by most accounts an ineffective war strategist and his lack of popular appeal made sure that any similarities ended there. Historically he has been called meddlesome, difficult to work with and controlling.

Young George Ulmer had a completely different view of the man. After his printing debacle, George was re-assigned to a task he was well suited to. Cheerful, optimistic, friendly George was assigned as a type of guard to Jefferson Davis while the Confederate President was incarcerated at Fortress Monroe. He was instructed to accompany the President on his daily walks and generally keep the man company.

For a full week he walked and talked with the President listening to his woes and of course asking plenty of questions. George had nothing negative to say about his assignment in fact ,the opposite is true. In his memoirs he writes:

 He gave me lots of good advice, and I learned more from conversation with him about national affairs than I ever expected to know; and if I ever become president I will avail myself of the advice and teaching of that great man. He pointed out the right and wrong paths for young men; urged me above all things to adhere strictly to honesty and integrity; to follow these two principles, and I would succeed in business and become great and respected. I thanked him for his kind advice, and pressed his hand good-bye. “Good-bye, my boy,” said he. “You have been a comfort to me in my loneliness and sorrow. God bless you, my boy, God bless you!” A great, big something came up in my throat as I turned and left him, and I have regretted all my life that I was not fortunate enough to have the pleasure of meeting him again before he passed away; for I assure you, indulgent readers and comrades, that no matter what he had done, or what mistakes he had made, his memory will always find a warm spot in the heart of that little Drummer Boy from Maine. 

Next Up: A Good Day Ruined

Fortress Monroe

After an enjoyable few weeks assigned to light duty with the Veteran Reserves corps., George was transferred to Fortress Monroe, a military installation in Hampton,Virginia at the southern tip of the Virginia Peninsula. Fort Monroe guarded the channel between the Chesapeake Bay and Hampton Roads. This impenetrable six-sided stone fort was completely surrounded by a moat. 

It must have daunting for George to have been assigned to this imposing stone fortress. After reporting in to headquarters he wandered the grounds for a bit to get his bearings. He soon found a worn stone wall and sat down to enjoy a cigar (his new vice). This was the busiest base he had been at and there was a lot to see. Soon enough he was discovered sitting there and told to move on and get his orders. He found his superior, Lieutenant Russell who he fondly recalls in his memoirs. Lieutenant Russell needed a foreman in the Government Printing Office. For “occupation” George had filled in “Printer” on his paperwork. Printing however was his father’s profession but George figured he knew all about it so he told the Lieutenant that he “had some knowledge of it”.

As a Printer, George was given an additional eight dollars per month, a fortune to him! His first assignment was to print 50,000 official envelopes. It was during the Civil War that many advances in printing were invented. Rotary presses were introduced, and in 1863, the Philadelphia Inquirer became the first newspaper to use a web-perfecting press that allowed a man to feed one sheet of paper through the machine and have it print on both sides. These time-saving inventions were a wonder in their day but still a far cry from our current method of keying “print” on the computer!

This picture was taken from Dictionnaire encyclopédique Trousset, also known as the Trousset encyclopedia, Paris, 1886 – 1891.

George spent the next few days printing up 50,000 official envelopes. Job completed, he patted himself on the back and decided to reward his fine work with a cigar and enjoy his day. A breathless Private found him and told him to report to Lieutenant Russell’s office right away. Proud as a peacock he marched into Lieutenant Russell’s office wondering what kind of award or even promotion he would get for his outstanding work. he even imagined  that he would be re-assigned maybe to Washington to take over the Government Printing Office there. At that moment he probably thought that he could single-handedly win the war!

Smiling, the Lieutenant asked him :

“Young man, you told me you were a printer?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Did you ‘O. K.’ this job?” passing one of the envelopes he held in his hand. 

“Yes sir,” I answered. 

“Umph! Is it correct?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“It is, eh?” 

“Yes-s, sir.” 

“Umph! how do you spell business?” 

“B-u-i-s-n-e-ss,” said I. 

“You do, eh?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Well,” said he in an imperative manner, “our government sees fit to differ with you. You will go to your office and print fifty thousand more, but see that you spell business right, and bring me the proof. The lot you have printed we will send to Washington, and recommend that they be made into a paper mache statue of yourself, and label it ‘Buisness’.” 

And so began and ended George’s illustrious printing career…at least for now.

Next up: George and the President

Will George Survive?

For over three weeks George recuperated at Balfour the Portsmouth,VA military hospital. He had escaped with relatively minor injuries and a nasty concussion. But once he started feeling better he thoroughly enjoyed being fussed over by the various women’s leagues who visited wounded soldiers. These devoted women would bring books, warm blankets and home-baked treats. Young, charismatic George was soon the center of attention, his favorite place to be.

He bounced back quickly and thoroughly bored with hospital life he had the audacity to write a letter to Secretary of War Edwin M. Stanton. After explaining who he was and how he was faring in the War (including being injured and staying at Balfour Hospital), he asked if he should go back to the front or just go home to his family. He was of course hoping to be sent home. Instead, he received a special order direct from Secretary Stanton himself to have George transferred to the 2nd Battalion Veteran Reserve Corps. This was a coup as this would keep him away from the battlefields.

The title “Veteran Reserve Corps” was substituted for that of “Invalid Corps” by General Order No. 111, dated March 18, 1864. The men serving in the Veteran Reserve Corps were organized into two battalions; the First Battalion including those whose disabilities were comparatively slight and who were still able to handle a musket and do some marching, also to perform guard or provost duty. The Second Battalion was made up of men whose disabilities were more serious, who had perhaps lost limbs or suffered some other grave injury. These later were commonly employed as cooks, orderlies, nurses, or guards in public buildings.

For two months George enjoyed serving in the Veteran Reserve Corps. While most of his fellow battalion were made up of amputees and sick soldiers, he had his strength and vitality giving him ample opportunity to finish his light tasks and leaving a lot of time to roam freely. With his free time George became involved in local theatre. He happily acted in productions for the wounded soldiers at the hospital. His enthusiasm made up for his lack of acting experience and his good nature and quick wit brought good cheer to the suffering soldiers and tired staff.

All in all life was not bad for this Drummer Boy from Maine. Luck as always was on his side.

Next Up: Fortress Monroe

The beautiful sketch above was found at a blog titled: Boys of the Civil War. Well worth the read. The sheer number of soldiers below the age of 18 in the Civil War is astounding.

George Is Injured

When George’s regiment was ordered to march, he decided not to go. The last few weeks had shattered his boyhood illusions of war. He’d had enough. He no longer wanted to be a big hero, he just wanted to go home. Sadly his decision meant that he would part with his brother Charley for the first time. The close brothers shared a tearful good-bye promising to see each other soon.

George  sat on a fence watching his regiment disappear into the horizon. He sat there a while longer than he should have lost in his thoughts. Out of nowhere, shells started raining down on him. The enemy had spotted him. He leaped off the fence ready to bolt like a rabbit when BAM! a splintered section of fence slammed into him knocking him to the ground unconscious.

The next thing he knew, he was laying in a hospital bed fuzzy headed and unable to move. He had no recollection of how he got there. The field hospital did not have the capability to care for him so he was transferred  to the main hospital which was set up in the Balfour hotel in Portsmouth,VA. Unable to walk, he was carried into the old dining room which now served as a dormitory for wounded soldiers. There were over 200 iron beds in that room. He was laid down on one of the beds and exhausted soon fell asleep waiting for the doctor.

Hospitals in the 1860’s were nothing like the hospitals of today. In 1863 the government did an inspection of military hospitals that treated Union soldiers. Of the 892 Union hospitals reviewed, 589 received a good inspection but 303 were rated bad to unfit. Of the doctors who were inspected, 2,727 were up to speed on “modern” practices and ranked  o.k. to good but 303 were ranked bad or unacceptable. As bad as the surgeon’s tents on the fields were, the hospitals of the day were not much better. Many soldiers died from either their battle wounds or disease in the hospital.  It was so bad that soldiers considered a trip to the hospital a death sentence. The Union Army lists 67,000 soldiers killed in action plus 43,000 died of battle wounds and a terrifying 248,000 died from mostly from disease. Without antibiotics to curb the spread of bronchitis, infected wounds etc… death was imminent in so many cases. These numbers only reflect the Union which actually had better medical care than the South. The following information from CivilWar.com gives a sobering view about the wounds incurred from Civil War musketry:

When a minie ball struck a bone it almost never failed to fracture and shatter the contiguous bony structure, and it was rarely that only a round perforation, the size of the bullet, resulted. When a joint was the part the bullet struck, the results were especially serious in Civil War days. Of course, the same was true of wounds of the abdomen and head, though to a much greater degree. Indeed, recovery from wounds of the abdomen and brain almost never occurred. One of the prime objects of the Civil War surgeon was to remove the missile, and, in doing this, he practically never failed to infect the part with his dirty hands and instrument.

George awoke to the disheartening sounds of men in pain. Some of these brave soldiers moaned and sobbed softly. Others screamed delirious with pain and worst of all were those who lay silent wrapped in linens dripping with cool water. These were the burn victims and it was a terrible sight to see. He was still fuzzy headed and could not move his legs. The mischievous, friendly young drummer boy we have come to know and root for now lay silent in a hospital bed far from his brother who had protected him, far from his family who loved him.

Would George survive? And if so, in what capacity?

Time Saver

In our daily lives we are always looking to save time. In Charley’s case time saved him.

George was understandably traumatized by his bloody work at the surgeon’s tent. Afterwards he shirked all official duties focusing instead on scavenging whenever, wherever and whatever he could. Soon the pickings at Petersburg became slim and as his unit was being called to move out, he went to say good-bye to his brother Charley who had been assigned to a new unit. Charley was downtrodden, not at all enthusiastic about yet another march and inevitably another battle. George decided he would go on one last foraging mission in search of a special good-bye treat for his big brother.

Wherever there were soldiers there were laypeople selling their wares from knitted socks to home-made cakes and pies. These brave (or crazy) men would fill up their wagons and drive right up to the front on the days they knew that the men got paid. On this day a ragged old man with a wagon fixed out with a stove was selling fresh hot mince pies. The smell alone was making the men drool. For each man lucky enough to get one there were ten or more standing around wistfully watching him eat it. After analyzing the situation up and down and realizing that theft was not an option with such a crowd, George ran as fast as he could back to his brother to beg for $1. Charley had no money at all and his sorrow was written all over his war worn face. George sat down next to him and thought through all his scavenging tricks. He had to get his brother one of those pies.

He recounts:

Charley, my brother, owned an old-fashioned silver watch, one of those old “English levers.” He thought a great deal of it as a keep-sake and always gave it to me to keep when he was going into action. I had this watch now, and made up my mind I would trade it and get a lot of pies for us all. Oh! such bright anticipations of hot mince pies. I could almost see them floating in the air as big as cart wheels, and fearing they would all be sold before I could reach the wagon, I ran as hard as I could. The crowd had thinned out and so had the pies. “How many have you got left?” I eagerly asked. 

“Oh, plenty,” he replied; “how many, do you want?” “Well,” I said, nearly out of breath, “I haven’t any money, but I want all you have, and I’ll trade you a nice watch for them.” 

“Say, cully! what yer givin’ me? I don’t want no watch. Let’s see it.” 

I quickly passed it up to him, and stood working my fingers and feet impatiently and revolving in my mind how many pies he would give me and how I would manage to carry them back, when he broke out into a loud, contemptuous laugh, and passed the watch back. 

“Say, young fellow, that aint no good. I’d rather have a blacking box than that thing.” 

“It’s silver,” I replied. 

“That don’t make no difference. I’ll give you one pie for the thing if you want it, see!” 

I turned the watch over and over in my hand, my feelings hurt and my stomach disappointed. Then I thought of my brother, forgot that it was his high-priced time-piece, and quickly said: 

“Give me the pie and take the watch.” 

Of course once the pie was greedily devoured down to the last crumb Charley started to ask questions as to how George had managed to get the pie with no money. Eventually he guiltily confessed that he had traded Charley’s prized silver watch. The disappointment in Charley’s eyes broke his heart. Determined to get it back he ran back to the pie man and  convinced him that he could show him how the complicated watch worked in exchange for a ride. George slowly set the time and wound the watch stalling so that he could come up with some way to get it back. He knew he couldn’t just bolt with it with so many soldiers around. Suddenly a shell exploded very close scaring the already skittish horse and overturning the wagon. Lucky George slipped away in the confusion returning the watch to his grateful brother.

Some of George’s luck must have rubbed off on that watch. That evening a fierce battle erupted. Charley was slightly wounded by shells and shrapnel but the one bullet that would have killed him was deflected by his silver watch. His watch was shattered but Charley was fine. Charley kept the fragments of that watch with him for the rest of the war. It really was a time saver.

Next Up:  George is injured, will he survive the War?

Life or limb?

An amputation tent set up at camp.

The Civil War has been romanticized and re-enacted for years. This subject captures the imagination of scholars and history buffs alike. The amount of information available is mind-boggling. The American Civil War had the most photographic coverage of any conflict of the 19th century and set the stage for the development of future wartime photojournalism.

For the first time, people at home could read the papers and follow the triumphs and devastations. The coverage came complete with grisly photos of their men dying on the battlefields. Photographers like Matthew Brady, Alexander Garner and Timothy O’Sullivan to name a few lived among these soldiers. Their beautiful, heart-breaking photographs show documented proof that war is indeed hell.

In the 1860’s medical care was extremely limited. While today  broken bones and cuts are rarely life threatening, during the Civil War this was not the case. In battle, soldiers were very likely to be seriously wounded at such close combat. Back at camp, disease and poor hygienic conditions were just as likely to cause serious illness or death. Basically, a soldier’s life was a double-edged sword and the Grim Reaper was his ever-present guest. The photojournalists were there to document it all.

In my previous post, I wrote about George’s unlucky friend the Drummer Boy from Pennsylvania. After that soul crushing morning,George was given the assignment to assist in the surgeon’s tent.

These makeshift field hospitals were a dismal place with little hope. Surgeons were basically butchers, sawing off arms and legs that had been shot or stabbed in order to save the soldier from gangrene and other infection. To the left is a photo of a box of surgeon’s tools used at these battlefield medical tents. Just looking at it makes me squeamish. I can’t imagine how a 15 year old boy far from home could find the strength to perform the gruesome task he describes in his memoirs:

In the afternoon I was detailed to wait on the amputating tables at the field hospital. It was a horrible task at first. My duty was to hold the sponge or “cone” of ether to the face of the soldier who was to be operated on, and to stand there and see the surgeons cut and saw legs and arms as if they were cutting up swine or sheep, was an ordeal I never wish to go through again. At intervals, when the pile became large, I was obliged to take a load of legs or arms and place them in a trench near by for burial. I could only stand this one day, and after that I shirked all guard duty. 

According to “The Medical and Surgical History of the War of the Rebellion. (1861-65.)“, ether or chloroform or a combination of the two was used in over 80,00 instances. Wounds festered at an alarming rate on the battlefield. Field doctors were forced to use amputation as a means to stop the spread of infection as antibiotics did not exist yet. It was agreed among field surgeons that the introduction of chloroform and ether was indispensable for saving lives. As the use of chloroform or ether was a relatively new concept and was now being used on such a mass scale, it was a matter of trial and error and some deaths were attributed to it’s use.

After this bloody war, thousands of men returned home shell-shocked and permanently disfigured leaving their limbs behind while so many others even less fortunate left their lives.

Next Up:  Time Saver

What would my poor mother say?

above: A candid photo from the Smithsonian archives taken in 1860 shows just how young the Drummer Boys of the Civil War were.

One morning George and his Eighth Maine regiment received orders to march to City Point to pick up recruits. George picked up his drum and marched at the front of the line. Suddenly the order to double quick march was yelled out. They were under attack and as bullets whizzed by their heads and shells exploded around them Charley screamed at George to get to the rear. Instead, in all the smoke and confusion he stayed close to his brothers in arms until fear and self-preservation took over. He found himself running  until he couldn’t run anymore. Taking inventory he was surprised to see himself completely whole but his poor drum riddled with bullet holes. George’s unbelievable run of luck had held.

As George sat there listening to the battle around him, he was joined by another young Drummer Boy from a Pennsylvania regiment. Feeling braver with two,they bragged about their exploits and adventures. George was impressed with his new friend’s amazingly profane mouth. Showing off, his new friend picked up a tent stake and tried to stake it to show what he would do to their enemies if he ever got a hold of them. Unable to get the stake to hold he picked up an unexploded shell saying:

“I’ll make a mawl of it and drive that damned rebel stake into the ground with one of their own damned shells, be damned if I don’t.” Inserting the broom handle into the end of the shell he walked over to a stump, and taking the shell in both hands commenced pounding onto the stick against the stump; “damned tight fit,” he hollored to me.

George story soon took a shocking turn as he writes in his memoirs:

The next instant I was knocked down by a terrific explosion. I came to my senses in a minute and hastened to where he had been standing. There the poor fellow lay unconscious and completely covered with blood, there was hardly a shred of clothes on him, his hair was all burned and both hands taken completely off, as if done by a surgeon’s saw.

I was excited and horror stricken for a moment. The sight was horrible, but I quickly regained my composure, knowing that something must be done, and done quickly. So taking the snares from my drum I wound them tightly around his wrists to stop the flow of blood, then I hailed an ambulance, and we took him to the held hospital about a mile to the rear.

On the way the poor fellow regained consciousness, and looking at his mutilated wrists, and then with a quick and bewildered glance at me, “God damned tough, ain’t it,” then the tears started in his eyes, and he broke down and sobbed the rest of the way, “Oh, my God! What will my poor mother say? Oh, what will she do!”

We reached the field hospital, which is only a temporary place for the wounded where the wounds are hurriedly dressed, and then they are sent to regular hospitals, located in Baltimore, Philadelphia, Norfolk, Portsmouth, etc., where they have all the comforts possible.

We laid the little fellow down in one corner of the tent to wait his turn with the surgeon, and when I left him, he cried and begged for me to stay, but I couldn’t stand his suffering longer, so I bade him good-bye with tears streaming down my own cheeks. I hurried out, and even after I reached the outside I could hear him cry, “Oh, my God! What will my poor mother say? Oh, what will she do!”

Did George write home about this sad day? Did he question his own mortality seeing the death of someone so near his own age? No letters home have been found but as an educated boy from an educated family I am sure that George spend many hours writing about his days at War. Most likely his stories home leaned towards the  humorous so as not to upset his loving family back in Maine.

Next up: Life or Limb?

George the Scavenger

The Front at Petersburg

For almost 13 days, George and the remnants of the Eighth Maine regiment remained at Cold Harbor. As things settled down, they spent their days collecting their dead and nursing their injured. George with the nervous energy and cockiness of youth would take off for hours at a time foraging for his battle brothers.

He dodged Rebel sentries, sharp shooters and angry Southern farmers to beg, borrow and steal whatever he could. With supplies running low, his only thought was to bring back something special to cheer up his faithful friends. On one mission he found an orchard and filled his pockets and sack with as many apples as he could carry. George was so excited to surprise the regiment with applesauce that evening (without sugar which they did not have). His heart was in the right place, but unfortunately the apples must have been spoiled and the men were sick with the runs the next day. That almost put an end to his illicit scavenging. Almost.

Eventually the battalion was given the orders to march. One dark night in a skirmish outside of Petersburg, a shell landed in the middle of his company. Bullets were soon flying in all directions and George who had yet to shoot a gun in this War took off running. He ran, ducked and crawled until he found himself completely turned around and was not sure if he was running towards his camp or towards the enemy. Ahead was a traditional Southern mansion with a white picket fence and derelict slave cabins. He crept through the creaky gate towards a chicken house he had spotted in the yard. The fighting completely forgotten, all he could think about was bringing back some chickens to camp. What a hero he would be! Hearing the clucking of the chickens he slipped in without a thought but immediately froze as he saw two enemy soldiers sitting on a bench against the wall. Again, George’s incredible luck held. Those two soldiers were deserters who wanted to give themselves up! Proud as a peacock George marched those two back to headquarters. He was offered a two week furlough for his heroism. Later he snuck back out and took five chickens from that chicken coop which he boiled then saved until he found his brother Charley.

George may have been the luckiest boy in the Civil War. I am sure that his family enjoyed his letters home bragging about his exploits, but mostly they were probably warmed by the thought of the two brothers together. Charley looking after the precocious George as battles were waged.

Next Up: What Would My Poor Mother Say?

Picking Up The Pieces

Above: April 1865, the Government hired men to disinter the bodies left behind at Cold Harbor for identification and proper burial elsewhere.

As terrifying as a storm can be, it is in the aftermath that the true devastation is revealed. As terrifying as George found the battles of the Civil War to be, it was the horrors of their aftermath that he would take away with him forever. It is estimated that as many as 5,000-7,000 men lay seriously wounded or dead on the Cold Harbor field. The agonies of the wounded would last for days until Grant and Lee could come to an agreement on the details of a ceasefire.

When the ceasefire was finally declared, George was assigned the sad duty of stretcher corps. Wearing a white cloth on his arm in a symbol of truce, a shocked George searched for the wounded and dead of his regiment. The bloodied field was a jumbled mix of soldiers both Blue and Gray ; most dead, some crying out in their last moments, others desperate and begging for help. The twisted bodies of once beautiful horses lay mingled among the fallen soldiers. The eerie silence was periodically broken by the high pitched whinnies of the dying horses and barely lucid screams of the wounded men.

The solemnity of the day was respected on both sides. George carried water to soothe the wounded until they could be brought to a makeshift hospital that had been set up in a local tavern. He soon learned that half of his regiment had been killed in the battle. It was with tears in his eyes that he would come across friends from his regiment asleep forever on the battlefield.

In his memoirs George writes about the futility of war and his anger at the poor leadership displayed that day. He also writes about the kindnesses of his fellow soldiers, Blue or Gray. One wounded young Union soldier had laid out his rubber mat to catch the dew, he would then carefully pour the drops into the lips of a confederate soldier who was slowly bleeding to death after having had his leg blown off. In another scenario he witnessed a confederate soldier winding his suspenders around the arm of a Union soldier to stop the bleeding.

For thirteen days, the regiment stayed in the advance line. Food and supplies were running short. George decides to risk life and limb on foraging missions across enemy lines.

Next Up, George the scavenger…

To learn more, there is a fantastic article about the battle of Cold harbor written by Civil War historian Robert  N. Thompson. It was published in 2006 in Military History magazine and I highly recommend  it.

The Ulmer brothers at the Battle of Cold Harbor

The Battle of Cold Harbor

Now 15, George found himself in one of the bloodiest battles of the Civil War. From May 31st to June 12th, 1864 North and South clashed in the infamous Battle of Cold Harbor,VA. , one of the Unions greatest losses and General Grant’s biggest regrets.

Later, in his memoirs, he would sadly note, “I have always regretted that the last assault at Cold Harbor was ever made.”

I am no military history expert but I will try to summarize as best I can:

The South led by General Lee held the mouth of  Totopotomy Creek. This was an important location because it was where the Union soldiers needed to pass by to continue the march to take Richmond. After several skirmishes, the Union prevailed . Victory however was briefly lived.

The Southern troops  built fortifications that measured 7 miles long, from this vantage point, the battle turned. Grant had 108,000 men on his side including Charley and George Ulmer. Of these, 13,000 Union soldiers would be lost in the coming battle while their enemy only counted losses of 2,500. It was not a battle, it was a brutal one sided massacre.

Imagine George’s terror as gunfire rained down seemingly on all sides, thunderous cannons lit up the sky Horses screamed in agony , men fell at such a fast rate that it is estimated that well over 5,000 Union soldiers lay dead after the early morning assault. The Union soldiers were basically sitting ducks as the Rebel snipers safe behind their fortified line tore them apart. Amid all this confusion and slaughter a terrified George found shelter behind a tree and covering his ears, shaking with fear he tried to block out the seemingly never ending nightmare .

And that is where Charley found him. Charley lost a toe in the battle but otherwise the brothers could not believe their luck as they looked around and realized that half of their battalion was gone.

Next up: Picking up the pieces