150th anniversary - GGM saves the Union

[MajGenl.Meade]

HIGH TIDE AND GROIN BRASS

To Mrs. George G. Meade:

HEADQUARTERS ARMY OF THE POTOMAC, Gettysburg, Pa., July 5, 1863

I hardly know when I last wrote to you, so many and such stirring events have occurred. I think I have written since the battle, but am not sure. It was a grand battle, and the men behaved splendidly. They endured long marches, short rations, and stood one of the most terrific cannonadings I ever witnessed. At one time things looked a little blue; but I managed to get up reinforcements in time to save the day.

This morning has been most vexing. Lee and his army have disappeared from our front, but we are quite unable to pursue. There is exhaustion of the entire army, such that a brief period of recruitment is forced upon us. Many officers have been rendered hors de combat, amongst which I particularly mention Generals Reynolds, Hancock and Sickles. Reynolds was killed on the first day, Hancock wounded on the last day, and the third lost a leg on the second day, which would have been a significant advance to our cause had it happened two days before the battle.

A field of combat with all its detritus of equipment, of wounded and dead, is quite affecting. Early yesterday I walked the ridge that marked our most gallant action of July 3, from south to north, and then east to the large hill. My reverie was broken when I espied my orderly, Kowell, crouched over the body of a fallen warrior. Supposing it to be some boon comrade, I approached respectfully, to avoid intrusion upon his grief. Startled nevertheless, he spread wide his hands and cried out “I never did it”. I saw at once that the body was of a rebel soldier. “Fear not,” said I and assured him that the taking of life in battle does not place the soul in jeopardy from the Lord of Hosts.

At this, Kowell gave a peculiar grin and appeared much more at ease, giving further proof that the common soldier is so often relieved at the depth of my understanding. I noted he held in his outspread hands a photograph of the dead man, a watch with its fob, and a few small coins along with a gold tooth. Kowell explained in a most satisfactory manner that the dead boy was one Wesley Culp, of the family for which the nearby hill was named. In the course of only two days, Kowell had somehow made himself the protector of the boy’s sister, and felt it his duty to return to her the few small possessions of her fallen kin. It appears the tooth had come loose owing to a lack of fresh vegetables in the rebel commissary, and Kowell said it was necessary to remove it, so that neither camp followers nor shirkers would despoil the corpse.

While commending his industrious compassion, I was forced later this afternoon to dismiss him as my orderly. Poor Hancock is in great pain, a brass nail from his saddle having been driven into a most delicate area. The wretched Kowell was overheard telling other soldiers that the general’s problem was merely a little prick. Such dismissive diminution of a superior officer’s serious condition cannot be countenanced.

Baldy was shot again, and I fear will not get over it. Two horses that George rode were killed, his own and the black mare. But we are both safe and I find that regardless of risk, the most difficult part of my work is acting without any intelligence on which to predicate action.

[Rick]

Thanks...

[MajGenl.Meade]

You're welcome

[Long Run]

Antietam would have shortened the war, saving hundreds of thousands of lives, if Gen. George McClellan, among the most disagreeable figures in U.S. history, had pursued the retreating Lee.

George Will http://www.washingtonpost.com/opinions/ ... story.html

[dgs49]

"...the most difficult part of my work is acting without any intelligence on which to predicate action."

This has been my main take-away from visiting various battlefields of the WBS. The major battles were one blunder after the other, with no one knowing anything about the strength or activities of the enemy.

War is fucking stupid, and this one was stupider than most.

[Rick]

I kinda like this quote from the movie Cold Mountain: "They call this war a cloud over the land. But they made the weather and then they stand in the rain and say 'Shit, it's raining!"...

[Sue U]

By Edward Colimore, Inquirer Staff Writer
Posted: July 01, 2013

They were anxious for news that Friday as they awaited the enemy's next move.

Hunkered down on the sprawling Gettysburg battlefield where tens of thousands had fallen over two days of fierce fighting, Union soldiers wondered how their army was faring.

Across the field from them, Confederate Gen. Robert E. Lee was preparing a final all-out attack on July 3, 1863, when Cullen "Doc" Aubrey showed up with copies of The Philadelphia Inquirer.

He couldn't sell them fast enough. Astonishingly, The Inquirer carried news of the first day's fighting before the outcome of the three-day battle was known.

"The papers went like gingerbread at the state fair," wrote Aubrey, an industrious newsboy who later described the response in a book, Reflections of a Newsboy in the Army of the Potomac.

It was a journalistic first, Civil War historians say, and it wouldn't have been possible without the efforts of The Inquirer's star reporter, Uriah Hunt Painter, a native of West Chester.

In an era when travel and communications were limited, Painter took a train from Baltimore to Westminster, Md., then rode a horse to Gettysburg. Hundreds of thousands of Union and Confederate soldiers were converging on the rural town, along with at least 30 newspaper correspondents.

Painter arrived on the evening of July 1 and got busy reporting. He quickly pulled together a story despite the difficulties of covering a far-flung fight over a rural landscape nearly devoid of telegraph and rail lines.

Then he returned to Baltimore on July 2 and telegraphed the War Department at 8:15 p.m.: "I have a full account of the battle yesterday & partial list of casualties. Can fair & impartial account go to Phila. Inquirer."

The military censor passed his story, and The Inquirer carried a full account on the morning of July 3. Papers were sent by train to Baltimore and Westminster, where Aubrey picked them up the same day.

The boy strapped piles of unfolded Inquirers in the front and back of the saddle and rode to Gettysburg. Along the Union line, he became very popular with troops hungry for news.

The headlines of the July 3 paper read:

CHEERING NEWS!!!

The Great Battle Near Gettysburg!

PARTICULARS FROM OUR FREDERICK CORRESPONDENT

Gallant Fighting of the Army of the Potomac

MEADE VICTORIOUS!

Repulse of the Rebels

The same afternoon, Lee ordered a massive bombardment of the federal line on Cemetery Ridge, followed by a concentrated assault on the Union center. The attack that followed - Pickett's Charge - was repulsed.

In Philadelphia, residents breathed easier. On July 4, they read the Inquirer headlines about Gettysburg:

THE GREAT BATTLE!

HIGHLY IMPORTANT!

FROM THE SEAT OF WAR

In a special edition on July 6, The Inquirer used its largest headline type:

VICTORY!!

WATERLOO ECLIPSED!!

The Desperate Battles Near Gettysburg!

REPULSE OF THE REBELS AT ALL POINTS!!

Painter, once described by a New York World correspondent as "made of iron," and other newsmen detailed Lee's unsuccessful attack.

One of the Inquirer stories described the artillery duel - the largest in North America. "The very earth seemed to tremble, but our lines wavered not," the correspondent wrote.

One of many heartrending Gettysburg tales in The Inquirer focused on a single unidentified Union soldier. He was mortally wounded during the battle and apparently dragged himself to a secluded spot in town to die.

His comrades had been forced to retreat by the time a girl found the dead man, still clutching a bloodstained glass-plate ambrotype image of three children. He bore no papers, so that picture was the only clue to his identity.

The touching account - and image - were passed on to Philadelphia physician John Francis Bourns, who helped care for the wounded at Gettysburg. He shared his feelings with The Inquirer in a story with an intriguing headline: "Whose Father Was He?"

"How touching! how solemn! What pen can describe the emotions of this patriot-father as he gazed upon these children, so soon to be made orphans!" read a page 4 article in the Oct. 19, 1863, edition. "Wounded and alone, the din of battle still sounding in his ears, he lies down to die. His last thoughts and prayers are for his family. He has finished his work on earth; his last battle had been fought; he has freely given his life to his country; and now, while his life's blood is ebbing, he clasps in his hands the image of his children, and, commending them to the God of the fatherless, rests his last lingering look upon them."

The article carried a description of the children, as newspapers then were unable to publish photographs, and asked other papers across the country to "draw attention to the discovery of this picture and its attendant circumstances."

Dozens of newspapers and magazines took up the cause, resulting in widespread public response. Bourns, who lived in the 1100 block of Spring Garden Street, gave talks to many audiences and shared copies of the image.

One of the articles appeared in the American Presbyterian, a church magazine, where Philinda Humiston of Portville, N.Y., first learned of the soldier and picture. She wrote to Bourns and received a copy of the image - which confirmed that she was a widow. Her husband, Sgt. Amos Humiston, was dead and his 8-year-old Franklin, 6-year-old Alice, and 4-year-old Frederick were fatherless.

Bourns sold photos of the children to raise money for the family and appealed for donations to build an orphanage for the children of fallen Union soldiers.

On June 24, 1865, The Inquirer published a letter from C.C. Price of Hollidaysburg, Pa., who had supported efforts to locate Humiston's family.

"Those who purchased photos . . . can learn from the following letter from Dr. J. Francis Bourns what became of their money," Price wrote.

Bourns' letter to Price followed: "You will learn with satisfaction that the widow and her three little ones are in comfortable possession of their new home - a house and lot - I have been able to purchase for them at Portville, New York."

Sgt. Humiston is now the only enlisted soldier to have a monument at Gettysburg - on Stratton Street, near the place where he fell grasping the image of his children.

"How I want to se them and their mother is more than I can tell," he wrote to Philinda after receiving the photograph. "I hope that we may all live to see each other again if this war dose not last to long."

http://articles.philly.com/2013-07-01/n ... -inquirers

[MajGenl.Meade]

FLASH BACK


To Mrs. George G. Meade

HEADQUARTERS ARMY OF THE POTOMAC, Appomattox Court House, April 10, 1865.

The telegram will have announced to you the surrender of Lee and the Army of Northern Virginia. I have been to-day in the rebel camp; saw Lee, Longstreet, and many others, all affable and cordial, and they uniformly said that, if any conciliatory policy was extended to the South, peace would be at once made. It seemed impolitic to draw attention to the reality and magnitude of my victory, so I drew aside with Gen’l Gordon who seemed desirous of private communication.

He pointed out a Union officer standing at some distance and enquired as to his name. I could barely make out the man’s features through the malarious catarrh, which has given me such a great deal of trouble. It is I am convinced aggravated by the reading of newspapers, which since this movement commenced, are full of falsehood and of undue and exaggerated praise of certain individuals who take pains to be on the right side of the reporters.

The unknown officer, said Gordon, must be of importance for he was present in the house during the writing and signing of the surrender document. This does not at all follow for Sheridan was there and I myself was not, the catarrh having prevented me from accepting Lee’s surrender earlier in the day, and which he was thus forced to offer to Grant in my stead. Gordon went on to say that the self-same officer, an Englishman by his accent, had attempted to surrender himself and the entire Union army in the early dawn this very day, claiming to believe that his (Gordon’s) assault had defeated me. Had that been, asked Gordon, some kind of subterfuge on my part? I looked more carefully at the man and there was in his bearing and the set of his whiskers, that which brought to mind Stuart or Custer at his most effulgent. But no name came to me.

Instead, it brought to mind an incident at Gettysburg so long ago that I had quite neglected to tell you of. After Lee’s futile charge on the third day I found a brave colonel in gray laying almost at the entrance to my headquarters. He had reached further than any other in that doomed assault by Pickett and lay like one dead. My orderly Kowell was removing his boot, the left I fancy, which seemed to rouse the fellow at once, kicking and struggling enough to earn himself the point of the bayonet had I not intervened. “Let loose this gallant colonel” I said “And be about your business!” The private moved off and you may remember that I later found him greatly changed for the better by my comradely chastisement, saving the effects of young Wesley Culp on behalf of a sister.

The rebel colonel, miraculously recovered from his ordeal, told a wild tale of secret operations and produced a commission as major in the U.S. army from inside the left boot, which lay now beside him. He was an Englishman as well although the name escapes me. He was most anxious to report to authorities in New York city so I sent him there with an escort and heard no more of him. He too had impressive whiskers. That was I suppose the connection made in my mind. It could not have been the same man at the surrender. As is the case with my victory over Lee, I don't believe the truth ever will be known, and I have a great contempt for History. Only let the war be finished, and I returned to you and the dear children, and I will be satisfied.

[Rick]

An aside;

Custer claimed a great deal of fame for his activities during the Gettysburg Campaign and initially eclipse the carrer of another 4 months his senior Nelson Appleton Miles (who wasn't involved in this campign) but went on to live longer and fared far better but still remains a rather obscure figure.

Oil Well back to gettysburg and the exploits of MGM...

[MajGenl.Meade]

Somebody mention Custer and McClellan? (Excerpts from the Civil War Memoir of one H. P. Flashman - never to be published, sadly)

Some days after the battle at Antietam

“Major, let’s say you just hold on a moment there,” he said. “Seems to me that without a uniform you’ve put yourself in a peck of trouble no matter what your papers say. I may be a dumb sergeant but I kin smell a skunk well enough and I’m gettin’ the aroma right now. Somethin’ tells me you ain’t wanting to have the provost look too careful into where you bin and where you just come from. But mebbe you can convince me contrarywise.”

In another time and place I might have roared at him for insolence, putting him in his proper place as befitted his rank, but this was not the 11th Hussars and ______ was not a green trooper overstepping his bounds. No, he was a shrewd veteran and prepared to back his hunch to the hilt. I could perhaps beat him down but that would only bring in the bailiffs to see why I was damaging government property. He had something in mind so I told him his suspicions were groundless and what did he propose I should do about it?

“As to that, nothing at all,” says he, with a friendly grin. “Question is what are you willing to do?” He took my silence as a form of agreement and explained exactly what he meant. It appeared that a lieutenant Custer in the 5th Cavalry, a man who inspired his deep devotion, was indisposed with what he described as “the galloping trots” and was keeping to his bed when he was not racing from it to answer an irresistible call. This man was an aide to General McClellan and had planned to be present when the General, along with sundry other official staff-wallahs, posed for a photograph which was supposed to occur at any moment. It was the aide’s great desire to be in that photograph and to obtain copies of it so that he could send one to his intended, with the unfortunate name of Libby Bacon, in order to impress her father who had thus far been singularly unimpressed with her lieutenant – and of course one copy to his hometown newspaper for publication. Sadly his current inability to stand still would not allow it. And wasn’t it an amazing stroke of luck that here was an unknown major without a uniform and a very thin story who bore more than a passing resemblance to the lieutenant? Why, wearing the man’s uniform and hat, the major could easily pass as him at a distance and perhaps get into the photograph without attracting attention. It would be the work of a few minutes and then perhaps there would be no need for anyone to be asking difficult questions about the major, didn’t I think so?

I’ve rarely heard such a preposterous idea – posing for a photograph in the place of an officer with the skitters and a deep desire for public attention, although not at the moment. Surely the others would notice that I was the wrong man – we could not be doubles. The sergeant reassured me that no one would give me a first glance let alone a second, as they would all be far too absorbed in trying to get a nod from the General’s guest – President Lincoln. Oh, I did not want to be within fifty miles of that man for his eye missed nothing and I said so. The sergeant said it was a shame then that young Custer would not get his wish and neither would I for he’d have to call out now for the provost. So it was that in the spirit of compromise I agreed to his plan and followed him like a lamb to a nearby tent from which there came low groans and a miasma that would have not been amiss on the Fleet River at low tide. The sergeant was brave enough to go in and, after a few muttered words of explanation, came out alive bearing uniform, gloves, sword and hat, which we carried off to a thicket behind which I quickly dressed to look the part.

“You said ‘Lieutenant’,” says I, “but there’s captain’s bars on here. It’s the wrong uniform. Won’t work. We’ll have to call it off”. No such luck. Lieutenant George A. Custer had the temporary rank of captain conferred upon him by Little Mac and he was not one to hide his light under a basket – rank meant everything to him as I found out after the war when he and I inadvertently came together during the Little Big Horn business. As far as he was concerned then, he’d risen to be a general in the Civil War and reverting to his true rank of colonel once the killing was all done was not a matter of military regulation but a personal assault on his manhood. He’d have been proud to know that Crazy Horse and Gaul’s warriors had enough regard for him to not cut off his manhood as he lay on the greasy grass of the Rosebud*. It is odd in a way that my first encounter with Custer came when he smelled dead and my last when he actually was, with a couple of brief brushes in between. But all that was for later. Now I was dressed up like him and the sergeant gave a few critical tweaks and tugs to clothing and my whiskers, damn him, before leading me off to the slaughter.

We were just in time. McClellan’s cluster of headquarters tents provided a convenient cover as we crept up to see that the photographer had gathered his subjects – a dozen or so uniformed chaps standing around looking in deadly earnest as befitted men of war – with McClellan and Lincoln in the middle. Little Mac appeared diminutive indeed as he gazed up at his President’s face, which was hid from me, his back being turned in our direction thank goodness. A few officers stood between us and were as the sergeant had said, concentrating on the conversation that was taking place between general and General-in-Chief. They paid no attention as the sergeant pushed me into position and I took up a nonchalant pose as far back as decently possible, shrinking against the folds of the Sibley tent as if it might shield me.

“You must understand, Mr. President,” McClellan was saying, “that the men are quite worn from their great victory, and we must replenish ammunition and rest the horses before undertaking any such manoeuvre as you suggest. There is great risk in crossing the river at the present time and such matters are best left to professionals who know their business.” Lincoln sighed heavily and his shoulders slumped.

“My dear general,” said the President, in the high-pitched voice that I remembered so well, “you must do all that is necessary to fit your army for its purpose and I know enough not to expect profit in urging you to do other than what your character will allow. But I cannot help my curiosity as to why it is that our soldiers should be any more tired than those of General Lee? Indeed you have advertised that the enemy suffered greater loss and reason indicates that they must therefore be even more worn down, even lower in ammunition - and their horses even more exhausted than your own. Why our men are the picture of hope and eagerness, as it appears to me, and theirs surely are in the despair of defeat – more especially as General Lee used all his men to stave off but half of yours. Can your generals not find some useful purpose for the other half who, along with horse and equipments, are not yet completely used up?”

Well they carried on in that fashion, back and forth, with McClellan becoming more sharp by the minute and Lincoln taking it all without complaint. I’d have shot George B. if I’d been in Old Abe’s shoes – just seized a piece from any nearby soldier and given him the business end of it. But that wasn’t Lincoln’s style and the world should be grateful that he was the kind of man he turned out to be. Oh, he was an out-and-out cheat if that was what was needed to get the job done – but he never hurt a man maliciously even though he might threaten it. Here at Antietam he took the measure of McClellan for the last time and consigned him to a desk drawer marked “Surplus” – not before time either.

All this while the photographer chap was fussing and fretting over his subjects and his equipment until he’d got everything settled. He once tried to move me closer to the group but I put my hand on the sword grip and he desisted. We had perforce to stand still while he made his exposure but as soon as he signalled satisfaction I scuttled away before Lincoln could turn and see me. Back at Custer’s tent the sergeant relieved me of his traps and I resumed my civilian attire. Custer, returning from a visit to the sinks, gave me a brief look and muttered his thanks, paying no more attention to me than to the family cat – probably less – while he spoke to the sergeant about all that had transpired. Even in his incapacity it was easy to detect the volatile will, the ambition and the readiness to take offence that was to mark his career. I noted that he was, like me, a handsome devil behind the strain he was enduring, with piercing eyes and hair worn a little longer than I prefer and of a fairer colour which would have looked dark like mine in a photograph. Indeed, in that widely published photograph of McClellan and Lincoln the handsome figure standing so diffidently apart from the central group has always been identified as Captain Custer – but it ain’t and only you and I know it1. As Custer maundered on, worrying that Libby would say he should at least have been photographed holding Lincoln’s hat for him, better yet shaking his hand, the sergeant gave me a look that clearly said I should leave and so I did .


*See Flashman and the Redskins

1. This revelation may cause the celebrated Brady photograph taken near the Antietam on October 3, 1862 to be re-assessed. As Flashman points out, the officer on the far right has always been identified as Custer although he stands in apparently disinterested isolation from McClellan and Lincoln – something that a publicity hound such as Custer would surely never have done.

At the Battle of Aldie, June 17, 1863

“Colonel Combah, get back on yo’ hoss and lead those men against the Yankees down yonder,” he shouted as the dismounted Virginians behind their wall continued to blaze away murderously into the trapped Federals churning men and horses to screaming heaps. “One good push and they’ll run clear to Washington! Push them suh! Push ‘em hard.” With his eyes full upon me what else was there to do but to call for the bugler – if they even had one - shout “Charge men!” and then, with the surprising realisation of one’s own lack of a horse writ large upon my face, turn in the opposite direction as the regiments gathered themselves and hurtled down the road.

If you must take part in a desperate cavalry charge against equally desperate chaps swinging swords and blazing away with pistols, carbines and what not, the best place to begin is from behind a stone wall with your horse a convenient distance away and tied in a confusion of knots to a tree. As the Virginians rushed down the road, whooping and ‘hollering’, sabreing and being sabred in turn, I stumbled as slowly as possible back to my grey and fumbled with the reins to free her, all the while shouting “Hold on chaps! Smash ‘em again!” and “That’s the way!” I doubt Munford was impressed with my martial ardour – about the only thing he found satisfactory in me was that, like him, I had not been to West Point and had learned my soldiering in the field. Unlike him I had dedicated my learning to a better purpose – saving Flashy being of vastly more significance than saving a cause. I rather agree with that other American chap who foolishly admitted he was sorry to have only one life to give to his country – had he two lives perhaps one could be spared1. Unfortunately for my philosophy the reins were all too soon loosed from the tree and there was no choice but to swing into the saddle – and it’s a great regret that as an expert horseman I am constitutionally unable to mishandle a beast so that a tumble to the ground would seem accidental – and follow on after the main body. Such was the press of bodies on the ground that my horse was as reluctant as I to catch up to its fellows and we stepped rather delicately along the macadam in the wake of Armageddon. Of course, the Devil don’t care to miss appointments so the aforesaid apocalypse came rushing back to greet us.

In a boil of dust and bits and shot and confusion, horsemen were suddenly all around me heading back to the stone wall. Confederate and Union cavalry in a cursing, sweltering ball of steel-ringing combat and sheer terror engulfed us but my horse, sensible animal, thought faster than I and wheeled to race back from whence we had come. I roared and waved my own sabre but what with the grey dirt clinging to blouses and the blue jackets worn by many of our own men I had no idea who was who. For a moment the pressure eased as we approached those shot down earlier by the wall and I saw ahead of me a rebel in a straw hat, halted in the road and laying about him like a drunken Cossack, shouting “Come on, Harry”. I needed no second bidding and spurred toward him but was shoved almost off the road by one of Rosser’s men who inexplicably shaped to attack my new friend but was knocked from the saddle by a stray shot before he could do so. As I trotted closer it dawned on me that no one on this field could possibly know me as Harry and despite the unseen but unstoppable peril behind me, caution shouted danger to the front.

I stared at the cavalryman who’d called my name as the gap closed. He was dressed like a common soldier without rank, his trousers tucked into ordinary short boots and his horse dressed no better than a wagon-nag. But beneath that broad straw hat there was something familiar about his face, those penetrating eyes and the whiskers – and I realised that he wore blue, covered so in dust that he looked like, but was not, one of our own – and his name sprang into my memory. Custer, the man I’d personated at Antietam but who even so could not have known my name. I tried to swerve away from him and raised my sabre feebly to cut at him but it was too late. With a great roar he swung his own sword first and had it not been for my sideward flinch and duck he would have sliced my fizz clean off. As it was, the flat of the blade crashed into the side of my face as I fell away and knocked me from the saddle to land with a soggy thud upon the body of the unfortunate trooper who had fallen just moments before. Custer wheeled his great black horse and shouted down at me, “Yours is a foolish and unworthy cause noble cavalier! Make peace with your maker and . . . ”

Doubtless he would have continued in that vein interminably (as I came to learn in later times) if not for the momentary likelihood of dying himself, nobly and in a worthy cause but dead nonetheless. He spurred off, heading for where the rifles crashed loudest – he was a fool but no coward that one and I speak as an expert 2.

As to myself, a couple of brave lads rushed out and pulled me painfully over the wall, all the while ignoring my complaints about their carelessness, and into the grounds of the Furr house. The blood running down my brow, cheek and neck – the ache in my head – caused me to lose interest in the turmoil around the wall but I was told afterward that Munford received an order from JEB Stuart to fall back on Middleburg and he did so with great alacrity and considerable skill 3. I was put on a horse and assisted away from the farm just as Yankee squadrons pushed into the yard and orchard and the boys behind the wall were pulling back too. At some point, I found myself laying in a wagon with some other wounded and we jolted and crashed and creaked to safety with one enthusiast trying to croak out ‘Dixie’, two or three severely wounded men screaming in pain and one bloody colonel tossing someone else’s boots at the singer. I missed. War is hell.


1. Flashman omits one rather crucial word and therefore misunderstands Nathan Hale the American patriot whose final statement before the British hanged him for treason (Sept. 22, 1776) was: “I only regret that I have but one life to lose for my country”. Hale’s point, unlike Flashman’s, was that he would gladly have been able to offer a second life and any number of others as a sacrifice in the cause of freedom.

2. Incredible as it appears, Flashman’s story is supported by Custer himself. In a letter to his sister, Custer wrote: “I was surrounded by rebels, and cut off from my own men, but I made my way out safely, and all owing to my hat, which is a large broad brim, exactly like that worn by the rebels. Everyone tells me that I look like a rebel more than our own men. The rebels at first thought I was one of their own men, and did not attack me, except one, who rushed past me with his sabre, but I struck him across the face with my sabre knocking him off his horse. I then put spurs to ‘Harry’ and made my escape." He had earlier fallen from his horse into the Little River and his wet uniform, which was indeed quite ordinary, was heavily coated in dust rendering him almost indistinguishable from the rebels. (See Frederick Whittaker, A Complete Life of George A. Custer. Vol. 1, Through the Civil War, 1993 and Henry C. Meyer, Civil War Experiences under Bayard, Gregg, Kilpatrick, Custer, Raulston and Newberry, 1911)

3. As a VMI graduate who was never confirmed as brigadier general despite many recommendations, Munford thought the Confederate army prejudiced in favour of West Point graduates and decried JEB Stuart’s ambition which he compared to that of Julius Caesar. Munford did not consider Aldie a defeat since the Federal cavalry took possession of the field only after his withdrawal under orders. (See George Bliss, The First Rhode Island Cavalry at Middleburg, Va., 1889 and Robert F. O'Neill, Jr., The Cavalry Battles of Aldie, Middleburg and Upperville, June 10-27 1863, 1993)

[Lord Jim]

and the third lost a leg on the second day, which would have been a significant advance to our cause had it happened two days before the battle.

the most difficult part of my work is acting without any intelligence on which to predicate action.

Indeed..

X2...

Meade, I know I've said before that personally I consider The Letters Of General George Gordon Meade, Savior Of The Union to be one of the most, perhaps the most...(well, aside from my own knowledgeable, thoughtful and well presented analysis of contemporary politics of course... ) enjoyable, well written, and worthwhile contributions to this board...

There is nothing that I ever see posted on this board, (including my own work, and rube attempting to commit history) that I look forward to reading more than another installment of The Letters From General George Gordon Meade Savior Of The Union

Have you ever considered assembling them in a publication of some sort for your own personal remuneration?

Because if you haven't, you should...