Introduction

The inspiration for this page is the story, “When Lincoln Kissed Me,” by author Henry Wing.  Wing was at that time a correspondent for the New York Tribune; present with other reporters at the Battle of the Wilderness.  As the youngest man on the team, he is selected and entrusted  to carry the precious news reports through no man’s land, to the nearest telegraph office he can find, and deliver the important dispatches to the paper’s home office in New York.  This story was included in the Thirteenth Regiment Association Circular #29, November 25, 1916.  The stories in these Circulars were of interest to the 13th MA Veterans so it seemed appropriate to include it on the website. 

Lt. Morris Schaff, of General G. K. Warren’s staff was selected to deliver military dispatches on behalf of General Meade, and by co-incidence his journey dovetails with Henry Wing’s experiences.  Schaff’s memoir is presented first, then Henry Wing’s story.

By chance I came across a similar account of correspondent Charles Carleton Coffin’s efforts to get his reports of the battle to his newspaper, The Boston Journal.   All of these protagonists embarked on their individual journeys at the same time, but they took different routes and met with separate adventures.  Henry Wing and Charles Coffin’s reports were the first and second accounts of the battle respectively, to reach the public, via the press.  Everyone including the President and officials in Washington, were eager for news of the advancing army.  Nothing had been heard of them for 3 days.    The respective reports of the correspondents as published in the newspapers are posted after their narratives.

An anecdote by noted artist Edwin Forbes kicks off the page.  It ties into this theme of “the dangers of riding through country infested with enemy guerillas.”

These are all fun reads, full of adventure.

The page closes on a subject of a more serious nature.  It explores the correspondence of soldier James Ross’s family members as they anxiously await news of James following reports of the battle. It took several weeks of uncertainty and anguish before anything could be learned.  Its a good representation of the emotions experienced by thousands of families during the war.

Corporal George Henry Hill’s epic memoir, Reminiscences From The Sands Of Time, also from the 13th Regiment Circulars, will follow on a page of its own.

PICTURE CREDITS:  All Images are from the LIBRARY OF CONGRESS DIGITAL COLLECTIONS with the following exceptions:   Morris Schaff's portrait as a young Military Academy Cadette is from Wikimedia Commons;   Portraits of John S. Mosby & Edwin  M. Stanton are from Battles & Leaders of the Civil War, The Century Company, 1888;   Edwin Forbes engravings “Attacked by Bushwhackers” & “Writing It Up” are from his book, “Thirty Years After, An Artist’s Memoir of the Civil War” Louisiana State University Press, 1993;  The watercolor sketch of Kelly's Mill by Robert Knox Sneden, is from the collection of his works titled, “Eye of the Storm,” Edited by Charles F. Bryan, Jr. and Nelson D. Lankford, The Free Press, New York, 2000;    Illustration of Cavalry Bummers, used in Henry Wing's article, & Portrait of reporter Charles Carleton Coffin,  taken from the respective books, “Four Years of Fighting, a volume of personal observation with the army & navy” 1866; and his biography, Charles Carleton Coffin, A Biography by W. E. Griffis, D.D., Estes & Lauriat, Boston, 1898; both accessed digitally at the Internet Archive; Illustration of Lincoln at the Telegraph Office, from the book, Lincoln in the Telegraph Office, by David Homer Bates, 1907, accessed digitally at the Internet Archive;  Screengrab of Buster Keaton on the railroad tracks, from his 1926 movie, “The General,'  accessed digitally on the Internet Archive; The photograph of the smiling President Lincoln impersonator was taken by photographer Buddy Secor found at his flickr site, https://www.flickr.com/photos/ninja_pix/;  The Frank Beard illustration of the woman bidding goodbye to her son, and the grieving woman vignette, are  from, “The Blue and the Gray, or the Civil War as seen by a boy,” by Frank Beard & Annie Randall White,  K. T. Boland Publisher, 1898, accessed at the internet archive. The photograph of James Ross is from the digital book of his letters titled,  “Willing to Run the Risks; Letters from the Civil War, Private James Ross, 9th N.Y.S.M., Co. G, August 1863 –– May 1864.”    Photograph of Confederate Re-enactors by the author, Bradley M. Forbush.  ALL IMAGES HAVE BEEN EDITED IN PHOTOSHOP.

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Carrying Despatches:  Morris Schaff

The Danger of Being Captured by Guerilla's in the Rear of the Army's Lines

This humorous short story form Artist Correspondent Edwin Forbes' memoirs, "Thirty Years After", describes the constant danger of being swooped down upon by Confederate Partisan Rangers in the rear of Union Army lines.  It is posted as a prelude to the stories following it, regarding efforts to carry messages from the Wilderness battlefield to the press.    From "Ten Years After, An Artist's Memoir of the Civil War." (p. 133.)

Dispatches of Charles A. Dana, Assistant Secretary of War.

Charles Dana was a talented newspaper man, who made a good  reputation for himself, at the New York Tribune.  His politics for the most part agreed with elder Horace Greeley, but their bold personalities clashed.  After a ten year stint, Dana resigned.  Secretary of War, Edwin Stanton hired him to be "Assistant Secretary of War."  When Grant's Spring Campaign began, and he disappeared into the woods of the Wilderness, President Lincoln was so anxious for information that Dana was sent to find the army, stay with it,  and keep the Administration informed of its progress.   Here is his first despatch en route.  The officer he mentions happens to be Lt. Morris Schaff, whose story follows.

Carrying Despatches from Head-quarters

The following anecdote is from author Morris Schaff's book, "The Battle of the Wilderness," published, 1910.

 …a mounted orderly came to me from my immediate commander, the Chief of Ordnance, Captain Edie, to report at Meade’s headquarters.  On reaching there, Edie told me I was to start at once for Rappahannock Station with despatches to Washington for an additional supply of infantry ammunition to be sent out with all haste.  The wagons going to meet the train for the ammunition and other supplies were to be loaded with wounded, who would be transferred to the cars and thence to the hospitals in Alexandria and Washington.

How the notion got abroad that the supply of ammunition was exhausted I cannot explain, except by the heavy firing.  As a matter of fact, we had an abundance;  but, somehow or other, Humphreys or Meade was made to think we were running short and, as early as seven o’clock, a circular was issued to all corps commanders:––

Humphreys in a despatch to Warren said, “Spare ammunition and use the bayonet.”

At nine o’clock, corps commanders were told to empty one-half of the ammunition-wagons and issue their contents to the troops without delay, sending the empty wagons to report to Ingalls at Meade’s headquarters.

I asked Edie what escort I was to have.  He answered, “A sergeant and four or five men.”  I exclaimed, “A sergeant and four or five men!  What would I amount to with that sort of escort against Mosby?”

For those who have been born since the war, let me say that Mosby was a very daring officer operating between the Rapidan and Potomac, his haunt the eastern bae of the Blue Ridge.  I think every staff officer stood in dread of encountering him anywhere outside the lines, ––at least I know I did, ––from reports of atrocities, perhaps more or less exaggerated, committed by his men.  I must have worn a most indignant expression, possibly due to just having escaped capture, for Edie roared with laughter.  But I declared that it was no laughing matter, that I had to have more men than that, and I got them, for they sent a squadron of the Fifth New York Cavalry, in command of Lieutenant W. B. Cary, now the Reverend Mr. Cary of Windsor, Connecticut, and may this day and every day on to the end be a pleasant one for him!  And besides, they supplied me with a fresh horse, a spirited young black with a narrow white stripe on his nose.

When I was ready to start, I heard General Grant ask some one near him, “Where is the officer that is going back with despatches?”  Those that I had received were from Meade’s Adjutant-General.  I was taken up to him by some one of his staff, possibly Porter or Babcock.  Grant at once sat down with his back against a small pine tree, and wrote a despatch directed to Halleck.

While he was writing, E. B. Washburne, a prominent member of Congress, who, as a fellow townsman of Grant’s, having opened the door for his career, had come down to see him start the great campaign (on account of his long-tailed black coat and silk hat the men said that he was an undertaker that Grant had brought along to bury “Jeff” Davis), gave me a letter with a Congressman’s frank, to be mailed to his family.  A number of the staff gave me letters also  A telegraph operator was directed to go with me, and my final instructions were that, if I found communication broken at Rappahannock, I was to go to Manassas, or the nearest station where the operator could find an open circuit.

I set out with my despatches, several correspondents joining me, and I remember that I was not half as polite to them as I should have been;  but in those days a regular army officer who courted a newspaper man lost caste with his fellows.  Soon after crossing the Rapidan we met a battalion of a New Jersey cavalry regiment that had been scouting up the river.  It was a newly organized regiment, one of Burnside’s, and  on account of its gaudy uniforms was called by all the old cavalrymen “Butterflies,” and most un-mercifully jibed by them.  But the “Butterfly” soon rose to the occasion, and paid the old veterans in coin as good as their own.  As we were riding by them, one of our men inquired if they had seen anything of Mosby, and, on being answered in the negative, observed sarcastically in the hearing of the “Butterfly,” “it’s mighty lucky for Mosby,” and rode on with the grin of a Cheshire cat.

We followed the road to Sheppard’s Grove and then across country to Stone’s or Paoli Mills on Mountain Run.  From there we made our way to Providence Church on the Norman’s Ford Road, passing over a part of the field where the lamented Pelham was killed.  The old church, with some of its windows broken, stood on a ridge; desolated fields lay around it.  When we reached it the sun had set, and I remember how red was its outspread fan in the low western sky.  Rappahannock Station was in sight, and over the works which occupied the knolls on the north side of the river, which the Sixth Corps had carried one night by assault after twilight had fallen, the preceding autumn, to my surprise a flag was flying. I had supposed that the post had been abandoned, but for some reason or other Burnside had left a regiment there.  Our approach being observed, the pickets were doubled, for they took us for some of the enemy’s cavalry.

 

Rappahannock Station, on the north side of the river.

I went at once, after seeing the officer in command, to the little one-story rough-boarded house that had served as the railroad station; and, while the operator was attaching his instrument, which he carried strapped to his saddle, I opened Grant’s despatch and read it.  In view of its being his first from the Wilderness, I will give it entire:––

Meanwhile the operator’s instrument had clicked and clicked, but could get no answer, and he decided we should have to go on possibly as far as Fairfax Station.  Thereupon I talked with the commander of the escort, who thought the march should not be resumed till the horses had fed and had a good rest, as it was at least thirty miles to Fairfax Station.   We agreed to start not later than half-past ten.

The colonel gave us some supper and wanted to know all about the battle;  but I was very tired, and in those days with strangers very reserved, so I am afraid I disappointed him, and soon went to sleep.  My reticence is reflected in the following despatch from C. A. Dana, Assistant Secretary of War whom Lincoln had asked to go to Grant and tell how the day was going;  for that merciful man could not stand the strain of uncertainty any longer.  Dana arrived at seven o’clock the following morning, and reported:

“An officer from General Meade was here at 2 o’clock this morning seeking to telegraph to Washington, but was recalled by a second messenger.  They report heavy fighting, etc…. The battle is believed to have been indecisive, but as the officer said but little, I can gather nothing precise.”

Well, why should I have particularized or boasted?  The fact is I had seen nothing like a victory.  Naturally prone to take a dark view and equally anxious to avoid conveying half-developed information, I do not believe that the colonel could have pumped with any chance of success in getting either favorable news or full details.

Saddling had begun when I was waked up by the officer of the guard, who said that a civilian had just been brought in from the picket-line, claiming to be a scout from Grant’s headquarters with orders from him to me.  I did not recognize the man, though I may have seen him about the provost-marshal’s head-quarters.  He handed me a small envelope containing the following order: ––

The original in the same little envelope is lying before me now;  it is beginning to wear an old look and is turning yellow.  You, envelope, and your associations are dear to me, and as my eye falls on you, old days come back and I see the Army of the Potomac again.  In a little while we shall part; and I wonder if in years to come you will dream of that night when we first met on the Rappahannock, hear the low intermittent swish of the water among the willows on the fringed banks as then, and go back under the dim starlight to the Wilderness, with a light-haired boy mounted on a young black horse that had a little white snip on its nose.

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Henry Wing, “When Lincoln Kissed Me”

The following article was printed in the 13th Regiment Association Circular #29;  November 25, 1916.  Because it was of interest to the veterans of the regiment, I copy it here.  It ties in nicely with the above essays.

In the foreword to this “Bit of History,”  the writer thereof says:

“At the time of the events narrated, Mr. Wing was correspondent for “The New York Tribune,” assigned to the Army of the Potomac.  To his intimate friends he has long been known as a raconteur of unusual ability, with experiences in varied fields well worthy of permanent record.  His modesty, however, is as characteristic as his story-telling. It will be evident to all who read this thrilling narrative, that he sacrificed an opportunity for literary distinction in order that he might become a Methodist preacher.”

WHEN LINCOLN KISSED ME.
A Story of the Wilderness Campaign.
By Rev. Henry E. Wing.
(By courtesy of the Author.)

In the original column, the author mis-spelled, Meade, & Culpeper.  I have corrected the spelling.––B.F.

On May 4, 1864, a great army of citizen soldiers, comprising representatives of hundreds of thousands of families from every Northern community, had vanished without warning, leaving absolutely no sign of their destination, or hint even of the direction in which they had disappeared.

There followed three or four days of such heart-breaking apprehension and bewilderment as the loyal nation had never before experienced.

I did not then comprehend, and probably cannot yet quite appreciate, the tension of painful anxiety that held the whole country in its grip and which it became my good fortune later to relieve.

It may be noted that this slipping away of the army from all communication with the Capital was intentional and deliberate.  A study of previous “advances,” under the surveillance of parties in authority inexperienced in military affairs, will disclose one motive for bringing Grant east to take personal charge of this campaign.  This will also furnish the key to the letter from the President to him, written a short week before the movement was made, in which he says:

“The particulars of your plans I neither know nor seek to know.”

The great campaign “by the left flank” that was to end at Appomattox nearly a year afterward, was begun from about Culpeper on the early morning of May 4, 1864.  “The objective point,” Grant had written to Meade, “will be Lee’s army.  Where he goes there you will go also.”

Lee’s army was at and about Orange Court House, between Culpeper and his first “objective point” ––moving by the left, to possibly get between Lee and his capital––flowed the Rapidan River, and beyond that stretched the almost impenetrable “wilderness.”

The immediate undertaking was to get the Union army of more than one hundred thousand men over into the open country before Lee could intercept it.

This was no small task. There were actually but two miserable and narrow roads;  one across Germania Ford and by Old Wilderness Tavern, toward Spotsylvania, the other across Ely’s Ford, and, skirting the Wilderness to Chancellorsville.  Over these two highways, for an average distance of twenty-five miles, before Lee could fall upon them, were to be pushed something like thirty miles of marching infantry, ten miles of cavalry, five miles of artillery and sixty miles of army wagons.  It is evident that the key to the success of this initial movement was push.

The Second Corps (Hancock’s), escorted by Gregg’s division of cavalry, crossed at Ely’s Ford in the early morning (May 4)  and reached the open country, near Chancellorsville, about noon.  Here, in a splendid position for a great battle, Hancock spent the afternoon intrenching and extending his lines westward to certainly get between Lee and Richmond.  Meanwhile Warren, with his fifth corps, crossed at Germania Ford and worked his way down by the Tavern till he reached the junction of the Orange Court House Turnpike.  Instead of pushing right on and joining Hancock, he halted here and got into position for a possible attack by Lee, leaving Sedgwick with his sixth corps “bottled up”in the narrow road two or three miles behind him, and Hancock cut off from all support, five or six miles in front.  Here, on Thursday morning May 5, Lee found us; and here ensued the dreadful Battle of the Wilderness.

“The New York Tribune” had four correspondents in the field, of whom I was one, attached at that time to the second corps.  At the close of the first day’s fighting, we came together at army headquarters to compare notes and to lay plans for the future.  The battle was to be renewed the next morning.  It was an open secret that Meade had suggested a retreat across the river under cover of the night and a fresh start over some more promising route, and that Grant had vetoed the proposition and had ordered the lines to be formed for an assault upon the enemy at daybreak. [This was an untrue rumor regarding Gen. Meade––B.F.]

It was very quickly decided that one of us should start for the north with the several reports of the stirring events of the last two or three days. As I was the youngest, I knew the task naturally belonged to me, and my offer to undertake it was instantly accepted by the others.  It was known to be an adventurous undertaking.  The Ninth Corps was already crossing the Rapidan to support the fortunes of the battle-line in front, and thus by to-morrow the whole country between the Rapidan and the Bull Run Rivers was to be abandoned by our troops.  How full of peril the enterprise really was may be inferred from the fact that of four or five messengers for different newspapers I was the only one who had the good fortune to get through.

My favorite mount was a Kentucky-bred racing horse that I had procured from Captain Cline, Meade’s chief of scouts.

As soon as it was decided that I should make the trip I went up to the corral and instructed the “boy” to give Jesse a hearty breakfast at three o’clock in the morning, and to have him groomed and saddled at four.  He might have to take me more than seventy miles to Washington ––possibly without even a feed or halt ––the following day.

I then went up to Grant’s headquarters, and approaching him, said that I was going out the next day and asked him if he had any message to the people that I could insert in my dispatches to the Tribune.

“Well, yes,” he replied, “you may tell the people that things are going swimmingly down here.”

The remark was so evasive, or purposely misleading, at the close of a battle in which every one of his plans had evidently gone wrong that I smiled as I entered the exact words in my note book, thanked him, and turned away.  I had only taken a step or two when he got up and joined me. When we had walked out of hearing of his companions he laid his hand upon my shoulder and, quietly facing me, inquired “You expect to get through to Washington?”  I replied that that was my purpose and that I should start at daybreak.

Then, in a low tone, he said:  “Well, if you see the President, tell him from me that, whatever happens, there will be no turning back.”  He silently gave me his hand in farewell greeting, and we parted….

I had worked out a splendid plan ––for getting captured.   On Wednesday morning, riding with the second corps, my journalistic companion was Mr. Waud, of “Harper’s Weekly.”  After crossing at Ely’s Ford he took me up the river a few miles to some silver mines.  Here was an acquaintance of his, a Mr. Wykoff of Brooklyn, New York, who, too far advanced in life to be drafted into the Confederate service, had stayed to look after mining properties owned by Northern capitalists.

My scheme was now to get Mr. Wykoff to go along with me, at least across the country to the Rappahannock River, guiding me by by-roads and cattle-trails with which he must be familiar, through that portion of my route, in the immediate rear of our army, and most likely to be overrun by bands of guerrillas and scouting parties of the enemy’s cavalry, so I turned Jesse’s head toward Culpeper mines, and in a short time was at Mr. Wykoff’s door.

Mr. Wykoff dismissed my proposal without the slightest hesitation, but when he realized that I was determined to try he elaborated the scheme to which I was to owe my success at last.

So this was my story:    There had been a great battle in which the Yankee army had been overwhelmingly defeated; and I was hurrying along with the good news to our friends in Washington.

To fortify me in the prosecution of this adventure Mr. Wykoff made me familiar with the names of half a dozen prominent Southern sympathizers in the Capital City.  Then he wisely determined that I was too well dressed for the part.  The Tribune took pride in having representatives well equipped, and my outfit included pantaloons of the most costly Irish corduroy, a fine ”buckskin” jacket, a dark, soft felt hat, calf-skin boots and Alexandra kid gloves.  These I exchanged for a regular “Butternut” suit, with coarse, broad “brogans” and a disreputable hat of quilted cotton.

While these preparations were being made, a troop of gray cavalry passed up the river on the opposite bank, and it became nearly certain that I was to fall in with many such parties.

No loyal man would take through our lines, where there was possibility of capture, a scrap of paper that would convey information to the enemy; so I destroyed my precious budget of correspondence and all notes and memoranda that could possibly disclose information of value, for my own safety I divested myself of all private papers by which I could be identified.  Then, bidding farewell to the loyal man to whose wise counsel I undoubtedly owe my life, I set out on my long and hazardous journey.

About eight miles on the way was the little hamlet of Richardsville, at which point Mr. Wykoff had advised me to take a blind trail across to Field’s Ford on the Rappahannock.  I reached there, having encountered but one small squad of Confederate scouts, with whom I had no difficulty.  I was much encouraged by my experience thus far; and once across the Rappahannock, the country I was to travel was likely to be practically abandoned. But right now, I came to a troop of Mosby’s troopers.  They were lying about in a dooryard, with their horses feeding outside the fence.  As I was riding leisurely by, they naturally hailed me, and, gathering about, received my good tidings of Lee’s victory with great rejoicing.  But, as to my going on alone !  the woods were full of skulking “nigger” soldiers ––stragglers from Ferraro’s division of colored troops, and the life of a good rebel, like me, would not be worth “ a chaw-er-terbacker.”  The sequel was that they furnished me an escort of two men to protect me on the way.  I was now having the “run of luck” which had been rather a distinguishing feature of my career since boyhood.  Two men, mounted and armed, ragged and dirty enough to be my fit companions, were to give me respectable standing with their neighbors, and were to defend me from the ravaging black man.

I supposed that we were on our way to Field’s Ford, but, coming over the brow of a hill, I recognized the scene before me.  We were at Kelly’s Ford, and Mr. Kelly, a one-armed man ––at heart a bitter secessionist ––had “entertained” me for two days while our troops were in that neighborhood.  He would almost certainly recognize me in even this disguise unless I could slip by unobserved.  So I dismissed my kind companions with many thanks, as I was now sure of myself, and they had been in the saddle all night.

Once rid of my escort, I started for the ford, but Mr. Kelly was standing on a knoll above his house, listening to the roar of the distant battle, and hastening across to the road, he intercepted me.  I drew my slouching hat brim down over my face, but he recognized me, and reached for the bridle.  As he did so, I touched Jesse with the spur, and he sprang forward and rushed for the river.  In answer to Mr. Kelly’s shouts, my erstwhile comrades, joined by two other mounted men, came dashing after me.  In my confusion we missed the ford, but Jesse swam boldly through the deep waters to the upper shore.  As he scrambled up the steep bank, a volley of scattering shots spattered about us.

I was now in excellent spirits, I was mounted on a horse that had never been overtaken.  Besides, my proverbial “luck” could certainly be depended on.

But just then I made one of these sad mistakes that so frequently interrupt and defeat the good offices of Dame Fortune.  I should have kept right on east through a sparsely settled country to Warrenton Junction;  but a piece of thick timber at the left hand invited me to turn aside into a wood path, and in ten minutes I burst into the clearing about Rappahannock Station, on the Orange and Alexandria Railroad.  Here were five hundred people, of all ages, and both sexes, loading carts and wagons with abandoned army supplies.  I could not ride through the crowd on a gallop without attracting attention, so I pulled Jesse down to a walk and no one accosted me.

I turned to the right and, once past the village, tried to put Jesse forward at his best gait toward Washington, but the road was so encumbered with vehicles and cavalrymen that I could make but slow progress ….

While my story was finally accepted by everyone I met, my progress was constantly interrupted, and somewhere behind me were my comrades of the morning, gathering recruits as they came, and bent on my capture.

With a clear road, on a horse that had never been outstripped, I would have enjoyed the contest, but every moment in which I was halted and questioned increased my peril until I was certain that I could never get through in the saddle.   My only chance was in abandoning my horse.  But leaving him in the highway would result in my certain capture before I could get out of the neighborhood.

Just then my apparently ever-present good fortune again came to my aid.  A clump of trees with thick underbrush a few yards from the road offered “shelter for man and beast.”  Watching my opportunity, when no one was in sight, I led Jesse into this safe retreat.  Slipping off saddle and bridle and hiding them away, I tied my good friend a long rein to an overhanging branch, poured the oats upon the ground, and bade him a really “affectionate farewell.”

Before I crept out of my hiding place a dozen men, led by my quondam friends, came galloping by.  They were evidently in quest of a good-looking youngster, in a butternut suit, riding a handsome chestnut Kentucky thoroughbred.  If they are looking yet this way inform them that we are not thereabouts.  Even Jesse is not there for, in fulfillment of a sacred promise to him, I sneaked back the next Sunday and brought him out.

The hiding away of that horse was fortunate for me, for it evidently put my pursuers completely off the scent.  I crawled over to the railroad and started on my long tramp up the track for our lines about Washington.

I frequently lay for several minutes flat in the weeds and grass, cruelly tormented by swarms of insects, while parties passed within sight.  It took me over an hour to get around Warrenton Junction, where, as at Rappahannock Station, scores of people were gathering and packing off the debris of the deserted Union camps.

Then came a great surprise.  Hastening through a cut and around a curve in the road, I encountered an armed man.  My first impression was that he was one of Mosby’s guerrillas, disguised, as they frequently were, in the uniform of the patriot troops;  but his voice, as he ordered me to halt, gave me assurance, for in all my intercourse with Confederates, I had never heard the Irish brogue from the lips of a disloyal person.  He proved to be a private of one of our Irish regiments (I think the Sixty-ninth New York).  They had been here all winter, I believe, as guard of the bridge across Cedar Creek, and, by some mistake, had received no orders to break camp and join in the general advance.  Being an infantry regiment, they had no large guns, but they had mounted their breastworks with “Quaker” cannon ––logs, with the ends blackened with charcoal. These looked very formidable to the gray cavalrymen circling about at a safe distance, but, on close examination, as a sergeant remarked, “They were almost too natural to be real.”  I got a good diner here and lots of good cheer.  As there were several parties in sight, and I was to resume the role of Southern sympathizer, I arranged with these people to fire a volley toward me as I “escaped” across the bridge…

At Manassas Junction I got caught at last.  Here was a regularly organized Confederate cavalry camp ––really an outpost to protect all the country from the Bull Run to the Rapidan, recently abandoned by our troops, from incursion by the forces about the Capital.

As I approached the place, so much vigilance was manifest that I abandoned the idea of creeping past, deeming it safer to walk boldly into the camp.  I told my story, with the purpose of pressing right forward on my mission, but the major in command was absent and the lieutenant in temporary charge did not feel justified in letting me go on.

Here I waited three or four hours, getting more impatient as the time went by, and more uneasy lest some one might come in from below with a description of a certain fugitive in whom I had a vital interest.  At last dusk came on, and then I did a very ungentlemanly thing.   Without any expression of thanks to these extremely attentive people, or any polite message for the gallant major at whose headquarters I had been entertained with such steadfast and scrupulous solicitude, I crawled out between the guards and broke away up the track for the Bull Run River, six miles distant.

Reaching there, as I came across the trestle, a Union picket took me in and sent me to the post headquarters at Union Mills, nearby. 

The officer in command, a kind well-bred Frenchman, remembered me as having visited the post from Washington a few weeks previous, and here, at last, safe within our lines, my story of adventures might end;  except that here, at last also, difficulties less exciting but if possible, more formidable, and certainly much more annoying were awaiting me.

I found that I was the first newspaper man ––indeed, the only man from the front––to cross Bull Run River.  This made my news doubly valuable. The nearest public telegraph station was at Alexandria, twenty miles away.  That office would close at midnight.  To accomplish my “beat” of all the other papers I must make that twenty miles in three hours.  At that time “A horse! a horse!” was my mental exclamation if not an actual one, and I offered all sorts of sums up to a thousand dollars for a  horse and guide to Alexandria.  Five hundred dollars was my offer for a handcar and a lusty man to help me run it,  “but the car belonged to the Government.”   That statement gave me an idea;  the Government had a telegraph wire out there, with an operator.  I would not confess what this “idea” was except to make this narrative complete, and furthermore, to illustrate that spirit of emulation in a reporter which may tempt him sometimes to adopt desperate measures in the interest of his paper.

I knew that no messages except those strictly on Government business and under military control were ever permitted over one of these wires.  Nevertheless, I was bent on “subsidizing” that operator, at whatever cost, to send out a few words to the Tribune Bureau at Washington.  But before I reached the telegraph office this scheme was abandoned as impracticable …

Even as I discarded this plan another suggested itself.  The Hon. Charles A. Dana was a personal friend of mine and was Assistant Secretary of War.  If I could get him on the wire, something might possibly be done; so I wrote a dispatch, as a “feeler,” directed to him, officially, as follows:  “I am just from the front.  Left Grant at four o’clock this morning.”

A response came immediately, but from Secretary Stanton: 

 “Where did you leave Grant?”

What!  Even the Government had no knowledge of events at the front?  I had stored away under that faded cloth hat all the information there was of the momentous movements across the Rapidan.  But I would be modest and generous:  if Mr. Stanton would let me send one hundred words over the line I would tell him all that I knew.  On a  repetition of the demand, in more peremptory terms, I replied that my news belonged to “The New York Tribune,” and that he would have to negotiate with them for its release.  But I renewed my offer.

Five minutes afterward, at a call from the operator, the post commander came in.  He looked at a telegram handed him, and he then informed me that Mr. Stanton had ordered my arrest as a spy unless I would uncover my news from the front.  Of course that settled it.  I would not have told him one little word to save my life;  but here I was at the end of my resources.  It had been my purpose, if he finally refused my offer, to start afoot for Alexandria in a frantic effort to make the twenty miles by midnight, but now there was nothing to be done but to submit.  This news, that the whole country was lying awake for, was tied up here with a strip of dirty red tape.  And the young man who to get it here had been shot at, and chased and captured; who had masqueraded as a loathsome “Copperhead,” who had told two hundred lies, and who had even seriously contemplated committing a felony, was to be locked up in a mouldy, rat-infested guard-house!

Hardly that.  On giving my parole not to run away I could have the freedom of the camp.

I lay down on a bench in the little station, hungry, tired, disgusted and for the first time, utterly discouraged.

Then something occurred that I cannot explain. I knew nothing of the telegraph code, yet, as a message was being ticked off on the tape, some subtle current of influence touched my apprehension.  I knew that it was for me.  I sprang to my feet, “What is it?” was my question.  “Mr. Lincoln wants to know if you will tell him where Grant is.”

President Lincoln at the Telegraph Office.  Illustration by Charles M. Relyea.

I repeated my offer––to communicate whatever information I had, for the use of the wire to transmit one hundred words.  He accepted my terms without hesitation, only suggesting that my statement to my paper be so full as to disclose to the public the general situation.

Nothing now was the matter with me.  I was neither tired, hungry, nor sleepy.  Standing by the operator at Union Mills, I dictated the half-column dispatch which appeared in the Tribune on the morning of Saturday, May 7, 1864.

Mr. Lincoln, with his characteristic thoughtfulness for the public interests, arranged for the transfer to the Associated Press of a short summary of the news, and thus the anxiety of the whole country was set at ease.

A locomotive was sent down for me and about two o’clock in the morning I reached the White House, where the President had gathered his official family to meet me.  As I stepped into the room where they were seated my glance caught a quick gleam of surprise and apprehension in Mr. Lincoln’s eyes, and I was awakened to a sense of my disreputable appearance.  My hair was disheveled, my shabby old coat was dusty and wrinkled, my pantaloons, much too long, were folded back at the bottom and gathered about my ankles with pieces of cotton twine, and my coarse shoes were coated three or four layers thick with “sacred soil.”

I had met, perhaps, every one of this company at pubic functions or in private interview, but not one of them recognized me in this garb.  As my glance swept around the group it rested on the genial countenance of a particular friend, Mr. Welles, of Hartford, Connecticut, the Honorable Secretary of the Navy.  As I advanced and accosted him he identified me by my voice. He then presented me, with much embarrassing formality, to the others.

A half-hour or more was spent in description of the movements of the troops, and in explanation, from a large map on the wall, of the situation at the time when I left.  Then, as the company was dispersing, I turned to Mr. Lincoln and said:  “Mr. President, I have a personal word for you.” 

The others withdrew, and he closed the door and advanced toward me.  As he stood there I realized as never before how tall he was.  I looked up into his impassive face, ready to deliver Grant’s message.  He took a short, quick, step toward me, and, stooping to bring his eyes level with mine, whispered, in tones of intense, impatient interest, “What is it?”  I was so moved that I could hardly stammer;  “General Grant told me to tell you, from him, that whatever happens, there is to be no turning back.”

The vision that opened through those wonderful eyes from a great soul, glowing with a newly kindled hope, is the likeness of Mr. Lincoln that I still hold in my memory, and ever shall, and that hope was never to be extinguished.  Others had “turned back.”  Every other one had, but there had come an end of that fatal folly.

Mr. Lincoln put his great, strong, arms about me, and, carried away in the exuberance of his gladness, imprinted a kiss on my forehead.

We sat down again, and I then disclosed to him, as I could not do except in the light of that pledge of the great commander, all the disheartening details of that dreadful day in the wilderness.  But I could assure him that the Army of the Potomac, in all its history, was never in such hopeful spirit as when they discovered, at the close of a day of disappointment, that they were not to “turn back.”

New York Tribune, Saturday May 7, 1864

Henry Wing's Report as printed in the Tribune. The reporting is very good except that at the end a conclusion was drawn that a grand victory had been won.  These kinds of statements in the reporting led the public into great shock when the true number of casualties suffered by the Union Army in these battles finally became known.

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Carleton For The Boston Journal

  We leave the story of Henry Wing, the first courier to get his messags through to the public from the war-front, and take up the story of Charles Carleton Coffin of the Boston Journal, whose reports of the battle were the second set of despatches to get through.     I particularly liked the part in the narrative, about what to feed a horse to prep him for a vigorous journey.  Carleton, as he called himself, was a prolific author of American History books after the war.  His war memoirs were also published.

The following story is from, “Charles Carleton Coffin, War Correspondent, Traveller, Author and Statesman,” by William Elliot Griffis, D.D., Estes & Lauriat, Boston, 1898.

After work with the pen concerning the great battles in the Wilderness, Carleton’s great question was how to get his letters to Boston.  The first bundle was carried by Mr. Wing, of the New York Tribune, the second by Mr. Coffin’s nephew, Edmund Carleton.  The nearest point occupied by the Union army, which had communication with the North by either boat, mail or telegraph, was Fredericksburg, more than forty miles to the eastward.  To reach this place one must ride through a region liable at any moment to be crossed by regular Confederate cavalry, Mosby’s troops, or rebel partisans.  There were here and there outposts of the Union cavalry, but the danger to a small armed party, and much more to a single civilian rider, was very great. Nevertheless, young Carleton was given his uncle’s letters, with the injunction to ride his horse so as not to kill it before reaching Fredericksburg.  “The horse’s life is of no importance, compared with the relief of our friends’ anxiety;  and, if necessary to secure your purpose of prompt delivery, let the horse die, but preserve its life if you can.”

To make success as near to certainty as possible, young Carlton took counsel with the oldest and wisest cavalry men. He then concluded to take the advice of one, who told him to give his horse a pint of corn for breakfast and allow the animal plenty of time to eat and chew the fodder well.  Then, during the day, let the beast have all the water he wanted, but no food till he reached his destination.  Fortunately, his horse, being  “lean,” was the one foreordained in the proverb for the “long race.”  The young messenger lay down at night with his despatches within his bosom, his saddle under his head, and his horse near him.  The bridle was fastened around his person, and all his property so secured that the only thing that could be stolen from him without his being awakened was his hat and haversack, –– though this last was under his saddle-pillow. Nothing else was loose.

The young man rose early.  Alas !  he had been bereaved indeed.  Not only his hat, but his haversack, with all toilet articles, his uncle’s historic spy-glass, and his personal notes of the campaign, were gone.  While his horse chewed its corn he found a soldier’s cap, vastly too small, but by ripping up the back seam he was able to keep it on his head and save himself from sunstroke.  Mounting his horse, he set out eastward at sunrise. 

When some miles beyond the Federal lines, he was challenged by horsemen whom he found to be of the 13th Pennsylvania cavalry on outpost duty and just in from a foraging trip.  They hesitated to release him even after examining his passes, but “that from Butler fetched them.”  Even then,  they did not like him to proceed, assuring him, that it was too dangerous for anybody to cross such unprotected territory.  He would be “a dead man inside of an hour.”  However, they examined his horse’s shoes, and gave him a strip of raw pork, the first food he had tasted for many an hour.  Finally they bade him good-by, promising him that he was going “immediately to the devil.”  Some miles further on, he saw near him two riders.  Mutually suspicious of each other, the distance was shortened between the two parties until the character of each was made known.  Then it was discovered that all three were on the same errand, the solitary horseman for Boston private enterprise, and the two cavalrymen in blue for General Grant to the Government, were conveying news.

They rode pleasantly together for a few minutes, but when Carleton noticed that their horses were fat and too well-fed to go very fast, he bade his companions good-by.  He put spurs to his horse.  Though it was the hottest day of the year, he reached Fredericksburg about the middle of the forenoon, thirsty and hungry, having eaten only the generous cavalryman’s slice of raw pork on the way.

He found there a train loading with the wounded of several days’ battle.  He at once began helping to carry the men on the cars.  Volunteering as a nurse, where nurses were most needed, though at first refused by the surgeons, he got on board the train.  From the Sanitary Commission officers, he received the first “square meal” eaten for many days.  At Acquia Creek, he took the steamboat, and after helping to transfer the wounded from cars to boat, he remained on board, sleeping on a railing seat.  Next morning he was in Washington, before the newspaper bureaus were open.

He sent by wire a brief account of the Wilderness battles.  At first the operator was very reluctant to transmit the message, since he was sure that none had been received by the Government, and he feared reprimand or discharge for sending false reports.  Indeed, this information sent by Carleton was the first news which either President Lincoln or Secretary Stanton had of Grant’s latest movements. 

From the telegraph office, young Carleton went to the Boston Journal Bureau, on 14th Street.  There he had to wait some time, since Mr. Coffin’s successor in Washington, not expecting any tidings, was leisurely in appearing.  By the first mail going out, however, a “great wad of manuscript,”  put in envelopes as letters, was posted.  Again the Journal beat even the official messengers and the other newspapers in giving the truthful reports of an eye-witness.  Thus, Charles Carleton Coffin scored another triumph.

CARLETON' S  REPORT

Carleton's dispatch is included in the body of reporting taken from this newspaper.  It is again, not surprising to see the postive slant the reporting holds.  This kind of “everything is fine” reporting eventually caused great shock to readers when the truth of the ferocity of these battles, and the real human cost in lives finally became known. 

The Caledonian, St. Johnsbury, Vt., May 13, 1864.

Accessed at the Library of Congress.

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James Ross Family Letters

The following information and letters are from “Willing to Run the Risks;  Letters from the Civil War, Private James Ross.”  Transcribd and compiled by Nancy Saunders Brantley, Lucille Barrett Campbell, 2012.  Available free, to download, here.  Well worth the effort.

Although James Ross was not with the 13th MA, he was connected to them slightly, by belonging to Henry Baxter's 2nd Brigade of the same division.  Ross was drafted in the summer of 1863.  He was at the time helping his father and brother earn income to help support their large family.  His father William worked as a cooper, or, barrel maker.  James assisted in the work but managed to gain enough schooling from different academy's to earn his teaching certificate.  “He taught several school terms...By July 1863 he  had been accepted for entrance to Williams College in Williamstown, Massachussetts.   ...He was drafted into the Union Army in July 1863 just before he was to leave for Williamstown.”     He decided he would  go into the army and serve his country rather than find a substitute.

He treated his army experiences like learning opportunities, and wrote long observant and detailed letters home describing every little thing he experienced.  These kinds of descriptions from this period of the war are priceless to a researcher.  The veteran soldiers in 1863 were well acclimated to army life after two years service, and for the most part,  did not write such descriptive letters home anymore. 

This website has drawn several times from the well of James Ross's wonderful writing.  Like some others,  I got to feel like I knew James through his letters.  The sting of death can still be felt in the family letters reproduced below, even after all these years.

Magnify this by more than 600 thousand for all the soldiers killed (both sides) and you may begin to comprehend the enormity of the suffering throughout the population of the country, north and south, caused by the American Civil War.

The peace derived from the Rebellion, was costly.  Reflect on that.

The record of James Death was found on the Muster Roll of his regiment, printed in the above book of letters.

Muster Roll, 83d N.Y. Volunteers
July 18, 1865:  Camp in the Field, VA, Final statements sent June 7, 1865
James Ross
Bounty paid $25; due $75
Remarks:  Draft.  “Died of Wounds Rec'd in Action”  Died of wounds rec'd in action May 10 64 in U.S. G. H. Washington, D.C.

Letter of William Ross to Ann Ross, May 2, 1864

I don't know when his family learned the news of his death, but these letter excerpts showed they had to live with the anxiety of uncertainty for weeks.  At the time Ann Ross was living in Plattsburg, N.Y., while her husband William worked in Hartford, Connecticut with his son, Willie.  Both had found employment there.

While in Winter Camp James had decided to study Casey's U.S. Tactics For Colored Troops, so that he might apply for an officer's commission sometime in the future.  He requested his father find a copy of this specific volume and send it to him. That is the book alluded to in these letters.

Annie Ross to Father William, May 2, 1864

Annie Ross to Father, May 5, 1864

Letter of William Ross to James Ross [returned[

[This letter was returned to the family.]

Letter of William Ross to Ann Ross, May 8, 1864

Letter from Daughter Annie and Wife Ann, to William Ross

 This letter tells of an ill feeling that came over James' mother and sister Annie, the night of May 6, the day he was mortally wounded.

William Ross to William Junior, May 20, 1864

In this letter it is evident William left Hartford, where he was employed, to travel to Plattsburgh, N.Y. be with his wife and family during this difficult time. They have learned James was missing since May 6.   Willie remained in Hartford and continued to work.

William Junior to Father; May 24, 1864

William Ross to son, Willie, June 12, 1864

Letter of William Ross, Jr. to Father William, June 22 1864

Letter of Thomas Thune to William Ross, April 16, 1866

 [From the book:  “James/Jimmy was not mentioned again in the existing collection of family letters for nearly two years.  The following letter from Thomas Thorne, the lieutenant formerly commanding Company G, may be the beginning of the effort to collect back pay and pension benefits for Ann and William Ross which they did not receive until 1870.”]

The Plattsburgh Republican, May 21, 1864

(Reprinted from the Plattsburgh Sentinel).

Next Up:  Reminiscences From The Sands Of Time, by George Henry Hill

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© Bradley M. Forbush, 2026.

Page Updated February 17, 2026.