Union Cavalry

Here’s another installment in my periodic series of profiles of forgotten cavalrymen. I discovered Oliver Blachly Knowles during the course of my research and work on William H. Boyd and his company of Philadelphians who served in the First New York (Lincoln) Cavalry.

Much of the information contained in this profile comes from old friend Blake A. Magner’s excellent little research reference, At Peace with Honor: The Civil War Burials of Laurel Hill Cemetery, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.

Knowles was born in Philadelphia on January 3, 1842, the son of a prominent merchant named Levi Knowles and Elizabeth Adeline Croskey. He attended local public schools and two years of high school before joining his father’s business. The young man loved horses, and was known as an excellent horseman. He was tall–six foot, two inches and well-proportioned–and was fair complected.

With the coming of war in 1861, nineteen-year-old Knowles enlisted in Capt. William H. Boyd’s Co. C of the First New York (Lincoln) Cavalry. He became Boyd’s orderly, and quickly developed a reputation for his dedication to duty and willingness to obey orders.

The Lincoln Cavalry saw action for the first time at Pohick Church near Alexandria, Virginia. During a sharp skirmish, Knowles demonstrated leadership, good judgment, and courage in helping to lead a detachment of Philadelphia horse soldiers to safety after they were nearly cut off. Knowles received a promotion to corporal for his gallantry in September 1861. However, Boyd had to force the young man to accept the promotion.

In January 1862, he was promoted again, this time to orderly sergeant, and as a result of excellent service during the Peninsula Campaign, he received a commission as second lieutenant at the conclusion of McClellan’s campaign. “He was never sick, always ready for duty, and seemed to regard the most fatiguing service or hazardous undertaking as pastime,” recorded Capt. James H. Stevenson of the Lincoln Cavalry in one of the two published histories of the regiment.

The Lincoln Cavalry participated in the Antietam Campaign, and then was assigned to serve in the Shenandoah Valley as part of the command of Brig. Gen. Robert H. Milroy (Milroy received a promotion to major general in March 1863). The Lincoln Cavalry spent most of the spring of 1863 chasing the guerrillas of John Singleton Mosby. Knowles was commissioned first lieutenant in April 1863 and then took a furlough. He rejoined the regiment in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania while the Gettysburg Campaign was already underway, Milroy’s cavalry having escaped from Winchester before it fell to the Confederates on June 13, 1863. Knowles helped Boyd dog the advance of the Confederates, and performed excellent service during the Gettysburg Campaign.

In August 1863, when the 21st Pennsylvania Cavalry mustered in with Boyd as its colonel, Knowles became one of the newly-formed regiment’s three majors. The 21st Pennsylvania was dismounted and served as infantry during the latter portion of the 1864 Overland Campaign, and when Boyd was badly wounded during the Battle of Cold Harbor, Knowles took command of the regiment, which participated in the siege of Petersburg. In October 1864, with the 21st Pennsylvania now mounted and acting as cavalry again, Knowles was promoted to colonel at the age of 22, and his unit was attached to the cavalry forces still serving the Army of the Potomac at Petersburg.

The 21st Pennsylvania participated in the various actions in and around Petersburg at the end of March and beginning of April 1865, and in the Appomattox Campaign. In June 1865, Knowles received a brevet to brigadier general of volunteers to date from March 1, 1865, for meritorious service in the war.

The twenty-three-year-old war hero mustered out of the volunteer service on July 4, 1865, and returned home to Philadelphia. He ended up in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, where he participated in the grain trade, and sought (and obtained) a commission as a major in one of the Regular Army’s new cavalry regiments; ironically, the commission arrived the day after he died. However, on December 5, 1866, Knowles was stricken by cholera and died five hours later. He was only 24. His young life, so full of promise, ended much too soon. One can only speculate just how many great things he might have accomplished had he lived to old age.

His remains were taken home to Philadelphia, and like so many other brave young men, he was buried in Laurel Hill Cemetery, overlooking the waters of the Schuylkill River. His gravestone reads:

He was:
Gentle, yet Courageous,
Firm, but Magnanimous,
Beloved by all.

“The conduct of Colonel Knowles throughout his entire military career, from that of a private carrying the carbine to his last charge when the foremost of all the Confederate leaders had been compelled to surrender, was most devoted and heroic, winning the respect and affection of those beneath him, and the confidence and admiration of his superiors. His unaffected simplicity of manner, genial bearing, and never-failing wit won for him troops of friends wherever he moved,” recorded the eminent Pennsylvania historian, Samuel P. Bates. “As a token of their esteem, he was presented by his companions in arms with a horse, sword and equipments. He was warmly commended by Generals Sickel, Gregg, and Sheridan, and it was at the suggestion of the two latter that shortly after the surrender he was commissioned a Brigadier-General, as a special recognition of his merit in the final campaign.”

Here’s to Bvt. Brig. Gen. Oliver Blachly Knowles, who rose from private to colonel during the course of the war, and who was brevetted to brigadier general of volunteers at the tender age of 23.

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Here’s another in my series of infrequent tributes to forgotten cavalrymen. Most of them have been to men who should be remembered but aren’t, for whatever reason. This time, for a change, we’re going to focus on someone who has been forgotten for very good reason. He did next to nothing worth remembering, other than that his story is interesting. Hence, I decided to profile him.

Napoleon Bonaparte Knight was born in Dover, Delaware on December 7, 1840. He was born into one of the leading families of Delaware. He grew up in Dover, but was educated at Union College in Schenectady, New York, graduating in 1860 languages, medicine, and law. He was a member of the Theta Chapter of Phi Upsilon Fraternity. After graduation, he accepted a position as a professor of languages at a prominent Southern college, but, with the secession crisis brewing, it was obvious that he would not last long there.

Instead, he returned to Delaware, where he continued his legal training under the auspices of George P. Fisher, a prominent Unionist politician (and fellow alumnus of Dickinson College) who served as attorney general of Delaware from 1857-1860. Fisher was elected to Congress in 1861, received a colonel’s commission and was given the task of raising a full regiment of cavalry in the First State. Fisher appointed his young protege Knight as major in his new regiment. Knight was a mere 21 years old when he received his commission.

Knight was clearly an opportunist. At the beginning of the war, he was known as a “Jeff Davis Democrat”, and was known as an ardent secessionist who was quoted as saying that he wanted to put down the “Lincoln hirelings.” He briefly enlisted in a Confederate regiment at the beginning of the war, but soon deserted, declaring “the Union must and shall be preserved.” Instead, when his mentor Fisher received the commission to raise a cavalry regiment, Knight changed his stripes and joined the 1st Delaware Cavalry.

Although the 1st Delaware Cavalry organized at Wilmington on January 20, 1863, it was not a full regiment. Instead of the normal complement of ten horse companies, the tiny state could only raise seven undersized companies, which were later consolidated into four active companies. When Fisher was unable to recruit a full regiment, he resigned his commission in embarrassment, and the young Knight assumed command of the battalion. As of June 25, 1863, the 1st Delaware had seen very little action, serving mostly in the defenses of Baltimore.

Unfortunately for the Union cause, Knight’s martial skills did not match the legacy of his impressive name. The youthful major had very little combat experience, and that deficiency played a major role in the legacy of the 1st Delaware Cavalry. On June 27, 1863, Knight received orders to take two companies of the 1st Delaware to the important railroad town of Westminster, Maryland. The expedition to Westminster marked their first real foray into the field.

Knight took Companies A and C with him. On June 29, while Knight was “occupied” in the town pub, his men–perhaps 105 strong–made a gallant and daring charge into the head of Fitzhugh Lee’s brigade as it led the way for Stuart’s three brigades as they headed for the Mason-Dixon Line. The brave but foolhardy charge of the Delawareans–known to history as Corbit’s Charge, named for leader of the charge by the First Staters, Capt. Charles Corbit–held up Stuart’s advance for half a day, and killed two officers of the 4th Virginia Cavalry. Knight was too inebriated to join the charge, and was one of only a handful of men of the 1st Delaware Cavalry who was not captured.

This was the highlight of Knight’s military career–a fortunate escape from capture from a foolhardy charge that he declined to lead himself. “The war record of Colonel Knight is good, and his regiment, which saw the thickest of that long, sanguinary struggle, won many laurels but its excellent work for the old flag,” declared his obituary.

In 1866, Knight finished his legal studies, graduating form Albany Law School in New York. Then, in 1867, Knight settled in Salem, Oregon, where he immediately began to practice law. By 1868, his business had grown to such proportions that he took in, as his business partner, his former fellow-soldier and childhood friend, William P. Lord, who had served as a captain in the 1st Delaware Cavalry. They were very successful in the law business, and when they dissolved the partnership they had both become very well-to-do. Lord went on to be elected governor of Oregon.

In 1870, Knight married Miss Sarah U. Miller, a daughter of the late Gen. John F. Miller, and this union was blessed with three children – one son, Winter M. Knight, of Portland; and two daughters, Miss Portia Knight, an actress who starred in London, and Miss Sylvia, of Portland. In 1890, Mrs. Knight, who had been ailing for several years, died.

Knight was a Republican who served as a state senator in Oregon in the late 1870’s. In 1885, he was a candidate for U.S. Senator, and at one time lacked but one vote of the election. That vote was not secured, and the Legislature adjourned without electing. At that time the Democrats in that body all joined one wing of the Republican party in supporting Knight. Following adjournment, a special session was held and John H. Mitchell was elected Senator, effectively ending Knight’s political career.

In 1889, Knight added a business buying and selling livestock to his legal practice. However, in 1892, he sold his livestock business, and returned to Salem, where he resumed the practice of law, went to Klamath County, where he engaged in the stock business on a large scale, and during his leisure hours practiced his profession. In 1892 he sold out his live stock business, but remained in Klamath Falls until 1896, when he returned to Salem and resumed the practice of law. In May 1901, he went to London to represent his daughter in litigation, and then returned to Salem. He died of a heart attack on February 17, 1902, at the age of 61. His housekeeper found him dead, still seated in his chair, clutching a letter from his daughter Sylvia.

“Colonel Knight was an able lawyer, a genial, whole-souled, big-hearted gentleman, distinguished for his chivalrous conduct, and his demise is mourned by thousands of friends throughout the state,” declared his obituary. “He had his faults, but who has none? Let him, who is without fault, cast the first stone.”

Knight’s military career was short and certainly undistinguished. Indeed, his most lasting legacy is that he was too inebriated to lead the heroic but foolhardy charge that instead bears the name of Charles Corbit. Nevertheless, he is worth remembering. The end of his obituary, quoted above, certainly sums him up quite well.

Here’s to you, Maj. Napoleon Bonaparte Knight, who was too scared and too drunk to seize his opportunity for glory in Westminster that warm late June day in 1863.

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When Fort Sumter fell in April 1861, tens of thousands of young men flocked to join the armies of the South and the North. Many had no military experience whatsoever. Some had served in various militia regiments and had at least some rudimentary military training and skills. One such militia unit was called the Philadelphia Light Horse, which was composed of affluent young men from a suburb of Philadelphia called Germantown.

About twenty of the city’s social elite formed a militia company. James H. Stevenson, a former U. S. dragoon, joined them. This is Stevenson’s description, written in 1879, and included in his history of the First New York (Lincoln) Cavalry, “Boots and Saddles”: A History of the First Volunteer Cavalry of the War, Known as the First New York (Lincoln) Cavalry, and also as the Sabre Regiment:

On the 1st of May we took possession of an unused race-course, at Chestnut Hill, near Germantown, with the unoccupied inn and stables attached, where we had ample accommidations for both men and horses, and the grounds wer admirably adapted for a Cavalry School of Practice.

After drill it was usual for the troopers to act as escorts to the young ladies on horseback; and the beautiful sylvan lanes, leading to and from the romantic banks of the Wissahickon, presented gay and lively scenes during those charming afternoons. And at night the old woods rang with pleasant echoes, as we strolled leisurely along the banks, bathed in the cooling waters, or rowed upon the silent and softly flowing stream. But these things were not to last.

Indeed, they did not. Most of these young men received commissions in the Union army, and many of them achieved prominence in its mounted arm. Stevenson was a company commander in the First New York (Lincoln) Cavalry. A number became officers in the Sixth Pennsylvania Cavalry: William P. C. Treichel, Frederic C. Newhall, William W. Frazier, Emlen N. Carpenter, and Osgood Welsh. Walter S. Newhall joined the Third Pennsylvania Cavalry, serving with great distinction until his untimely drowning death in December 1863.

Times certainly changed. Certainly, playing at war lost its allure. Reading the descriptions of those heady, idyllic days of the spring of 1861 contrasted with the horrors of Civil War combat makes on wish for those innocent days again, much as we modern Americans long for the lost innocence of the prosperous 1950’s.

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Here’s another in my periodic posts on forgotten cavalrymen.

I’ve long admired Col. William H. Boyd. As a company commander in the 1st New York (Lincoln) Cavalry, Boyd harassed and generally impeded the Confederate advance through Pennsylvania. His service, brilliant as it was, is too often overlooked, and has long been forgotten.

Here’s the entry from Samuel P. Bates’ Martial Deeds of Pennsylvania on Boyd:

WILLIAM HENRY BOYD was born on the 14th of July, 1825, at Quebec, Canada. His father was a soldier in the British army. At the breaking out of the war he was in the Directory publishing business in Philadelphia. He recruited a company of cavalry for Schurz’s National brigade, which became a part of the First New York (Lincoln) Cavalry, and which he led on the Peninsula as escort to General Franklin. After the Maryland campaign this regiment was left with Milroy at Winchester, and fought the advance of Lee in his march towards Gettysburg. Boyd was detached to save the wagon train and brought it safely to Harrisburg, after which he operated in the Cumberland Valley both during the advance and retreat of the enemy from Pennsylvania, rendering important service. He was shortly after commissioned Colonel of the Twenty-first cavalry, which in the Wilderness campaign he led as infantry, and at Cold Harbor was severely wounded, the ball piercing his neck and lodging in one of the vertebrae, where it remained for five months and was only extracted after three unsuccessful attempts. In 1868 he was an agent of the Treasury Department.

Locating information on Boyd is difficult; his service and pension files are a jumbled mess, confused with the files of his son (William H. Boyd, Jr.), commingled together. I haven’t been able to find much more on him other than that information available in the OR and in various newspaper accounts. One of these days, I hope to be able to put together at least an article on Boyd’s role in the Gettysburg Campaign that will give him the credit he deserves.

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My regular readers know that I’ve wrestled with the question of what Lincoln knew and when he knew it with respect to the Dahlgren raid has simultaneously bothered and intrigued me for a very long time. I have finally reached the point in my biography of Dahlgren where it’s time for the rubber to hit the road. Consequently, here’s my take on these events, reflecting concusions drawn after years of deliberation and taking into account the useful discussions we had here.

There remains one great, daunting question that any biographer of Ulric Dahlgren must tackle before leaving the subject. The ultimate question to be determined is whether Abraham Lincoln knew of Ulric Dahlgren’s plans in advance, and whether Lincoln approved them. In other words, what did Lincoln know, and when did he know it, to borrow the parlance of the Watergate era.

There remains a third possibility: that there is nothing more here than what meets the eye. It is also entirely possible that Ulric Dahlgren dreamed the whole thing up himself without the authority or even knowledge of his superiors. Perhaps the Dahlgren Papers represent the desperate attempt of a crippled but brilliant young man to achieve further military glory that would probably be denied him otherwise. Dahlgren’s propensity for exceeding his orders is well-documented, and has already been discussed in some detail earlier in this chapter. Perhaps the Dahlgren papers represent the best-known episode of ill-advised opportunism of the war, and perhaps the Union high command was entirely justified in disavowing him and his scheme.

Well, there you have it. I wonder what y’all think of it?

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Last night, I promised that I would address the difference between a covering force action and a defense in depth, and why I am now persuaded that the tactic used by John Buford at Gettysburg was actually a covering force action and not a defense in depth. Here goes…..

I find it easier to use modern military definitions to define these terms. Even though they use modern parlance and anticipate modern weaponry, they still apply equally well to Civil War tactics.

The Pentagon defines a defense in depth as this: “The siting of mutually supporting defense positions designed to absorb and progressively weaken attack, prevent initial observations of the whole position by the enemy, and to allow the commander to maneuver the reserve.”

In other words, a defense in depth requires that a defender deploy his resources, such as fortifications, field works and military units, both at and well behind the front line, falling back from one defensive position to another, with the whole idea being to suck the enemy in so that he exposes his flanks to attack. The strategy is especially effective against an attacker who is able to concentrate his forces to attack a small number of places along an extended defensive line. It employs the deployment of force in mutually supportive positions. In other words, the idea is to force the enemy to drive the defender from each chosen position and inflict casualties upon him in the process.

A recent U. S. Army manual defines a covering force action thusly: “The covering force operates independently from the main body. The purpose of covering force operations is to develop the situation early and deceive, disorganize, and destroy enemy forcing. However, unlike screening and guard forces, a covering force is tactically self-contained and often seeks to become decisively engaged with the enemy. Cover operations are performed in the offense or defense and can be conducted by either the ACR or separate brigade.

When a covering force action begins, the main body generally is not engaged. Depending on how much warning it gets, and the mission of the main body, the covering force can be heavily augmented with engineers, MI, and artillery before the battle begins. With less warning, support arrives with the battle already underway. In any event, the covering force is expected to continue resistance until the corps has had time to deploy. Because it operates independently from the corps main body, the MI company must be able to move all of its personnel, systems, and equipment with its own organic assets.”

In other words, the idea behind a covering force action is to trade time for space, thereby allowing a detached forward unit (usually cavalry) to delay the advance of the enemy long enough to permit the main body to come up and engage. The covering force will operate independently of the main body.

Two examples of defenses in depth come to mind. General Daniel Morgan designed and implemented an excellent defense in depth that was used to great effect at the Battle of Cowpens. This tactic, which used militia to draw in Tarleton’s men, then exposed them to a galling fire from the main line and then to a cavalry charge into the flank. Nathanael Greene used the same tactic effectively at Guilford Court House, although Greene was eventually defeated.

In the Civil War, Lt. Gen. William J. Hardee designed a defense in depth very similar to–some say inspired by–Morgan’s defense in depth at Cowpens that he used effectively at the Battle of Averasboro on March 16, 1865. Hardee, with less than 10,000 men, was able to hold off half of Sherman’s army for an entire day by using a well-designed defense in depth. He used three prepared defensive positions to do so, falling back from each one as he was driven from them, until he ultimately reached the third, and final, line. By that time, it was dark, and Sherman didn’t have the stomach to attack that line. Hardee then pulled out during the night.

What John Buford designed and implemented at Gettysburg was a classic example of a covering force action, one that was, in fact, such a perfect textbook example of one that it’s taught as a staff ride by the Army to this day. The whole idea was to trade three ridge lines worth of space for time to permit Reynolds and First Corps to come up and engage. Buford’s tactic delayed the Confederate advance for nearly five hours on the first day of the Battle of Gettysburg.

Having studied all of this in much greater depth, I came to the conclusion that my prior assertions about Buford using a defense in depth was just plain wrong, and I’ve said as much publicly many times. It was, indeed, a perfectly designed and perfectly executed covering force action.

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Last November 2, I posed a question to you, my loyal readers, that has concerned me for a long time: With respect to Ulric Dahlgren’s apparent plan to kidnap and/or assassinate Jefferson Davis during the March 1864 raid on Richmond, what did Lincoln know about this plan, and when did he know it? Eleven responses were posted, but three of them were by the same person, and I also answered a couple of comments. Thus, only about six of you weighed in on this important question. I was looking for other people’s opinions, and while a few of you gave them, most didn’t. I did so, hoping that your input might help me to finally draw my own conclusions as to the answers to these questions. As you can tell by the title of this post, I still haven’t figured this one out, and it’s entirely possible that I never will.

To recap: When Dahlgren was killed in an ambush, certain papers were found on his body that indicated that, in addition to freeing Union prisoners of war from Libby Prison and Belle Isle, the true object of the raid was to kidnap and assassinate Davis and his cabinet. A huge controversy raged that led to the very unusual step of Robert E. Lee being ordered to send over a letter to George G. Meade under flag of truce inquiring whether such was, in fact, the policy of the U. S. government and U. S. Army. Meade disavowed Dahlgren, and thus a controversy was triggered that rages to this day.

I’m finally up to the Kilpatrick-Dahlgren Raid in the bio of Ully Dahlgren, and have finally gotten myself back to work on the project. This is now forcing me to address this issue head-on, as I now must do so in order to complete the book.

Lincoln had a very close working relationship with Ully’s father, Rear Admiral John A. Dahlgren. For the first few months of the war, Lincoln regularly called upon–and depended on–John Dahlgren to protect his safety, and Lincoln go to meet Ully as early as 1861. I am aware of several instances where Ully had an audience with Lincoln, Stanton or both at once. In May 1863, just after the Battle of Chancellorsville, Ully accompanied Joseph Hooker to Washington, and apparently pitched a raid on Richmond to the high command in person. The idea was rejected, but it proposed a deep interdiction raid on Richmond intended to free the POW’s and sever lines of supply and communication. He socialized with Lincoln’s personal secretaries, John Hay and John Nicolay. All of this means that Ully Dahlgren had more and more unfettered access to the Oval Office than perhaps any other junior Army officer than any other soldier in the history of the United States.

It is, therefore, incumbent upon any biographer of Ully Dahlgren to try to figure out this riddle. I am persuaded that the so-called “Dahlgren Papers”–the documents that spell out the plan to kidnap and assassinate Davis and his cabinet–are real. I have seen enough exemplars of Ully’s handwriting to see the similarities, his father’s persistent and vigorous protests that the documents were forgeries notwithstanding. There’s not much doubt in my mind that had the opportunity presented itself, Dahlgren would have carried out his plan.

So, having determined that the documents are real, we then come to the $64,000 question of whether Lincoln knew. Political historian David E. Long of East Carolina University (who, quite coincidentally, practiced law here in Columbus for a time prior to getting his Ph.D.) is working on a book on the Kilpatrick-Dahglren Raid (for which I have provided him some material), and believes quite strongly that Lincoln not only knew, but that it was his idea and that he hand-picked Ully Dahlgren to be the instrument to carry it out.

I can’t get that far. Ully had a well-documented tendency to cowboy and even exceed his orders, getting carried away by the moment. He did so at Fredericksburg in November 1862, destroying two railroad bridges that should not have been destroyed, and the loss of which actually made Burnside’s logistics much more difficult once he finally did move on Fredericksburg. It’s entirely possible that General Meade was correct, that Dahlgren was cowboying when he wrote the orders, and that nobody above him in the chain of command had any clue that Dahlgren had such an ambitious scheme in mind for his expedition.

On the other hand, it’s also entirely possible that Stanton knew of the plan and approved it. Why else would a one-legged 21-year-old colonel who was just returning to duty after losing a leg from the knee down to a terrible combat wound be assigned to command a column of 500 cavalrymen when he’d never commanded anything that large in his life? And when Dahlgren was not a member of the command that was assigned to conduct the raid, the Army of the Potomac’s Third Cavalry Division (Dahlgren was a staff officer attached to army headquarters)?

Thus, it’s an educated guess that someone in a position of power knew of and approved the plan. The most likely candidate for that is Stanton, and not Lincoln; I firmly believe that the concept of plausible deniability would have applied here, and that Stanton kept this from Lincoln, who may well have rejected the idea. It’s also not in keeping with Lincoln’s nature and personality.

I’ve asked a couple of fairly prominent Lincoln scholars their opinions on this issue. Matt Pinsker, who teaches at my alma mater Dickinson College, does not believe that Lincoln knew and further believes that such a thing was not in Lincoln’s character. I also asked fellow blogger Brian Dirck, another prominent Lincoln scholar, his opinion, but Brian has never answered my question, so I cannot share his views with you.

So, there are arguments that cut both ways, and after years of gnashing my teeth over it, I remain uncertain as to the answer to this very important question. Like so much about Ully Dahlgren’s short and unfinished life, there are many more questions than answers. I think that’s what I find so compelling about him and his story.

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When we were in Gettysburg a couple of weekends ago, J. D. Petruzzi and I met up with Al Ovies, a fellow cavalry historian from Miami. Al was up north to see some cavalry battlefields, but more importantly, to do some research at the United States Army Military History Institute in Carlisle and also at the Gettysburg National Military Park archives.

Not having worked on anything specifically Gettysburg-related in quite a while (other than the Stuart’s Ride project, that is), I hadn’t checked the park archives for new material in several years. Al spent a couple of days there, and discovered a fragment of a memoir by Andrew D. Jackson of Co. G, 6th Michigan Cavalry, that had been donated by one of Jackson’s descendants. The descendant is planning on publishing the memoir, so only a fragment was there, and it has a use restriction on it, meaning that it can’t be copied without the permission of its owner. In other words, it’s just there as a research tool that can’t be used substantively without permission.

Al transcribed a few bits of it and sent those bits on to me. I read them and said, “wow!” Jackson’s account of the July 2 Battle of Hunterstown is really spectacular. Consequently, I decided to do a little detective work, and I tracked down the owner. I wrote to him, and we’ve been corresponding. I’ve offered to help, and he’s given J. D. and me permission to quote from the Gettysburg portion of the memoir in one of our upcoming projects.

He sent those chapters, as well as the chapter that deals with another favorite subject of mine, Sheridan’s June 1864 Trevilian Raid, today. I’m absolutely blown away by the detail in Jackson’s memoir, which is based on his daily diary and letters written at the time. His account of the Battle of Trevilian Station, for instance, is without question the most detailed treatment of the 6th Michigan’s participation in this two-day slugfest I have ever seen, and I have literally looked at hundreds of accounts. There’s new material in here on Hanover, Hunterstown, East Cavalry Field, and during the retreat from Gettysburg that is really a first-rate addition to the body of knowledge. I would be so bold as to say that it may well be THE single finest enlisted man’s memoir arising from the Civil War that I have ever seen.

Fortunately, the owner is getting the memoirs ready to be published, and he expects to finish them up some time this fall. I’ve offered to help, as this is a piece that DEFINITELY deserves to be published. So, if all goes well, this account will be available to the general public much sooner than later, and then the use restriction will become irrelevant. He then intends to donate the original documents to a university for posterity, and so that others will have the benefit of them. That’s not only very generous, it’s really quite selfless; it would be very easy to simply hang on to the originals and have them simply disappear after a while.

Of course, it’s always frustrating when these sorts of things surface when it’s too late to use them as we might like to. I wish I could count the number of times that people have given me things AFTER a project is completed and it’s too late to do anything about it that leave me shaking my head and asking where that person was when I really needed them. That, of course, is a purely emotional and selfish reaction. At the same time, I realize that it’s unavoidable and that each project reaches a point where you just have to say, “I’ve given my best shot,” and declare it finished. I will never get every possible source, and I realize that. Still, it’s frustrating.

That brand new, previously unknown primary sources such as this one still surface is part of what I find so fascinating about the study of the Civil War. That this particular one was written by a lowly sergeant and not a famous general makes it all the more appealing. I edited a similarly wonderful memoir by a private of the 5th Michigan Cavalry a few years ago, and it had also been buried in family archives until one descendant got ambitious and decided to do something about it.

That accounts this spectacular still turn up in people’s dusty attics and in odd places amazes me. We can only hope that they will continue to do so.

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Time for another of my periodic tributes to forgotten cavalrymen.

Albert Payson Morrow, born in 1842, was from Montgomery County, Pennsylvania. He was named for the town of Payson, Illinois. His father was the headmaster of the Hugh Morrow Select Boarding School in Hatboro, a private school he owned and operated. Ally, as he was known to the family, was a slender, handsome young man, 5’11”, with a fair complexion and flashing blue eyes. He was a scholarly sort who preferred Shakespeare and considered himself to be an expert on the subject. He often helped his father teach the younger boys. As a youth, Albert expected to become a teacher and to follow in his father’s footsteps.

In April 1861, Albert and his brother Leslie enlisted in a 90-day unit, the 17th Pennsylvania Cavalry as sergeant, Co. K. He served in Washington, D.C. and saw some combat until Albert fell ill. He mustered out with the regiment on August 1, 1861. A month later, he enlisted in Co. C of the 6th Pennsylvania Cavalry as sergeant, Co. C (his brother Leslie was appointed an officer in the U. S. Navy at that time). Six weeks later, he was promoted to first sergeant of Co. L, and to sergeant major of Co. F in February 1862. On March 17, he was again promoted, this time Regimental Sergeant Major.

He fought in the 1862 Peninsula Campaign, received a vicious saber blow to the head at Bethesda Church on June 13, and was captured. He spent several months in Libby Prison before being exchanged at the end of August. Sick and malnourished, he reported for duty on September 6, fighting with the regiment in the Maryland Campaign. In November, he made first lieutenant of Co. C. He was captured a second time at Chancellorsville and was exchanged almost immediately, just to be captured again by Mosby’s men on May 13. He was again sent to Libby Prison, but was paroled on May 25 and was back with the regiment again on June 8, just in time to participate in the Battle of Brandy Station.

Morrow was wounded again at Greencastle, Pennsylvania while on a raid with Ulric Dahlgren on July 4, 1863. In the process, he had impressed his division commander, Brig. Gen. John Buford, who noted the young man’s fearlessness and valor. When he returned to duty later that month, he joined Buford’s staff. After Buford’s death in December 1863, Morrow returned to his regiment and was promoted to captain of Co. B. He fought in all of the campaigns of the Cavalry Corps in 1864 and was promoted to major in February 1865. On March 20, he was promoted to lieutenant colonel, and received another severe combat wound at Gravelly Run on March 31, 1865. The bullet was never removed, and caused him suffering for the rest of his life. However, this wound gained him a brevet to colonel for valor. He mustered out with the regiment in August 1865 at age 23, having been captured three times, wounded three times, and was promoted eight times during the war.

The very handsome young man was quite popular with the ladies. His friend Myles W. Keogh wrote of him that he was “the devil among the ladies, as we say in the Emerald Isle.” He served with Keogh on Buford’s staff. In the photo above, Morrow is on the far right, and Keogh on the far left, both standing behind Buford.

Morrow soon realized that he was destined to be a soldier and not a school teacher. He missed the routine of Army life and the thrill of combat. On July 28, 1866, Morrow was commissioned as a captain in the newly-formed 7th U. S. Cavalry, quite an accomplishment for a young man with no formal military training. Another company commander in the 7th U. S. Cavalry was Myles W. Keogh, with whom Morrow had served on the staff of General John Buford. Morrow’s commissioning into the 7th U. S. reunited these two old friends and comrades in arms. He served on frontier duty with his regiment at Fort Hays, Kansas until he was transferred to the 9th U. S. Cavalry and promoted to major in March 1867. The 9th U. S. Cavalry consisted of African-American soldiers, and was one of the famous “Buffalo Soldier” regiments that served in the West with great distinction during the latter stages of the Nineteenth Century.

Morrow participated in various expeditions against hostile Indians, including the 1876 Sioux Campaign and an 1878 campaign against the Ute Indians. In the fall of 1880, he was sent to France to witness maneuvers of the French army, and did not return to the United States until January 1881, when he was promoted to lieutenant colonel and appointed aide-de-camp to the commanding general-of-the-army, William T. Sherman. He served in that capacity until June 1, 1883, when he was relieved of that duty and returned to his regiment in Arizona. He was promoted to colonel of the 3rd U. S. Cavalry on February 18, 1891, and served in Texas until he retired from active duty in August 1892. During a long and successful career as an Indian fighter, Morrow received many commendations. After his retirement, Morrow was active in the Military Order of the Loyal Legion of the United States (MOLLUS), Colorado Commandery, and died on January 20, 1911.

Here’s to another long-forgotten Union soldier, a man of great courage and ability who served his country with great distinction for more than thirty years.

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Old friend Dave Powell, knowing of my work on the 6th Pennsylvania Cavalry, passed along this article titled “Lancers and Dragoons” that he found in the November 14, 1863 issue of the ARMY AND NAVY JOURNAL. It was so good that I thought I would share it here. Enjoy.

“In our service, both regular and volunteer, as at present organized, we have nothing but cavalry; or rather, as that is the genuine term for mounted troops, we should say we have no distinctions of corps in that arm. During the Mexican war, and since 1838, indeed, we had dragoons, at least in name, and at one time a regiment of mounted riflemen. Soon after the war broke out they were all merged into the single cavalry corps. But of lancers, we have in the regular service made not a single experiment, and but a single one, that of Colonel Rush’s regiment, among the volunteers. The fate of that is well known; the steeds are not dust, but “the lances are rust,” “turned in to the quartermaster,” and unlikely to see the light again. The regiment, losing its old designation, is now the 6th Pennsylvania cavalry. And yet in the European services the lancers have been a favorite corps, and the lance a useful weapon. The philosophy of it in charging au fond upon infantry in line or square is evident. The bayonets of the infantry, added to the length of the horses’ neck, keep the trooper at such a distance that he cannot use his sabre; while the lancer, with a weapon from eleven to sixteen feet long, overcomes the distance, and impales the footman in spite of his bayonet. On this ground Marmont recommends it strongly against infantry, but he goes on to say “all other things being equal, it is certain that a hussar or chasseur will beat a lancer; the time to parry, and return the blow, (riposter) before the lancer who has thrown himself upon them, can recover himself for defense.”

In theory at least the lance is admirable, but in practice, it is unwieldy and awkward, and, if useful at arms-length, is by no means so serviceable in a melee as a sabre. We were told by one of Rush’s men, on asking how he liked the lance: “The officers like it, but the men do not, and the officers wouldn’t if they had to use them.”

While granting that the weapon has not had a fair trial in America, we are inclined to think it better for show—a forest of spears and pennons—than for use. It is, however, but just to say that this is an individual opinion; for Lord Ellesmere, writing in the Quarterly Review for June 1855, declares his opinion—and it was not an ignorant one—“that the lance is by far the superior weapon, in the hands of a horseman bred and trained to its use.”

Dragoons, in the best appropriation of the word, are mounted infantry; men who use their horses only to get over great distances rapidly, and then dismount to fight. We are glad to see that this arm is being renewed in our service, and it will be especially valuable for reconnoissances, and sudden dashes at point which if taken should be held. Cavalry, as such, only capture and turn over to infantry. Well-drilled dragoons will both capture and hold.

In so vast a service as ours, with such various and manifold demands upon our skill, ingenuity and cleverness, it is worth considering whether a reorganization of our cavalry would not be an excellent movement; dividing it into several arms and distinctions of service.”

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