A Confederate captain's war diary (2): 'The Confederate states will be successful and independent yet.'

This installment of the Civil War diary of Capt. Robert Emory Park of the 12th Alabama Infantry covers his weeks of captivity at Point Lookout, Md., a Union prison camp. The 2nd, 5th and 12th New Hampshire regiments spent several months as guards at Point Lookout. An earlier blogpost tells the story of a killing at the camp during their tenure.  

The monument at the cemetery at Point Lookout. Of the
50,000 prisoners incarcerated there, about 4,000 died. 

As Park notes here, two of his brothers were among the rebel force guarding Andersonville, the Georgia prison camp for captured enlisted Union soldiers. His hope that the prisoners there were being well-treated may have been genuine, but it proved tragically wrong. A chapter of Our War recounts the plight of a blinded 7th New Hampshire soldier lucky enough to survive Andersonville, but 13,000 prisoners died there of starvation, malnutrition and infectious diseases.

We pick up Park’s story upon his arrival at Point Lookout two months after he was severely wounded in the leg and captured at Winchester, Va.

Nov. 24 – Thanksgiving Day for the Lincolnites. Had a good dinner, better than any I have had since I left Winchester. We are anxious for a flag of truce boat to carry us to Dixie, and it is the perpetual theme of conversation. I bunk with Lieutenant Edmondson, of the Thirty-seventh Virginia, in order to keep warm.

Nov. 25 – This is an intensely cold place. The Point is very bleak in winter, situated between Chesapeake bay and the Potomac river. The privates in the “prison pen” must suffer terribly, as they are thinly clothed, many in rags, and are poorly supplied with blankets and coal or wood. The fare is much better than at West’s Buildings Hospital.

Nov. 26-30 – Weather continues freezingly cold, and no truce boat yet.

Dec. 1-9 – The officers have been separated from the privates, and put in ward “D,” a Swiss cottage. Lieutenant J. P. Arrington, A.D.C., and Adjutant W. B. L. Reagan, Sixteenth battalion Tennessee cavalry, and myself are in the same room.

They are very genial, pleasant gentlemen. Adjutant Reagan has had a leg amputated above the knee, and is in very delicate health. All three of us use crutches.

Dec. 9 – Letters have been received from Captain Hewlett, now at Fort Delaware; from Misses Lizzie Swartzwelder, Nena Kiger, Gertie Coffroth and Jennie Taylor, of Winchester, and Misses Anna McSherry, Mollie Harlan and Mary Alburtis, of Martinsburg. The dear young ladies who write me so promptly and so kindly have my warmest gratitude for their cheering letters. These charming, hitherto unknown “Cousins” contribute greatly towards relieving the tedious, unvarying monotony of this humiliating prison life. . . .

Private Sam Brewer, of my company, also wrote me from Elmira, New York, where he is confined as a prisoner of war. Sam was the well-known, humorous sutler of the Twelfth Alabama. He says that a poor, starving Tar Heel at Elmira, looking up piteously and pleadingly at him, as he sucked a bare beef-bone, said: “Mr., when you finish that bone, please, sir, let me juice it a while.”

This letter must have been overlooked or very hurriedly read by the prison inspectors who examine all letters and condemn hundreds of them, or I would never have been permitted to receive it. Sam says it is bitter cold at Elmira, and he has but one blanket. They have snows several feet deep. Poor Dick Noble, from “Big Hungry,” near Tuskegee, died a prisoner at Elmira. He was a faithful fellow.

A kind letter was received, too, from Mr. J. W. Fellows, of Manchester, New Hampshire, who,

Plaque at Point Lookout gives the prison's history. 

with Professor William Johns, prepared me for college at Brownwood Institute, La Grange, Georgia, in 1859. He is now practicing law, and is an uncompromising Democrat. He has lived among the Southern people, formed friendships there, and understands their peculiar institution – slavery. His letter is very kind and full of sympathy, and he offers to aid me.

Alfred Parkins, of Winchester, a prisoner in the “Bull Pen,” as the quarters of the privates is designated, came to see Lieutenant Arrington, having as a guard over him a coal-black, brutal-looking negro soldier, an escaped “contraband,” as Beast Butler styles the stolen and refugee slaves from the South. Parkins says there is great destitution and suffering in the “Pen,” their food is insufficient, many are in rags and without blankets, and very little wood is furnished for fires.

He says that several of the negro soldiers guarding them were once slaves of some of the prisoners, and have been recognized as such. Some of them are still respectful, and call their young owners “master,” and declare they were forced to enlist. A majority of them, however, inflated by their so-called freedom, are very insolent and overbearing. They frequently fire into the midst of the prisoners, upon the slightest provocation.

One negro sentinel, a few days ago, shot a prisoner as he walked slowly and faithfully from sheer debility away from the foul sinks to his tent, simply because he did not and could not obey his imperative order to “move on faster dar.” Instead of being court-martialed and punished for the wanton murder, the villain was seen a few days afterwards exulting in his promotion to a corporalcy, and posting a relief-guard.

This employment of former slaves to guard their masters is intended to insult and degrade the latter. Such petty malice and cowardly vengeance could originate only in ignoble minds. . . .

Dec. 10-13 – Our meals are growing exceedingly scanty, and there is universal complaint of hunger. . . .

The prisoners are employed as laborers to empty vessels of provisions, coal, wood, etc., and to do all sorts of menial offices. Their small rations are slightly increased as a reward, and they enjoy a respite from the rigid confinement. They are glad to get on these working squads.

My brave men, one of whom is Wesley F. Moore, are true as steel, and, despite their sufferings and privations, are still hopeful of success, and resolved to remain faithful to the bitter, end. I write them encouragingly, send them some tobacco, bought from the sutler, and urge them to remain faithful to their cause, and never despair of ultimate deliverance from prison, and the final success of the Southern Confederacy. . . .

Dec. 14-17 – Have received a kind letter from Mr. James M. Coulter, of Baltimore, stating that he inclosed five dollars, and generously offering to send anything else I might need. The letter had been opened and money abstracted before it was handed me. . . . We have no redress, and must submit to the unpunished and unrebuked robbery.

Dec. 18-20 – Our cottage is some distance from the main hospital buildings. . . . My Dutch doctor has been sending my meager meals to me, but two days ago he ordered me to go to my meals. A painful accident happened to me on my first attempt, and I am now confined to my bed.

It had rained and sleeted the night before, and the long piazza was covered over with ice. The morning was windy and bitter cold; but knowing I could not afford to miss a meal, I took up my crutches and began my walk over the frozen ground to the nearest steps of the circular piazza. I was filled with dread on finding it covered with sleek, glassy ice, and used my crutches and right foot with great care and slowness. My left foot and leg were tied up as usual by a white cloth swing suspended around my neck, and I feared I might fall at any time. . . .

Just as I had reached within two buildings of the breakfast room, and was congratulating myself on my good fortune, some Yankee guards, composed of Irish and Dutch, met me, and as they did not offer to make room for me, I moved towards one side, and as I did so one of my crutches slipped on the treacherous ice, and I fell forward, throwing, without thought, my wounded foot and leg in front of me, breaking the thin cloth swing as I did so, and falling with all my weight on my disabled limb. . . .

My unfortunate leg was again seriously injured and my whole nervous system shocked and unstrung. The soldiers picked me up and assisted me to my room, where I have lain ever since in a state of helplessness and severe pain.

Dec. 21-24 – Our prison circle has been thrown into a state of feverish excitement by the perpetration of one of the most brutal and cowardly outrages ever inflicted upon unarmed, helpless, wounded prisoners of war and brave, honorable gentlemen and soldiers.

Lieutenant Morgan, of North Carolina, and Lieutenant Hudgins, of Virginia, were apprehended in a very daring and reckless attempt to escape from the Point, by seizing a small boat fastened to the river bank and rowing to the Virginia shore. Both of these officers had been wounded, and Hudgins was still on crutches, and the probabilities are, if they had not been swamped and drowned during the dark, blustering night, that the terrible cold and piercing wind would have frozen them to death, clothed as they were, before they could have reached the Virginia shore, said to be over two miles distant. . . .

While Morgan was striking at the chain which fastened the boat, the noise was heard, and he and his bold comrade were arrested and closely confined all night in a guard room, without fire or blankets. They were afterwards clad in a peculiar felon’s suit, made of blankets sewed up before and open behind, the close fitting body being joined to the covering for the arms and legs, all being one garment. They wore blanket caps running to a point, with tassels; a ball and chain, attached only to condemned criminals, was fastened to a leg of each.

This infamous and barbarous treatment of gallant Confederate officers, honorable prisoners of war, under no parole whatever, was a shame and disgrace to the authorities who ordered its infliction. . . .

Dec. 25 – How keenly and vividly home recollections come to my mind to-day! I see the huge baked turkey, the fat barbecued pig, delicious oysters, pound and fruit cakes, numerous goblets of egg-nog and syllabub, etc., etc., on my beloved mother’s hospitable table. My brothers and sisters are sitting around it as of yore, and my dear fond mother, with warmest love and pride beaming from her still handsome blue eyes, now somewhat dimmed by approaching age, sits at one end bountifully helping each plate to a share of the well-cooked eatables before her. . . .

Over three months have passed since I have heard from home and mother. What changes may have occurred since my capture, the 19th of September! Two of my brothers are members of the First Georgia reserves, now guarding the thirty thousand Yankee prisoners at Andersonville – one is major, and the other, a youth of sixteen years, is one of Captain Wirz’s sergeants. . . . I hope and feel that my brothers are civil and kind to the Yankees they are guarding. They are too brave to act otherwise.

My poor prison dinner was in sad contrast with my Christmas dinners at home. It consisted of beef soup, a small piece of pickled beef, some rice, and a slice of loaf bread. Lastly, to our astonishment, about three mouthfuls each of bread pudding, not very sweet, were handed us.

Dec. 29-31 – The last days of eventful, never to be forgotten 1864. All hope of a speedy exchange is now dying within us. The prospect is exceedingly gloomy. Savannah has been captured by Sherman, and Hood defeated in Tennessee. I am not at all despondent, however, and believe the Confederate States will be successful and independent yet. It is rumored we are to be removed in a day or two to Old Capitol Prison, Washington city. Our surgeon confirms the report. Point Lookout will be left with no regrets.

Jan. 1, 1865 – The first day of 1865 is far from bright and cheerful; it is snowing, cold and windy. Our little band of Confederates remain closely in quarters, discussing the past and speculating on the future, now apparently dark and gloomy, of our sorely pressed county.

Recently captured prisoners tell us of the great straits to which General Lee’s army around Richmond has been reduced, of the long, thinly scattered line of soldiers, pale and worn by hunger and constant watching, and of the gloom and despondency enveloping the heroic citizens of the beleaguered Confederate capital.

They confirm also the disheartening accounts of the dastardly conduct of Sherman in my native State, dear old Georgia, of his expelling the citizens of Atlanta from their homes, and the destruction of the entire city, and of his bloodthirsty letter to Honorable J. M. Calhoun, Mayor of Atlanta, declaring his purpose “to shorten the war by increasing its severity.”

The Northern papers, too, gloat over his cruel and boasted “march to the sea,” and of his capture of Savannah, December 21st. . . . Totally disregarding all the laws and usages of civilized war, unrestrained and uninfluenced by the humane and Christian conduct of General Lee, when in Pennsylvania, Sherman says in his official report: “We consumed the corn and fodder in the region of country thirty miles on either side of a line from Atlanta to Savannah; also the sweet potatoes, hogs, sheep and poultry, and carried off more than 10,000 horses and mules. I estimate the damage done to the State of Georgia at $100,000,000, at least $20,000,000 of which inured to our advantage, and the rest was simple waste and destruction.”

Here he confesses to have wantonly destroyed $80,000,000 worth of property of private citizens. Attila, Genseric and Alaric were not more cruel to the conquered Romans, than the brutal Sherman has been to the defenseless, utterly helpless old men, women and children of pillaged and devastated Georgia.

No wonder our reflections and conversation on the first day of the new year were of a sad character. Added to our gloom at the news from the South was the painful intelligence that all hope of our exchange was now at an end, and we are to be carried to Old Capitol Prison as soon as transportation is furnished.

Jan. 2 – After 9 o’clock at night all the officers at Point Lookout, except Major Hanvey, who was too sick to be removed, were put on board the boat “Johnson,” and at 1 o'clock in the morning were carried to the mail boat “James T. Brady,” bound for Washington city, and sailed up the Potomac.

The wind blew fearfully cold, and as we were compelled to sleep on deck and in the gangway, our suffering was severe indeed. Fortunately I got near the boiler, and fared better than the majority of the party. As we advanced towards the city, the river was blocked by ice, covering it several inches in thickness, from shore to shore. The passage was slow, as the ice had to be broken in front of the steamer every foot of the way.

Part 3: The toll of a losing cause

A Confederate captain's war diary, 1864-65 (Part 1): 'I loathe the idea of confinement in a Yankee prison'

Capt. Robert Emory Park of the 12th Alabama Infantry was wounded and captured at the third battle of Winchester on Sept. 19, 1864. This post is the first of three giving a condensed version of his diary from that day through the end of the war. In it you'll read the views of an articulate, well-educated and badly wounded young man being shuffled from prison to prison as the cause in which he believes is slowly crushed.

Park remains loyal to that cause to the end. His thoughts and feelings about slavery, the American flag, the nation's history, the 1864 election, Sherman's March, the taking of Richmond, Lee's surrender, the Lincoln assassination and the capture of Jefferson Davis are all here. So is his struggle with whether to take the oath of allegiance to the United States required of prisoners for a ticket home.

Third Winchester, where Park was shot, was the beginning of the end of Confederate control of the Shenandoah Valley. The 14th New Hampshire Infantry was mauled there; I have blogged about this regiment's fight that day here and here.

Park was a 17-year-old college student from Georgia when he enlisted shortly after the war began. My colleague Dave Morin directed me to his diary, which was published during the late 19th century by the Southern Historical Society. Park had lost the early portion of the diary during the war. In 1888, 11 years after the society's journal printed the latter part, Mrs. Vine Smith of Lebanon, N.H., sent Park the rest of it. I know neither who Mrs. Smith was nor how she acquired part of Park’s diary.

You can read more from Park about his regiment and his experience here and here. I condensed the diary by removing repetition and many names, details, detours and diatribes. The first part takes him from his wound at Winchester to the gate of the federal prison camp at Point Lookout, Md.:

Sept. 19 [1864] – Early this morning our cavalry pickets on the Opequon [river] were driven in, and it became evident that an attack was threatened.  . . . As soon as we reached [the battlefield] we were ordered to “forward into line,” and almost as quick as thought we were rapidly hurried to the attack. . . . Battle’s brigade, which had formed in rear of Evans’, rushed forward, and swept, with loud shouts, through the woods, driving the enemy swiftly before it.

Emory tipped his cap to Gen. Jubal Early.

I commanded the right company of our regiment and brigade in the charge. Colonel Pickens was not far from me, and General [Jubal] Early himself rode near me as we entered the action. I lifted my hat to the old hero as we ran forward, and noticed how proudly he watched our impetuous advance.

The enemy soon ran precipitately before us, and officers and men were in the utmost confusion. We raised our well known “Rebel yell,” and continued our onward run, for we actually ran, at our greatest speed, after the disordered host in our front. We could see they had a much larger force than ours, but we cared not for numbers. . . .

As we moved forward we passed scores, yes, hundreds, of dead and wounded Yankees, and a large number of prisoners were captured. We passed entirely through the woods, and into the open space beyond, when we halted for a moment, and then formed our line in the edge of the woods. . . .

The troops soon became impressed with the horrible, unendurable idea that they were flanked, and began to retreat in confusion. Just before this idea became prevalent, Private John Attaway, of my company, was shot through the breast by a minnie ball, and called me as he fell to go to him, saying he was mortally wounded.

I immediately began to walk from the right towards the left of the company, where Attaway was lying, bleeding and faint. I had gone but a few steps, and while raising my right foot was struck in the calf of the left leg by a minnie ball, which broke the small (fibula) bone, and badly fractured the large one. The ball flattened and came out sideways, severing muscles, veins, tendons and nerves.

I was knocked down, but ordered two of my men to carry Attaway off the field, the brave and faithful fellow urging them to carry me off first, declaring he would die anyway, and my life must be saved. However, I had him moved away to the rear before I consented for Privates P. W. Chappell and Tobe Ward to place me on my blanket and carry me to the rear. . . .

I was driven to the Union Hotel, then turned into a hospital. The surgeons examined my wound, pronounced it a serious one, and dressed it, uncertain in their minds whether the leg should be amputated or not. . . . I resolved I would die before submitting to its loss.

The surgeons promised me, in event our army was forced to evacuate Winchester, to send me off in an ambulance, but, a few minutes after, shot and shell were fired into the hospital building, crashing resistlessly through roof, walls, chimneys, etc., and knocking down bricks, plastering, planks and splinters over the helpless wounded and dying. The demoralized surgeons, hastily detailing two or three of their number to remain with the wounded, fled incontinently, forgetting, in their anxiety to escape capture, all thought of their promise to carry me along with them. . . .

Gen. Philip Sheridan led Union forces in the Valley.

Night found [Union Gen. Philip] Sheridan’s hosts in full and exultant possession of much abused, beloved Winchester. The hotel hospital was pretty full of desperately wounded and dying Confederates. The entire building was shrouded in darkness during the dreadful night. Sleep was impossible, as the groans, sighs, shrieks, prayers and oaths of the wretched sufferers, combined with my own severe pain, banished all thought of rest.

Sept. 20 – An elegant lady came in to see us, and inquired from what State we hailed. I replied, “Alabama,” whereupon she said she had lost a favorite cousin, a captain in an Alabama regiment, killed at Seven Pines. He proved to be Captain R. H. Keeling, of my company, and the good woman, Mrs. Hugh Lee, a relative of General R. E. Lee, immediately proposed to take us under her special care. . . .

We gladly consented, and, after a brief absence, she returned with some litters borne by negroes, who still remained faithful to their owners, despite the corrupting influences of the Yankees, and we were carried to the law office once used by Hon. James M. Mason, our Minister to England, and his able and venerable partner, Mr. Clark. . . . I suffered much from my wound to-day. A party of Confederates, perhaps a hundred, marched by the office under guard on their way to some Northern prison. The sight was a painful one. . . .

Sept. 22 – Yankees are continually passing our door, and frequently stop to gaze curiously and impertinently at us, and ask rude, tantalizing questions. They do not wait to be invited in, but stalk in noisily and roughly. Their conversation is coarse and insulting. . . .

Sept. 23 – Six families in the vicinity of the office have agreed to alternately furnish us with our daily meals. . . . Three times each day they send us very palatable and abundant meals, nicely cooked and of fine variety. Negro slaves bring them to us, and are very attentive and respectful, sincerely sympathizing with us in our sufferings, and openly declaring their purpose to remain with their mistresses (their masters are absent in the Southern army), and not regard the seductive promises made by the Yankees to induce them to abandon their life-long friends and homes.

Sept. 26 – My wound gives me constant pain. The torn flesh protrudes nearly two inches, and the severed nerves torture me much.

Sept. 27-29 – Three days of great suffering. Small bones are constantly working their way out of my wound, and the separated nerves and sinews keep me awake night and day. . . .

Sept. 30 – In the afternoon, while in conversation with the beautiful Miss N—— K——, a sharp piece of bone, making its exit from my wound, cut an artery, and “secondary hemorrhage” was produced. Miss N—— ran immediately for a surgeon, and, in an incredibly short time, returned with Dr. Hardy, who promptly applied sulphate of iron, and bandaged my leg very tightly from the foot to the knee, thus checking the dangerous hemorrhage. The blood flowed in jets from the artery, and I soon became very weak and deathly sick.

Drs. Weatherly and Hardy came to see me frequently during the day and night, and although they gave me two large doses of morphine, I could not sleep at all for pain.

Poor John Attaway died of his wound. . . .

Oct. 7-10 – My wound is slowly improving. I bought some tobacco with Confederate money, sold it for greenbacks, and bought a new hat for $3.00. My old military cap was lost as I was carried off the battlefield. The probability is that I will be unable to use my new one in many days to come. . . .

Two or three young ladies call at the office late each afternoon, and give us the latest news. Some of the ladies of the city have been treated very rudely for declining to walk under the United States flag. They will cross to the opposite side of the street, or leave the sidewalk, and go in the street, until they pass the hateful and hated piece of bunting, and thus avoid walking under its folds. Its stars, ostensibly representing a State each, proclaim a lie, and the stripes are emblems of tyranny and cruelty. . . .

Oct. 13 – The Federal surgeon of the post called at the office to examine us, and see whether we were able to bear transportation. I told him, as he looked at my wound, of my recent severe hemorrhage, and suggested that it might be dangerous for me to be moved for several days. He made no reply, but abruptly left us. Drs. W. and H., hearing that I was to be removed, called on the surgeon and protested against it. . . . The Yankee surgeon coarsely replied that he knew his own business, and that he would not exempt me from his order. . . . I loathe the idea of confinement in a Yankee prison, and deeply lament the forced necessity of parting with the unselfish, warm-hearted, glorious women who have so generously cared for me since my capture.

Oct. 14 – About 11 o’clock an ambulance was driven in front of the office, and two Yankees came in to carry me to it. I was not able to walk a step, not with crutches even, and scarcely able to turn over in bed. Many of my lady friends came to bid me good-bye and express their regret at my leaving. They placed a nice lunch in my haversack, and in those of my companions, and, bidding them a reluctant, sorrowful farewell, I was lifted into the ambulance. Farewell, sweet friends, and may Heaven protect you from the ruthless foes by whom you are surrounded.

The pike to Martinsburg was very rough, and I was in constant dread of another hemorrhage from my wound. There was a strong guard of cavalry riding in front, in rear, and on either side of us. . . .

Oct. 15 – The South has a few true and tried friends in Martinsburg, but they are greatly outnumbered by the Unionists. The former are of true Old Virginia stock, while the latter are a rather low class of people. The noted Miss Belle Boyd lives here. Miss Mary A—— and Miss D—— came to the ambulance and bade me good-bye, just as we were sent to the cars, bound for Baltimore.

Oct. 16 – Rode all night on the floor in a rough box car, crowded with twenty-five wounded Confederates. Water was loudly called for, but none was furnished. Reached the Monumental City at 2 o’clock P. M. A crowd of people were at the depot, but the guard kept them at a distance from us. I fancied I could see some sympathetic faces as I was borne on a litter to an ambulance, and driven to West’s Buildings Hospital. Was hoisted on a dumb-waiter to the third or fourth story, and assigned to Officers’ Ward “B.” . . .

Oct. 17 – A large, gray-headed, stern-looking old doctor, called a “contract surgeon,” as he is not commissioned, is in charge of the officers' ward. He is, I find, very unpopular with the wounded officers. His name is Knowles. . . .

Dr. Knowles came to my bed, inquired carelessly about my wound, and requested me to remove the bandage, that he might see it. I did so, telling him at the same time of my recent severe hemorrhage, but that I thought the bone was knitting together. Without uttering a word in reply, he took hold of my leg, and began to roughly press the flesh surrounding the wound. I told him he was hurting me very much, but he continued to press the wounded leg until it began to bleed, and jets of arterial blood flowed from it, just as it had done before I left Winchester.

I saw he had unnecessarily and designedly produced hemorrhage, and, for the first time in my life, I cursed. I denounced him as an inhuman wretch, as he stood smiling grimly and sardonically over me, and ordered him to leave my presence. The malignant old renegade did not offer to check the rapid flow of blood, but walked unconcernedly away, and out of the ward.

The nurse of the ward, a young Southerner, came to my rescue, and wrapped strips of cloth very tightly around my wound, the blood saturating them through several thicknesses, but finally arresting the hemorrhage. . . .

I learn Knowles is a Presbyterian elder, and a very bitter abolitionist. The puritanical old hypocrite has a soul so small it would have as much room in a mustard seed as a tadpole in the Pacific ocean. . . .

Oct. 19-21 – Still suffering from Knowles' malicious treatment. A number of slightly wounded and convalescent prisoners have been sent away from the hospital, some to Point Lookout, and others to Fort McHenry. My meals are brought to me, and are very meager indeed. . . . I have very little strength left, and need nourishing food, such as I had at dear old Winchester. . . .

We are permitted to buy only the Baltimore American and Philadelphia Inquirer, two intensely bitter black Republican sheets. No Democratic papers are admitted in the building. Yet, once in a while, a copy of the New York News, Ben. Wood’s popular paper, is smuggled in. Wood is a bold, defiant editor, and advocates General McClellan’s election over Abe Lincoln.

Oct. 22 – Applied for crutches to-day, as I am literally worn out from lying thirty-three days helpless in bed. A very rude and awkwardly made pair were brought, and, after tying a strip of cloth around my neck and extending it around my knee also, to hold up my wounded limb and thus prevent the painful, unendurable rush of blood to my leg and foot, still very sore from the severed nerves and muscles, I attempted to walk a few steps. Every step jarred my wound, and gave me pain, but I persisted in the effort for some time. . . .

Oct. 26 – Much excitement in the hospital caused by an order to Dr. Chapel, Chief Surgeon, to select the worst wounded prisoners for exchange. Of thirty officers in my ward, only one was chosen to be sent South. . . . Knowles will send only those who have lost an arm or leg, fearing the others, if allowed to breathe once more their free Southern air, may recover too speedily, and soon return with fresh ardor to their places in the Confederate army.

Instead of being treated with the generous kindness due brave men, wounded and captured in honorable battle, we are talked to and treated as if we were criminals. . . . It is an unnatural and diabolical policy to keep . . . sick and wounded prisoners . . . for months, perhaps years, when, by exchanging for an equal number of their own disabled men in Southern prisons, they could diminish greatly the number of deaths, and alleviate a vast deal of unnecessary suffering, both physical and mental.

Oct. 29-31 – Some convalescent prisoners, who were rude and severe in their conversation, while complaining of the scarcity of their food, and the neglect of their comrades and themselves by the surgeon, were punished by being locked up all night in the “Dead House,” where those who died were placed while preparations were being made for their burial. The room was kept in utter darkness, the dead bodies lying, uncoffined, frequently on the floor. . . .

Nov. 1 – Maryland was proclaimed a Free State to-day. I suppose Lincoln and Stanton will lose no time in recruiting soldiers from among the newly-freed negro slaves. Sheridan and Beast Butler would make suitable commanders for them. Cannons are firing, bells ringing, and flags flying in Baltimore. I could see the firing from Federal Hill.

The so-called freedom of the ignorant and helpless negroes will prove a misguided and mock philanthropy. They will never be so well cared for, nor as happy, as in a state of slavery to humane masters.

Like most other southerners, Emory had a favorite in
the northern election of 1864: George B. McClellan.  

Nov. 4-7 – Have been quite sick with dysentery, caused, no doubt, by improper food. . . .

The papers are full of the Presidential election contest between Lincoln and McClellan. While I prefer it, I have no hopes of the latter’s election. The Southern people respect him as a true soldier and gentleman, who, while conducting his army through Southern territory, always bore in mind the rules of civilized warfare, and restrained his soldiers from acts of depredation and lawlessness. Yet his humane mode of war does not suit the Christian (?) North as well as the barbarous style of the barn-burner Sheridan and his robber followers. . . . For this vandalism he was promoted, while the humane McClellan was dismissed from his command. Such is Yankee civilization, humanity and Christianity!

Nov. 8 – Day of election for Northern President. Lincoln received 11,000 majority over McClellan in Baltimore. The Democrats were intimidated and kept away from the polls.

Nov. 9 – The election news indicates that Lincoln and Stanton’s bloody and despotic rule will continue four years more. The renegade Andrew Johnson was rewarded, for betraying and deserting his native section, which had time and again heaped undeserved honors on his unworthy head, by being chosen Vice-President.

Emory considered Andrew Johnson a traitor. 

Nov. 10 – To my surprise and indignation, Knowles gave orders for no more meals to be carried to me, and that I should go to the tables on the ground floor provided for convalescents. I am required to go down and then up three steep flights of stairs, when I have not yet learned to use my crutches with any skill or ease, and have never yet attempted to walk out of my ward, and am still forced to carry my wounded leg and foot in a cloth swing suspended around my neck.

Nov. 16 – Two convalescent prisoners escaped a night or two ago by dashing through the gate into the street and city. They were fired at by the sentinels, but although the long roll was beat, the garrison aroused, and, with the city police, put in active pursuit, the daring youths were not recaptured. Their good fortune is to be envied. I learn they had relations who aided them in their hazardous attempt. Dr. Knowles took the names of a large number who are to be sent to Point Lookout [federal prison camp], we hopefully suppose for exchange. I am one of the rejoicing number.

Nov. 21-22 – We are hoping each day to be sent to Point Lookout, en route for exchange. I have been thirty-five days in Baltimore.

Nov. 23 – Left on the boat S. G. Cannon for Point Lookout, Maryland. I used my crutches more skillfully and swiftly on my way to the boat than I had ever done before. There seemed a prospect of home, sweet home, before me. The chill winds blew fiercely, and I passed a very cold, unpleasant night on deck. Arrived at the Point about 3 o’clock P. M., and was assigned to Ward Fourteen, General Hospital.

Part 2: Held captive at Point Lookout.

Give me Winslow Homer anytime

Winslow Homer's "Thanksgiving in Camp," was published Nov. 29, 1862, in Harper's Weekly. 

Winslow Homer entered the American consciousness as an illustrator. He had already worked in the field before 1861, but his drawings of military life during the Civil War reached thousands of readers hungry for news of the boys at the front.

Reproduced in Harper’s Weekly, these works reinforced the romantic delusion of war as an exercise in camaraderie and gallantry. Drawn from imagination, Homer's cavalry and bayonet charges looked bold and dashing. He drew Christmastime mail call with Union soldiers as wide-eyed as children. He depicted men at leisure gathered round a sutler’s tent on Thanksgiving. He celebrated the songs the soldiers sang, from “The Girl I Left behind Me” to “Dixie.”

Winslow Homer

Modern viewers can see in these wartime drawings the hand of the mature Homer. He experiments. His compositions and portrayal of human nature hold the eye. The fire in his pencil strokes will soon animate his oil and watercolor canvases. But as an artist in his 20s, Homer clearly knew that success as a newspaper illustrator required images that would be seen as patriotic.

The artist’s beginnings and development as an artist are the hallmarks of a special exhibition of his work at the Sterling and Francine Clark Art Institute in Williamstown, Mass. The show is on view till Sept. 8.

The museum, a gem in its own right, is undergoing major renovation. Someone there made the wise decision to keep the cash flow going this summer by hauling out and mounting the Clarks’ Homer collection. The couple had an eye for Homer and the money to act on their impulses. They collected more than 200 works, including drawings, oil paintings, watercolors, prints, sketches and correspondence.

Being an artist, even one as prolific and versatile as Homer, was not an easy way to make a living. To eat, you had to sell pictures. The letters on display at the Clark show Homer as a hard-nosed businessman in the American vein. In 1893, he wrote: “I will paint for money at any time. Any subject, any size.” Even so, he did not achieve financial stability until he was in in his 60s.

   

As much as I like his war scenes, my favorite Homer works are the large oil paintings he made late in life at and around Prouts Neck, Maine. Years ago, long before his studio and house there were open to the public, Wesley McNair, my close friend and now Maine’s poet laureate, knew the fellow who took care of these properties. He arranged for my wife and me to tour them. I had seen Homer’s roiling seascapes by then, and walking along the ocean I felt in the sights and sounds of the crashing waves Homer's excitement to paint them. Nothing could come between the old artist and the elements.

Homer's "West Point, Prouts Neck," which is on display at the Clark.

Several of these paintings grace the walls of the Clark, including “West Point, Prouts Neck,” from 1900, and its companion piece, “Eastern Point.”  In a letter, Homer called the former “the best that I have painted.”

During the spring I had the privilege of seeing the American Civil War art show in Washington, D.C. It is on display at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York through Sept. 2. There are several Homers in this show, including some wonderful paintings of African-Americans in the South during the 1870s. I did not see Homer's trip south represented in the Clark collection, but it is possible I missed something.

What is at the Clark is terrific, and the crowds last Friday affirmed Homer’s place in the pantheon of American art. The Civil War sesquicentennial is a great occasion to take in this master’s work, but give me Homer anytime.

Little lady, big voice

The other day I found a photograph of Anna E. Dickinson taken closer to the time she helped Republicans win perhaps the most important gubernatorial election in New Hampshire’s history. I have posted the photograph here, along with the backmark identifying the photo studio, or salon, as it was then known, where the picture was taken.

Anna E. Dickinson, circa 1863.

After the March 1863 gubernatorial election in New Hampshire, Dickinson traveled to Connecticut, where her speeches helped Republicans win another election. My guess is she had the photograph made during that campaign. As you can see, it was taken in Hartford.

Dickinson was a phenomenon. Born to a Quaker family in Philadelphia, she was just 20 years old when she arrived in New Hampshire. Already she had a reputation as an eloquent, confident and persuasive abolitionist before large audiences. She spoke extemporaneously and mesmerized her listeners.

Yet the New England lecture tour she began in late 1862 had drawn small crowds and small fees. It was the New Hampshire campaign of early 1863 that made her. In one month she gave 20 speeches to large audiences in towns and cities around the state. The reviews were glowing, and the talks gave heart to Republicans in their uphill battle to hang on to the governor’s office.

Benjamin Prescott, secretary of the state party, had seen Dickinson speak before the campaign. It was he who invited her to the state, arranged her speeches and saw that she was paid and cared for in her travels. Prescott’s warm letters to her, now at the Library of Congress, form the heart of the Our War chapter on the 1863 election.

Less than a year after her successes in New England, Dickinson reached the peak of her fame. On Jan. 16, 1864, she visited President Lincoln at the White House. Later that day she spoke on the floor of the House of Representatives. According to many sources, she was the first woman to do so, although the English missionary Dorothy Ripley preached a sermon there in 1806.

The backmark of the Dickinson carte-de-visite.

The heads of both chambers of Congress, Vice President Hannibal Hamlin and House Speaker Schuyler Colfax, escorted Dickinson into the hall. With Abraham and Mary Lincoln in the audience, Dickinson criticized the president’s want of boldness on slavery and delivered a strong abolitionist message. She called for equal pay for African-American soldiers and equal rights for all freedmen and freedwomen.

The Washington Chronicle summarized one of her arguments the next day: “Let no man prate of compromise. Defeated by ballots, the South had appealed to bullets. Let it stand by the appeal. There was no arm of compromise long enough to stretch over the sea of blood, and the mound of fallen heroes, to shake hands with their murderers.”

Then she took a strange detour. “This war was preeminently a people’s war,” the Daily National Republican quoted her as saying. “It was guided by the man of the people, who had never been behind the great heart of the people. He had done much, and all was hopeful for us. Granted that we had much yet to do, we had the man to complete the grand and glorious work, and that work was left for his second term of office.”

Her support of Lincoln’s re-election contradicted her message and shocked the Radicals who had invited her to speak.

A Radical friend, the journalist the journalist Whitelaw Reid, told her the endorsement was a mistake, and she took his point. When she repeated the speech elsewhere across the country in that election year, she omitted the call for a second term for Lincoln.  

Dickinson received $130 for her speech to Congress but declined the money. Instead she asked Vice President Hamlin and Speaker Colfax to give it to the D.C. chapter of the National Freedmen’s Relief Society.

(For many of the details in this post I used the historian James Harvey Young’s excellent account of Dickinson’s career.) 

A Yankee sergeant's great escape

The resourceful Charles W. Thurston of the 6th New
Hampshire often donned a Confederate uniform and
 "played Rebel" to help his party to freedom after its escape
from Salisbury prison in North Carolina.

Nothing better illustrates the complexities of public opinion during the Civil War than the long journeys escaped Union prisoners often made through enemy territory. Our War tells the story of Capt. Orlando Dimick of the 11th New Hampshire Volunteers, whose primary sources of sustenance during a 250-mile trek through South and North Carolina to Knoxville, Tenn., were slaves he met along the way.

But once Dimick reached western North Carolina, there were few slaves. He and his escape party had to risk asking white people for food and help. They were in luck. Dimick wrote after the war: “No higher type of loyalty existed than was found in western North Carolina and East Tennessee, where the devotion to the flag meant ostracism and persecution of self and kindred, and oftentimes the loss of property and destruction of home, and sometimes the death of dear ones.”

I was reminded of this passage recently as I read about another escape. The source was the memoir of Albert D. Richardson, a correspondent for Horace Greeley’s New York Tribune. Richardson and another Tribune correspondent, Junius Browne, were captured at Vicksburg on May 3, 1863. They escaped from Salisbury prison 20 months later on Dec. 18, 1864. Like Dimick, they walked more than 250 miles with a party of escapees to Knoxville.

One of their party was Charles W. Thurston, a 25-year-old sergeant of the 6th New Hampshire Volunteers. Thurston was from Stoddard, N.H., and had joined the regiment when it was formed in Keene in late 1861. He had survived wounds at Fredericksburg and the Crater in Petersburg only to be captured on the last day of September 1864 at Poplar Springs Church, Va.

After Thurston joined Richardson and the others on the journey from Salisbury to Knoxville, Richardson found him useful for two reasons. He exhibited skill and grace in dealing with skeptical people and unexpected situations, and he had a Confederate private’s uniform.

Albert D. Richardson

Thurston had worn the uniform during his escape from the prison camp. He knew that Richardson, Browne and others had left Salisbury and decided theirs was a good party to accompany. A rebel officer friendly to the Union cause gave him the countersign and promised to lead him to freedom. Thurston walked out of the prison yard behind two rebel detectives. He pulled his hat down over his eyes and sat among rebel guards until his accomplice gave him a sign. The man led Thurston out the gate and hid him in a barn, where African-Americans provided him with food and sent him on his way.

Thurston joined Richardson’s party the next night. “Now here he was, jovial, sanguine, daring, ready to start for the North Pole itself,” Richardson wrote.

Thurston soon made the first of many daring forays on the escape party’s behalf. The escapees had been without food for two days. At about 9 p.m. Thurston “went forward to reconnoiter.” In the Negro quarters he found a middle-aged man and woman. They were catering to young people partying in their master’s house nearby. When Thurston explained that he had just come from a group of hungry Yankees, the slave couple prepared a huge supper of fresh pork and cornbread and brought it to Richardson and his crew. “In the barn, with the rain pattering on the roof, we devoured supper in an incredibly brief period, and begged the slave to go back with his basket and bring just as much more,” Richardson wrote.

And thus it went on the long journey for the escapees. In Our War I describe it as an Underground Railroad running in reverse – African-Americans helping white escapees to freedom. Whether in eastern North Carolina, where slaves were plentiful, or in the mountains further west, where the escapees had to rely on white Unionists, Thurston proved his mettle. In Richardson’s account of the escape, he wrote that “Charley Thurston was our ‘best foot,’ and we always put him foremost. With his Confederate uniform and his ready invention, he could play Rebel soldier admirably.”

The party reached Knoxville on Jan. 14, 1865, nearly four weeks after the escape. Thurston returned to the 6th New Hampshire and was promoted to first sergeant and later first lieutenant. He mustered out of the army on July 17.

Both Richardson and Thurston died shortly after the war. Richardson was shot and killed by the husband of an actress he was living with in 1869. He was 36. Thurston died Aug, 3, 1871, in Brandon, Ala., at the age of 32.

"Doctress" Hawks? I don't think so

As I write this, I am sitting just a few miles from Newport, N.H. Newport is an inland town – not a port at all. It is a former mill town on the Sugar River with a lively downtown, a lovely common, a fine public library and beautiful old churches, large and small.

Newport reveres its native daughter, Sarah Josepha Hale. For 40 years beginning in 1837, Hale edited Godey’s Lady’s Book, making it the most popular magazine in the country. She accepted stories, articles and poems only from American writers. Under her editorship circulation of Godey’s quadrupled to 40,000 in two years and to 150,000 by the coming of the Civil War. Hale also wrote “Mary Had a Little Lamb” and, in 1863, persuaded Abraham Lincoln to make Thanksgiving a national holiday.

Since 1856, Newport has honored her each year by presenting the Hale Medal to an author or poet with New England connections. Robert Frost was the first winner, and the list of Hale medalists remains impressive 57 years later.

The other day I happened upon an item in an 1864 issue of Godey’s Lady’s Book that piqued my interest. It related to Doctor Esther Hill Hawks, a character in Our War. Hawks graduated in 1857 in a class of seven from New England Female Medical College in Boston. An abolitionist whose husband, Milton, was also a doctor, Hawks served freed slaves and black soldiers as a nurse, surgeon and teacher. 

The magazine article in question gave a brief rundown on the progress of the three women’s medical schools in the country, including Hawks’s alma mater. The 14-year-old Female Medical College of Pennsylvania and its New England counterpart, just eight years old, had each graduated about 50 doctors by 1863. The New York Medical College for Women had just opened.

Sarah Josepha Hale of Newport, N.H.

The writer of the article in Godey's, possibly Hale, also weighed in about the terminology being used in this emerging profession for women. She favored “doctress of medicine” for graduates and objected to “female” in the names of the institutions. She approved of the name of the New York school, a college for “women” – “not Females, which may mean animals, as all living creatures that bring forth young are females. Therefore, as the term does not certainly signify the human feminine, by using it, the directness of language is marred, and the dignity of the woman or lady is degraded. It seems to signify the lowest type of womanhood, as it refers only to the animal.”

The writer went on to suggest that it would be even better to call the schools “ladies’ medical colleges,” adding: “Had ‘The Lady’s Book’ been styled ‘The Female’s Book,’ would it ever have become the leading organ of magazine literature?”

As a newspaper editor a century and more after this item appeared, I survived the feminist language wars and have a few scars to show for it. These battles were important. What we call things and how we say them matter. I’m glad I finally came to see that “his” shouldn’t stand for his or her. On the other hand, calling the head of a committee a “chair” still hurts my teeth.

And I'm pretty sure that had “doctress” survived in popular usage, as the Godey's writer hoped it would, it would have gone the way of stewardess and actress.

Stand your ground, circa 1864

Point Lookout, Md. The prison camp is at upper right, with the tents of the enlisted guard members outside the fence.

At about 5 p.m. on March 20, 1864, Lt. Joseph H. Wilkinson of the 2nd New Hampshire Volunteers heard that more Confederate prisoners had just reached the Union prison camp at Point Lookout, Md. They had arrived by boat from Baltimore, and it was Wilkinson’s job as the commissary officer to make sure they were fed.

Wilkinson found the prisoners standing in small groups. He made his count and turned to leave, but he hadn't gone far when some of the prisoners began to squabble about a debt. Wilkinson saw a prisoner swearing and waving a greenback. The man said he would be damned if he would accept a bill with Abraham Lincoln’s likeness on it.

5th New Hampshire officers at the prison. Gus Sanborn is top row, right. 

Wilkinson considered berating the prisoner about his crude language and behavior but decided the man was too out of control. He headed back to his quarters. Before he got there, he heard a pistol shot. He fetched the officer of the day. Together they found the man who had been cursing and carrying on lying dead on the ground.

The dead man was a prisoner named Peyton, probably Lawrence Peyton. The record wobbles on whether he was a captain or a private. Although he had claimed to have an officer's commission, he was probably a private in the 2nd Kentucky Cavalry.

The trouble that led to Peyton's death lasted less than 10 minutes. It began as Peyton walked arm-in-arm in the stockade at Point Lookout with Lt. H.B. Dunlap, a fellow prisoner. Dunlap saw a guard passing and suggested to Peyton that they ask him for whiskey. The guard turned them down, but Peyton wouldn't take no for an answer. Dunlap, who had seen Peyton drinking during the boat passage from Baltimore, later speculated that Peyton’s bravado came out of the bottle.

Peyton bantered with the Yankee sergeant, first suggesting that he was too high-minded and then asking whether the white or the black soldiers at the prison camp made better guards. The sergeant laughed and said probably the Negroes. “Yes, I suppose the Negroes are superior,” Peyton said sarcastically.

The sergeant told him to stop talking to him that way. Peyton said he’d talk to him any way he wanted, He began cursing. The sergeant reached for his pistol. “Goddamn you, shoot,” Peyton shouted. The sergeant said he would if Peyton didn’t “dry up.”

When the sergeant pointed the pistol at Peyton, Dunlap stepped between them and begged him to hold his fire. Dunlap tried to drag Peyton away, but Peyton stood his ground and said: “If he wants to shoot, let him shoot.” The sergeant drew the pistol again. Six feet away, Peyton bared his chest. The sergeant pulled the trigger.

Capt. Gus Sanborn

Gus Sanborn of Franklin, a newly minted Fifth New Hampshire captain, was staff officer of the day. He heard the gunshot and saw a sergeant approaching. “Captain,” the man said, “I have shot a man while in the line of my duty.” Sanborn ran to investigate.

Standing near Peyton’s body, Dunlap told Sanborn the shooting had occurred because Peyton said the black soldiers on guard were superior to the sergeant. He said Peyton was shaking his fist in the sergeant's face.

The prison surgeon, James H. Thompson, examined Peyton’s body at around 8 p.m. and found a bullet hole in this chest. The slug had hit him in the sternum and passed through his heart and aorta before lodging just under the skin in his back.

Edwin Young, a 23-year-old sergeant from the 2nd New Hampshire Volunteers, had fired the fatal shot. He told his story in a straightforward manner, placing his fate in the hands of his superiors at Point Lookout and higher echelons of the Union army in Washington.

The 2nd, 5th and 12th New Hampshire regiments had all been mauled at Gettysburg eight months earlier. After a trip back to Concord, they were sent to Point Lookout, a prison camp built for 10,000 men. In part because the Union-Confederate prisoner exchange stalled, the POW population at Point Lookout swelled to 20,000. During the two years of the prison’s existence, 4,000 Confederate prisoners died there.

Young, the shooter, was from Westmoreland, N.H. He had enlisted in the 2nd at the start of the war and risen through the ranks as the regiment fought at Bull Run, on the Peninsula, at Bull Run again, then at Gettysburg. Young had been wounded at Second Bull Run.

The shooting at Point Lookout clouded his future, but apparently he believed honesty gave him the best chance with the military justice system.

Col. Charles E. Hapgood of Amherst, N.H.

A fact-finding board, not a court-martial commission, heard the case. Its leader was Col. Charles E. Hapgood, commander of the 5th New Hampshire. The other two members were Maj. Samuel P. Sayles of Young’s own regiment and Lt. Hosea Q. Sargent of the 12th New Hampshire.

Addressing this board three days after the killing, Young said he had been in charge of two contingents of prisoners at Point Lookout for six months and had always been kind to them. “I never have treated anyone with undue harshness or taken advantage of their situation as prisoners,” he said.

On March 20, he had just finished installing a stove in a prisoner tent when two Confederate officers approached him and said: “You look like a damned old whiskey head. Can’t you get us some whiskey?”

He told them he was a teetotaler and whiskey was forbidden in the camp. One of them – Peyton, it turned out – said: “Do not make a Goddamn fool of yourself here, you fanatic philanthropist, or you will go to heaven. . . . We have got greenbacks, and you will get it for us.” Young refused.

During the exchange about the black troops at Point Lookout, Peyton said that the Yankees had learned all they ever knew from Negroes. He gestured toward a black soldier walking the guard fence. He asked where Young was from, and when Young told him New Hampshire, Peyton responded that this made him a fit subject to associate with Negroes.

Young said he tried in vain to silence Peyton. When even Peyton’s comrade couldn’t quiet him and Peyton began shaking his fist in Young’s face and calling him a coward, Young told him to stop or he would shoot. Peyton threw open his coat and dared Young to fire. “I cocked my revolver and fired,” Young said. He left immediately to report the shooting, first to Sanborn and then to Gen. Gilman Marston, the camp commander who had been the 2nd New Hampshire’s first colonel.

Details of the shooting reached Washington within 10 days. They were received with strong opinions – on both sides.

William Hoffman had been a POW.

William Hoffman was the 57-year-old commissary-general of prisoners and had been at West Point with Robert E. Lee in the class of 1829. When the war began, Hoffman had been stationed in San Antonio. Texas secessionists arrested him and imprisoned him for 16 months. Whether this experience influenced the opinion he submitted to Secretary of War Edwin M. Stanton is hard to know, but here is what he wrote:

“The circumstances as shown by the proceeding of the board of officers fully justify the act of Sergeant Young. While in the execution of his office he was grossly insulted and defied by a prisoner of war, and it was only after this was persisted in without provocation that he was compelled to vindicate himself and the position he held in a manner which resulted so seriously to the offender.”

Gen. Edwin R.S. Canby reached the opposite conclusion. “In the relation that existed between the sergeant and the prisoner,” he wrote, “the killing was, in my judgment, entirely unjustifiable. The sergeant should be put on trial for murder.”

Gen. Ethan Allen Hitchcock, a Vermonter who headed the commission overseeing the prisoner exchange, waffled. Though unsure Young was criminally liable, he called for a court-martial.

What came of this recommendation is hard to know. Gen. Benjamin Butler huffed that he should have been informed of the incident earlier. He and other higher-ups also worried about possible retaliation against Union captives if word of the shooting spread. But the Official Records contain no evidence that I could find that Young was court-martialed.

His service record in Ayling’s Register of New Hampshire soldiers is silent on this question. It lists Young as having served his full three-year enlistment and mustered out shortly after the battle of Cold Harbor in June 1864, three months after the shooting.

What made Sgt. Young pull the trigger? Was it just hatred for the enemy built up during years of bloody battles? Or did race-baiting play a role? Did Young feel truly threatened by a drunken loudmouth prisoner, or did Peyton’s remarks about white guards being inferior to black lead to his extreme reaction?

We may never know.