The casualty sheet

A “Casualty Sheet of Wounded” was filled out for my great, great grandfather Arthur Bull when he applied for his Civil War pension in 1885. It’s a small document, just one page front and back, that I had somehow missed in the bulging folder where I keep copies of his military and pension records.

Arthur Bull's Casualty Sheet of Wounded, completed 23 May 1885 when he applied for his Civil War pension. Scan by Molly Charboneau
Cover of Arthur Bull’s “Casualty Sheet of Wounded,” completed 23 May 1885 when he applied for his Civil War pension. Photo by Molly Charboneau

Wondering where and for how long Arthur was in hospital, I finally sat down to take a good look and was surprised to read that he was “transferred to New York June 16th 1864” and “Arrived June 18, at De Camp Hospl.”

New York? I assumed injured Union soldiers were treated near the front. Now here was Arthur being transferred back to his home state from the Virginia battlefields.

I looked up De Camp General Hospital to see exactly where it was located and found descriptions and old lithographs of the facility as it once stood on Davids Island in Long Island Sound near New Rochelle, N.Y.

But wait, there’s more.

The casualty sheet named the Hospital Register of the New England Soldiers’ Relief Association as the source of information about Arthur’s transfer. I looked them up online. Founded in 1862 with offices on lower Broadway,  the group’s mission was “to aid and care for all sick and wounded soldiers passing through the city of New York, on their way to or from the war.”

My ancestor passed through New York City? Where I live today? And the group’s headquarters was in lower Manhattan right near my job?

Wow, this casualty sheet was some document! What would I discover next about Arthur’s wartime years?

© 2014 Molly Charboneau. All rights reserved.

 

 

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To general hospital

Bullets, bayonets and cannon shells weren’t the only things that felled combatants during the U.S. Civil War. Illness also laid thousands of soldiers low — including my great, great grandfather Union Army Pvt. Arthur Bull who “gave out” on the march to Cold Harbor, Va. in the spring of 1864.

Over the course of the war, his 6th NY Heavy Artillery unit lost 278 enlisted men due to disease or other causes — more than double the 130 enlisted men from his unit who were killed in action (62) or died from their wounds (68).

Mt. Pleaseat Hospital in Wasington, D.C. circa 1864. Source: Library of Congress
Lithograph of Mt. Pleasant Hospitals in Washington, D.C. circa 1862 by Charles Magnus, where Arthur Bull was admitted on 4 June 1864. Source: Library of Congress

Arthur suffered from disease of the heart and lungs and chronic rheumatism, according to his pension and military medical records, and was transported away from the Virginia battlefields to Washington, D.C.

There he was admitted on 4 June 1864 to Mt. Pleasant General Hospital – one of several facilities newly-created by the U.S. Sanitary Commission to tend to the huge influx of war-related Union casualties.

So it was not an injury in some heroic firefight that took my ancestor out of action. But I am still proud of Arthur for soldiering on with his last ounce of strength in a Union military offensive that helped turn the tide against slavery.

After being admitted to hospital, my ancestor began a wartime journey of a different sort – one that came as a surprise to me when  I uncovered the details that had been carefully tucked away in his Civil War file 150 years ago.

© 2014 Molly Charboneau. All rights reserved.

 

 

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Wartime illness

Union Field Hospital 5th Corps SCH, Va. 12 May 1864 Forbes 20692r_2
Union Army field hospital, 5th Corps, Spotsylvania, Va. 12 May 1864 by Edwin Forbes. Source: Library of Congress

My ancestor Pvt. Arthur Bull’s unit — the 6th NY Heavy Artillery — was attached to the Army of the Potomac’s 5th Corps from May to July 1864.

Leaving the bloody fields of the Wilderness and Spotsylvania, Union forces trekked through difficult Virginia terrain in relentless pursuit of the Confederate Army — engaging in skirmishes and battles all along the way at Harris Farm, North Anna, Totopotomoy and Cold Harbor.

The march to Cold Harbor was one of the worst — kicking up ankle-deep dust that choked off the air, darkened the sun and coated bone-tired Union troops from head to toe in a ghostly residue as they trudged past the decaying carcasses of dead cavalry horses.

Sometime during those grueling days in May, the fighting, the marching and the exhaustion took their toll. My great, great grandfather — along with a large number of his comrades — collapsed on the march to Cold Harbor.

Arthur says he “gave out” and was “attacked with pain & difficulty of breathing in left side in cardiac region,”  according to doctors’ notes in his pension file — sick enough to be “sent to hospital” by his regiment, joining the steady flow of ill and wounded Union soldiers evacuated from the Overland Campaign battlefields.

I feel grateful that by 1864 an ambulance corps, field hospitals and general hospitals were set up to rescue and treat wartime casualties. Their presence and the timing of his illness — coming as it did before the deadly confrontation at Cold Harbor — may very well have saved my ancestor’s life.

But, as I would later discover, Arthur’s wartime illness continued to affect his health through the remainder of the Civil War and long after.

© 2014 Molly Charboneau. All rights reserved.

 

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Mother of three

While my ancestor Pvt. Arthur Bull was in the Union Army (1864-65), his wife Mary Elizabeth (Blakeslee) Bull was left in charge of their household in Conklin, Broome Co., N.Y.

Union Reenactors 4 May 2014
Union Army reenactor and his wife, Spotsylvania Court House, Va., 4 May 2014. Photo by Molly Charboneau

What was life like for my great, great grandmother during the Civil War years?  It’s hard to know with few records to go by.

Elizabeth, as she was called, was 27 in 1865 and a mother of three young children — Emma, 7, born in Pennsylvania; Carrie, 5, born in Delaware Co., N.Y.; and Milo, 3, born in Broome Co., N.Y. The family had moved several times since her 1856 marriage to Arthur in Liberty, Susquehanna, Pa.

Arthur received a $300 bounty when he enlisted — equivalent to more than $5,000 today — so there would have been money to live on. But for Elizabeth, as for many women of that era, her husband’s absence also brought new responsibility to run things as she thought best.

Census records show she had family living nearby to turn to for help — her older sister Rhoda Ann (Blakeslee) Whitney, Arthur’s parents Jeremiah and Mary Bull and Arthur’s sister Mary Emma (Bull) Tamkins, whose husband Edward was also away in the 137th Regiment N.Y. Infantry.

Mary Bull signature
Signature of Mary Elizabeth (Blakeslee) Bull, 53, on 9 May 1892 affidavit in Civil War widow’s pension application file. Photo by Molly Charboneau.

But I have inherited no diary or letters from Elizabeth to illuminate her inner life. I have only her signature on documents from her application, decades later, for widow’s benefits.

What were her thoughts, her hopes, her worries as a young woman during the U.S. Civil War? How did she cope with having a husband in harm’s way? What did she tell her children?

How I wish she had found the time to leave answers to those questions.

© 2014 Molly Charboneau. All rights reserved.

 

 
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Dad joins the journey

This Memorial Day, I’ll be remembering my dad Norm Charboneau — a WW II veteran and my enthusiastic travel partner on many family history road trips.

“Where are we going this time, Mol?” he would quip when I visited him and Mom each summer.

Norm Charboneau USN
Family photo circa 1946 of Norm Charboneau, 22, a U.S. Navy ETM3c. Scan by Molly Charboneau.

Dad joined the journey in 1992, and for years we combed upstate New York together, or strategized by phone, in search of our elusive ancestors. But it wasn’t always that way.

Dad grew up in the small Adirondack town of Otter Lake in Forestport, Oneida Co., N.Y., where he admired those in uniform — postal workers, bus drivers, train conductors — who saw more of the world than he did.

The first in his family to go to college, Dad interrupted his engineering studies at Clarkson University in 1944 to enlist in the U.S. Navy. He served in the Pacific until  1946 as an Electronics Technician Mate, Third Class (ETM3c) — in the wider world he longed for.

My college years in the 1960s were interrupted in a different way when I gave up my studies and joined the peace movement to end the Vietnam  War. I was not sure I could ever heal the rift that caused with Dad.

But as years passed, we both mellowed. I eventually finished college and began researching our family. One day I realized that our time together was slipping away, so I called Dad.

“What would you say to a trip to Otter Lake, so you can show me everything and tell me all about it?” I asked him.

Dad — who inherited the gift of gab from his mother’s Welsh-Irish side — loved the idea. And with that trip, the first of many,  he and I finally moved beyond what divided us and started enjoying the legacy we shared: family, ancestors, heritage.

© 2014 Molly Charboneau. All rights reserved.

 

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Growing family trees one leaf (and road trip) at a time