P95Carry
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More fascinating stuff Gary - since my visit to Gettysburg last year and touring the battlefields I have a particular interest - assisted by I guess an ability to ''picture'' the locations by name.
A collection of bedtime stories - or sharpshooter & sniper tales
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On the 2nd day of Gettysburg
“During the 2nd of July, a detachment of Berdan’s sharpshooters, using very heavy, long-range telescope rifles, with a sort of tripod rest, were placed on our main line with instructions to stop this annoyance. The method adopted was somewhat peculiar. The enemy’s sharpshooters soon discovered, and only that we were using rifles that had sufficient range, but also that they were being used with remarkable precision. With a field-glass it was easy to observe the effect of this rifle practice. Several men were seen to fall at the openings in the barn, and the enemy’s sharpshooters became more and more cautious. At the flash of a rifle on our line they would instantly disappear, and upon the ball passing through the opening as instantly reappear, ready to try a shot or fall back again if a second rifle flashed on our line. To meet these tactics, new methods were adopted by the telescopic riflemen; they formed themselves into squads or partnerships of three, and when the three were ready with correct aim, number one would fire; the enemy would instantly retire from the two openings; then counting ‘one, two, three,’ the remaining two partners would fire simultaneously, each at his appointed opening; the ball from number one passing through the opening, the enemy immediately reappeared, too late to see the flash of the second rifles, yet in time to receive their bullets. Alas! how little we thought human life was the stake for which this game was being played.”
“During the 2nd of July, a detachment of Berdan’s sharpshooters, using very heavy, long-range telescope rifles, with a sort of tripod rest, were placed on our main line with instructions to stop this annoyance. The method adopted was somewhat peculiar. The enemy’s sharpshooters soon discovered, and only that we were using rifles that had sufficient range, but also that they were being used with remarkable precision. With a field-glass it was easy to observe the effect of this rifle practice. Several men were seen to fall at the openings in the barn, and the enemy’s sharpshooters became more and more cautious. At the flash of a rifle on our line they would instantly disappear, and upon the ball passing through the opening as instantly reappear, ready to try a shot or fall back again if a second rifle flashed on our line. To meet these tactics, new methods were adopted by the telescopic riflemen; they formed themselves into squads or partnerships of three, and when the three were ready with correct aim, number one would fire; the enemy would instantly retire from the two openings; then counting ‘one, two, three,’ the remaining two partners would fire simultaneously, each at his appointed opening; the ball from number one passing through the opening, the enemy immediately reappeared, too late to see the flash of the second rifles, yet in time to receive their bullets. Alas! how little we thought human life was the stake for which this game was being played.”
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On the third day of Gettysburg.
On this third day of Gettysburg, here's an incident of humanity:
“The skirmishers on both sides lay very close to the ground, making the most economical use of any little depression, of a fence-rail or two from the fence thrown down during the night or day before, or, as in many cases relying on the doubtful shelter of their knapsacks which they unslung and pushed out before them. Little groups were gradually and spontaneously formed along the line, and these groups acted together firing by volley into any puff of white smoke that would be thrust out by the enemy, with fair chance in this way that one bullet at least of the volley would count. Midway between the contending lines was a solitary tree that in peaceful days had given its shade to the harvest hands at their nooning. Early in the morning some Confederate sharpshooters had crawled out to this tree, where they lay at its roots and were able to reckon their game with every shot. So destructive, in fact, did their fire become that the wildest imprecations were shouted at them by the Federals, and threats were made that if taken they would get no quarter. All at once there came a lull in the firing at this part of the line. A Confederate was seen to rise up from the base of the tree and advance toward the Federals with his hands raised. Shots were fired at him, but there was curiousity at his approach, and the word was “wait till we see what he wants to do.” Some thought he had a mind to desert and encouraged him with shouts of ‘Come over, Johnny! We won’t fire.’
“But if the Confederate spoke, what he said could not be heard over the din of the cannonading and musketry, then growing heavy and continuous as the day wore on. Forward he came still, and all eyes were now strained to see what it could be that he meant to do. There can be no truce on a battlefield till the battle is lost or won... Suddenly the Confederate dropped upon the grass and for an instant was lost to the sight. It was thought he had been hit. But only for an instant for a thrill of enthusiasm passed through the Federals, murmurs of admiration were heard, and then a cheer, as hearty as if given in a charge, burst forth from their throats, and the cheer, repeated and increased in volume, proved that unselfish, noble actions are possible, and that there are noble hearts to appreciate and to respond.
“The Confederate sharpshooter, who had been doing his best to destroy his antagonists, had seen in front of him a wounded federal lying helpless on the ground between the lines and begging in his agonizing thirst for a drink, and, at the almost certain risk of his own life, had gone forward to give some comfort to his distressed enemy. This it was that caused the federal cheer and for a few moments checked the work of death in that neighborhood. When the sharpshooter had performed his act of mercy he hastened back to the tree and with a warning cry of ‘Down Yanks; we’re going to fire’ the little unpremeditated truce was ended and was soon forgotten in the grand events that followed almost immediately after.
“The next day the Fourth of July - a heap of Confederates was found under that tree. Whether the hero of the day before was one of the ghastly dead will probably never be known.”
The three days of Gettysburg are excerpts from Chapter 9. The Gettysburg portion is over 20 pages out of the 60 plus page chapter.
On this third day of Gettysburg, here's an incident of humanity:
“The skirmishers on both sides lay very close to the ground, making the most economical use of any little depression, of a fence-rail or two from the fence thrown down during the night or day before, or, as in many cases relying on the doubtful shelter of their knapsacks which they unslung and pushed out before them. Little groups were gradually and spontaneously formed along the line, and these groups acted together firing by volley into any puff of white smoke that would be thrust out by the enemy, with fair chance in this way that one bullet at least of the volley would count. Midway between the contending lines was a solitary tree that in peaceful days had given its shade to the harvest hands at their nooning. Early in the morning some Confederate sharpshooters had crawled out to this tree, where they lay at its roots and were able to reckon their game with every shot. So destructive, in fact, did their fire become that the wildest imprecations were shouted at them by the Federals, and threats were made that if taken they would get no quarter. All at once there came a lull in the firing at this part of the line. A Confederate was seen to rise up from the base of the tree and advance toward the Federals with his hands raised. Shots were fired at him, but there was curiousity at his approach, and the word was “wait till we see what he wants to do.” Some thought he had a mind to desert and encouraged him with shouts of ‘Come over, Johnny! We won’t fire.’
“But if the Confederate spoke, what he said could not be heard over the din of the cannonading and musketry, then growing heavy and continuous as the day wore on. Forward he came still, and all eyes were now strained to see what it could be that he meant to do. There can be no truce on a battlefield till the battle is lost or won... Suddenly the Confederate dropped upon the grass and for an instant was lost to the sight. It was thought he had been hit. But only for an instant for a thrill of enthusiasm passed through the Federals, murmurs of admiration were heard, and then a cheer, as hearty as if given in a charge, burst forth from their throats, and the cheer, repeated and increased in volume, proved that unselfish, noble actions are possible, and that there are noble hearts to appreciate and to respond.
“The Confederate sharpshooter, who had been doing his best to destroy his antagonists, had seen in front of him a wounded federal lying helpless on the ground between the lines and begging in his agonizing thirst for a drink, and, at the almost certain risk of his own life, had gone forward to give some comfort to his distressed enemy. This it was that caused the federal cheer and for a few moments checked the work of death in that neighborhood. When the sharpshooter had performed his act of mercy he hastened back to the tree and with a warning cry of ‘Down Yanks; we’re going to fire’ the little unpremeditated truce was ended and was soon forgotten in the grand events that followed almost immediately after.
“The next day the Fourth of July - a heap of Confederates was found under that tree. Whether the hero of the day before was one of the ghastly dead will probably never be known.”
The three days of Gettysburg are excerpts from Chapter 9. The Gettysburg portion is over 20 pages out of the 60 plus page chapter.
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Wanna Bet?
The Native Americans taught us well and we should never forget the lessons they taught.
"A Senaca Indian made a bet that he would capture a rebel sharpshooter who was in a tree in front of our line in Virginia. He enveloped himself in pine boughs until he looked like a tree, and by slow movements advanced near the sharpshooter's roost. Here, Indian like, he patiently waited until his prey had emptied his piece at one of our men, when he suddenly brought his musket to bear upon the reb, giving him no time to reload. The sharpshooter was taken at a disadvantage. To the command to come down he readily assented, when the Indian triumphantly marched him a prisoner into camp, and won his wager."
The Native Americans taught us well and we should never forget the lessons they taught.
"A Senaca Indian made a bet that he would capture a rebel sharpshooter who was in a tree in front of our line in Virginia. He enveloped himself in pine boughs until he looked like a tree, and by slow movements advanced near the sharpshooter's roost. Here, Indian like, he patiently waited until his prey had emptied his piece at one of our men, when he suddenly brought his musket to bear upon the reb, giving him no time to reload. The sharpshooter was taken at a disadvantage. To the command to come down he readily assented, when the Indian triumphantly marched him a prisoner into camp, and won his wager."
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California Joe and his telescopic rifle
"'California Joe' will always be remembered as the very aspotle of sharpshooters. While before Richmond, a rebel sharpshooter had been amusing himself and annoying our General and some other officers by firing several times in that direction, and sending the bullets whistling in unwelcome proximity to their heads.
"My man, can't you get your piece on that fellow who is firing on us, and stop his impertinence?" asked the General.
"I think so," replied Joe; and he brought his telescopic rifle to a horizontal position.
"Do you see him?" inquired the General.
"I do."
"How far is he away?"
"Fifteen hundred yards."
"Can you fetch him?"
"I'll try."
And Joe did try. He brought his piece to a steady aim, pulled the trigger, and sent the bullet whizzing on its experimental tour, the officers meantime looking through their field glasses. Joe hit the fellow in the leg or foot. He went hobbling up the hill on one leg and two hands, in the style of locomotion tht was amusing. Our General was sol tickled - there is no better word - at the style and celerity of the fellow's retreat, that it was some time before he could get command of his risibles sufficiently to thank Joe for what he had done."
"'California Joe' will always be remembered as the very aspotle of sharpshooters. While before Richmond, a rebel sharpshooter had been amusing himself and annoying our General and some other officers by firing several times in that direction, and sending the bullets whistling in unwelcome proximity to their heads.
"My man, can't you get your piece on that fellow who is firing on us, and stop his impertinence?" asked the General.
"I think so," replied Joe; and he brought his telescopic rifle to a horizontal position.
"Do you see him?" inquired the General.
"I do."
"How far is he away?"
"Fifteen hundred yards."
"Can you fetch him?"
"I'll try."
And Joe did try. He brought his piece to a steady aim, pulled the trigger, and sent the bullet whizzing on its experimental tour, the officers meantime looking through their field glasses. Joe hit the fellow in the leg or foot. He went hobbling up the hill on one leg and two hands, in the style of locomotion tht was amusing. Our General was sol tickled - there is no better word - at the style and celerity of the fellow's retreat, that it was some time before he could get command of his risibles sufficiently to thank Joe for what he had done."
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The famous elephant quote & the Whitworth story
At the Battle of Spotsylvania Court House, word of the Confederate sharpshooters’ activity reached Colonel Martin T. McMahon, General “Uncle John” Sedgwick’s chief of staff. When he learned that Sedgwick planned to visit the front, he pleaded with him not to conduct his observations at an area known to be heavily infested with sharpshooters. Despite McMahon’s warnings, Sedgwick rode ahead and joined his men. Watching them duck in response to bullets, he called for them to steady themselves and assured them, “What! What! Men, dodging this way for single bullets! What will you do when they open fire along the whole line? I am ashamed of you. Why, they couldn’t hit an elephant at this distance.” A soldier walking by the General heard the “long shrill whistle” of a bullet and dropped to the ground... Sedgwick nudged him and admonished, “Why, my man, I am ashamed of you. Dodging that way. They couldn’t hit an elephant at this distance.” The man rose, sheepishly saluted and apologized explaining how dodging had saved his life. Sedgwick laughed and let the man return to his unit. Almost immediately, another long shrill was heard followed by a thud. Struck beneath the left eye, Sedgwick fell onto Col. McMahon and toppled him to the ground.
On the Confederate side, sharpshooter Ben Powell reported to Sergeant Berry Benson that he had shot a big Yankee officer at over half a mile. Wrote Powell: “I raised my sights and took the chance, and sir, he tumbled right off his horse. The others dismounted and carried him away. I could see it all well through the glass.” And Powell's weapon? Benson tells us in an earlier portion of his book: “Tuesday, May 10, the Sharpshooters were relieved from duty in the morning. Having nothing to do, I went across a field where Ben Powell, with his Whitworth rifle was sharpshooting. Ben was not attached to the Battalion, being independent in his movements. There had been a number of Whitworth rifles (with telescopic sight) brought from England, running the blockade. These guns with ammunition had been distributed in the army, our brigade receiving one. It was given to Powell, as he was known to be an excellent shot. In campaigns he posted himself whereever he pleased, for the purpose of picking off the enemy’s men.” There's much more to the story and you'll find it in Chapter 11.
At the Battle of Spotsylvania Court House, word of the Confederate sharpshooters’ activity reached Colonel Martin T. McMahon, General “Uncle John” Sedgwick’s chief of staff. When he learned that Sedgwick planned to visit the front, he pleaded with him not to conduct his observations at an area known to be heavily infested with sharpshooters. Despite McMahon’s warnings, Sedgwick rode ahead and joined his men. Watching them duck in response to bullets, he called for them to steady themselves and assured them, “What! What! Men, dodging this way for single bullets! What will you do when they open fire along the whole line? I am ashamed of you. Why, they couldn’t hit an elephant at this distance.” A soldier walking by the General heard the “long shrill whistle” of a bullet and dropped to the ground... Sedgwick nudged him and admonished, “Why, my man, I am ashamed of you. Dodging that way. They couldn’t hit an elephant at this distance.” The man rose, sheepishly saluted and apologized explaining how dodging had saved his life. Sedgwick laughed and let the man return to his unit. Almost immediately, another long shrill was heard followed by a thud. Struck beneath the left eye, Sedgwick fell onto Col. McMahon and toppled him to the ground.
On the Confederate side, sharpshooter Ben Powell reported to Sergeant Berry Benson that he had shot a big Yankee officer at over half a mile. Wrote Powell: “I raised my sights and took the chance, and sir, he tumbled right off his horse. The others dismounted and carried him away. I could see it all well through the glass.” And Powell's weapon? Benson tells us in an earlier portion of his book: “Tuesday, May 10, the Sharpshooters were relieved from duty in the morning. Having nothing to do, I went across a field where Ben Powell, with his Whitworth rifle was sharpshooting. Ben was not attached to the Battalion, being independent in his movements. There had been a number of Whitworth rifles (with telescopic sight) brought from England, running the blockade. These guns with ammunition had been distributed in the army, our brigade receiving one. It was given to Powell, as he was known to be an excellent shot. In campaigns he posted himself whereever he pleased, for the purpose of picking off the enemy’s men.” There's much more to the story and you'll find it in Chapter 11.
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P95Carry
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Wonder what range that was Gary - pretty remarkable shot, with I guess just a smidgeon of luck too - imagining how small the gap might have been.
Guess the two died knowing little of what happened.
Guess the two died knowing little of what happened.
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In the fighting that followed after Gettysburg...
It was at Kelly's Ford that Corporal Johnson of Berdan’s Sharpshooters demonstrated his prowess with the Sharps breech loading rifle. “A remarkable instance of fine shooting occurred at this time. Corp. Johnson, of Company G, upon being urged to give the retreating Rebs a shot, although he considered the chances poor hitting his man at that distance, running off as he was, finally exclaimed: ‘By great! I’ll try him,’ and allowing two feet for windage, drew up his rifle at 700 yards raise the sight and fired. At the same time Lieut. Thorp of the adjoining company, K, asked George J. Fisher if he could ‘down that fellow.’ Answering: ‘I guess I can,’ Fisher shot just as Johnson did, and the man threw up his hands and went down. The fallen rebel was afterwards found wounded in two places, he stating that both shots came from the same instant, one through the right thigh, the other the left hip.”
It was at Kelly's Ford that Corporal Johnson of Berdan’s Sharpshooters demonstrated his prowess with the Sharps breech loading rifle. “A remarkable instance of fine shooting occurred at this time. Corp. Johnson, of Company G, upon being urged to give the retreating Rebs a shot, although he considered the chances poor hitting his man at that distance, running off as he was, finally exclaimed: ‘By great! I’ll try him,’ and allowing two feet for windage, drew up his rifle at 700 yards raise the sight and fired. At the same time Lieut. Thorp of the adjoining company, K, asked George J. Fisher if he could ‘down that fellow.’ Answering: ‘I guess I can,’ Fisher shot just as Johnson did, and the man threw up his hands and went down. The fallen rebel was afterwards found wounded in two places, he stating that both shots came from the same instant, one through the right thigh, the other the left hip.”
Sharpshooter in the Crimea
Re. the Crimean War, there is a new book published on sharpshooting in the period. Sharpshooter in the Crimea comprises the Letters of the Captain Gerald Goodlake VC 1854-56. It is well researched with much additional information on the conflict that will help the general reader.
It is published by Pen and Sword books. The above link takes you to their advert.
David
Re. the Crimean War, there is a new book published on sharpshooting in the period. Sharpshooter in the Crimea comprises the Letters of the Captain Gerald Goodlake VC 1854-56. It is well researched with much additional information on the conflict that will help the general reader.
It is published by Pen and Sword books. The above link takes you to their advert.
David
Here in the UK we have a series of national rifle championship matches with the Enfield at 200, 300, 500 and 600 yards. Occassionally we go back a little further and one club I am in holds an aggregate match at 600 and 800 yards (15 shost each distance) with the Enfield.
Best I have managed on the 118" wide x 70" high 800 yard target is 50% hits. This year's winner only had one shot off target at 800 yards.
For reference the 600 yard target is 70" wide x 60" high.
It's a challenge and interesting to get a view on the capabilities of the Enfield.
David
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Wabbit stories
The following are stories involving the 95th (Rifle Brigade) and wascally wabbits that have crossed their paths. It's an excerpt from Chapter 3.
Besides being good soldiers, the men were keen on sport. There is an anecdote told of the 95th. Rifleman Flinn who “was aiming at a Frenchman, when a hare started out of the fern with which the hill was covered. Flinn, leaving the Frenchman, covered the hare, and fired and killed his game. On the officer commanding the company remonstrating with him, his reply was, ‘Ah! Your honour, sure we can kill a Frenchman any day; but it isn’t always I can bag a hare for your supper.’” Similarly, 95th Capt. Johnny Kincaid relates an incident involving yet another hare: “...I saw an amusing instance of the ruling passion for sport predominating over a soldier; a rifleman near me was in the act of taking aim at a Frenchman when a hare crossed between them, the muzzle of the rifle mechanically followed the hare in preference, and, as she was doubling into our lines, I had just time to strike up the piece with my sword before he drew the trigger, or he most probably would have shot one of our own people, for he was so intent upon his game that he had lost sight of everything else.” Unquestionably the hare’s escape was better than losing a comrade.
The following are stories involving the 95th (Rifle Brigade) and wascally wabbits that have crossed their paths. It's an excerpt from Chapter 3.
Besides being good soldiers, the men were keen on sport. There is an anecdote told of the 95th. Rifleman Flinn who “was aiming at a Frenchman, when a hare started out of the fern with which the hill was covered. Flinn, leaving the Frenchman, covered the hare, and fired and killed his game. On the officer commanding the company remonstrating with him, his reply was, ‘Ah! Your honour, sure we can kill a Frenchman any day; but it isn’t always I can bag a hare for your supper.’” Similarly, 95th Capt. Johnny Kincaid relates an incident involving yet another hare: “...I saw an amusing instance of the ruling passion for sport predominating over a soldier; a rifleman near me was in the act of taking aim at a Frenchman when a hare crossed between them, the muzzle of the rifle mechanically followed the hare in preference, and, as she was doubling into our lines, I had just time to strike up the piece with my sword before he drew the trigger, or he most probably would have shot one of our own people, for he was so intent upon his game that he had lost sight of everything else.” Unquestionably the hare’s escape was better than losing a comrade.
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I'm busted.
Here's a response I got to the Spotsylvania post that concerned the death of Sedgwick:
"Dear Gary - the only problem I have with this is that Cpl Powell said that he shot a Union officer from his horse. Col MacMahon, who was with General Sedgwick when he died, was actually walking with him when the fatal shot struck, turning from the impact, Uncle John [a very BIG man for the day] fell on his companion, taking him to the ground. And shortly that, General Sedgwick had admonished a soldier lying on the ground, and stirred him with the toe of his his boot, uttering his famous epitaphic words. He was therefore NOT on horseback at either event.
So who did Cpl Powell actually hit on the morning of 9 May 1864?
And who really DID shoot Uncle John?
Guess that like a lot of things, we'll never know for sure.
tac
So, Tac reads a lot and caught me telling only part of the story. Here's my response:
"You're well read Tac and I've only told part of the story. Virtually all eyewitness accounts I've come across have Sedgwick on foot and not on a horse. So, we actually don't know who shot Sedgwick. It was neither Cpl. Ben Powell nor Sgt. Charles Grace (another Whitworth shooter who claimed to have shot Sedgwick).
One of the problems with any of these sharpshooting stories is that we can't really confirm who shot whom. While eyewitness accounts help, a serious hysterian would examine when it was written and the writer's motive. Was it written 40-50 years after the event and affected by "old soldier" syndrome? Unless an autopsy is performed, we can't even tell if it was a non-regulation bullet (raising an inference of a sharpshooter) who can take credit. While not American Civil War, the death of British General Ross in the War of 1812 is a good example. Was he killed by riflemen firing from a tree perch or by common musket armed infantrymen? In this case forensics would help. But, returning to the ACW, even if it was a .577 or .578 minie, how can we tell whether it's fired by a sharpshooter or not? We can't. Remember, even a blind squirrel occasionally finds a nut.
As for who was shot, I'm saving that for my book. Can't give away everything before publication."
Here's a response I got to the Spotsylvania post that concerned the death of Sedgwick:
"Dear Gary - the only problem I have with this is that Cpl Powell said that he shot a Union officer from his horse. Col MacMahon, who was with General Sedgwick when he died, was actually walking with him when the fatal shot struck, turning from the impact, Uncle John [a very BIG man for the day] fell on his companion, taking him to the ground. And shortly that, General Sedgwick had admonished a soldier lying on the ground, and stirred him with the toe of his his boot, uttering his famous epitaphic words. He was therefore NOT on horseback at either event.
So who did Cpl Powell actually hit on the morning of 9 May 1864?
And who really DID shoot Uncle John?
Guess that like a lot of things, we'll never know for sure.
tac
So, Tac reads a lot and caught me telling only part of the story. Here's my response:
"You're well read Tac and I've only told part of the story. Virtually all eyewitness accounts I've come across have Sedgwick on foot and not on a horse. So, we actually don't know who shot Sedgwick. It was neither Cpl. Ben Powell nor Sgt. Charles Grace (another Whitworth shooter who claimed to have shot Sedgwick).
One of the problems with any of these sharpshooting stories is that we can't really confirm who shot whom. While eyewitness accounts help, a serious hysterian would examine when it was written and the writer's motive. Was it written 40-50 years after the event and affected by "old soldier" syndrome? Unless an autopsy is performed, we can't even tell if it was a non-regulation bullet (raising an inference of a sharpshooter) who can take credit. While not American Civil War, the death of British General Ross in the War of 1812 is a good example. Was he killed by riflemen firing from a tree perch or by common musket armed infantrymen? In this case forensics would help. But, returning to the ACW, even if it was a .577 or .578 minie, how can we tell whether it's fired by a sharpshooter or not? We can't. Remember, even a blind squirrel occasionally finds a nut.
As for who was shot, I'm saving that for my book. Can't give away everything before publication."
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Thanks David for posting the link to the Goodlake book. I bought it immediately after Bill Curtis announced its publication on an American Civil War board. It is indeed well researched and is filled with a lot of interesting information. Its limit (as well as my own limit) is that there is probably a lot of information available in Russian that awaits translation. I've been trying to get a Russian immigrant I know interested in translating their books. For modern reading, Zaistev's (of Walter Craig's, "Battle of Stalingrad" and fictionalized as "War of the Rats) autobiography has been translated. There's a free audio clipping of the first chapter that is worth listening to. It would appeal to anyone interested in 18/19th Century frontier living would enjoy that chapter. Click here for Zaistev
Here's the snippet for the week. It describes an artillery company coming under sharpshooter fire.
“Suddenly there burst out of the dense foliage four magnificent gray horses, and behind them, whirled along like a child’s toy, the gun. Another and another followed, sweeping out into the plain. As the head of the column turned to the right to go into battery, every rifle within range was brought to bear, and horses and men began to fall rapidly. Still they pressed on, and when there were no longer horses to haul the guns, the gunners sought to put their pieces into battery by hand; nothing, however, could stand before that terrible storm of lead, and after ten minutes of gallant effort the few survivors, leaving their guns in the open field, took shelter in the friendly woods. Not a gun was placed in position or fired from that quarter during the day... A member of the battery in describing it to an officer of the Sharpshooters soon after the close of the war, said pithily: ‘We went in a battery and came out a wreck. We staid ten minutes by the watch and came out with one gun, ten men and two horse, and without firing a shot.’"
Here's the snippet for the week. It describes an artillery company coming under sharpshooter fire.
“Suddenly there burst out of the dense foliage four magnificent gray horses, and behind them, whirled along like a child’s toy, the gun. Another and another followed, sweeping out into the plain. As the head of the column turned to the right to go into battery, every rifle within range was brought to bear, and horses and men began to fall rapidly. Still they pressed on, and when there were no longer horses to haul the guns, the gunners sought to put their pieces into battery by hand; nothing, however, could stand before that terrible storm of lead, and after ten minutes of gallant effort the few survivors, leaving their guns in the open field, took shelter in the friendly woods. Not a gun was placed in position or fired from that quarter during the day... A member of the battery in describing it to an officer of the Sharpshooters soon after the close of the war, said pithily: ‘We went in a battery and came out a wreck. We staid ten minutes by the watch and came out with one gun, ten men and two horse, and without firing a shot.’"
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It's been mentioned that the minie will carry to 1,000 yards. In most Civil War era guns, it will certainly shoot accurately out to 500 yards, but afterwards the Enfield had the advantage (with respects to a common rifle musket). Here's an example of the minie balls reaching out and touching at half a mile's distance.
"We had scarcely got into line of battle when it seemed as though ten thousand axes just across the valley were being vigorously applied to a forest. What the rebels were doing we could only guess, that they were fortifying their position. This chopping was kept up for nearly an hour and a half, when all of a sudden it ceased and not another blow was struck. There were rebel sharp shooters in the valley shooting at us at long range with their minie rifles. We sent out a small band of skirmishers who crawled up close to the rebels and from behind straggling trees and stumps exchanged shots with the rebel sharp shooters, and made it interesting for them. Some of those minie balls were fired and came all of a half a mile and wounded several horses in our skirmish line.”
"We had scarcely got into line of battle when it seemed as though ten thousand axes just across the valley were being vigorously applied to a forest. What the rebels were doing we could only guess, that they were fortifying their position. This chopping was kept up for nearly an hour and a half, when all of a sudden it ceased and not another blow was struck. There were rebel sharp shooters in the valley shooting at us at long range with their minie rifles. We sent out a small band of skirmishers who crawled up close to the rebels and from behind straggling trees and stumps exchanged shots with the rebel sharp shooters, and made it interesting for them. Some of those minie balls were fired and came all of a half a mile and wounded several horses in our skirmish line.”
Gary,
The Crimean War Research Society has published a lot of translated Russian documents in the pages of their quarterly journal. I can't however recall specifics of items relating to sharpshooting, although there may well be passing references in some of the articles. More info from www.crimeanwar.org
David
The Crimean War Research Society has published a lot of translated Russian documents in the pages of their quarterly journal. I can't however recall specifics of items relating to sharpshooting, although there may well be passing references in some of the articles. More info from www.crimeanwar.org
David
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Thanks David. The Crimean War is very important in terms of sharpshooting. Unfortunately, it's largely overlooked here in Estados Unidos. My own book does give some coverage to that war, but it's not as extensive or exhaustive as I would like.
Anyway, here's a Whitworth story I'd like to share.
“About the 19th [June], I rode out along our lines and on the left towards Petersburg, and on my way out, I passed within sight of a rebel sharpshooter, stationed up a tree, a long way off, a mile it seemed to me. He was good enough to favor me with a shot, and the ball struck the ground near me. On this ride, at a hospital, I saw a poor fellow, who while squatting on a rail, over a little stream, washing out his shirt, had been shot through both thigh bones by a Whitworth bullet or bolt (hexagonal), fired by a sharpshooter from a tree said to be nearly a measured mile and a quarter distance. The poor fellow died and the bolt is in my collection of projectiles.”
I'm going away to Arizona and will be gone for a week. I doubt if I'll be on-line at all. If anyone has a good story, please share it.
Concerning the book, I'm still waiting for one reader to return the manuscript. Been waiting since April. I guess I'll work on the index since there's no more research to be done (except for a 2nd edition if I ever get ambitious enough).
Anyway, here's a Whitworth story I'd like to share.
“About the 19th [June], I rode out along our lines and on the left towards Petersburg, and on my way out, I passed within sight of a rebel sharpshooter, stationed up a tree, a long way off, a mile it seemed to me. He was good enough to favor me with a shot, and the ball struck the ground near me. On this ride, at a hospital, I saw a poor fellow, who while squatting on a rail, over a little stream, washing out his shirt, had been shot through both thigh bones by a Whitworth bullet or bolt (hexagonal), fired by a sharpshooter from a tree said to be nearly a measured mile and a quarter distance. The poor fellow died and the bolt is in my collection of projectiles.”
I'm going away to Arizona and will be gone for a week. I doubt if I'll be on-line at all. If anyone has a good story, please share it.
Concerning the book, I'm still waiting for one reader to return the manuscript. Been waiting since April. I guess I'll work on the index since there's no more research to be done (except for a 2nd edition if I ever get ambitious enough).
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Sharpshooting at the Seige of Battery Wagner
If you recall the movie, Glory, it climaxed with the charge of the 54th Massachusetts against Battery Wagner on Morris Island, South Carolina (off of Charleston Harbor, Charleston). After that attack failed, the Union settled down and beseiged it. It was cheaper than risking another direct assault.
note: as a point of order, the Confederates always called it Battery Wagner and the Union called it Fort Wagner.
“After the assault on Fort Wagner Company K was detailed to take charge of the Battery of Cohorn mortars nearest Fort Wagner, and our duty was the first thing in the morning to knock the sandbags off the fort, that had been placed during the night. We had a small hole through the breastworks to watch the effect of our shots. One morning the gunners were Jaques, Taylor and myself. The night before going to the front to man the gun Comrade Taylor asked me to take his money and send it home as he was detailed to go to the front and would not come back alive. I laughed at him and told him I expected to come back all right. Within one hour after we commenced firing he was killed by a sharpshooter. My hand was on his shoulder when he was shot. Word came one morning to dismount the corner gun on Fort Wagner and we would receive a medal. We had not been firing long when it was dismounted. A short time after we received our medals. I value mine very highly.”
If you recall the movie, Glory, it climaxed with the charge of the 54th Massachusetts against Battery Wagner on Morris Island, South Carolina (off of Charleston Harbor, Charleston). After that attack failed, the Union settled down and beseiged it. It was cheaper than risking another direct assault.
note: as a point of order, the Confederates always called it Battery Wagner and the Union called it Fort Wagner.
“After the assault on Fort Wagner Company K was detailed to take charge of the Battery of Cohorn mortars nearest Fort Wagner, and our duty was the first thing in the morning to knock the sandbags off the fort, that had been placed during the night. We had a small hole through the breastworks to watch the effect of our shots. One morning the gunners were Jaques, Taylor and myself. The night before going to the front to man the gun Comrade Taylor asked me to take his money and send it home as he was detailed to go to the front and would not come back alive. I laughed at him and told him I expected to come back all right. Within one hour after we commenced firing he was killed by a sharpshooter. My hand was on his shoulder when he was shot. Word came one morning to dismount the corner gun on Fort Wagner and we would receive a medal. We had not been firing long when it was dismounted. A short time after we received our medals. I value mine very highly.”
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A little more on siege warfare.
"I lost twenty-two men there in one day. All the embrasures had to be masked by thick curtains, which were only opened at the time of firing. A cap could not be shown anywhere above the parapet without instantly drawing a ball, for the sharpshooters on both sides were of dangerous address. I saw a sergeant killed near me, while looking between the gabions. The ball struck him above the eyes."
"I lost twenty-two men there in one day. All the embrasures had to be masked by thick curtains, which were only opened at the time of firing. A cap could not be shown anywhere above the parapet without instantly drawing a ball, for the sharpshooters on both sides were of dangerous address. I saw a sergeant killed near me, while looking between the gabions. The ball struck him above the eyes."
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Revolutionary War Sharpshooters
“I Remember seeing an account of capt. Cresap’s rifle company shooting at a shingle that was held in one of the men’s hands, and shot through by his brother. This was mentioned to be a very extraordinary thing, as indeed it was; but it is no more than what has been frequently done by the Virginia riflemen. I have known many people to do it. At the distance of two hundred yards, two men have shot into the same hole, in a paper not bigger than a dollar; and this mr. S. Athawes, of London can attest, for he saw it done when he was in Frederick county, Virginia, and carried home with him that paper, through which it was but just discernible that two balls had passed. The riflemen now in our regiments declare, that they can hit a man every shoot if within 250 yards, and his head if within 150. As some proof of this, I can mention what happened a little while ago on one of the creeks near Williamsburg. A man had got into a canoe, out of a boat, upon seeing the riflemen, and was paddling off, when they hailed him. On his refusing to stop, they fired ahead of him; and the man still continuing his flight (thinking that by this time he had got out of their reach, as he has since confessed) the officer ordered his people to fire at him, which three of them did, when one shot went through the canoe, another through the man’s waistcoat, brushing a button on his breast, and the third through his hat, within half an inch of his head. And last summer our riflemen under col. Lewis gave convincing proofs that their dexterity in shooting was not confined to mere butts and marks, or harmless game, but could be applied with incredible truth when aimed at the bravest and most formidable of all enemies; for in that engagement there were more Indians killed than there were of French and Indians in Braddock’s defeat, and more than I ever heard were killed in any engagement during the last war. And although the Indians, according to their manner of fighting, never fire twice from the same tree, and can very seldom be seen in an engagement, and when seen discover but their head and breast, or shoulders, yet great numbers of them were killed and wounded, and it is said that all the dead were found shot through the head or breast. I wish that some abler pen was employed to celebrate the praises of our men in that engagement, and in major M’Donald’s. It would then be seen how much justice they said in their glorious resolves, that they could march and shoot with any troops in the world.”
“I Remember seeing an account of capt. Cresap’s rifle company shooting at a shingle that was held in one of the men’s hands, and shot through by his brother. This was mentioned to be a very extraordinary thing, as indeed it was; but it is no more than what has been frequently done by the Virginia riflemen. I have known many people to do it. At the distance of two hundred yards, two men have shot into the same hole, in a paper not bigger than a dollar; and this mr. S. Athawes, of London can attest, for he saw it done when he was in Frederick county, Virginia, and carried home with him that paper, through which it was but just discernible that two balls had passed. The riflemen now in our regiments declare, that they can hit a man every shoot if within 250 yards, and his head if within 150. As some proof of this, I can mention what happened a little while ago on one of the creeks near Williamsburg. A man had got into a canoe, out of a boat, upon seeing the riflemen, and was paddling off, when they hailed him. On his refusing to stop, they fired ahead of him; and the man still continuing his flight (thinking that by this time he had got out of their reach, as he has since confessed) the officer ordered his people to fire at him, which three of them did, when one shot went through the canoe, another through the man’s waistcoat, brushing a button on his breast, and the third through his hat, within half an inch of his head. And last summer our riflemen under col. Lewis gave convincing proofs that their dexterity in shooting was not confined to mere butts and marks, or harmless game, but could be applied with incredible truth when aimed at the bravest and most formidable of all enemies; for in that engagement there were more Indians killed than there were of French and Indians in Braddock’s defeat, and more than I ever heard were killed in any engagement during the last war. And although the Indians, according to their manner of fighting, never fire twice from the same tree, and can very seldom be seen in an engagement, and when seen discover but their head and breast, or shoulders, yet great numbers of them were killed and wounded, and it is said that all the dead were found shot through the head or breast. I wish that some abler pen was employed to celebrate the praises of our men in that engagement, and in major M’Donald’s. It would then be seen how much justice they said in their glorious resolves, that they could march and shoot with any troops in the world.”
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Rifleman Kirk and his amazing shot
Here's an article of mine that was originally published in the Nov. 2003 issue of Muzzle Blasts magazine. It's rather short but fun. Siege of Fort Meigs
Here's an article of mine that was originally published in the Nov. 2003 issue of Muzzle Blasts magazine. It's rather short but fun. Siege of Fort Meigs
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OK, I was AWOL for almost two weeks and hence the lack of bedtime stories.
Just returned from an almost two week trip to the midwest. Visited St. Louis and saw the incomplete McDonald monument that dominate the city's skyline. The twin arch still needs to be built. Nice museum underneath with one particularly interesting gun. It had a hooded front sight and the tang appears to have been drilled for a rear aperture. Also visited the Historical Museum in Forrest Park. They have a percussion that has been converted to breechloading. How the breech is secured escapes me (perhaps the firing pin goes through the upward swivelling block?). My last day was spent visiting Daniel Boone's final home in Defiance, Mo. It's a three story stone structure. Boone and his son quarried the stone themselves. Guess they got tired of log cabins and wanted a fort and it could serve as one as it was built with loopholes. Afterwards it was Conner Prairie in Fishers, IN for three classes. First was lock assembly with Jim Chambers (Siler lock fame), powder horn with Art De Camp and porcupine quill with Robin McBride Scott. Many of my classmates have read my articles (Muzzle Loader or Muzzle Blasts magazine) and enjoyed them. They're all anxious for the book and I explained that I'm waiting for one reader. The delay isn't all that bad since one of my previous instructors (H. House) told me that he has a picture of a Kentucky rifleman of the War of 1812. I had written about that rifleman (check the link for The Lone Marksman Revisited) years ago. Before leaving for home, I visited the Eiteljorg Indian Museum in Indiana. Great collection of Western theme paintings (Bierstadt, Russell, Remington, etc.) as well as a scrimshawed illustration on goatskin. Nice collection of Indian art (beadwork, quillwork, pottery & baskets, kachina dolls, sculpture) too. I tried to visit Jim Dressler to see his powder horn collection but he disappeared before the appointment time. Enough gossip. Here's a bedtime story.
“Company I had three men who ranked high in the regiment as sharpshooters, skirmishers and foragers... These men were always to be depended upon. Although their guns were not the brightest at inspection, their arms and ammunition were always in good condition when needed. They were counted among the best shots in the regiment. On the skirmish line they were found among the farthest in advance and were the last to fall back. In the riflepits, where they could prove their skill, they were selected for the most difficult work on the line.” The manner in which Mattice was mortally wounded: “The sand-bar gun quit annoying us as did the cannon in the fort. But they got a small mortar that threw a twelve-pound shell, and one day when my company was in the trenches they made it very disagreeable for us. They would toss those shells up in the air, and they would come overhead and burst, and the pieces would scatter every way. All we could do was hug up against the breastworks. Fred Mattice wouldn’t hug the dirt and would laugh at us. But finally he got a piece on his head, and three days later he died. He never became conscious, just lay there and moaned. This cast a gloom over the company, as he was liked by all who knew him.”
Just returned from an almost two week trip to the midwest. Visited St. Louis and saw the incomplete McDonald monument that dominate the city's skyline. The twin arch still needs to be built. Nice museum underneath with one particularly interesting gun. It had a hooded front sight and the tang appears to have been drilled for a rear aperture. Also visited the Historical Museum in Forrest Park. They have a percussion that has been converted to breechloading. How the breech is secured escapes me (perhaps the firing pin goes through the upward swivelling block?). My last day was spent visiting Daniel Boone's final home in Defiance, Mo. It's a three story stone structure. Boone and his son quarried the stone themselves. Guess they got tired of log cabins and wanted a fort and it could serve as one as it was built with loopholes. Afterwards it was Conner Prairie in Fishers, IN for three classes. First was lock assembly with Jim Chambers (Siler lock fame), powder horn with Art De Camp and porcupine quill with Robin McBride Scott. Many of my classmates have read my articles (Muzzle Loader or Muzzle Blasts magazine) and enjoyed them. They're all anxious for the book and I explained that I'm waiting for one reader. The delay isn't all that bad since one of my previous instructors (H. House) told me that he has a picture of a Kentucky rifleman of the War of 1812. I had written about that rifleman (check the link for The Lone Marksman Revisited) years ago. Before leaving for home, I visited the Eiteljorg Indian Museum in Indiana. Great collection of Western theme paintings (Bierstadt, Russell, Remington, etc.) as well as a scrimshawed illustration on goatskin. Nice collection of Indian art (beadwork, quillwork, pottery & baskets, kachina dolls, sculpture) too. I tried to visit Jim Dressler to see his powder horn collection but he disappeared before the appointment time. Enough gossip. Here's a bedtime story.
“Company I had three men who ranked high in the regiment as sharpshooters, skirmishers and foragers... These men were always to be depended upon. Although their guns were not the brightest at inspection, their arms and ammunition were always in good condition when needed. They were counted among the best shots in the regiment. On the skirmish line they were found among the farthest in advance and were the last to fall back. In the riflepits, where they could prove their skill, they were selected for the most difficult work on the line.” The manner in which Mattice was mortally wounded: “The sand-bar gun quit annoying us as did the cannon in the fort. But they got a small mortar that threw a twelve-pound shell, and one day when my company was in the trenches they made it very disagreeable for us. They would toss those shells up in the air, and they would come overhead and burst, and the pieces would scatter every way. All we could do was hug up against the breastworks. Fred Mattice wouldn’t hug the dirt and would laugh at us. But finally he got a piece on his head, and three days later he died. He never became conscious, just lay there and moaned. This cast a gloom over the company, as he was liked by all who knew him.”
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New book on Confederate Sharpshooters
Fred Ray, who has written several articles on the Confederate Sharpshooter for America's Civil War magazine, has finished his book. Entitled Shock Troops of The South: The Sharpshooter Battalions of the Army of Northern Virginia, it is the first modern book devoted solely to the sharpshooters in that army. Previously, only one book (Capt. Dunlop's "Lee's Sharpshooters or Forefront of Battle) has ever addressed it and Fred Ray from his articles Mr. Ray has done extensive research on the subject. Click on the below link to purchase your copy. http://sharpshooters.cfspress.com
O.K., so if you're griping that this is an ad or spam, first THR receives no ducats from Mr. Ray and secondly, so you guys don't form a lynch mob outside my house, here's your Bedtime Story for the week. I can't verify its accuracy and it won't appear in my own work. However, it's a fun read and take it as an enjoyable bedtime story. Travel back now to an era when the Brits were still here:
Chanco, the Chickahominy Indian squatted patiently at the base of a long leaf pine tree, like a bobcat near a rabbits burrow. His eyes were intent on the British encampment forty yards across the creek. Dawn was approaching and the only movement was the grey of a mockingbird and the red of a cardinal and the brown of a thrush which were flitting about in a salt water bush like fingers of a Persian girl weaving a prayer rug. As he waited his mind retraced, not only the events of the past few days but his boyhood and the purpose that brought him there.
When he was fourteen years old, the winter of 1721 was the hardest within memory if his tribe, who had their village on the edge of the big Chickahominy swamp. Food was scarce, the corn crop had been poor and sickness had taken its toll. Even geese and ducks, which ordinately almost covered the creeks and sloughs had abandoned the area to move further south. Reduced to the flesh of an occasional muskrat and raccoon the outlook was bleak.
But one morning a crude sled, loaded with corn and side meat and drawn by two bullocks came into the snow bound village. It was driven by Samuel Geddy, a planter from the little town of Toano, Sam had graduated from the college of William and Mary and had befriended Chanco’s grandfather, who had attended the college under their program to Christianize and educate the local Indians. Even after his schooling, the citizenry never fully accepted the Indians and Yutuck returned to the ways of his tribe.
Accompanying Sam was his grandson. Timothy, equal in age to Chanco, and full of curiosity regarding the red man of the swamp. The conversation between Yutuck and Sam was brief and warmly grateful. The Indians were to receive the grain, meat and bullocks as a gift. There would be corn cakes and smoked beef to last till spring.
The two boys, one white and the other one red, though from different cultures formed a lasting friendship, fostered alternate visits, during which Timothy learned the ways of the forest and Chanco became familiar with the ways of the white man. Languages were also shared. This companionship continued, broken only in 1755. Timothy joined Colonial Washington as a part of General Braddocks march toward Fort Pitt. During the ambuscade of Braddocks troops by the French and Indians, Timothy received a ball in his left leg that crippled him and following a retreat by the British, covered by Washington’s men he was invalidated home. During the ensuing years, after the farm chores were done Timothy spent a great deal of time in the fall and winter months hunting with Chanco.
The peaceful years were brought to a halt by the onset of the Revolution and the uncertainties of this effort constantly preyed on the minds of those who lived on the peninsula lying between the York and James rivers. Since Williamsburg was the capitol of Virginia and the center of political, social and industrial life, naturally it would become the target of the British military adventure.
On October 12th, 1782 Chanco and Timothy were turkey hunting a few miles northwest of Williamsburg when it happened. A small detachment of British soldiers had been put ashore, under the cover of darkness, behind the forces of Washington and Rochambeau to try and observe the movements of the Americans and her allies, the French. However, they became lost and were in great haste to try and join Cornwallis who had entrenched himself at Yorktown. They needed a guide.
Timothy had been surprised by the soldiers and being handicapped, was unable to outdistance his pursuers and was taken prisoner. Knowing that he was a local hunter he was pressed into service and commanded to lead them through the American lines. Timothy refused to cooperate with his captors. Chanco returned to their appointed meeting place, correctly read from the scuffled ground that Timothy was in trouble. He discreetly trailed the soldiers and upon coming within sight of them, beheld a picture that would forever remain with him. Timothy was tied to a tree and was being interrogated by a huge red-headed sergeant, who after several refusals to supply information. Brutally beat the helpless prisoner with his fists. This scene was repeated twice a day for the next three days with Chanco a distant witness. Knowing that rescue for the time being was out of the question, Chanco bore this mental burden of bestiality with outward stoicism but inward seething.
On the morning of the forth day, Timothy could not be aroused, he had died during the night from a ruptured pancreas. The soldiers dug a shallow grave, unceremoniously disposed of him and at the last moment threw his rifle gun, bullet pouch and powder horn on top his body. A few shovels full of dirt and the job was done. They immediately broke camp and continued their flight southward. Time was a factor.
After a prudent interval, Chanco went to his friend’s grave, knelt down and after murmuring an apology in his own dialect, took out his hunting knife and began to dig. The recovery of the rifle and its accouterments took only a few moments and then Chanco gently replaced the fresh earth like a grey squirrel patting the ground over next winter’s acorns. After cleaning the barrel and lock of Geddy’s rifle he hid his own trade musket beneath a blown down tree and started after the British detachment. There was no need of following their trail which blundered through the woods. Chanco knew every creek crossing and ford between Williamsburg and Old Point Comfort. He could intercept them.
It was the morning of October 17th, 1782 as Chanco forced himself out of his reverie and as the mist arose it revealed the camp breaking activities across the creek. The soldiers did not suspect that on the next day the entire armies of Americans and British would be drawn up, facing each other in peaceful formation while General Cornwallis’s sword was being offered in surrender as the band played “The world turned upside down”.
But this moment was Chanco’s. as the officers huddled in conversation regarding the day’s movements, Chanco raised Timothy’s rifle and disdaining the sight picture of the higher officers, he waited. In a moment the big red-haired sergeant approached his superiors and with a sweep of his arm indicated the men were ready to move. This motion exposed the intersection of his hanger and cartridge box straps.
The rifle spoke, and the recoil against Chanco’s shoulder seemed like and endearing nudge from the fist of the ghost of Timothy Geddy.
Here's the problems I have with the story. How did Chanco know the pancreas was ruptured? This raises the inference that Chanco removed the pancreas from Timothy and If Chanco did remove the pancreas, was there an Indian word for that internal organ such that Chanco could describe exactly what it was? Remember that the Indians passed down their lore via the oral tradition (like Homer) and while this could be reliable (as demonstrated by modern cultures that rely heavily on the oral tradition), the precise description of a specific organ makes me want to raise an eyebrow. Secondly, if Chanco was 14 years old when Tim & his Grandfather came through in 1721, wouldn't Chanco be 74 or 75 when this event took place? That's kinda old and while possible, longevity wasn't that common in those days. Finally, I've only found it in one book which did not attribute the story to any other source from which I could at least attempt to verify its accuracy. Darn good reading but suspect.
Fred Ray, who has written several articles on the Confederate Sharpshooter for America's Civil War magazine, has finished his book. Entitled Shock Troops of The South: The Sharpshooter Battalions of the Army of Northern Virginia, it is the first modern book devoted solely to the sharpshooters in that army. Previously, only one book (Capt. Dunlop's "Lee's Sharpshooters or Forefront of Battle) has ever addressed it and Fred Ray from his articles Mr. Ray has done extensive research on the subject. Click on the below link to purchase your copy. http://sharpshooters.cfspress.com
O.K., so if you're griping that this is an ad or spam, first THR receives no ducats from Mr. Ray and secondly, so you guys don't form a lynch mob outside my house, here's your Bedtime Story for the week. I can't verify its accuracy and it won't appear in my own work. However, it's a fun read and take it as an enjoyable bedtime story. Travel back now to an era when the Brits were still here:
Chanco, the Chickahominy Indian squatted patiently at the base of a long leaf pine tree, like a bobcat near a rabbits burrow. His eyes were intent on the British encampment forty yards across the creek. Dawn was approaching and the only movement was the grey of a mockingbird and the red of a cardinal and the brown of a thrush which were flitting about in a salt water bush like fingers of a Persian girl weaving a prayer rug. As he waited his mind retraced, not only the events of the past few days but his boyhood and the purpose that brought him there.
When he was fourteen years old, the winter of 1721 was the hardest within memory if his tribe, who had their village on the edge of the big Chickahominy swamp. Food was scarce, the corn crop had been poor and sickness had taken its toll. Even geese and ducks, which ordinately almost covered the creeks and sloughs had abandoned the area to move further south. Reduced to the flesh of an occasional muskrat and raccoon the outlook was bleak.
But one morning a crude sled, loaded with corn and side meat and drawn by two bullocks came into the snow bound village. It was driven by Samuel Geddy, a planter from the little town of Toano, Sam had graduated from the college of William and Mary and had befriended Chanco’s grandfather, who had attended the college under their program to Christianize and educate the local Indians. Even after his schooling, the citizenry never fully accepted the Indians and Yutuck returned to the ways of his tribe.
Accompanying Sam was his grandson. Timothy, equal in age to Chanco, and full of curiosity regarding the red man of the swamp. The conversation between Yutuck and Sam was brief and warmly grateful. The Indians were to receive the grain, meat and bullocks as a gift. There would be corn cakes and smoked beef to last till spring.
The two boys, one white and the other one red, though from different cultures formed a lasting friendship, fostered alternate visits, during which Timothy learned the ways of the forest and Chanco became familiar with the ways of the white man. Languages were also shared. This companionship continued, broken only in 1755. Timothy joined Colonial Washington as a part of General Braddocks march toward Fort Pitt. During the ambuscade of Braddocks troops by the French and Indians, Timothy received a ball in his left leg that crippled him and following a retreat by the British, covered by Washington’s men he was invalidated home. During the ensuing years, after the farm chores were done Timothy spent a great deal of time in the fall and winter months hunting with Chanco.
The peaceful years were brought to a halt by the onset of the Revolution and the uncertainties of this effort constantly preyed on the minds of those who lived on the peninsula lying between the York and James rivers. Since Williamsburg was the capitol of Virginia and the center of political, social and industrial life, naturally it would become the target of the British military adventure.
On October 12th, 1782 Chanco and Timothy were turkey hunting a few miles northwest of Williamsburg when it happened. A small detachment of British soldiers had been put ashore, under the cover of darkness, behind the forces of Washington and Rochambeau to try and observe the movements of the Americans and her allies, the French. However, they became lost and were in great haste to try and join Cornwallis who had entrenched himself at Yorktown. They needed a guide.
Timothy had been surprised by the soldiers and being handicapped, was unable to outdistance his pursuers and was taken prisoner. Knowing that he was a local hunter he was pressed into service and commanded to lead them through the American lines. Timothy refused to cooperate with his captors. Chanco returned to their appointed meeting place, correctly read from the scuffled ground that Timothy was in trouble. He discreetly trailed the soldiers and upon coming within sight of them, beheld a picture that would forever remain with him. Timothy was tied to a tree and was being interrogated by a huge red-headed sergeant, who after several refusals to supply information. Brutally beat the helpless prisoner with his fists. This scene was repeated twice a day for the next three days with Chanco a distant witness. Knowing that rescue for the time being was out of the question, Chanco bore this mental burden of bestiality with outward stoicism but inward seething.
On the morning of the forth day, Timothy could not be aroused, he had died during the night from a ruptured pancreas. The soldiers dug a shallow grave, unceremoniously disposed of him and at the last moment threw his rifle gun, bullet pouch and powder horn on top his body. A few shovels full of dirt and the job was done. They immediately broke camp and continued their flight southward. Time was a factor.
After a prudent interval, Chanco went to his friend’s grave, knelt down and after murmuring an apology in his own dialect, took out his hunting knife and began to dig. The recovery of the rifle and its accouterments took only a few moments and then Chanco gently replaced the fresh earth like a grey squirrel patting the ground over next winter’s acorns. After cleaning the barrel and lock of Geddy’s rifle he hid his own trade musket beneath a blown down tree and started after the British detachment. There was no need of following their trail which blundered through the woods. Chanco knew every creek crossing and ford between Williamsburg and Old Point Comfort. He could intercept them.
It was the morning of October 17th, 1782 as Chanco forced himself out of his reverie and as the mist arose it revealed the camp breaking activities across the creek. The soldiers did not suspect that on the next day the entire armies of Americans and British would be drawn up, facing each other in peaceful formation while General Cornwallis’s sword was being offered in surrender as the band played “The world turned upside down”.
But this moment was Chanco’s. as the officers huddled in conversation regarding the day’s movements, Chanco raised Timothy’s rifle and disdaining the sight picture of the higher officers, he waited. In a moment the big red-haired sergeant approached his superiors and with a sweep of his arm indicated the men were ready to move. This motion exposed the intersection of his hanger and cartridge box straps.
The rifle spoke, and the recoil against Chanco’s shoulder seemed like and endearing nudge from the fist of the ghost of Timothy Geddy.
Here's the problems I have with the story. How did Chanco know the pancreas was ruptured? This raises the inference that Chanco removed the pancreas from Timothy and If Chanco did remove the pancreas, was there an Indian word for that internal organ such that Chanco could describe exactly what it was? Remember that the Indians passed down their lore via the oral tradition (like Homer) and while this could be reliable (as demonstrated by modern cultures that rely heavily on the oral tradition), the precise description of a specific organ makes me want to raise an eyebrow. Secondly, if Chanco was 14 years old when Tim & his Grandfather came through in 1721, wouldn't Chanco be 74 or 75 when this event took place? That's kinda old and while possible, longevity wasn't that common in those days. Finally, I've only found it in one book which did not attribute the story to any other source from which I could at least attempt to verify its accuracy. Darn good reading but suspect.
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stevelyn
Member
The date is a year off. Cornwallis surrendered to Washington at Yorktown Oct. 19, 1781. Although there were skirmishes fought between the Brits and Americans for a few months after the surrender, I kinda doubt they would have been wandering around causing trouble near where the surrender occurred.
Old Point Comfort is where Ft. Monroe now sits in Hampton, VA.
Old Point Comfort is where Ft. Monroe now sits in Hampton, VA.
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Bring all your friends with guns
The following is an account shows why it's good to bring all your friends who have guns with you to the gunfight. It was a close call for the writer.
“We shot until we got the range so we could make the dust fly just on top of the works. But they wouldn’t shoot back, so we waited for them to show themselves. About noon we saw the relief coming. We could see their guns glisten above the works, and took a shot at them. Two men got out of the works and started to the rear. One had a red shirt, the other a white shirt. The one with the red shirt was a little ahead and to the left of the other. I told Pat to take the white shirt, and we fired together. The red shirt went down. The other cut and run, and was out of sight before we could change guns. We soon got a shot from them which went between us and clipped the leaves on our shade. We both shot at the smoke of his gun, which must have been what was called a squirrel rifle, as the bullet slipped through the air as if greased. He must have known the range to perfection too, as every shot came mighty close to the center of our rail pile and just over it. One shot came so close to my right cheek as to make a red streak across my cheek. After that we had more respect for him and ducked our heads as soon as we saw the smoke of his gun, but kept shooting at where we saw his smoke until he quit shooting and wouldn’t shoot anymore. I told Pat if that fellow had known how close he was shooting he wouldn’t have quit; but we may have got him, as I know we were putting them close and were shooting four balls to his one.”
Round ball guns are generally limited in range. If the bullet made a peculiar sound that was distinct from the minie, it could have been a round ball gun or a "squirrel rifle" of some sort, but more likely than not it was a target rifle.
The following is an account shows why it's good to bring all your friends who have guns with you to the gunfight. It was a close call for the writer.
“We shot until we got the range so we could make the dust fly just on top of the works. But they wouldn’t shoot back, so we waited for them to show themselves. About noon we saw the relief coming. We could see their guns glisten above the works, and took a shot at them. Two men got out of the works and started to the rear. One had a red shirt, the other a white shirt. The one with the red shirt was a little ahead and to the left of the other. I told Pat to take the white shirt, and we fired together. The red shirt went down. The other cut and run, and was out of sight before we could change guns. We soon got a shot from them which went between us and clipped the leaves on our shade. We both shot at the smoke of his gun, which must have been what was called a squirrel rifle, as the bullet slipped through the air as if greased. He must have known the range to perfection too, as every shot came mighty close to the center of our rail pile and just over it. One shot came so close to my right cheek as to make a red streak across my cheek. After that we had more respect for him and ducked our heads as soon as we saw the smoke of his gun, but kept shooting at where we saw his smoke until he quit shooting and wouldn’t shoot anymore. I told Pat if that fellow had known how close he was shooting he wouldn’t have quit; but we may have got him, as I know we were putting them close and were shooting four balls to his one.”
Round ball guns are generally limited in range. If the bullet made a peculiar sound that was distinct from the minie, it could have been a round ball gun or a "squirrel rifle" of some sort, but more likely than not it was a target rifle.
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A hearty welcome to the flintlock crowd.
Thanks for dropping in and visiting this site. I know the title, Bedtime Stories, is deceptive and at first glance, most folks would pass it up. The title could be something more generic like "dynamics of force mutlipliers" which would allow for discreet reading. However, "Bedtime stories" sounds like something you'd tuck your kid into bed with and in that sense, it works for those of us who are older (and yes, anyone who has met me can tell you that my hair is grey).
Here's an excerpt:
"‘I got five more this time,’ said he; ‘and that makes 117.’ Turned round and looked at him inquiringly, ‘One hundred and seventeen what?’ said I. ‘One hundred and seventeen rebels,’ replied the old gentleman in black. ‘Ah, don’t you know me!’ he continued. ‘I am the old sharpshooter and while out in front of the city during the last fight I fetched down five more rebels. I don’t count those I shoot in partnership, because I can’t tell whose shot it was. I only count those I am sure of myself.’"
There are more details including the identity; but I'm omitting that for now. You'll learn his identity and more details about him in Chapter 7.
Thanks for dropping in and visiting this site. I know the title, Bedtime Stories, is deceptive and at first glance, most folks would pass it up. The title could be something more generic like "dynamics of force mutlipliers" which would allow for discreet reading. However, "Bedtime stories" sounds like something you'd tuck your kid into bed with and in that sense, it works for those of us who are older (and yes, anyone who has met me can tell you that my hair is grey).
Here's an excerpt:
"‘I got five more this time,’ said he; ‘and that makes 117.’ Turned round and looked at him inquiringly, ‘One hundred and seventeen what?’ said I. ‘One hundred and seventeen rebels,’ replied the old gentleman in black. ‘Ah, don’t you know me!’ he continued. ‘I am the old sharpshooter and while out in front of the city during the last fight I fetched down five more rebels. I don’t count those I shoot in partnership, because I can’t tell whose shot it was. I only count those I am sure of myself.’"
There are more details including the identity; but I'm omitting that for now. You'll learn his identity and more details about him in Chapter 7.