the price of misery--and, ten years later, of a lamentable death. In a
published paper by him, he refers to his experience in the river, after
the explosion of the torpedo:[8]
[8] _Battles and Leaders of the Civil War_ (N. Y., Century Co.,
1884-88), vol. 4, p. 638.
I directed my course towards the town side of the river, not making
much headway, as my strokes were now very feeble, my clothes
being soaked and heavy, and little chop-seas splashing with a
chocking persistence into my mouth every time that I gasped for
breath. Still there was a determination not to sink, a will not
to give up; and I kept up a sort of mechanical motion long after
my bodily force was in fact expended. At last, and not a moment
too soon, I touched the soft mud, and in the excitement of the
first shock I half raised my body and made one step forward; then
fell, and remained half in the mud and half in the water until
daylight, unable even to crawl on hands and knees, nearly frozen,
with brain in a whirl, but with one thing strong in me--the fixed
determination to escape. The prospect of drowning, starvation,
death in the swamps--all seemed less evils than that of surrender.
At twenty-two, one does not think of remote consequences, but human
constitutions are not so made up as to remain uninjured by such violent
usage. The commander of the "Albemarle," Captain A. F. Warley,
contributed the following note to Cushing's paper, which should not be
omitted here, in the interest of fairness:[9]
[9] _Ibid_, p. 642.
The crew of the Albemarle numbered but sixty, too small a force to
allow me to keep an armed watch on deck at night and to do outside
picketing besides. Moreover, to break the monotony of the life and
keep down ague, I had always out an exhibition of ten men, who were
uniformly successful in doing a fair amount of damage to the enemy.
It was about 3 a. m. The night was dark and slightly rainy, and the
launch was close to us when we hailed and the alarm was given--so
close that the gun could not be depressed enough to reach her; so
the crew were sent in the shield with muskets, and kept up a heavy
fire on the launch as she slowly forced her way over the chain of
logs and ranged by us within a few feet. As she reached the bow
of the Albemarle I heard a report as of an unshotted gun, and a
piece of wood fell at my feet. Calling the carpenter, I told him a
torpedo had been exploded, and ordered him to examine and report to
me, saying nothing to any one else. He soon reported "a hole in her
bottom big enough to drive a wagon in." By this time I heard voices
from the launch: "We surrender," etc., etc. I stopped our fire
and sent out Mr. Long, who brought back all those who had been in
the launch, except the gallant captain and three of her crew, all
of whom took to the water. Having seen to their safety, I turned
my attention to the Albemarle, and found her resting on bottom in
eight feet of water, her upper works above water. That is the way
the Albemarle was destroyed, and a more gallant thing was not done
during the war.
A special message came from President Lincoln, recommending a vote
of thanks by Congress, so that the young hero might be advanced to
the grade of lieutenant-commander. This was immediately followed by
the vote requested, and by his promotion to that rank, under the law
providing "That any line officer of the Navy or Marine Corps may be
advanced one grade, if upon recommendation of the President by name he
receives the thanks of Congress for highly distinguished conduct in
conflict with the enemy, or for extraordinary heroism in the lines of
his profession." The importance, as well as the "highly distinguished"
character, of the exploit with the "Albemarle" may be understood when
it is learned that not only were the Carolina Sounds thereafter free to
all such of our vessels as were of sufficiently light draft, but the
town of Plymouth fell a few days later also, without a struggle. Even
Cushing's coat, which he had cast off when he leaped from the launch
into the river, was returned to him. The back of it was shot away, and
there were other bullet holes through it; but a gold chain remained
safely sewed under the collar, where he had caused it to be placed in
honor of the girl to whom it belonged.
_At Fort Fisher and Afterwards_
After this promotion, Cushing took command of the admiral's flagship,
the "Malvern," and in December was engaged in the operations at Fort
Fisher, where in various attempts to capture that stronghold, so many
failures had been recorded against both our army and navy. In an open
skiff there, he performed a service as perilous as before, although
less spectacular. This was the buoying the channel for the fleet, which
task occupied him for about six hours under a shower of shot and shell
from the fort.
On January 12, 1865, the bombardment was resumed from sixty vessels,
and after three days of that exercise an assault was ordered, in which
Lieutenant-Commander Cushing was permitted to take part. It proved
to be one of the bloodiest little affrays of the war. Two of his
classmates at Annapolis, Lieutenants B. H. Porter and S. W. Preston,
were killed by his side; which caused him, he said, the bitterest
tears he had ever shed. No other officer being near him, he rallied a
few hundred men and was about to resume the assault, when he received
orders to join the land forces under General Ames. He then had the
satisfaction of witnessing the surrender of the fort before midnight.
After the works had been taken, Cushing proceeded to round up all
the pilots in the vicinity, and by threatening to hang them procured
all necessary information about the signals used for the guidance
of the blockade runners who were in the habit of coming in at that
point. Within four or five days, one of that class, the "Charlotte,"
commanded by a British ex-naval officer, steamed up to her anchorage,
bringing two English army officers as well as a valuable cargo of arms
and ammunition. Gratified at their successful trip, the officers were
enjoying a banquet in honor of the event. Cushing, who liked surprises,
stepped into the cabin and informed them that they were prisoners,
but that he would join them in a glass of the champagne with which the
table was loaded. The Englishmen made the best of the predicament, but
the feast was interrupted by the announcement that another steamer, the
"Stag," was coming up the river, whereupon their young captor excused
himself to attend to the fresh arrival.
The war was now practically over, and during the few additional months
of its continuance no further adventures appear to Cushing's credit. In
1867 he was given command of the "Maumee," and attached to the Pacific
squadron, where life was no longer strenuous. On January 31, 1872, he
was made full commander, and in July, 1873, placed in charge of the
"Wyoming." In November of the same year he heard of the execution of
several of the crew of the insurgent vessel, "Virginius," at Santiago
de Cuba. Steaming for that port without orders, he stopped the
executions, pending instructions from Spain by which they were entirely
discontinued.
The following year, and the day before Cushing's untimely death (at
Washington, December 17, 1874), the "Virginius" was handed over to the
United States authorities. For three days, without medical attendance,
the young commander had suffered indescribable tortures from sciatic
inflammation. The servants in the house at last recognized the serious
character of his ailment, and called a physician. Soon the inflammation
reached the patient's brain, and he was removed to the government
hospital for the insane, where, universally lamented, he expired some
days later.
Of this young hero's personal appearance we have his own statement. In
an early letter to his cousin he says that he was "tall and slim." In
one of his published letters the poet Longfellow described his face
as of a beauty resembling Schiller's. Since all of the foregoing was
written, however, I have received from the widow of Commander Cushing
(still living with their two daughters at Fredonia, New York), a letter
containing a description of him so admirably lifelike that I am glad
to reproduce it in full. For reasons appearing elsewhere, however, it
would seem that her recollection of what she heard forty years ago
as to Alonzo's stature is not so perfect as her remembrance of her
husband. She writes under date of January 1, 1910:
_Mr. Theron W. Haight_,
MY DEAR SIR: Your letters of kind inquiry regarding Commander
Cushing's personal appearance, height, etc., have unavoidably
remained too long unanswered. I trust you will pardon the delay,
and that the information I send will be satisfactory and not too
late for your use.
I met Mr. Cushing for the first time in the late spring of 1867--a
few months before I acted as bridesmaid at his sister's wedding.
Mr. Cushing was tall, slender and very erect. His movements easy
and graceful, at the same time indicating force and strength. His
head was well poised, his look clear, direct, and steady. His
features were regular and clear cut, with a fascinating expression
about the mouth when he smiled which attracted one's attention to
that feature. His hair was of a medium brown, soft, fine, dark,
and straight, without a suggestion of curl. His rather delicate
mustache was of a lighter brown, suggestive of golden lights, never
of reddish tints.
His animation and enthusiasm in conversation lent a glow to his
light, blue-gray eyes that made them seem dark. His brilliant mind
was expressed in choice and facile diction--he was a fluent and
charming writer. All his impulses were fine, noble. He was generous
to a fault, tender and affectionate, and exemplified the sentiment,
The bravest are the tenderest;
The loving are the daring.
What he achieved and lived through in the Civil War, the perilous
tasks he assumed and accomplished for his country in her time of
greatest danger, form a background from which his figure stands
out in vivid relief. It beams with his indomitable courage and is
gilded with his heroic character.
I have often heard Mr. Cushing speak of his brother Alonzo, who was
two years his senior and two inches taller. My husband was exactly
six feet without shoes. They were as intimate and devoted as girls,
and quite the opposite in manner and speech, I should say.
Alonzo and Howard I never saw, but the picture of the former stands
out in my mind as a tall, gentle, dark-haired, reticent man (he was
only 22 when he died), as against the younger, more lively and more
impressionable brother.
When I became acquainted with Mr. Cushing, he seemed to have
become the head of the family. I mean that he assumed and bore
the responsibility of the family. He had been more fortunate in
financial matters and was therefore in a position to help all
the others, which he did on occasions with the most open-handed
liberality.
[Illustration: WILLIAM BARKER CUSHING
From oil portrait (1865) by A. Bradish.
See Mrs. Cushing's letter, p. 87.]
Alonzo died at Gettysburg in '63, long before I knew the family.
Howard was killed by the Apaches after I was married. I well
remember what a shock it was to my husband, and how he grieved
for him, and tried to comfort his mother, obtaining all possible
details of his brilliant service and lamentable death in Arizona
through correspondence with the commanding general and officers,
and with the War Department at Washington.
* * * * *
I wish to thank you most cordially for the fine photogravure you
sent. It arrived in excellent condition. It is an admirable copy of
the Bradish portrait, which we have, but the portrait itself does
not seem correctly proportioned on the side turned away, being a
trifle too broad under the eye, and so represents the face as too
pointed. The photo shows it more clearly than the painting. My
criticism of the portrait, however, does not affect your fine copy
or the kindness that prompted you to send it. I thank you sincerely
for it.
I wish also to thank you for the work you are doing, and trust your
history of the _Three Wisconsin Cushings_ will be admirable in
every way, and fully meet your own expectations, as well as receive
the merited reward of the approbation of the State Historical
Society and of the public.
Respectfully yours,
KATE L. CUSHING.
FOREST PLACE, FREDONIA, N. Y.
_Howard Cushing With the Artillery_
Of Howard Cushing, the attainable memorials are very meagre. Indeed,
whatever may have been the achievements of a private soldier in a
volunteer regiment in war time, they are not commonly mentioned in
official reports. In the case of Howard it is only apparent on the face
of the records of the Illinois regiment with which he served, that
his conduct there was at least sufficiently creditable to warrant his
promotion (November 30, 1863) to a second lieutenancy in the regular
artillery.
His claim to distinction was not made conspicuously emphatic during his
artillery service. However, it is probable that this was due rather to
circumstances than to any failure on his part to do what might be done
by a soldier of very high class under the conditions which he found
after entering the regular service. At his own request he was assigned
to Battery A of the Fourth, in which his brother Alonzo lost his life.
But he had not the _├ęclat_ with which his brother was signalized on his
graduation from West Point; moreover, the fact that Sergeant Fuger, now
an officer in the same organization, had also served as an enlisted
man, did not tend to keep it at the same level, in the esteem of other
regular officers, as would have been the case had one of the two, at
least, arrived at his position by way of the Academy. It may be that
the exclusiveness here noted tends to the general advantage of the
army, but not unlikely it is somewhat depressing to appointees from the
ranks.
[Illustration:
allow me to see home again for a few days, it will be a very happy
time for me. _Our_ campaign is ended and we are in Summer quarters,
there is nothing down here for us to fight. Blair, our division
commander, has gone up the river, and I don't know as he will
command the division any more or not. Please to write to me at
once, and tell me how things are working. I shall be very anxious.
And, my dear brother, if I get the position it shall be my endeavor
so to fill it, as to satisfy the government and my friends, and now
with the hope of hearing from you soon, and with my best love to
Will.
I remain
Your affec. Brother
Howard Cushing
Facsimile of part of letter from Howard B. Cushing to his brother
Milton; dated August 6, 1863]
At all events, what happened to Battery A after Howard's assignment
to duty with it was, that it was kept in camp near Brandy Station,
Virginia, until the following March. Then it was attached to the
second division of the cavalry corps of the Army of the Potomac, and
took part in Sheridan's battles at Mine Run, Virginia (May 3, 1864),
at Todd's Tavern (May 4), at Meadow Bridge (May 6), at Yellow Tavern,
where General "Jeb" Stuart was killed in front of Howard's section (May
11), at Strawberry Hill (May 13), and at Hawes's Shop the same day. In
these battles Howard commanded a section of two three-inch guns. The
losses of the battery in those fights were so considerable that it
was, in the latter part of May, sent back to Washington to recuperate,
remaining there until after the conclusion of the war, with the
exception hereinafter mentioned.
After its transfer to the capital, the last experience of the battery
in hostilities came very near proving serious. Early's raid into
Maryland occurred shortly after the first of July. On the ninth he
fought a battle with a Union force on the Monocacy, in which he was
victorious, and headed for Washington, then defended by only about
5,000 soldiers. Battery A was then at Fort Totten, near Bladensburg,
where the ranking officer was a captain of one hundred-day troops from
Ohio, and of course in command. He seems, nevertheless, to have had
good discretion, and before making any movement in the way of defense
requested the advice of the seasoned officers under him. Late on the
tenth, soldiers of the Veteran Reserve Corps from the city, accompanied
by clerks from the departments and convalescents from the hospitals,
swarmed out to the outer line of earthworks and manned the rifle-pits
stretching along between the forts.
The next day, Confederate cavalry came into sight and the smoke of
burning houses behind them told the sort of work they were doing.
In the afternoon, Confederate infantry appeared, but stopped after
forming in line of battle. On the twelfth they began moving before
sunrise, and were met by shells from the forts--among others, three
100-pound Parrott guns, handled by the men of Battery A, being brought
into action. There was also infantry fighting, but not of a serious
character. Towards night the Sixth Corps of the Union army, which
had been brought up the river on transports, began to arrive at the
earthworks, and no further danger was feared. Advancing in line of
battle it was found that the Confederates were now in retreat; but
if they had not been so cautious the day before, it is probable
that Early's 18,000 tried soldiers would have made their way into
Washington, and inflicted the most humiliating disaster of the war.
Late in the fall, the senior lieutenant of the battery being absent
on leave, Lieutenant Cushing was ordered to take the men and guns to
Elmira, New York, to assist in guarding the prison pen at that place.
There, about 12,000 Confederates were confined, in charge of a regiment
of short-term men, undisciplined and unaware of the responsibilities
of their position. The prisoners were in consequence unruly and often
uproarious.
The day after his arrival, Cushing went with his second in command,
Lieutenant Frank Wilkeson, to inspect the outer lines of the camp, and
was assailed with jeers and howls of contempt by the prisoners. Quick
action was needed. Cushing gave the Confederates the following talk,
reported[10] to have been delivered in a low, clear voice, in terms far
from polite, but nevertheless effective, for no further trouble was
experienced:
[10] Frank Wilkeson, _Recollections of a Private Soldier in the Army of
the Potomac_ (N. Y., 1887), pp. 223, 224.
See here ----, ----, ----! I am just up from the front, where I
have been killing such infernal wretches as you are. I have met
you in twenty battles. I never lost a gun to you. You never drove
a battery I served with from its position. You are a crowd of
insolent, cowardly scoundrels, and if I had command of this prison
I would discipline you, or kill you, and I should much prefer to
kill you. I have brought a battery of United States artillery to
this pen, and if you give me occasion I will be glad to dam that
river [pointing to the Chemung] with your worthless carcasses, and
silence your insolent tongues forever. I fully understand that you
are presuming on your position as prisoners of war when you talk
to me as you have; but [and here his hand shook warningly in the
faces of the group], you have reached the end of your rope with me.
I will kill the first man of you who again speaks insultingly to me
while I am in this pen, and I shall be here daily. Now, go to your
quarters!
The release of all prisoners of war, in 1865, made unnecessary the
further presence of cannon at Elmira. Cushing thereupon returned to
Washington. His entire organization was dismounted, and early in 1866
assigned to duty as heavy artillery at Fort Meyer, across the river
from Georgetown, D. C. It may well be imagined that the new service,
consisting principally of drilling recruits, would not be much to the
taste of the dashing young lieutenant who was now in his twenty-eighth
year, full of life and vigor, a lover of literature and art, but above
all imbued with the desire to write his name by the side of those
of his brothers, whose services to their country were worthy of a
permanent place on the tablets of the Nation's memory.
_Transferred to the Cavalry_
It was not until he had completed his twenty-ninth year that Howard
obtained a transfer to the cavalry, which was then engaged in subduing
Indians, the only warlike enterprise then in operation. On September
7, 1867, he became second-lieutenant of troop F of the Third cavalry,
probably with reasonable certainty of early promotion, for about three
months later he received a commission as first lieutenant.
[Illustration: ALONZO HERSFORD CUSHING]
From the border annals, it would appear that thenceforward he was
practically commander of his troop. So closely identified was he with
it, that what the troop did was credited to Cushing, and what Cushing
did was the pride and the boast of the troop. In captivating the hearts
of his followers, Howard displayed a power and quality of bravery much
resembling that of his brothers. Captain Bourke, who served with him
as junior lieutenant, in the same troop, frankly stated in private
conversation that Howard Cushing was the bravest man he ever saw;
and repeated for emphasis, "I mean just that--the bravest man I ever
saw." In Bourke's volume,[11] he writes to like effect, although not
in the identical language above quoted. One among his many allusions
to Cushing is given in the "Appreciations" preceding the present
narrative; but there are others, expressed with nearly as strong
emphasis--for instance, a list of the able and gallant officers who had
helped clear Arizona of Apaches is recited, with the conclusion: "They
were all good men and true, but if there were any choice among them I
am sure that the verdict, if left to those soldiers themselves, would
be in favor of Cushing." In a burst of indignation, after speaking of
the lieutenant's "determination, coolness and energy, which had made
his name famous all over the southwestern border," Bourke adds: "There
is an alley named after him in Tucson, and there is, or was when last I
saw it, a tumble-down, worm-eaten board to mark his grave, and that was
all to show where the great American nation had deposited the remains
of one of its bravest."
[11] John G. Bourke, _On the Border with Crook_ (N. Y., 1891).
Cushing's first cavalry service of distinction was in western Texas,
from which he drove the savages in 1869. The next spring, after a
cruel massacre by the Indians of a party of thirty white men and women
on their way to work at a private ranch, he was selected to head an
expedition for the punishment of the murderers. Patiently searching for
every indication of the trails of the Indians, he found their camp one
night, and the following morning surprised and destroyed them, almost
to the last man. They were said to have the more easily succumbed to
the attack, from having drunk a quantity of patent medicines taken from
the baggage of their earlier victims. This stuff was composed mostly of
what the distillers call "high wines," containing a large percentage of
crude alcohol.
On returning to Camp Grant the troop rested for a short time, and
then started on an extended expedition touching the Sierra Apache and
Mesquite Springs--losing only one man, the blacksmith, in the course
of the trip, and inflicting no great injury on the Indians. Other
expeditions followed, about as fruitless; but towards the end of summer
the headquarters were moved fifty-five miles west to Tucson, which
had not then acquired fame as a mining centre. It was, however, noted
as being the capital of Arizona and one of the dirtiest of little
Spanish-American towns. The camp was on the eastern border of the
village, and the Apaches were in the habit of coming up to its close
neighborhood to steal and drive away live stock. Even after the arrival
of Cushing's troop, the savages had shown strong tendencies towards
mischief, seriously wounding one of his men. Later they simultaneously
attacked wagon trains and widely-separated settlements, thus confusing
the calculations of our officers. As a crowning exploit they carried
away a herd of cattle from Tucson itself, and followed that achievement
by the killing of a stage-mail rider and the massacre of a party of
Mexicans on their way to Sonora.