Volunteer! Volunteer! Brave Hearts of Allegany!

The Union army appeared to be making quick work of the southern insurgency as the United States entered the new year of 1862. Recruitment offices around the north just shut down. Why keep something open when it was so clear the war was going to end and soon?

But then came General McClellan’s attempts to capture Richmond, capital of the Confederate States of America. The losses on the battle fields of the Virginia Peninsula Campaign were staggering. Now the decision to discontinue recruitment seemed not only foolhardy but catastrophic. The foreseeable future was one, not of victory celebrations, but of a sustained, long war.

Soldiers, from every state, were needed.

In early July 1862, Lincoln put out a call for 300,000 volunteers; every able-bodied man between 18 to 45 was urged to enlist. As word of the Peninsula Campaign’s failures spread, enthusiasm for the cause waned. Enticements were added, money bounties increased.

Ira Sayles, a long-time abolitionist and ardent supporter of the War, answered the call, and used his position in the communities of Alfred, Whitesville, and Independence to alternately cajole and shame other men to come with him to Almond, to enlist in what would become Company H of the 130th New York Volunteers.

War Meeting to be held at the Methodisth Church in Whitesville, On Monday Evening August 4th 1862.

Recruitment broadside created by Ira Sayles, August 1862; shared by Roger Easton, Former Historian, Town of Independence, Whitesville, New York: The Independence Historical Society, 540 Main, Whitesville, NY 14897.

The poster directs citizens to attend a war meeting on Monday evening, the 4th of August, in the Methodist Church in Whitesville, the town in which his wife grew up and in which his brothers-in-law had businesses. I can hear his voice ringing from the pulpit:

“Fellow Citizens: 

In the extremity of its danger, our tottering Government appeals to each one of us, personally and individually; and implores us to rush to the rescue.

Her defeat will be our shame, her fall, our RUIN!

Let no man stop to count his dollars, nor the profits he leaves; for, the Triumph of this Detestable Rebellion, come Anarchy, Confiscation, Bankruptcy, Vassalage, Slavery, SEMIBARBARISM. Our flocks, and our herds, and our pleasant homes, will be seized upon as plunder of War! Our school-houses, our academies, and our colleges will be emptied. Our rail-roads and our canals will be destroyed and will forever lie in ruins. Our ships will rot at their docks. Our factories and our mills will lie idle, and fall into utter decay. No one need flatter himself with the hope, that those things will not be so. 

The History of all Anarchies Testifies to the truthfulness of this Picture.

Let Each Able-Bodied Man between the ages of eighteen and forty-five, subject to Military Duty, feel that the suppression of this terrible rebellion, and with it, the slaying of all these evils, may depend, under God on his single individual arm; and that their triumph will be chargeable to him alone, should he now refuse to rally to the ? Of our Noble Beleaguered Government.

My friend, nay my brother, let me beseech you not to turn away from her agonizing cry for help! Are you a husband and a father, look on those dear ones—dearer than life—and remember, that, if you go, it is to avert all this overwhelming run from them;that, if you stay, it is to invite it on them; that they and their children, and their children’s children will pronounce your name, with grateful pride, if you now peril your life in your country’s cause; but that if you remain at home, like a cowardly craven and contemptible slink, these same children, your posterity, will blush with burning shame, whenever they are reminded of your base poltroonery.”

“Who would be a traitor knave, Who would fill a coward’s grave?

Who so base to be a slave…Let him stay at home”

[from Robert Burns’ patriotic song “Scots Wha Hae”]

To the true patriot, the advanced bounty, twenty five dollars and the advanced pay, one month’s wages, making the little sum of thirty-eight dollars is of no consideration that yet if he is to leave behind him a dependent family, this little sum, together with the monthly wages, the remaining bounty, seventy five dollars, and the one hundred and sixty acres of land secured to himself or his ? May be matters of some account. 

Let Allegany send from her hills and her valleys a brave and a Loyal Regiment ready to meet the demoniac yells of those southern semibarbarians, with a cool, steady, dauntless courage. 

Let each gray-headed father, as he sees his brave son arm for the deadly strife, bless God, that He has given him such a son to represent Him in the bloody hour. Let each mother, wife, betrothed, or sisters, as she bids her loved one farewell, shrink from the awful sacrifice; but rather bid him God speed, shedding no unwomanly tears. 

Let all who can not go, either on account of sex, age, or infirmities, or other causes justifiable before God, assist the destitute families of those who do go, and pray, if they ever do pray, for God’s protection of the Just and True—all do these things,except the cowardly dastards who can go and ought to go, but dare not; let them hide their craven heads and eat dirt. 

Brave Hearts of Allegany, I do not say to you ”go,” but “come!”

I go as one of you, to share with you the soldiers’ fare, the weary march, the bivouac, the picket guard; with you [rest of line unreadable]

The Tigerish Glare: part three

Recap The Tigerish Glare: Part One and Part Two

On the evening of 29 June 1898, Private Sherman Sayles of the 3rd Missouri Regiment complained of a headache to the night nurse, who notified Camp Alger medical attendant Private Lake. While Lake went to the dispensary to mix some morphine, Private Sayles pulled out a penknife and sliced open his left wrist. Fellows in nearby cots yelled, and someone ran to retrieve Private Lake. By the time Lake and the attending surgeon, Major Stunkard, got cot-side, Sherman had lost a great deal of blood.

The wound was tended, and by morning Major Stunkard pronounced the soldier out of danger, physically. Clearly Sherman Sayles needed further care, care that tended to his mental health as well as his physical well being. Stunkard transferred the soldier to the hospital at Fort Myers (Virginia) where further evaluation determined that Sayles required intensive therapy.

As quickly as orders could trickle through bureaucracy Sherman was transferred across the Potomac to the Government Asylum for the Insane, locally known as St. Elizabeths Hospital, in southeast Washington, D.C. 

On 5 July 1898 Sherman Sayles walked across the campus of St. Elizabeths under the shade of red oaks, silver maples and tulip trees, past vegetable and ornamental gardens, and chicken houses and pigeon coops. He climbed up the steps of a three-story brick building, crossed its white-trimmed porch and entered Oak Hall. A nurse guided the 36-year-old to a large room brightly lit by enormous windows. Beds lined the walls, each with its own privacy screen. From this crowded ward Sherman Sayles, my great-granduncle, would begin his treatment for acute suicidal melancholia.

Several months passed before his brother–my great-grandfather–paid the former soldier a visit. It was the week before Thanksgiving, and trees were now bare. Clifton D. Sayles crossed the St. Elizabeth’s campus, leaves crunching underfoot, and climbed the steps to the entrance of Toner Hall, the convalescent residence to which Sherman had been moved. He was shown to a pleasant sitting room, filled with light and plants and rockers. There he met a brother he probably hadn’t seen in years. Clifton had remained on the family farm, raising his own kids in the Mecklenburg County, Virginia community, while Sherman had moved from Virginia to New York to Missouri. The man that sat before him on that November day was not one he remembered. In fact Clifton was alarmed by his brother’s appearance and behavior. Cliff returned home and consulted with his mother, Serena C. Sayles, sitting to pen this letter to Sherman’s attending physician the following Tuesday.

To Dr. George Foster from Clifton D. Sayles, November 22, 1898

As I was compelled to leave Washington without seeing you, I have taken the liberty of writing. 

The second time I went to see my brother he either did not, or would not recognize me; and acted in a very suspicious manner altogether. 

Now I do not claim to understand his mental condition; but I do say this, he acted very  ungratefully to say the least. I have consulted with my mother since my return and we have come to the conclusion that the place for him to remain is right where he is. I would consider it unsafe for him to be here at liberty for years to come. Of course, I am entirely ignorant as to how long the U.S. Government will take care of him. I am also ignorant as to whether or not his regiment has been mustered out of the service: but he was certainly in the performance of military duty at the time of his mental attack.  I do not wish to give you the impression that we are acting in an unnatural manner towards him; but I will never forget to my dying day, the tigerish glare he gave me the second time I went to see him. 

Clifton ended his letter with a plea:

Whenever in your opinion he is sufficiently recovered to rejoin his regiment, we think that is the proper place for him. We would be very grateful indeed to you if you would take the trouble to write occasionally in regard to his condition. Please withhold nothing.


Part Three

I feel such empathy for Clifton, for I have also been in the position of traveling all day to reach a loved one who found themselves in an disconcerting place, with strangers, living with unrelenting need and suffering.

I can vividly imagine Clifton trying to share family news only to be mocked; or suggesting a walk to enjoy the view over the Anacostia River only to be mimicked. I can envision that moment when Cliff gathered his coat to leave that first day, and Sherman melted into his chair, hands covering his face. And weeping.

“I’m sorry.”

His hands brushed the words over his body.

“I’m sorry for ALL of THIS.”

Across the ages I can imagine Clifton’s promise to return, a swirl of questions around family duty and his brother’s needs accompanying him to his night lodgings. And ALL of the queries settled upon his next visit, when Sherman sat as if ready to pounce–shoulders hunched, face contorted, with a fixed tigerish glare.

In that instant there was the heart-rending recognition that he couldn’t care for his brother.

Clifton had to leave him, there, helpless to escape his condition. To be tended by strangers who may or may not have cared. But there, where he would be fed, and clothed, and washed, and watched over–where he would be safe.


The Sunday after his brother’s visit, Sherman packed his belongings and followed an attendant from the second-story ward in Toner Hall to one of the Oaks buildings, to yet another ward chock-a-block with beds.

In spite of the hydrotherapy, music and art opportunities, and the beauty of the grounds, Sherman continued to have suicidal thoughts and delusions that someone was out to hurt him. He frequently refused to eat his meals, for fear that they contained poison. Sometimes he would eat, only to purge immediately afterward.

By September of 1900, Sherman was emaciated, weighing in at only 110 pounds. Still the staff kept encouraging him to eat, dodging his verbal assaults and the occasional thrown glass.

This was an era of immense overcrowding at St. Elizabeths Hospital. In spite of the efforts to treat patients for recovery, many remained institutionalized, unable to recapture their ability to live on their own. And the acute cases continued to be admitted.

The need for caregivers far outstripped the supply of trained nurses and attendants. The bare minimum was probably all that each patient could be assured of–clean clothes, clean linens, three meals a day, and assistance with morning and evening ablutions.

There was no extra time to make sure that patients kept in touch with families, or that families were kept apprised of their loved one’s condition. Nothing in the patient record indicates that Clifton was ever made aware of his brother’s disordered eating or suicidal ideation; or that family news of the deaths of their mother and Cliff’s wife, Anna, reached Sherman. And with Washington, D.C. a series of train rides away, Clifton and his kids were not able to just drop by.

Sherman lived without a strong social support network, in wards intended to hold 18 beds and bedside tables but kitted out at the turn of the century with 30 to 40 beds; and 30 to 40 men’s perspiration, farts, snores, grunts, mutterings, sneezes and coughs, guffaws and shouts.

Sherman was surly when interacting with staff or other patients, and prone to withdraw from the hospital’s social life. Nurses would find him sitting on the side of his bed with his face buried in his hands, or haunched in a corner.

Month after month passed. As more patients were admitted, chronic patients like Sherman were moved from one building to another. After one such relocation Sherman appeared to improve a bit, taking his restless agitation out for long walks most every day. His thinking seemed more rational, his cooperation more consistent.

But the contrary behavior reappeared, with Sherman loudly refusing to cooperate in treatment “considered beneficial for his condition.” Occasionally he threw his food and dishes across the dining hall. He deliberately provoked his fellow patients. His language was often profane and vulgar. When the former private was “high-tempered” he beat himself on the face and body and claimed that his attendants struck him. Other times Sherman stole out of bed when he thought the attendant wasn’t watching and “slyly struck other patients who were unable to defend themselves.”

And always the food or the medications were suspected of containing poison. Only certain doctors and nurses could successfully cajole Sherman into consuming them.

In June of 1903 Sherman developed chronic diarrhea. Bedridden he also developed pressure sores.

As the Thanksgiving holiday approached, the diarrhea suddenly stopped, replaced by intermittent nausea and vomiting. Though increasingly debilitated, Sherman managed to vigorously refuse any attempts to take his temperature, or to give him hypodermic or oral medications. In the evening of 18 November, Sherman’s speech was reduced to a whisper; he grew still, only his chest moved with shallow, rapid breaths.

There was no last visit from Clifton, no one to sit bedside, to keep final watch over Sherman. Only a nurse bore witness to his final exhale.

A headstone in St. Elizabeths East Cemetery marks the grave of Private Christopher Sherman Sayles.

St. Elizabeths Hospital East Cemetery, photo by Historical Congressional Cemetery Archivist: accessed on Find A Grave (findagrave.com).


Source:

Christopher Sherman Sayles, QO1-563669951, St. Elizabeths Hospital (Washington, D.C.) patient record, Case number 10778, created 1898-1903; copy from National Archives and Records Administration, Washington, D.C., received February 2020.

The Tigerish Glare: part two

Notice of Sherman Sayles’ suicide attempt appeared in newspapers throughout the country. It’s hard to know if my great-grandfather, Clifton Sayles, subscribed to any of them. He may not have learned of his younger brother’s peril until the Chase City, Virginia family was contacted by administrators at St. Elizabeths Hospital, Washington, D.C.

Sherman had traveled in and out of their lives since he left the Mecklenburg County farm in 1880. I am certain the news stunned them. What had happened to their boy? What should Clifton, his mother Serena, and wife Anna tell the kids, particularly Alice? What would the neighbors say? What would happen if Sherman couldn’t be cured? Where would he go? What must they do? Were they allowed to visit? Should they visit?

All of the questions swirled just as summer’s responsibilities were heating up. The Sayles would have likely had the bulk of their winter and spring oats cut; and the wheat cut and shocked, stacked and housed. Corn and tobacco would have been growing steadily. Their Irish potato crop would have been dug and readied for shipment. But tobacco, the cash crop, would soon have to be topped and later hilled, cut and hung. Corn would have to be picked, shucked, and stored; timber would need to be felled, cut and stacked for winter heating and cooking.  Fruits and vegetables were coming in daily, and the drying and canning for the winter table was a constant chore.

What if the family tended to its business at hand and waited to see Sherman? What would happen to Sherman?

With some inquiries, Serena and Clifton might have found relief in the national reputation that Superintendent William Godding had built at St. Elizabeths Hospital. Modeled on the Moral Treatment, Sherman wouldn’t be restrained but encouraged to enjoy the outdoors. Every building and garden, every view and path had been constructed to aid in a patient’s recovery.

Furthermore, the hospital had a farm on site, which meant Sherman would eat fresh cucumbers, radishes, watermelons, tomatoes, cabbage, potatoes, corn, and small fruits, as well as fresh dairy products and beef and pork.

In addition, Sherman would receive the latest advances in hydrotherapy under the supervision of Dr. George Foster. Depending on his condition, the physician would prescribe wet towel wraps, continuous baths, or showers to relieve his restlessness and agitation. Maybe by Thanksgiving Sherman would be feeling more hopeful, more in control of his life.


The week before Thanksgiving, Clifton crossed the St. Elizabeth’s campus, leaves crunching underfoot, and climbed the steps to the entrance of Toner Hall, the convalescent residence to which Sherman had been moved. A nurse could have accompanied him to one of the building’s sitting rooms, where he might have found Sherman seated in a rocking chair.

The visit did not go as planned.

Sherman was distant and unresponsive. Sullen.

Clifton returned one more time, only to be met by open hostility.

In my mind, I see Clifton take a train crossing the Potomac to Fredricksburg, then transferring to a train to Richmond, thinking the whole time of his baby brother. I imagine his preoccupied stride across the platform in Richmond to the Southern Railway coach to carry him home to Chase City. I wonder if he had to walk from the train station down Main Street to the farm, late at night, alone and struggling to understand what was to happen next. Would anyone have waited up for him to hear his report? Or was it around the breakfast table the next day that he would share his disconcerting memories with Serena, Anna, and Alice–his eldest child, so fond of her Uncle Sherman.

By Tuesday, November 22nd, the family had made decisions. Clifton sat down and penned this letter:

Doctor Foster

Dr.  Sir

As I was compelled to leave Washington without seeing you, I have taken the liberty of writing. 

The second time I went to see my brother he either did not, or would not recognize; and acted in a very suspicious manner altogether. 

Now I do not claim to understand his mental condition; but I do say this, he acted very  ungratefully to say the least. I have consulted with my mother since my return and we have come to the conclusion that the place for him to remain is right where he is. I would consider it unsafe for him to be here at liberty for years to come. Of course, I am entirely ignorant as to how long the U.S. Government will take care of him. I am also ignorant as to whether or not his regiment has been mustered out of the service: but he was certainly in the performance of military duty at the time of his mental attack.  I do not wish to give you the impression that we are acting in an unnatural manner towards him; but I will never forget to my dying day, the tigerish glare he gave me the second time I went to see him. 

Whenever in your opinion he is sufficiently recovered to rejoin his regiment, we think that is the proper place for him. We would be very grateful indeed to you if you would take the trouble to write occasionally in regard to his condition. Please withhold nothing.

Continued in The Tigerish Glare: Part three


summer’s responsibilities: “Weather and Crops,” Richmond Dispatch (Richmond, Virginia,) 6 July 1898, page 7; accessed digitally on Newspapers.com (www.newspapers.com) 12 March 2021.

St. Elizabeths Hospital: “The Records of St. Elizabeths Hospital at the National Archives,” Frances M. McMillen and James S. Kane, Prologue Magazine, Institutional Memory, Summer 2010, Vol. 42, No. 2; digitally accessed at the National Archives (https://www.archives.gov/publications/prologue/2010/summer/institutional.html), 12 Feb 2021.

St. Elizabeths Hospital: “St. Elizabeths Hospital, Historic District,” Thomas Otto, U.S. General Services Administration, Washington, D.C.; accessed digitally (http://dcpreservation-wpengine.netdna-ssl.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/12/St-Elizabeths-Brochure.pdf) February 2021.

penned this letter: Christopher Sherman Sayles, QO1-563669951, St. Elizabeths Hospital (Washington, D.C.) patient record, Case number 10778, created 1898-1903; copy from National Archives and Records Administration, Washington, D.C., received February 2020.

The Tigerish Glare: part one

Sweat beaded across the brows of the Third Missouri Volunteers as they marched the mile and a half from Dunn Loring Station to Camp Alger, Virginia in late May of 1898. Sherman Sayles, newly enlisted private, was older than most of his mates, but no less determined to become a military man. He, along with the rest of his regiment, felt his blood boil with patriotic fervor and determination to drive the Spanish out of Cuba, all the way back to Spain.

The Third Missouri presented as a ragtag bunch, civilians wearing civilian day wear with perhaps a cap or shirt to indicate a military unit. Once the companies arrived at the site of Camp Alger they set to work. With regiments from across the United States, they transformed overgrown fields and dense forest into a town of tents and drill fields. Once Sherman and his mates constructed the essential buildings–kitchens, mess tents, headquarters, hospital, latrines, sleeping quarters–endurance and discipline training became decidedly military. Packs shouldered, the men were ordered to march for miles out from camp, take a quick break, and march back. Medics would haul men back to camp if they succumbed to the heat or fatigue. Eventually weapons drills were added to their daily routine, and sham battles became regular occurrences.

Though there was water for cooking and a bit of washing up, sources in the immediate camp were not sufficient to support bathing of the 26,000 men that assembled on those grounds. So regiments rotated drill marches with a 7 mile march to the Potomac River, for a bit of hygienic R and R.

The record doesn’t indicate just when Sherman Sayles suffered a head injury in that first month. He could have been struck by a falling tree as land was cleared. Or he could have fallen while fooling around or bathing in the Potomac River. Or been hit in the head through some flukey accident during a drill.

But by the middle of June Sherman Sayles occupied a cot in the camp’s Second Division Hospital, restless, agitated, frequently suffering from acute headaches. Private James Lake, medical attendant for Sayles’ ward, was on hand the night of June 29.

At around 10:00 pm that summer evening, Sherman complained of a headache to the night nurse, who notified Lake. While Private Lake went to the dispensary to mix some morphine, Private Sayles pulled out a penknife and sliced open his left wrist. Fellows in nearby cots yelled, and someone ran to retrieve Private Lake. By the time Lake and the attending surgeon, Major Stunkard, got cot-side, Sherman had lost a great deal of blood.

The wound was tended, and by morning Major Stunkard pronounced the soldier out of danger, physically. A note found during the night’s commotion gave the doctor pause.

“I would rather die by Spanish bullets than like this. Those who have falsely sworn my life away shall reap the most of it in the Judgement Day.” 

Clearly Sherman Sayles needed further care, care that tended to his mental health as well as his physical well being. Stunkard transferred the soldier to the hospital at Fort Myers (Virginia) where further evaluation determined that Sayles required intensive therapy.

As quickly as orders could trickle through bureaucracy Sherman was transferred across the Potomac to the Government Asylum for the Insane, locally known as St. Elizabeths Hospital, in southeast Washington, D.C.  The hospital was built on land overlooking the Anacostia River, giving patients, employees, and visitors alike stunning views of the District and Alexandria. Superintendent William Godding had been in charge of the facility for decades developing its national reputation for the respectful, cutting-edge treatment of the District’s indigent insane and the military’s mentally ill soldiers and sailors. 

On July 5th, 1898 Sherman Sayles walked across the campus of St. Elizabeths under the shade of red oaks, silver maples and tulip trees, past vegetable and ornamental gardens, and chicken houses and pigeon coops. He climbed up the steps of a three-story brick building, crossed its white-trimmed porch and entered Oak Hall. A nurse guided the 36-year-old to a large room brightly lit by enormous windows. Beds lined the walls, each with its own privacy screen. From this crowded ward Sherman Sayles, my great-granduncle, would begin his treatment for acute suicidal melancholia.

continued…


Camp Alger: Anderson, Eric. “Camp Russell A. Alger, Falls Church, Virginia.” On Point, vol. 19, no. 4, 2014, pp. 44–48. JSTORhttp://www.jstor.org/stable/26364238. Accessed 24 Jan. 2020.

Private James Lake: “Camp Life by James Lake,” The Bedford Weekly Mail (Bedford, Indiana), 08 July 1898, p. 4; digitally accessed from Newspaper.com (https://www.newspaper.com), 2020.

St. Elizabeths Hospital: “The Records of St. Elizabeths Hospital at the National Archives,” Frances M. McMillen and James S. Kane, Prologue Magazine, Institutional Memory, Summer 2010, Vol. 42, No. 2; digitally accessed at the National Archives (https://www.archives.gov/publications/prologue/2010/summer/institutional.html), 12 Feb 2021.

Sherman Sayles: Christopher Sherman Sayles, QO1-563669951, St. Elizabeths Hospital (Washington, D.C.) patient record, Case number 10778, created 1898-1903; copy from National Archives and Records Administration, Washington, D.C., received February 2020.

On This Date: 28 February 1883

On this date, 28 February 1883, my great-grandmother Kathryn Elizabeth Roahrig was born in Linton Township, Ohio.

Her son, Carlos, was interviewed by the Coshocton Tribune (Coshocton, OH) the summer of 1985 and gave these details about her life.

Kathryn Elizabeth Roahrig Bradford, 102, of South Seventh Street, was the oldest resident found by the committee.

Coshocton Tribune, 26 July 1985

History contest winners named

Coshocton County’s oldest native resident and longest held parcel of land have been named by the Coshocton County History Book Committee.

Kathryn Elizabeth Roahrig Bradford, 102, of South Seventh Street, was the oldest resident found by the committee… Mrs. Bradford was born Feb. 28, 1883, in Linton Township, the daughter of John and Matilda (Klein) Roahrig. On Oct. 16, 1904, she married the late Charles Ross Bradford.

She had three children: Thelma, wife of H. Paul Joseph, is deceased; Kerma, widow of Donald Minor and of Albert Hoge; and Carlos. She has seven grandchildren, 23 great-grandchildren and 3 great-great-grandchildren.

She resides with Carlos and his wife Betty on South Seventh Street in Coshocton.

She has always lived in town and is a member of Grace United Methodist Church. She worked for a short period of time, when her children were small, at the Old Glove Factory.

Bradford is not in good health and was unable to be interviewed; however, her son’s reply, when asked to what he attributes his mother’s longevity was, “It runs in the family.”


History contest winners named, Coshocton Tribune (Coshocton, OH), 26 July 1985; newspaper clipping a part of D Kay Strickland Family Collection, 2021.