Wilder's Brigade at Hoover's Gap

The poem below (my contribution to Bill West's Third Annual Great Genealogy Poetry Challenge) was included in an undated newspaper article found in the files of my Grandmother. Just 17 ½ years old, her Grandfather (my Great-Great Grandfather) William Brubaker enlisted in Company E, 17th Indiana Regiment on April 21, 1861. He was discharged on June 20, 1864 and eight months later was "veteranized" and enlisted as a sergeant in Company I, 152nd Regiment. He was again honorably discharged on August 30, 1865.

In October 1862, the 17th Indiana was part of a brigade headed by General John Thomas Wilder (a Colonel at the time). The regiments spent much of their time pursuing Confederate raiders and cavalry. As a result, the General decided that his troops would be more effective as mounted infantry. The brigade became known as the "Hatchet Brigade" and then as the "Lightning Brigade" since it could move much faster than the regular walking infantry units. Adding to their effectiveness, the mounted brigade was armed with Spencer repeating rifles on May 18th, 1863.

A little over a month later, on June 24, 1863, the Lightning Brigade used the Spencer rifles for the first time in battle - at Hoover's Gap, Tennessee. They successfully repelled five Confederate assaults and inflicted huge casualties. The 17th Indiana lost 48 soldiers killed and wounded in the severe fighting and the Illinois regiments lost over 100 in the fighting that day.

The poem was recited by Miss Maud Pressler during the 4th annual reunion of Company E held at the residence of Mrs. Isaac Shinneman in Columbia City, Indiana. There was no indication in the article as to the author of the poem.

"Wilder's Brigade at Hoover's Gap"

We rode in advance the whole night long, Faster as near the daylight come,
With never a shout, or laugh, or song, Like hunters pursuing game.
And never a clank of a saber smote An ear in the whole brigade,
And never a bugle breathed a note As the swift night ride we made.

Night's silence was only broken by The sound of our horses' feet:
The stars shown bright in the Southern sky, And the air was warm and sweet.
A sudden halt in the gray of dawn, A single, low, keen bugle call,
We formed in line and galloped on - A few low whispers, and that was all.

For well we knew the day would bring The fierce, wild charge and fight,
And that many a rifle ball would sing Its death-song ore the night.
Our blood rose high when right before, Our eyes the first thin lines of gray,
The skirmishers of an army corps, stretched out across our way.

And on beyond, in Hoover's Gap, Before us spread were a thousand tents;
And in them taking a morning nap Slept Bragg and his regiments.
Loud and clear our bugles sang, And "Charge for the Gap!" was the cry.
And a shout went up from our line that rang And echoed against the sky.

And every steed by spur was stung, As we bent in our saddles low,
And quickly our "Spencers" were unslung, As we rushed on the fearless foe.
On, in the face of the storm of lead That full on our column broke
Over the wounded and over the dead, And through the sulphurous smoke.

We rode the skirmishers to the ground, For Hoover's Gap was our goal;
But above the tumult came the sound Of and army's battle-roll!
"Dismount - Lie down!" Strong line of gray At the double-quick with guns atrail,
Bore down on us in fierce array Expecting that we would quail.

But never a man in the whole brigage Turned back on a coward's heel,
But we lay and gazed all undismayed, Along our barrels of steel.
On - on they came, with savage yell, 'Till fifty paces lay between
And then a flame, as if from hell, Burst full upon the scene.

The black and writhing clouds of smoke Leaped up, then settled over all,
Meanwhile ten thousand rifles spoke Their speech of flame and ball.
For one full hour, like waves that beat Upon the shores that will not yield,
They charged - then sounded the retreat, And left us on the field.

Comrades of many a bloody fray, Of victory or dire mishap,
Who would not rather on that day Have died than lost the Gap?

Poetry Challenge :: Ballads of Blue River

Last month Bill West issued a call for submissions to the Second Great American Local Poem And Song Genealogy Challenge! We are to “Find a poem by a local poet, famous or obscure, from the region one of your ancestors lived in. It can be about an historical event, a legend, a person, or even about some place (like a river) or a local animal.”

The poet I've chosen would fit the “obscure” category. It is doubtful that anyone outside of Whitley County, Indiana has ever heard of J. D. Archer for few within the county have!

Josiah D. Archer (also known as J.D. or Joe) was born on the Archer family farm in Thorncreek Township, Whitley County, Indiana in 1877, the son of Josiah and Alice (Barney) Archer. The Blue River, which runs through a portion of their farm, played an integral part in the life of J.D. as well as his brothers and the other boys in the neighborhood.

In 1912, while living in Chicago, he published a small book of 26 poems titled “Ballads of Blue River” which relate mostly to his youth and growing up along the banks of the Blue River. Greatly influenced by the poetry of James Whitcomb Riley, many of Josiah's poems were written in the "Riley style" using Hoosier Dialect. Among the topics he describes are coon hunting, sugar making time, evening on the farm, and falling in love.

I don't have the original book as I think very few were printed but have photocopied it. An original copy resides at the Whitley County Historical Museum.

J. D. lived in Thorncreek Township. So did several of my ancestors and their siblings. The owner of Sherwood's Pond – the subject of the poem below - was John D. Sherwood and his wife Jennie Virginia Sherwood. She was my 1st cousin four times removed. Also mentioned in that poem was Foust's woods. It was owned by Franklin H. Foust and his wife Maxia Jones. Maxia was my 3rd Great Grandaunt and the aunt of Jennie Sherwood.

Sherwood's Pond

Nes'led snugly an' serene
In a quiet vale that stretched between
Two hills, on the eastward orchard crowned,
On th' westward woodland bound,
Where crooked pathways wind and creep
And fleecy patches mark the browsing sheep;
Banks with green grass fringed an' lawned,
Memory veiled, lies Sherwood's Pond.

We ust go acrost lots to school
Through th' fields an' orchards as a rule
An' had to pass by the pond on our way
An' I tell you, on a summer day
With sunshine floodin' things all over,
Fish a-flouncin' an' bees in th' clover,
It was jist like drivin' Swigart's mule
To git our feet to go t'ward school.

Seems like only jist last year,
With summer come an' dog days near,
That us youngsters, pleasure bent,
To that 'are pond at high noon went,
Sailed our boats an' fished an' swam
In th' deep hole by th' dam.

After we'd swum an hour or more,
Some, shiverin' cold, would wade ashore,
Quiet-like, an' start a-puttin' on their clothes,
When someone in th' pond would hold his nose,
Dive an' bring up clay-mud from th' bottom,
If th' fellers on shore wasn't watchin'—swat 'em,—
Smear 'em with mud till there was nothin' else to do
'Ceptin' wade back for another plunge or two.

Seemed like ever'body in the country knew
'Bout that 'are pond, an' knew Jud Sherwood, too.
He liked to hunt nuts in th' fall
In Foust's woods, an' th' tree was mighty tall
That he couldn't shin up to th' very top
An' slash till th' last nut would drop.

Could make bows an' arrows out o' hick'ry wood;
Shoot 'em, too, straight as any Indian could.
Jud was always makin' somethin' new
Like divin' boards ah' rafts fer floatin', too,
An' many a time we worked away till dark
To float some new concern that he called Noah's Ark,
Till his mother, kind o' worried, would call "Judd-e-e” about then
An' he clim upon th' fence an "Whoo-whoo-ed" back again.

In winter-time the ice was a foot thick
Then broke an' over-run an' re-froze slick.
Th' whole Beech Chapel crowd come down
With skates an' sleds; some come from town
An' after tumblin' 'round a heap a-tryin' fancy whirls
Th' big chaps kind o' edged around to walk home with th' girls.

In winter's cold or summer's heat
That 'are old pond was hard to beat
An' when I ponder o'er them days gone by
When Jud an' Sam an' Eve an' I
An' Bub an' Bill jist lived down there,
So to speak, Lords o' earth an' free as air,
I jist natur'ly can't help a thankin' God
For that 'are pond o' water an' them hills o' sod.

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Pressler's Band

Talkin' about music in a kind o' off-hand way,
The kind that bears repeatin', as Father ust to say,
There ain't none any better'n a drum-band anywhere.
If I was needin' cheerin' and inspirin', I declare,
I'd jist like to take a walk down town an' stand
An' hear old Yankee Doodle played by Presslers' Band.

Durin' campaign season that 'are band was sure to play
An' then you'd see the crowd begin a-movin, that-a-way,
Boys would come a runnin' for four blocks or more
And old soldiers come a "heppin'" that could hardly walk before.
You knew th' Thorncreek Delegation was a goin' to be on hand
When you heard old Yankee Doodle played by Presslers' band.

Douglas Pressler was their fifer an' allays led th' band,
And his half a dozen brothers played the snares on either hand.
Lordy! How they made that old "Six-Eight" tune hum,
While Henry Egolf beat th' stuffn' out th' old bass drum.
Any feller that ain't heard 'em ain't supposed to understand
The glory o' th' music played by Pressler's band.

Presslers' band! Seems like I kin hear 'em yet
A playin' martial melodies, the kind you can't forget.
If I could choose my music for jist a single time
I'd say it was a privilege mos' pleasin' an' sublime
To elbow into Thorncreek's crowd an' stand
An' hear old Yankee Doodle played by Presslers' Band.