My Heritage

As a young man, Miles P. Clark moved to Van Wert, Ohio from his home in New York to make a life for himself in the west.  There, he met his wife Mary and became one of the managers of the St. Charles Hotel, hosting Cotillon Parties until the 1850s.

Around 1857, he was given the opportunity to take lead over his own life, instead of just being another employee, and moved his family and two sons to the frontier in Scott County of the Minnesota Territory, where he helped with the formation of the village of St. Lawerence, becoming the hotel keeper and postmaster when the village officially formed in 1858, the same year Minnesota became a state.

When war broke out in 1861, he had well established his home, having added a set of fraternal twins--a boy and a girl, now two years old, to join his nine and ten year-old sons.  In September 1861, himself now of age 33, he left the hotel to the care of his wife and volunteered to join the 4th Minnesota Company A, mustering in at Ft Snelling, near St. Paul, about a day's ride from his home.  Since he had a talent for music, he was enlisted as a musician.

Over the winter the regiment trained and drilled.  Uniforms arrived three weeks after their training started.  On March 18, 1862, the regiment received orders to proceed to St. Louis, Missouri, which was delayed until April 20th, since the river from Ft. Snelling was still not navigable until then.  Passing by St. Paul on the way out, Miles played, "The Girl I Left Behind Me" with the rest of the regiment's band as people lined the bluffs with the men cheering as the steamboat sailed away.  The regiment arrived at Benton Barracks in St. Louis on April 24th.

At the barracks, an innovative sutler had a supply of steel vests for sale.  The vests consisted of two 1/16th inch plates bent to fit the chest.  They were designed to slip into the lining of each side of an ordinary vest and intended to protect one from the hazards of the enemy.  Also known as ironclads, the sutler sold them for between $7.50 and $20, depending on the quality and sophistication.  Although there was a certain temptation to owning one of these, Miles was more interested in saving his hard-earned money for his family back home.  As musician, he was not in quite the same danger as the rest of the regiment, so thought better of it.  The vests became quite popular as the first few purchases regularly saw use as targets for revolvers and appeared to provide good protection.

The sutler gained a significant profit until, joining the regiment on the steamboat to Cairo, he tried to sell to one particular private.  The private was skeptical, but agreed to purchase a set if it would stand the test against the minie ball of a Springfield.  Borrowing a Springfield from the colonel's orderlies (the only ones in the regiment to have Springfields), they placed the vests against a sack of oats.  It was with much amusement that the onlookers watched the bullet fire right through the plates and the oats, and skip up the river out of sight.  Needless to say, the sutler made no more money off the regiment after that.

By May 14, 1862, the regiment arrived at Hamburgh Landing, Tennessee and began the march to Corinth, Mississippi.  The march was hot.  They were used to the weather of Minnesota, and these days in May were far worse than the August of the north.  By May 30th, they reached the edges of the city of Corinth, joining up with most of the rest of the Union forces, a dense smoke enveloping the city.

Over the next month, the regiment moved to various locations around Corinth, looking for a good place to camp and scouting for the graybacks, seeing none but one around five miles southeast of Corinth.

But they had a severe attack from another source.  The water of the Mississippi country was intolerant of the Yankee invaders and struck many down with severe bouts of dysentery.  Sick call was of no help to those that suffered, as the men were accused of playing off and told to use a red-hot poker to seal themselves up.  Change with sick call only occurred when death came, sending the message that the situation was dire.

The sickness continued through the end of June, and Miles Clark was not spared.  He survived, but was not able to continue with the regiment, so was discharged for disability in July 1862.

Returning home, he soon found insufficient business to keep his hotel running, so by 1870 he relocated his family to Cairo, Minnesota, deep in the heart of the state to try his hand at farming with his brother Robert.  His eldest son, now 19, still lived at home, but worked at the local store as a clerk.

Farming did not work well for Miles, and by 1880 he moved his family again to Hector, Minnesota, taking back his life as a hotel keeper.  His eldest son moved on, but the rest of the children still lived in the hotel with their parents, with Willis working as a real-estate agent, and Harry, one of the twins, working as a telegraph operator.  Hattie, the other twin, met George Ashby, one of the boarders of the hotel, that year, married him, and gave birth to a son, Harry in 1881.

By 1900, the Ashbys and the Clarks moved to Superior, Wisconsin on Lake Superior.  Miles became an honorary member of G.A.R. and played his fife at every encampment until his death in 1907 at 81.

Harry Ashby grew to become the captain of the William P. Palmer, an ore ship known as a Tin Stacker--one of the largest ships in the world, and flagship for the Pittsburgh Steamship Company.  Harry married Lulu Willerd, who died giving birth to G. Howard Ashby in 1910.  Hattie, who had changed to going by Harriet, raised Howard since Harry was away on the Lakes for months at a time and could not care for him.

By the Great Depression of 1929, work was scarce, but Harry helped his son to get a job with the Pittsburgh Steamship Company, and before long, G. H. Ashby was the captain of his own ship.

During World War II, both men served in the Coast Guard.

G. H. Ashby married Doris Morrison and had two daughters, Barbara and Ellen.

Ellen is my mother.

On Christmas Day, 2016, my mother stumbled onto an old scrapbook.  She didn't even know who had created it or where it came from.  Most of what was in it were news clippings and letters covering the life of Harry Ashby, my great grandfather.  But then I stumbled across an obiturary for a Civil War veteran, one Miles Clark, and suddenly I had a moment of shock. I had no knowledge of ties to the Civil War, and suddenly, staring at me, was a solid connection.  The article referred to him being survived by a daughter, one "Mrs. Ashby", confirming some kind of connection.

The scrapbook also had certificates for Miles becoming an auctioneer and postmaster in Minnesota, and had a Cotillon Party invitation for the St. Charles Hotel for March 23, 1854, with Miles Clark listed as a manager.  There was even a certificate, dated 1912, from the Adjutant General's Office of the State of Minnesota certifying Miles Clark's honorable discharge for disability on July 12, 1862.

Based on the focus of the scrapbook being Harry Ashby, and with the addition of pieces of the life of Miles Clark, along with an article about Mary Clark, I imagine it was Harriet Ashby, daughter of Miles Clark and mother of Harry Ashby, who compiled the scrapbook.

With online research I found Miles was enlisted as Musician for the 4th Minnesota, and I found the book "History of the Fourth Regiment of Minnesota Infantry Volunteers During the Great Rebellion" by Alonzo L. Brown to fill in the gaps of his story with the 4th Minnesota.  The U.S. Census records of 1860 through 1910 confirmed all the rest.

Sometimes surprises can come in unusual ways.  Although it looks like he saw no combat, he was a part of that history, and a direct tie for me to that history.

How to Become a Reenactor Part 2

Everything written here are my sole opinions and observations and do not represent the opinions or observations of anyone else or any organization

Before reenacting, my life was average--even dull.  I was raised United Methodist, attended a private Christian school, majored in journalism for two years at a Christian college in Kentucky, graduated with a bachelor's in business from Ohio University, and began a career as a computer programmer.

I had a cursory interest in history.  My eyes were on science fiction--the typical geekish interests of a computer nerd like myself.

Average and dull.

I was introverted.  I made few friends.  Never talked much--unless it was about Star Trek or something sci-fi.  I gained few friends through my church.

Average and dull.

And then one day, my wife made a discovery.

It was a bit before 9/11, around 2000.  My wife and her mom came home from a run.  There was a terrifying excitement on my wife's face.  She saw something cool and wanted me to join her.  West Liberty, Ohio, had some kind of festival going on where everyone was wearing clothing from the Revolutionary War time period.

You don't argue with my wife.  I agreed to go up with her to this festival--it was something to do and kept me out of chores, anyhow.  How bad could it be?

It certainly seemed strange.  There were men dressed as Native Americans, wearing nothing more than a wool covering around their waste.  Lots of tricorn hats.  I remember a lot of them.  There was an archer showing off his hand-carved bow and shooting at a target.  Campfires everywhere.

I felt very out of place.

"It is only this one time," I kept telling myself.  "It'll end soon, and we can go home, never to remember this day again."

But then, we found the dancers.  I hated dancing.

It was okay to watch.  The moves reminded me of that day of square dancing I had in my gym class in high school.  There were a couple of cute girls in the mix as they danced in circles up and down the row.  A live band that included a fiddle and dulcimer played for the dancers.

It would soon pass, I hoped, and we could move on.

That is, until the dancers opened up the next dance to the crowd.  My wife insisted we join in.

I felt very out of place.

It was a simple dance--one called "Jefferson's Reel".  To simplify the teaching, each of the dancers partnered with one of the crowd, so that all I had to do was follow my partner.  I got one of the cute dancers.  They had us count with our partners as one's and two's, then our group of four took hands, and proceeded to learn the dance, walking through the steps as the dance master taught them to us.

I felt so out of place.

We went over it again, and then danced to music.

Afterward, my wife, who has never met a stranger, talked with the dance master and a few of the others.  They called themselves "The Liberty Dancers" and met every Thursday in Yellow Springs--and invited us to join them.  And since it was only a thirty minute drive for us--

At this point my wife and I were only into our fourth year or so of marriage.   I had not yet figured out that when my wife tries something--it is all the way.  She doesn't just dip her toes in to test the waters--she dives in, and it's sink or swim.

This was July.  By Labor Day, we were ready to perform for the public.  There was this big Revolutionary War festival that weekend in Springfield, Ohio.  The Faire at New Boston.

And just my luck, it was only twenty minutes from home.

Since we had absolutely no clothing relating to the Revolutionary War of our own at the time (it had all been out of fashion for about two hundred years), we were able to borrow everything.  We were able to get everything we needed, though my shoes were some beat-up modern things.  I was given a pale blue wescot, a hat blank with the sides sewn up to make a tricorn, and white trousers.  I found a pair of infantry trousers that went to the ankle to avoid the knee britches.

I felt more out of place than ever.  What had I gotten myself into?

It didn’t help that all the Liberty Dancers were very liberal in their modern political thinking, but I should have expected that when Yellow Springs was their base.  I learned it was pointless discussing elections and politics with them—I felt as if they thought Jimmy Carter was a good president.  Yes—I’m very conservative with my political views.

I later met others who were more normal thinking in the political views, but they were also the weirder ones in Revolutionary War reenacting.

The Faire at New Boston opened with a parade, where all reenactors in their 18th century getup meandered around the tent city.

There were a lot of odd creations there.  One guy was carrying around a rat, face dirtied up, missing teeth, and a huge sore on the side of his face.  He was the rat catcher—uh, but wait, I recognized him as one of the Liberty Dancers.

Oh, this was interesting.  What had I gotten myself into?

In one corner of the fair was this flamboyant Frenchman.  He wore a frilly, formal suit, a large white curly wig, and white makeup on his face.  Had it not been that he was portraying a Frenchman of 1800, I would have thought him gay.  He was making lace and demonstrating to the crowds how lace was made, but he had a whole spiel about how he normally had indentured servants to do his work, but since he didn’t have one he had to do it himself.  He tried to recruit a few kids for their assistance, promising something like a penny a month pay.  He also had an extreme arrogance about him—to the point of absurdity.

Having met this man outside of reenacting I can tell you that this is only one of his many acts.  He performs the acts in first person such that you believe he believes that he is that character.  He performs with humor and is very entertaining.  But he has a certain advantage—he is as eccentric as the characters he portrays.  He is very entertaining to be around, whether he is portraying a character or portraying himself.  You should see his son—he has snapped mousetraps on his tongue for the Discovery Channel.

Oh my, what had I gotten myself into?

Since the Liberty Dancers only had two or three half-hour shows to perform, my wife and I had a lot of time to wander around.  There were several tents of vendors selling wares, which were interesting, but kind of like wandering a flea market.  There were the strange acts that felt like you were watching the sideshow at a circus.

At the end of the day, they served all the reenactors a meal of ham and beans.  It was good stuff.  We hung out with the reenactors until after nightfall.  There were a couple of concession tents that served beer and lemonade throughout the day, but now just served beer.  And lots of beer.  The reenactors seemed to have had no tab to worry with.

Why were we here, anyhow?  They at least had lemonade when I asked for it, and there was no odd bite to the throat.  But I felt so out of place.  Can we go home now?  This proved one of the hazards of being married to someone who never knew a stranger.  Everyone at all times was her best friend—it was difficult to pull my wife away, even though neither of us drank.

We drove home, and returned the next day to start all over again.

When the event was over on Sunday, we followed a number of reenactors to a corner of the park, where the ham and beans had been served all day long.  I wondered what could possibly be so fascinating in this corner.

It started with the need to empty the left-over beer. It ended with the need to get rid of the left-over waxed boxes the supplies came in.  There was a campfire.  That pretty much says it all.

There is a tree in that corner, with a branch that extends over the campfire where the ham and beans are cooked over all day long.  It is probably thirty feet off the ground.  It has long been charred black from the annual box-burning ceremony.  I wonder if by now it has disintegrated to pure ash.

What had I gotten myself into?

There were a couple of small Rev War reenactments we attended that had battles, and I don’t remember the particulars, other than it was again at George Rogers Clark Park.  In fact, every single Rev War reenactment we went to was at George Rogers Clark Park in Springfield.

But it was at these events that had battles that I got my first taste blackpowder—and that started down a road of addiction that led me to where I am now.

I think it was my wife that pushed me into talking with some of the militia about the idea of trying things out.  It was before the battle and I had to borrow a musket, rounds, and a cartridge box.  They took me through the paces to show me how to handle the Kentucky rifle (I hadn’t even handled a modern gun before), and load it by tearing the round, pouring a little in the flashpan, and the rest down the muzzle.

Then they had me fire it.

Oh, that was sweet.  I was hooked.  Ah, the smell of blackpowder.  The nuzzling of the butt against my shoulder, lightly kicking from the fire. The smoke lingering in the air.  Oh sweet musket, where had you been all my life?

That event was just a small one with about a dozen or so militia.  I learned some of the basic commands and maneuvers.  But it was the 225th Battle of Peckuwa, at George Rogers Clark Park in Springfield that gave me a real taste of what reenacting can be like.

For that battle, I borrowed a beautiful Kentucky Rifle from the head park ranger, who also was the commander of the 6-pounder brass Napoleon cannon used for the fight.  Somehow I would up on the side of the British--which in this battle involved mainly Native American Shawnee against the American Regulars.

Someone helped to smear war paint all over my face and cover my hair with a cloth to hide the fact that I wasn't Shawnee.  And with a breach cloth and large shirt, I followed the rest of the band into the woods where we waited for the battle to start.  A group of kids were given wooden muskets to add to our numbers, instructed to stay at the far end of the battlefield so as to hide the fake muskets.

I hadn't yet learned about keeping water out of the muzzle of my musket, and when a light drizzle moistened the air, my borrowed rifle became sabotaged.

We formed up in a cornfield that was grown just for this event.  As the Americans approached, firing their cannon, then pushing it forward to fire again, we fired from within the corn--that is, except for me who could do nothing more than create a nice flash in the pan with the flintlock.

We were pushed back, and the cannon was pushed through the cornfield, and I fought my musket constantly, trying to get it to fire.  In the middle of the fight, the rains picked up.  Well, that's a bit of an understatement.  Rather, Lake Erie decided to up and relocate over our heads, dropping down such that there was more water than air falling around us.  This pretty much put a halt to our attempts to shoot.  As we took refuge  in the little wooden fort, that cannon fired the remainder of its rounds, with pyrotechnics creating little craters around the fort to simulate the cannon hits.

Eventually the rains let up and we were able to go back to firing back at our enemy, falling back into the woods to conclude the battle.  There were a couple of "Rendezvousers" with us.  I learned those are guys that are a bit different than reenactors--the best explanation I can come up with is that the big difference are that they do their things for themselves as opposed to doing it for public, like reenactors do.  They do more live-shoot competitions, collect antique-style weapons, and hang out together in mountain-man style outfits.  I could always tell when the Rendezvousers shot, because they formed our artillery response, shooting with perhaps three times the blackpowder the rest of us used.

I found, though, that there was a bit of difference between Revolutionary War reenactors and Civil War Reenactors.  When I discovered the Civil War, I discovered something more my style.

To be continued...

The Wall

Fredericksburg, VA

December 8, 2012

The last event of the season finally arrived and I began my long trek to Fredericksburg, Virginia crammed into a Ford Explorer with three other guys and their gear.  I joined Quinn Marcotte, Charles Russ, with Butch Foster in his SUV.

It was a long 11-hour trip with Butch arguing with my GPS about the way we should go.  The lady in the box was determined to always get even with us whenever we tried to veer off her planned path, always leading us back to her route.

It probably would have been a shorter trip if we had simply given in to the shrew.

We camped at Slaughter Pen Farm, which was the actual battleground where Jackson had his front lines.  That night we met with the colonel of our battalion, and Capt Steiner of the 5th KY (the unit we fell in with) requested we be deployed as skirmishers in the town of Fredericksburg as the Yankee invaders crossed the Rappahannock.  He had the experience of doing this for the 145th, and hoped we could do it again.  The colonel agreed to the request.

But in the morning the battalion sergeant major informed us we would be the color guard since we were a small unit (seven rifles plus the captain) and appeared to have the only flag.  With reluctance, we conceded, and Butch took the flag as the first bearer, the plan being that we would rotate around so all could have the opportunity to shoot.

Butch appeared near depression as he trudged with us into formation to mark the line for the battalion, carrying the 5th’s St Andrew’s Cross.  However, as we waited, another battalion officer came to us with a request.  He told us that a North Carolina unit requested the honor of being the color guard, to allow their flag the history of being in all the 150s.  Butch could not contain himself as he handed the flag to Quinn.  “Here, hold this,” he said as he charged off with the determination of a tiger seeking its prey, nearly trampling another battalion in the process.  He was after his rifle, and we had to holler after him to take the flag with him to return it to its cradle by the captain’s tent.

And it got even better when we were told we would be deployed as skirmishers after all.

It took two buses to transport our entire battalion over to the staging site near where we would confront the Yankees.  For awhile we had lost the colors in transport, but they managed to find their way to the battalion formation.

The colonel found a local resident willing to donate his small yard enclosed with a short stone wall as our defensive position.  Located directly across the street from the landing for the pontoon bridge, we were in a prime configuration for harassing the Yankees.

We were instructed that we were to die at that location.  So after harassing the Yankees as first a platoon landed from a pontoon boat, we started making ourselves easy targets.  But the Yankees must have been marching with horse blinders as they only aimed at the Yankee battalions in front of them up the hill beside us and down the street in front of us.  I put a few double-loads in hoping to make enough noise to attract their attention.  We were at the point that just one Yankee shooting in our direction would have experienced a miracle ricochet that would take out all four of us in that little alcove.

Capt Steiner, beside me, even started shouting orders to the Yankees.  “Fire to your oblique!” he shouted.

But nothing seem to work.  Capt Steiner kept mumbling, “How did they ever win the war?”  Imagine if this was for real—our little platoon had a total of nine rifles (two had fallen in with us looking for a home), and we were being completely ignored.  We could have probably succeeded in taking out more than an entire battalion.

We were finally overrun when a Yankee commander and a couple of other Yankees started chasing that other Confederate battalion up the hill beside us.  I think we caught that Yankee completely by surprise—he had been oblivious to our presence until he had practically stumbled upon us.  Capt Steiner started to pull out his sword and hollered, “SHOOT US!”

That Yankee was something better left out of print.  He was furious with us, shouting to us to not to shoot and being as threatening as he could have, never mind that if has been real, he would now be contributing donations of lead to future Yankees.  What could we do?  At that point we basically hid in that corner as the Yank stumbled on like something out of the Three Stooges and ignored us—no pickets to guard his prisoners or anything to cover for the scenario screw-up he caused.

All was well, however.  After the Yankees moved on, we regrouped and joined our battalion up the street behind the fighting.  We watched from behind as Rebel sharpshooters took potshots at the Yankee battalion, making each step a struggle for those Yankees.  As they moved on we shared lunch from food we stored in our haversacks.

Some of us were noticeable short on water in our canteens.  I had plenty in the half-gallon water buffalo I keep at my side, but others were not so fortunate.  Water could only be had by foraging for water facets about the nearby buildings.

Our battalion reformed and marched up to Marye’s Heights.  It seemed rather quiet, so someone—I believe it was Capt Steiner—asked me to lead us in “Bonnie Blue Flag”.  It was an honor that gave me a thrill to sing that song in remembrance of all those soldiers that lost their lives 150 years ago.  After finishing, the fifer played a few ditties, then returned to Bonnie Blue Flag, where I started up again.  The hike went about a mile up hill to Marye’s Heights, where we stacked arms and waited for the concluding battle.

We had plenty of time, so Quinn and I wandered to the visitors’ center and the original wall where the Yankees met their doom.  Not much remained of that original wall, but a sobering moment passed through me as I stood behind it and imaged a sea of blue falling against the wall of singing lead from the dragon breath that spewed forth from men defending their homes.  Or the awe and terror the Yankees must have felt facing that stonewall where an invincible wall of gray stood fast.

Back where we were to fight, which was at the end of the Sunken Road, a painted plywood wall was set up in a one acre plot to represent the stonewall.  The field felt cramped with our four Confederate battalions preparing to face the four Yankee battalions on a field barely large enough for a single battalion. They lined the gray backs four deep against that wall.  We worked the rifles, the front man passing his empty rifle back while the rear man loaded powder, the next up priming, and the second from the front trading muskets around.  Not long in, the field had such a fog of smoke we could barely see the blue as the planked the ground with their coats.

And we had forgotten the artillery battery parked up the hill, perhaps 30 yards behind us.  As we blazed away, a cannon blasted over our heads.  The hill sloped well enough to keep us well below the danger zone, but that concussion was sudden and severe.  At that point Quinn expressed his gratitude for having brown trousers, while Charles Russ, in his Irish accent, said, “I think I peed a little.”

The smoke was thick.  The muskets fired so quickly as to produce the steady rumble of machinery.  Men fell within five yards of the wall, yet were difficult to see through the cloud.  The battle ended when the Angel of Marye’s Heights scenario was reenacted.

Weather was amazing for December.  I had feared that it would be cold and wet—even snowing, like what those men experienced 150 years ago.  But the balmy air held in the sixties.  When we marched that mile march from the river to the heights, I found myself sweating.

Although I was well stocked with water, numerous others had issues with the water supply.  Once we were in the town we were completely on our own for water and latrine facilities, which was a problem since we had little break between the nine a.m. battle and the two p.m. battle.  But for me, the only real issue of the event was the wait for the buses to return us to camp.  The original trip into town did not take overly long as it was well planned with sufficient busses.  But returning to camp took a wait of nearly an hour as only two school busses traded loads.

However, overall it was spectacular.  Perryville was better, but there is much history here, and it was unique.

The trip back proved as long as the trip out, and having to listen to the single CD of Irish music that Charles Russ had purchased for the entire trip seemed to extend it even more.  I think it replayed around eleven times—we nearly memorized every song when we finally dropped Chuck off.

I enjoyed the time with these men and the 5th KY—we had become a band of brothers.  I look forward to more events with them, but the season is now over.  My next event is not until March with Hurricane—my addiction to wool will send withdrawal symptoms into overdrive.








Links:

Fredericksburg.com news desk.

http://news.fredericksburg.com/newsdesk/2012/12/09/fredericksburg-a-city-plundered/

http://news.fredericksburg.com/newsdesk/2012/12/06/irish-will-have-a-role-in-battle-weekend/

Examiner

http://www.examiner.com/article/this-week-the-civil-war-the-battle-of-fredericksburg

Washington Post

http://www.washingtonpost.com/local/battle-of-fredericksburg-re-enacted-commemorate-150th-anniversary/2012/12/08/0b524d52-417e-11e2-a2d9-822f58ac9fd5_video.html

http://www.washingtonpost.com/local/civil-war-battle-rages-again-in-streets-of-fredericksburg/2012/12/08/382e3e84-3fea-11e2-a2d9-822f58ac9fd5_story.html

Photos

http://www.washingtonpost.com/local/the-battle-of-fredericksburg-at-150/2012/12/08/11e26ca2-4182-11e2-bca3-aadc9b7e29c5_gallery.html#photo=1

Youtube

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z5BG3tUJyso&feature=share

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3SS-9wIGXA4

http://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=10151140088120841&set=a.10151140067495841.434244.52585440840&type=1&ref=nf

http://www.facebook.com/dckinsella/photos_stream

Civil War Trust

http://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.10151278889673851.487778.21813808850&type=1

Virginia Guard Public Affairs:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/vaguardpao/8254962957/in/photostream/ (oops--guess the bridge is a little short)

Event Site:

http://fredericksburg150.org/