Batchelder, George Wellington

GEORGE WELLINGTON BATCHELDER was born in Lynn, Massachusetts, on the 20th of December, 1838, and was the youngest son of Jacob and Mary Wellington Batchelder. He was a child of very delicate organization, and at several periods during his infancy and boyhood was reduced so low by severe illness that his recovery was regarded as almost miraculous. He possessed a sweet and happy disposition and a buoyant and joyous temperament, which caused him to be greatly beloved by all who knew him. Nearly all of his school days were passed under the instruction of his father, who, at the time that George entered college, was principal of Lynn High School, where his preparatory studies had been completed. During all this time he was a studious and thoughtful boy, and the commonplace-books in which he daily wrote, and which contain a sort of school diary, in connection with poetical and prose extracts, notices of passing events, etc., show the character of his mind and the interest which he took in men and events. In 1855 he entered Harvard College, and here he was blessed, during the whole course, with the constant intimacy of a classmate and roommate whose presence was a benediction, and whose public services and pathetic death are recorded in these volumes, Ezra Martin Tebbets. In such society his college course became a period of great enjoyment, and he always looked back upon his classmates with pleasure and with regard. He preserved with interest a large collection of papers relating to college matters, and placed them in the charge of his mother, as objects of special care. He was faithful in the discharge of all his college duties and bore an honorable part in the Junior and Senior Exhibitions, and in the services on Commencement Day. After leaving Cambridge he returned to his home, which was at that time in Salem, Massachusetts. Having enjoyed the benefit of a State scholarship, he considered himself bound to engage for a time in the occupation of teaching, and had indeed previously written to his friends: "I hope to show by my life as a teacher, and in any other profession in which I may engage, that I can appreciate the kindness and indulgence of my father at its true value." As, however, no opening immediately offered itself, he began the study of law in November, 1859, in the office of Messrs. Perry and Endicott in Salem. It is pleasant to his friends to look back on the enjoyment which this last period of peaceful life afforded him, and the generous kindness which he received from the legal gentlemen above named. At the same time he enjoyed his home and home comforts most thoroughly, and the sound of his cheerful voice and of his springing, joyous step was like sweetest music there. He seemed to be overflowing with joy, and the desire to impart this feeling to others was not wanting. He was eager to relieve distress when it was in his power to do so. He would seize a plate of food while the family were still at the table, and, before they were aware of his intention, would pour the contents into the basket of a poor child at the door, and returning, say with a smile, " There, mother, we shall never need that"; or, taking a shivering little one into the kitchen, would place her upon a chair with her feet upon the stove, and with an injunction to "sit still until thoroughly warmed," at the same time not forgetting the necessity of relieving hunger. In 1860 he was elected a member of the Salem Light Infantry, and entered with his characteristic earnestness and zeal upon his duties, engaging with ardor in the drill, determined to be satisfied with nothing short of perfection. During this year, he began in earnest to fit himself for the life of a soldier, long before the pressing need for his services in his country's defence [sic] was even anticipated; lying at night upon a carpet with but a slight covering, and with a pillow of wood for his head, and engaging in manual exercises calculated to increase his strength and augment his powers of endurance. He prophesied that the disaffection and disturbances in different portions of the country would result in civil war, which his friends, however, were slow even to fear. When the crisis at last came, the commander of the Salem Light Infantry tendered promptly to the government the services of his well-trained little band. They were at once accepted, and the company was joined to the Eighth Massachusetts Regiment of Volunteer Militia, and left Salem for Washington, bearing with it the blessings and prayers of all true and patriotic hearts. George was at this time Second Sergeant of the company, and, with his elder and only brother, hesitated not to share its fortunes, though he deeply mourned the stern necessity of civil strife. " Were I going out to contend with a foreign power," he said, " with what different feelings should I meet the emergency." But the necessity that was laid upon him was no less binding, and he accepted it with a soldierly bearing and a patriot's spirit. During his three months' campaign, which he afterwards describes as being, " in comparison with the three years' service, but a mere militia training," his letters to his friends were frequent, bright, and cheering, giving constant evidence of his deep love for home, friends, and country. He writes from New York: " Every day I am swelling with pride for Massachusetts, and the position which she has taken in this struggle; and she will not be behind other States in what comes afterwards, no matter how hard fighting there may be." June 24, the anniversary of the Class Day of 1859, he writes from the Relay House: "This morning I received a package from Boston, which I found contained a handsome sword and sword-belt from my classmates. The note which accompanied it informed me that four of my Class are already in active service. They will all receive the like present to mine." Just before the return of the regiment, at the close of the three months' campaign, he says: " All our talk at present is about going home..... There is not a man in our whole regiment whose heart will not leap for joy when he sets foot in Massachusetts." Yet when this great joy had come to him, he lingered not long amidst home delights. Arriving in Salem on the ist of August, he enlisted on the 3d of the same month in the Nineteenth Massachusetts Regiment, under Colonel Hinks, with whom he had already served, and Lieutenant Colonel Devereux, his former Captain, for whom he had the warmest esteem. On joining his regiment at Lynnfield, he enjoyed the pleasant surprise of finding a friend in another superior officer, - Major How of the Class of 1859. He spent but three weeks with his friends before leaving Massachusetts, and devoted much of that time to the enlistment of recruits for Company C, of the Nineteenth Regiment, in which he was commissioned First Lieutenant. Upon receiving his commission, he spoke of his connection with the privates of his company, expressing his determination to attend to their comfort and welfare. " I know that I shall be kind to them," said he. "I used to pity the poor fellows sadly who received punishment when we were out before. It seemed hard enough that they should be obliged to leave their comfortable homes for the hard service, without the addition of this discipline, and yet I knew that it was a necessary one." His regiment left Lynnfield for the seat of war on the 28th of August, and we must now gather from his letters, and from the testimony of officers and soldiers, the history of his short military career. In a letter dated October 30, not long after arriving in Maryland, he writes: - "I don't know when I have come so near to feeling homesick as tonight, after receiving a letter from my sister..... I suppose that this would be properly called the 'blues'; and as I don't choose to encourage such dismal visitors, I rise in dignified remonstrance. 'Avaunt, my cerulean friend!' and stealing out through our company street, through the ruined graveyard upon which some of the tents are pitched, I turn into one of the tents of the men, and from an observation of their patriotic self-sacrifice and cheerful view of matters, I learn a lesson of patience and endurance. Brave fellows! Most of them, at a personal sacrifice, have left loving hearts, hearts aching at their absence, to follow duty's call. I came among these boys - for many of them are but boys of from nineteen to twenty - a stranger, but now I call each one 'friend'; and as such I know they look upon me. At any rate, it is my endeavor to deserve their regard, and it is worth having. Some of them are men in the prime of life, who enlisted, not from any love of martial display, but from a stern sense of duty; and upon them the privations of war and the rugged duties of camp life press the most heavily; but to a man they resolve to see it out. And if this war were to last a lifetime, they would see the end. That is my determination now. No matter for the blues, let them come if they will. I stay till the end comes." "BOLIVAR, VIRGINIA, March 22. "At nine, A. M., General Gorman's brigade started, and going to the rear of the town, to the side of a very high hill which commanded one of the most beautiful views down that most beautiful of rivers, the Shenandoah, we hung almost in mid-air directly above the winding road down which marched the different regiments; and as the splendid bursts of music rose to our eager, listening ears, softened by the distance, and again made doubly distinct when almost lost to us, by the ever potent echo which 'here does dwell,' embosomed in a thousand hills, - the steady, regular tramp of the marching thousands, and the momentary glinting of a musket barrel, brushed by some vagrant sun-ray, effervesced our spirits to such a degree that one of our lieutenants expressed the feeling of the whole party when he said, drawing a long breath, 'What a plaguy fool a young fellow is who stays at home from this war!' I wish that you and all the family could come out here, and, standing upon this same hillside, so far flatter my vanity as to declare, as I do, this the most splendid scenery in the world. At a height of a hundred and fifty feet, you glance up and down the Shenandoah, closely enwalled by chains of verdant hills, stretching on and on, apparently higher and higher as they recede, with here and there a peak far outstretching its humble neighbors, cloud-encapped at its summit, while Harper's Ferry, with the many-curved Potomac and Winchester Railroad, is all laid open to your view. To crown all, looking eastward, almost at the limit of vision is the well-known Maryland shore and the Potomac River, so long to us an impassable barrier." "June 25. " DEAR MOTHER, - Our regiment has been in a fight this morning, and we have lost quite a number of good men; but I am all right, not even a scratch. I received your letter just after we returned from the fight, and was right glad to have it, although it contained the sad news of my uncle's death. My head aches badly from the terrible din of the musketry and the smell of gunpowder, so that I cannot write you more. Besides, I must write to the friends of the poor fellows who have fallen. Good by for to-day, mother. Rejoice with me that I am not a coward. I never felt better in my life." "July 10. "Poor Major How! He died a soldier's death. He was the bravest, coolest man I ever saw, and his place cannot be filled in an action. He said, when he fell, 'Let me die here, on the field. It is more glorious to die on the field of battle.' He retained his senses perfectly to the last, conversing calmly and sensibly with those about him, dying at about eight in the evening. He expressed a wish that his body might be carried home, but it could not be done at this time. He told me on the occasion of one of our alarms at Fair Oaks, I think on June 14th, that in case he were killed, he wished me to take his pistol, and keep it in remembrance of our friendship as classmates and fellow-soldiers. Although I do not need that to keep him ever in my recollection, yet as he expressed that wish of himself, I should be glad to comply with it." During the summer months the friends of George were made aware, from pauses in his correspondence, and from an occasional allusion to a slight illness, that his health was impaired from the duties and exposures of the campaign; and they keenly felt the impossibility of doing anything to obtain relief or respite, in order that his strength might be recruited. July 15, he wrote from Malverton, Virginia: "President Lincoln has been here, visiting the various camps and reviewing the regiments. The day on which he came to our division was the one to which, on account of illness and headache, I marked with a particularly wide and heavy black mark. On this account I could not rouse up sufficiently to go twenty rods to see him, though ordinarily I would go to a much greater distance, for I believe in him most thoroughly as the man for this most trying hour in our country's history." "August 3. " It is absolutely impossible to get a leave of absence at the present time, from the fact that at the time of the retreat so many officers deserted their posts and went home without leave of absence. Much as I love my home, and earnestly as I desire to visit it, I will not return to it until I can do so without causing disgrace to my home and friends." "September 3. "My health and strength permitting, I hope soon to write to you, far beyond Centreville, the account of our great victory there, which God grant to our arms! I feel rather despondent at times. I am not at all well, and not nearly so strong as I was three months since, and sometimes I feel as if I must lie down, and give up trying to do anything but be sick for a short time; but I 'spunk up,' and have thus far held out, though no one can say how much longer I shall be able to do so. I usually keep in good spirits, however, and hope for the best; and, sick or well, can always enjoy a letter from home, and am always thinking of the dear hearts there who love me so much, and whom I hold so dear." " September 4. "On board the Atlantic, after leaving Newport News, I made a discovery. I found that Frank Balch, who, you remember, graduated as the first scholar in our Class, had enlisted as a private in the Twentieth Massachusetts Regiment. Him sought I out, and conversed about old times. He was very cheerful, and disposed to see only the bright phases of soldier life. But he looked much too feeble to bear the fatigue and exposures of camp life, and I am afraid that he will not endure it for a long time." His last letter was written on the day before the fatal battle of Antietam, his last on earth, and proves him a true soldier, kind, faithful, appreciating, and enduring to the last. His friend, Lieutenant Newcomb of his company, writes: - "After supper, in the twilight of September I6th, George took my Bible, and, as well as I can recollect, read aloud portions of the nineteenth and ninetieth Psalms. Sweet was that evening's communion: it was our last. The chief end of God's providence is to teach men, and the value of his lessons is generally according to their difficulty. How golden the knowledge, how sweet the joy we may work out from this great sorrow. We had hoped for George a glorious future. Shall it be less bright because not wrought out in our presence?" At the terrible battle of Antietam, George fell as his regiment was rallied for the last time. His friend, Lieutenant Hill of the same regiment, and, like him, a former member of the Salem Light Infantry, says, in a letter to his friends: — "I have gathered all the facts concerning George's death, and will give them to you in detail, knowing as I do how anxious you must be to know the minutest particulars. George was wounded by a fragment of shell which struck him just below the right knee, shattering the bone, and a ball also passed through the fleshy part of the same leg, just above the knee. The enemy was following us closely at the time, and we were obliged to leave him on the field in care of James H. Heath, a young man of his company. The Rebels came up, and were about to take Heath prisoner, but George begged so earnestly to have him remain with-him, that they allowed him to do so. Shortly after, the Rebels were driven from their position, and George was borne to a haystack by some of our soldiers, who represent him as cheerfully taking leave of them when they returned to the regiment. He was subsequently taken to the nearest hospital; but the fatigue of the previous month, together with the loss of blood, made him very weak. He fainted several times while being taken to the hospital; still, although suffering a great deal of pain, he was perfectly conscious till he died, thanked Heath for his kindness to him, and requested him, in case he died, to write to his family, giving him their address. He conversed freely and cheerfully until between three and four o'clock the same day (Wednesday, 17th), when he began to fail, and continued to sink rapidly till he passed quietly from the sleep of life to the sleep of death, being conscious to the last. His last words were, 'My mother, O my mother!' We all feel that in losing George we have met with an irreparable loss. How can we feel otherwise when, by his kind and cheerful disposition, his upright and honorable dealings with all, and his brave and unflinching courage, he has bound himself so closely to all of us. He well deserved the compliment I once heard paid him by a fellow officer, who said of him, 'He was the most honorable man I ever knew.'" His superior officers testify to his uniform faithfulness and bravery; and one of them mentions the fact that he and his classmate, Major How, ever held themselves aloof from the petty jealousies and disagreements which sometimes find their way among the officers of a regiment. Lieutenant Prime of his company writes: - "I very well remember that, at the time of his introduction to me at Lynnfield, he made the remark that he hoped the acquaintance thus commenced would prove a pleasant one, and it raised an interesting question in my mind at that time, -' Shall we, who are probably to be companions for a long period, be friends, or shall we lead a quarrelsome and unpleasant life?' But this hope, so carelessly expressed, has been more than realized on my part, and I have no reason to feel that it was not equally pleasant to him. He cheerfully shared all the privations and hardships which it was our lot to meet. When upon our long marches, more than once he has divided his last cake of hard-bread, and compelled me to take it; and at night if I had no blanket, I was welcome to half of his. In short, in all situations and under all circumstances he was to me ' a friend indeed.' We get comparatively few such friends; and it is hard, and, without a full confidence in the goodness of God, would seem cruel, to be obliged to part with them." Since his death, one of his men has described in a simple way some little scenes from the past. " I have thought how many times I have brought water for the Captain after a long day's march, and made him a cup of coffee, and straw to make him and Lieutenant Prime a little bed. They were about of a size, and would lie down together like two little kittens. I recollect one night, when we went to Harper's Ferry for the first time, we stopped near Charlestown, where John Brown was hung. We had no rations. The Captain said he would get us some; and he went away with Lieutenant Prime, and walked all over Charlestown, and came back with a large quantity of bread, coffee, and sugar. P, how the boys all cheered him, and said that was the captain that would look after his men!" One of George's classmates, who had enlisted as a private, and a chance meeting with whom has been already described in his letters, speaks of that meeting as follows: - "In going up the Potomac on the transport we were very much crowded. My company were in a dark room or hold, down two flights of stairs. You could hardly get about decks, so great the crowd, and some of the officers of the vessel who knew me had hunted for me in vain; but George sought me out. As I lay upon the floor, I heard his voice asking, ' Is Frank Balch here?' There was none of the stiffness of an officer in his greeting, and I knew at once that we met on the old terms. He seemed to me more sober than of old. His manner was as frank and as candid as ever, but more subdued. But one thing about him was certainly unchanged: his ' pluck' - for I know no so good word for it - was the same. He reminded me of the old times when he used to plunge headlong into the struggling mass of football players, not to make a show of courage, as was the case with some, but with a most uncompromising determination to drive the ball to the goal. Yet that you know was a most disheartening time. We were retreating; we feared McClellan would resign as soon as we were in a place of safety; and the campaign in the West seemed almost as disastrous as that in the East." That he bore constantly in mind his liabilty [sic] to pass suddenly from this earth, to him so bright and beautiful, we learn from the careful arrangement of his worldly affairs, and the anxiety he manifested to "set his house in order." As early as June 1, 1862, at the time of the battle of Fair Oaks, we find this entry in his memorandum, as if hastily written in pencil: "Bills which, in case of my death, I wish paid with money due me by the United States." Also, "My watch to be given to my brother Charles, my books to my father and mother, and after their death to Harvard College." And on September i6th, the day before his death, a statement of his affairs, with directions for their settlement, " in the event," as he says, "of my death in action." The beloved only brother, so affectionately remembered in the midst of danger, was at the date of the bequest serving his country in the Department of the Gulf. Being seized with fever brought on by fatigue and exposure at the battle of Baton Rouge, he breathed out his soul on the 9th of September, eight days before the death of George. Each of these brothers was spared the grief of mourning the loss of the other, and the knowledge of the double sorrow which awaited the loved circle at home. Kind hands tenderly conveyed their worn and mutilated bodies to their native city; and on the 5th of November, as the shades of evening were falling upon the earth, they were together gently laid to rest in a soldier's grave.