Bond, Henry May

HENRY MAY BOND. Sergeant 45th Mass. Vols. (Infantry), October 8, 1862 - July 8, 1863; First Lieutenant and Adjutant 20th Mass. Vols. October 6, 1863; died at Washington, May 14, 1864, of wounds received at the battle of the Wilderness and from guerillas. HENRY MAY BOND was born at Boston, April 3, 1836. His parents were George William Bond and Sophia A. (May) Bond. A gentle, conscientious, and affectionate boy, he was not much given to rough boys' plays, but he was manly, and not wanting on occasion in that energy and persistence which belonged to him in virtue of his Huguenot as well as Puritan descent. Mr. C. K. Dillaway, who fitted him for college, writes: "When under my instructions he had, as you remember, an infirmity of the eyes, which rendered his progress very difficult and painful. Most young men would have been discouraged: he never was. From the beginning to the end, he allowed nothing to dishearten him." But what struck one most in his character at that time was his love of home, and the entire frankness of his intercourse with father and mother, - not his own mother, she having died when he was very young, - adding to the love of parent and child that of intimate and dear friends. Going out into the world from that home, sweet and sunny with Christian love, he carried with him in its memory and teachings a shield against the many temptations which beset his impressionable nature. She was fitted for Harvard College chiefly by Mr. Dillaway, and entered as a Freshman, in 1855, with his younger brother William; the two brothers being chums in college, as they were to be afterwards comrades in battle. His warm social nature found much to enjoy in college life, and his affections took deep root there. He was known and loved by the whole Class as "H. M.," simple-hearted, diffident of himself, generous, cheery, impulsive; but those who knew him best saw under his lighter qualities a sound judgment, a strong will, a conscientious regard of duty. He had a wholesome and intelligent enjoyment of books, but he was not by nature a student, and his eyes moreover would not bear hard study. He had a strong love of music, and made it a source of enjoyment to himself and others, while to himself it seemed something more and higher. He was not witty, but full of off-hand gayety and contagious good spirits. There was a charming cordiality and heartiness about his manner. He was very fond of society, especially that of ladies, and was a great favorite wherever he went. With a keen susceptibility to all the pleasures of the senses, he was perfectly pure and temperate. General Macy says of him, " He was the purest man I ever knew." He knew where to turn for strength. In his Junior year he joined the Church; his father's pastor and warm friend, James Freeman Clarke, becoming his also. He carried into his relations with the Church the same frank kindliness, the same hearty earnestness, that he showed in the other relations of life. His religion, like all else in him, was practical. Mr. Clarke summed it up in a few words, as "a simple honest purpose to do right and be right." He was a thorough man, fresh and natural, made for the innocent enjoyment of this life and to make others enjoy it. He loved to do, and knew how to do, little kindnesses. He lived in the life around him, and not in the clouds. He had strong dislikes as well as affections, and was not above a good honest prejudice. After graduating in I859, he became partner in the house of Walker, Wise, & Co., booksellers and publishers in Boston. When war threatened, he with his brother William joined the " Cadets," in order to prepare themselves to do their part, and were with them when they garrisoned Fort Warren in the spring of 1862. He felt the disasters on the Peninsula as a call to battle, and he helped to raise Company B of the Forty fifth, or " Cadet," Regiment, and went through the Newbern campaign as its First Sergeant, his brother William being First Lieutenant in the same company. The arrangement was equally honorable to both, Henry giving up his claim to a commission in order that William, who had volunteered as a private, and been rejected on the ground of near-sightedness, might be able to go. In what spirit he accepted this position may be seen from an extract from a letter dated Newbern, March 21, 1863. "When I took my present position I really gloried in the thought that I was going to have a position where I could do a great deal of good to my fellow-men. But I feel that I have sadly neglected and lost that golden opportunity." But he had won the hearts of his men, and left stamped upon them the memory of a Christian soldier. As one of them said on his return to a friend of the family, inquiring about the Bonds: "Lieutenant Bond was a good officer and a brave man, and the men liked him; but Orderly Bond the men would follow anywhere. He was a brave man; and such bravery, Christian bravery." He was first under fire at Kinston. He writes: "I had sometimes expressed a fear that I might prove myself a coward in battle, but I was determined, if my will could effect anything, my friends should not be thus disgraced. The last few moments before going into the Kinston fight I felt perfectly calm, and was exhorting my men, whenever I got a chance, to keep cool and take a deliberate aim; my only prayer being, as we advanced into line of battle, that which I have heard our Mr. Clarke say never failed to be heard, 'God help me!-help me to keep my self-possession for the sake of my men.' I somehow felt as if my prayer was answered immediately; for I felt perfectly cool and fearless, although we were led into a nasty place, if there ever was one.....I could not help feeling a little pleased to overhear some of my men say when I passed by their camp-fire at night, without their knowing that I was near, (this is strictly private, mother,) 'Sergeant Bond fought bully!' Pardon my seeming vanity in repeating this remark (which I dare say will not wholly please you), but it struck me with a sort of astonishment to hear that I had done anything to call forth the praise of such a plucky set of fellows as we have in our company." June 18, 1863, just before the expiration of their term of service, he writes: "Won't we be a happy set of boys to get home again!.... It will seem good enough to throw off the Orderly with a good kick into the bargain, and return once more to civilized life." But the days of their stay yet to come were the hardest of all: fever was rife; all his officers were sick; but Henry was at his post, trying, as he says, " to keep 'chipper' myself, and to induce others about me to do so also." On his return home he too was prostrated by violent fever, but the early part of September saw him again at his business. On September 17th he writes to his brother William that he has just seen Colonel Macy, and has been offered a first-lieutenancy in the Twentieth Massachusetts. "The great question arises, am I really needed? It is much pleasanter and more agreeable to one's feelings to hear the timid response no, and to try to think it a bold and sound answer. I wish, as I suppose every timid man like myself does, that somebody else would give me a satisfactory answer; but of course no one wants to send me to the war again who cares for me or whom I care for; so here I am almost astrand.... God only knows what a coward I am; but I have a great mind to go and accept the offer, for all that. That noble Twentieth deserves to be kept up and alive with the best material our country has to offer, and I don't want to see it go down for want of good officers. But here, again, - should I make a good officer? You have told me very kindly what you thought, but I fear brotherly love gave that answer. I suppose, as mother said one day when I hinted that I might return to the army, ' That is a matter which must be between God and yourself, Henry.'" That unselfishness which, through his whole life, had made him sacrifice his own pleasure in minor things, now enabled him to sacrifice it in the greatest. He gave freely home, business prospects (for he was so situated that he was compelled to sever permanently his connection with his firm), the engagements of life, life itself. A Friend, writing after his death, beautifully expresses the nature and the motive of his sacrifice. " Thou didst give us up and leave us behind, so great was thy love and so clear was thy duty. Kindle our hearts with the same fire, that we may say, with holy content, 'Rise, bright immortal, to thy native place.' " He rejoined his regiment near Centreville, October 18, 1863, and was the same day mustered into the United States service as First Lieutenant. He was most cordially welcomed by his brother officers, and assigned to Company H, commanded by an old friend, Captain Arthur Curtis. October 26, he writes from near Warrenton: - "Tell Mary to write a postscript, if nothing more, to a poor exiled soldier. I am, however, happy in the thought that, as far as I am able, I am trying to do my whole duty to my God and my country; and as pleasant as home scenes are, under the circumstances I am happier here." Soon came the Mine Run campaign, after which Henry was made Adjutant. His Colonel, afterwards Major-General Macy, writing of the appointment and of this campaign says: " I determined to make him Adjutant of the regiment, but not until I had seen him in the field and in command of a company during the most trying campaign (although a short one) that I had, or have ever experienced." Henry thus describes the crisis of this campaign, - the time spent before the works of the enemy on Mine Run: - " It was a most thrilling sight, though, to see the look of determination and resignation to their fate, whatever it might be, as they were drawn up in line of battle under the crest of a hill which screened us from the enemy's sight. We were drawn up in two lines, our regiment and brigade being in the second line. Colonel Macy called all his officers about him and told us to give our men to understand that, should the first line break, we were to press on through and over them; and we would have done it. We officers, all in front of our respective companies, called our men about us in a circle and gave our orders." General Macy, after describing the terrible cold, the rain, the mud of that campaign, and the dreadful suspense of the time spent before the enemy's works at Mine Run, says: "During all this time Henry bore himself with even exuberant cheerfulness..... I can only repeat, that his constant cheerfulness, his perfect devotion to his work and duties, and his entire forgetfulness of self, endeared him to all; while in danger he exhibited that coolness and courage which is only the result of a strong character and a deep conviction of right and duty." In his robust health, too, and in the powers of endurance which had earned him in the Forty-fifth the sobriquet of "the tough sergeant," he reaped the reward of a pure and temperate life. For about one week in the middle of February he was at home, happy and well. It was the last time he was to see that home so dearly loved. Spring came upon the regiment in its winter quarters. " April 26. "This morning, as I was returning from battalion drill, my eyes were delighted with the sight of some beautiful little houstonias, also violets and saxifrages. Of course I gathered what I could of them as we passed along, and have been enjoying them in my hut ever since, - they call up to mind so many reminiscences of my beloved home..... My love cannot be taken from you at any rate; and I shall ever be with you in spirit, living on earth or not. I am in the best of health and spirits. Write whenever you can, and God bless you both." To a friend and brother officer of the Forty-fifth he writes, April 13th:" As for myself, in the hour of personal danger, I am strong and courageous only in the faith that, should it please God to take my life while in the discharge of what I deem to be my highest duty here on earth, all will be well with me. Coward as I am by nature, I should be worth nothing either to my friends or my country without that faith in God, however short I fall of doing what I know to be right." In the terrible battle of the Wilderness, May 6, 1864, Henry was wounded in the jaw. General Macy writes: "So faithful to what he considered his duty was he, that after receiving this wound, he sought me to report before leaving, subjecting his life to a thousand chances to do so, as he was walking through a storm of bullets. I however saw him coming towards me, and made a sign for him to go to the rear, which he did, and where I joined him in a few moments. Through two hours of such fighting Henry was of great service to me." He wrote this letter from the hospital at Fredericksburg, Monday, May 9, 1864:"MY DEAR MOTHER, - I fear, before you see this letter, you may hear from other sources that I have been wounded. But there has been no possible means in my power of sending word to you..... My right jaw-bone is fractured; to what extent, other than that it is not crushed into little pieces, the doctor could not tell. The ball entered my cheek and lodged against the jaw-bone..... I think I am very fortunate in my wound, when I look at the frightfully mangled bodies around me. I am debarred the privilege of eating at present (taking only liquids, such as beef-tea, &c.). I long for ice-cream to quench the fever; we fortunately have ice here, which is a great relief." Yet despite the fever, he would not touch a lemon given him by a dear friend who happened upon him while engaged in hospital duty, but gave it to those more severely wounded than himself. To this same friend he expressed his regret that his wound should take him from the field when there was so much need of men. He never lost his spirits, and amused his wounded comrades around him by making wry faces at them. On Wednesday, May 11th, about three, P. M., he left Fredericksburg in an ambulance for Belle Plain, some eight miles distant. At two o'clock the next morning they had only reached White Oak Church, a distance of about five miles. Here the ambulance was attacked by Mosby's guerillas. Henry was sitting on the front seat with the driver; Captain Mali and Captain Perkins of his regiment were inside, being very severely wounded. The order was given by the guerillas to get out and unhitch the horses. Before those who were able could obey, they were fired into. Henry then asked Captain Mali for his pistol; but before he received it he was shot through the body from behind, the ball entering between the shoulder-blades, passing just above the heart, and coming out through the left lung and breast. He fell forward to the ground, and there he lay during the night. The horrors of that night let its own darkness cover. Captain Mali says, "I never felt so bad in my life before; both Perkins and myself being unable to move, and he lying dying four or five feet from us." Sergeant Dunn of the Massachusetts Fifty-sixth found him in the morning insensible from loss of blood; and though at first thought dead, he was at length placed in an ambulance; and had his wound dressed. His father, who had gone to the front to attend to the wounded upon the first news of the battle, met him about two miles beyond Belle Plain at ten o'clock that morning. He was taken on board a transport to Washington, and carried to the house of a friend. His father, warned by the surgeon that the time was short, said to him, "Whatever may be the issue, I know from your life and your letters that you are prepared for it." He replied, "I don't know as to that, father,; I have always tried to do my duty." His father says: "He then went on, as calmly as if I were visiting him and about to leave, to give me kind and affectionate messages for his friends..... He gave a most beautiful one for his mother, which I most deeply regret that I did not remember verbatim. He said she was the only mother he had ever known; and had she been his own, could not have been more kind and loving to him, or have had his love more fully. After this I restrained him from talking as much as possible." He had wished for his mother's and his sisters' hands to dress his wound; and his wish was, at least partly, fulfilled. His youngest sister and a favorite cousin were with him at the last. He knew them both and greeted them in his own cheery way. As always, he was thoughtful for others, and not for himself. Even in his wanderings he spoke only of the regiment or the wounded; no word of his own sufferings, no word of reproach against his murderers. There was hardly a hope from the first; and on Saturday, May 14th, at ten minutes before two, P. M., he breathed his last. His father writes, " His life seemed to us a finished one and grieve for him we never could. We grieve and have grieved for ourselves."