Winchester Tales

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Mr. Haines made his way up the narrow dirt lane toward Tanner’s Row, it was 7pm. His boots were caked with tannery mud, ...
07/17/2025

Mr. Haines made his way up the narrow dirt lane toward Tanner’s Row, it was 7pm. His boots were caked with tannery mud, and his coat, though thick with wear, couldn’t keep out the bite of the wind. The smell of his day clung to him—sharp and sour from hours spent among hides, bark, and caustic lime. It was a scent that lingered long after the vats had gone still for the night.

The row of clapboard houses came into view, their white paint dulled by soot and years of weather. He trudged past nine others before reaching his own. A thin curl of smoke rose from the stovepipe, promising some heat inside.

He opened the back gate with stiff fingers. His wife was already waiting on the porch. She held a steaming kettle of water and gave him a tired, knowing smile. Without a word, she set it down beside the rusty wash tub and began unfastening his coat. Together, they worked to peel away his stiff work clothes—his shirt flecked with bark dust, his trousers stiff with grime from the vats. His long underwear clung damply to his skin, and he shivered as the cold air cut through the thin fabric.

“Hold still,” she said gently, pouring the warm water into the tub. The steam rose in soft clouds as he stepped in, easing down with a low groan. She handed him a bar of lye soap, its sharp scent nearly overwhelming but preferable to the tannery’s stench. As he scrubbed, she brought out a rag to wipe his neck and face, the water darkening with each pass. It was their evening ritual—a way to draw a line between the world of the tannery and the small sanctuary of their home.

Inside, the children sat around the dinner table. Five pairs of eyes flicked toward the door at every creak of the porch boards. The oldest boy tried to keep his younger siblings settled, but their excitement bubbled beneath the surface. “Pa’s washing up,” he whispered. “He’ll be in soon.” The house was cold despite the stove’s faint warmth, but the smell of supper filled the air—beans and salt pork, a bit of bread set out to stretch the meal. The children whispered among themselves, feet swinging above the floorboards as they waited.

When Mr. Haines finally came through the kitchen door, hair still damp, wearing a clean shirt and trousers, the room seemed to grow warmer. His face was tired, but his eyes softened at the sight of his family. He hung back for a moment, just watching them—his wife stirring the pot, the children waiting with eager eyes. He took his place at the head of the table, bowing his head as the family joined hands. His voice was raspy but steady as he offered thanks for the food, for the roof over their heads, and for another day’s work, hard as it was.

It was a simple life, and a hard one, but in that small clapboard house along Tanner’s Row in Capon Bridge, it was held together with the love of a family waiting each night...for Pa to come home.

The two men sat quietly at a worn out pub table inside Philip Bush’s Golden Buck Tavern. This inn was once a familiar la...
07/16/2025

The two men sat quietly at a worn out pub table inside Philip Bush’s Golden Buck Tavern. This inn was once a familiar landmark along Wi******er’s Cameron Street. The evening chill found its way under the front door on that night in December 1770. As Mr. Bush throws another log on the fire, the hearth gives off a gentle orange glow. One of the men at the table scribbles notes in a small leather-bound book. He’s recording observations from their recent journey surveying tracts in the Ohio Valley. This man is George Washington, and across from him sits his trusted companion, Dr. James Craik.

Both men knew Wi******er well, and their roots here ran deep. Washington owned lots in town, and during the French and Indian War, Dr. Craik had purchased Lot Number Two on Loudoun Street—the site of the Huntsberry Building today. Their friendship had been forged decades earlier during the ill-fated Braddock Expedition. From that moment on, Dr. Craik was rarely far from Washington’s side.

Through the fire and uncertainty of the Revolution, Craik remained a steadfast confidant. It was he who, in 1778, uncovered and warned Washington of the Conway Cabal—a secretive plot by discontented Continental officers (led by Thomas Conway) to replace Washington with Major General Horatio Gates. Though the conspirators tried to win Craik to their cause, his loyalty never wavered. Instead, he quietly informed Washington, helping to preserve the unity of a fledgling nation that so desperately needed its leader. The scheme collapsed, and Washington’s stature only grew as Americans rallied behind him.

Their bond endured well beyond the war years. Nearly three decades later, in December of 1799, it was Dr. Craik who was summoned to Mount Vernon to tend to his friend as he lay gravely ill. He arrived in the early hours and did all he could, but that evening, George Washington passed from this world with Craik at his side—just as he had been at nearly every major turning point of Washington’s life.

Few friendships have stood such a test of time. For more than forty years, through war and peace, hardship and triumph, Washington and Craik remained inseparable—a testament to loyalty, trust, and the quiet strength of true friendship.

In the late 1930s, a drive from Romney to Wi******er was a big day for a family from Sunrise Summit. Once a month, they’...
07/15/2025

In the late 1930s, a drive from Romney to Wi******er was a big day for a family from Sunrise Summit. Once a month, they’d pile into the Model A, heading east on the winding roads that carried them through Capon Bridge and beyond.

As they came over the hill into Capon Bridge, the children always watched for the church steeples that marked the little town. It was a familiar and welcome sight. Then came the old iron truss bridge, its green paint peeling in the sun. The tires clattered across its wooden planks, the sound echoing off the river below. Crossing it never failed to bring a little thrill—it meant they were one step closer to Wi******er.

When they reached the city, Mother took the children to McCrory’s to shop for shoes and maybe a small treat. Father would stop into Solenberger’s Hardware to see what was new. Before heading home, they’d pick up Castor Oil at Miller’s Drugstore and load their parcels into the car.

The drive back to Sunrise Summit was quieter. The children, tired from the day’s excitement, leaned against each other as the car rumbled westward. These monthly trips were part of the rhythm of country life in Hampshire County—a connection to the bigger world and a tradition that shaped a generation.

Today, looking at a “then and now” view of the road heading east into Capon Bridge, you can still imagine a Model A climbing that hill, the steeples ahead, and a family excited for their monthly journey.

Driving from Gore down the old Back Creek Road, I feel I have traveled back in time. This road, narrow and winding, has ...
07/15/2025

Driving from Gore down the old Back Creek Road, I feel I have traveled back in time. This road, narrow and winding, has carried generations of families—Larricks, Hahns, Lockharts, and Tripletts—along its course. Their wagons once creaked over these same hills and valleys, and I can see their shadows on the old dirt paths that lead into unknown hollows.

The Back Creek Road leads toward Capon Springs, where in the summer of 1859, Robert E. Lee brought his wife, Mary Anna Randolph Custis Lee, and their daughter Agnes in hopes that the mineral waters might ease their ailments. Mary suffered from crippling arthritis that would eventually confine her to crutches, while Agnes’s fragile health had long troubled the family. This journey was no leisurely retreat; it was a search for healing amid the mountains and springs of Virginia.

Lee himself remained at Capon only a short while. In an August 19th letter to his eldest son, George Washington Custis Lee, he described their stay and his decision to leave:

“…I returned last Friday from Capon where, you will have heard, I carried your mother and Agnes, in the hope of their deriving benefit from the pure air and healing waters… I delayed with them longer than I at first intended, to see what effect would be produced on them… They are very comfortable there, with many friends around them… your mother is delighted with the bathing and certainly has improved much in appearance and appetite… Agnes had also improved in appearance, and thought her eyes pained her less…”

Late one Thursday night, a telegram reached Lee with news of a family illness in Alexandria. He packed his trunk and left the next morning for Strasburg, where he could secure transportation to Wi******er. In 1859, there were no direct train routes from Strasburg to Wi******er, so Lee likely continued by coach. Once he reached Wi******er, he would have boarded the Wi******er & Potomac Railroad to Harper’s Ferry. There, he changed to the Baltimore & Ohio Railroad, traveling east through Maryland to Relay, Maryland. At Relay, he transferred once more to the Orange & Alexandria line, which carried him on toward his destination.

As my car rolls along Back Creek Road’s winding course, I consider how arduous such a journey must have been in 1859. What takes me minutes took the Lee family hours—or days. Today, Back Creek Road is still quiet, even ordinary. But it was once a vital link in a network of winding roads that tied those of the rugged backcountry with what some would call....civilization.

On September 13, 1864, the road to Berryville boomed with the thunder of artillery as Union and Confederate forces clash...
07/14/2025

On September 13, 1864, the road to Berryville boomed with the thunder of artillery as Union and Confederate forces clashed. Amidst the chaos, Lt. Henry E. Bedell of Vermont’s 11th Regiment was horribly wounded by a Confederate shell. The projectile tore through his left thigh, leaving a grievous wound, and shattered his right hand, severing a finger. Field surgeons worked desperately to save him, amputating his mangled leg in a crude attempt to stop the bleeding. Yet as night fell, Bedell lay pale and still on a straw pallet in an abandoned house near Berryville.

Miraculously, Bedell survived that first night, though his ordeal was far from over. Two days later, as Union forces began evacuating the wounded to Harper’s Ferry, officers judged the 20-mile wagon journey too perilous for Bedell’s fragile condition. He was left behind, entrusted—perhaps naively—to local civilians. But as supplies dwindled, Bedell’s caretakers abandoned him, leaving the young officer alone, feverish, and near death....yet out of this ruin came a figure of quiet courage: twenty four-year-old Bettie Van Metre.

Living alone on a nearby farm with only an elderly enslaved man named “Uncle Dick” to help, Rebecca learned of the Yankee soldier and made the choice to help - an act of simple humanity. Despite her own hardship—her farm stripped bare by marauding troops and her husband languishing in a Union prison—she brought water, food, and what comfort she could to Bedell. When his condition failed to improve, she undertook a dangerous ride to Harper’s Ferry to seek medical supplies. Union pickets, suspicious of the lone Southern woman, eventually took her to their commanding officer. The general, impressed by her bravery, entrusted her with provisions and morphine to ease Bedell’s pain. Weekly, she made the treacherous journey to Harper’s Ferry alone, bringing back supplies and sending Bedell’s letters northward to his family. Slowly, his strength returned.

As winter neared, Bedell and Van Metre hatched a plan to escape the Valley’s dangers. With the help of a sympathetic farmer—they prepared for the perilous journey to Washington. Bedell, hidden in a hay-lined crate with slits for air, clutched a revolver should trouble find them. In Washington, their story touched the heart of Secretary of War Edwin Stanton, who ordered the release of Rebecca’s husband from a Union prison. Weeks later, at a prison camp in Ohio, Rebecca finally found James Van Metre among the gaunt, bearded men. Husband and wife were reunited at last. The group made the trip to Vermont, escorting Lt. Bedell all the way home.

The Van Metres stayed in Vermont until it was safe to return home. In the years that followed the war, the families visited each other often. For Henry Bedell and Bettie Van Metre, those months in the Shenandoah Valley were not just about survival—they became a lasting story of friendship and compassion that reached across the lines of war.

When Lieutenant James Keith Boswell arrived in Wi******er, Virginia, in late February of 1862, the twenty-four-year-old ...
07/13/2025

When Lieutenant James Keith Boswell arrived in Wi******er, Virginia, in late February of 1862, the twenty-four-year-old carried with him both the technical mind of a civil engineer and the tender heart of a romantic. Already accomplished in railroad construction in Missouri and Alabama, Boswell had answered Virginia’s call to arms, serving first on General Magruder’s staff before being requested personally by General Thomas J. “Stonewall” Jackson. While Jackson headquartered at Alta Vista on North Braddock Street, Boswell lodged at the bustling Taylor Hotel, where his presence did not go unnoticed. With his good humor, fine manners, and steadfast Presbyterian faith, he was considered quite the eligible bachelor by Wi******er’s young women. Yet Boswell’s heart remained devoted to Miss Sophia DeButts Carter of Fauquier County—a courtship that would become a constant topic in conversation, and later, a quiet source of heartbreak.

In Wi******er, Boswell’s contributions to Jackson’s staff were pivotal. As Chief Engineer, his sharp assessments shaped key military decisions in the Shenandoah Campaign. It was Boswell who soberly advised Jackson that Wi******er, despite its importance, was indefensible at that moment in the war—a conclusion that led to the town’s temporary abandonment. His talents were matched by a cheerful, amiable spirit, making him a beloved member of Jackson’s inner circle despite his tendency to dwell on the affections of Miss Carter.

As the campaigns carried Jackson’s army beyond Wi******er, Boswell remained indispensable. He scouted roads under fire, guided troops across treacherous terrain, and took pride in serving a commander he described admiringly as “pleasant… extremely affable and polite.” But beneath Boswell’s professional composure was a young man wrestling with matters of the heart. In early 1863, his friends secured him a furlough to resolve his courtship, only for Miss Carter to refuse his proposal. Returning to duty with a wounded spirit, he vowed to prove himself in battle, believing some great act of courage might yet win her love. His comrades, particularly mapmaker Jedidiah Hotchkiss, noted with concern the restless energy and fierce determination that now marked Boswell’s demeanor.

That determination led Boswell to Chancellorsville. On May 2, 1863, he worked tirelessly alongside Jackson, scouting enemy lines and aiding in the daring flank attack that sent Union forces reeling. But as night fell and Jackson pressed forward to gauge the battlefield’s progress, Boswell accompanied General A.P. Hill just behind their commander. Amid the confusion of friendly fire on the Plank Road, Boswell was struck by three bullets—one in the leg and two through the chest. His engineering sketchbook in his breast pocket bore the scars of the deadly volley. He died instantly.

The following morning, Hotchkiss found his friend’s body by the roadside, a peaceful smile still lingering on his face. Wrapping Boswell tenderly in his overcoat, Hotchkiss and Reverend Dr. Lacy buried him at Ellwood Manor beneath a shelter tent as the moon rose gently over Virginia hills. Though reinterred later in Fredericksburg’s Confederate Cemetery, Boswell’s story remains largely overshadowed by Jackson’s death. Yet Wi******er remembers him as more than a name in history—a brilliant young officer, a kind and genial soul, and a romantic who carried both duty and unrequited love to his final breath.

In the spring of 1863, a young girl named Margaretta Miller—known fondly as “Gettie” to her family and friends—would oft...
07/13/2025

In the spring of 1863, a young girl named Margaretta Miller—known fondly as “Gettie” to her family and friends—would often perch at the wide windowsill of her family’s old stone home at 28 South Loudoun Street. Only 13 years old, Gettie had the soul of a writer and the eyes of a quiet observer. As the American Civil War unfolded beyond her doorstep, she began to chronicle the world around her with an innocence unclouded by politics yet marked by the gravity of what she saw.

Her journal, begun on March 23, 1863, and carried through until September of that year, became a remarkable record of life in Wi******er under Union occupation. With pen in hand and the light of the window spilling across her pages, Gettie recorded the rhythm of a town caught between two armies—the sound of boots striking cobblestones, the creak of wagons heavy with supplies or wounded men brought into her home - writhing in agony.

Gettie came from deep Wi******er roots. Her father, Godfrey Sperry Miller, had inherited the house in 1858. Her mother, Marianna Sperry, was the granddaughter of Jacob Sperry, a Revolutionary War figure who had served in the famed “Dutch Mess,” a band of men loyal to General Daniel Morgan. On her father’s side, Gettie was the descendant of Godfrey Miller I, a German immigrant and skilled weaver who arrived in Wi******er in 1764.

On one particularly warm day, she noted a sight that would stay with her for the rest of her life. A wagon lumbered down Loudoun Street as men with shovels tossed powdered lime across each doorstep. Death and disease were rampant in Wi******er then—wounded soldiers often succumbed to infection and fever, their bodies laid on porches awaiting transport to the cemeteries or embalmers. In those days, before the science of germs and sanitation was fully understood, people believed “miasmas”—foul air—spread illness. Lime, they thought, could stifle the stench and stem the spread of disease. As a breeze swept down Loudoun Street, clouds of chalky white dust swirled and settled like falling snow, stinging the air and Gettie’s young eyes.

When her father died in 1877, Gettie inherited the house where she had spent so many hours watching history unfold. She remained there all her life, becoming a fixture of Wi******er in her own right. Neighbors would often see her in her later years sitting at that same windowsill, gazing out over Loudoun Street as she had done decades earlier. Perhaps she was still recording in her mind the echoes of horse hooves, wagon wheels, and whispered voices from long ago.

Gettie passed away on November 12, 1938, at the age of 88, having lived in the house for nearly nine decades. In her final act of generosity, she bequeathed the property to Grace Evangelical Lutheran Church to serve as a home for elderly women—a fitting legacy from a woman who had spent her life observing, nurturing, and remembering...

Word had begun to spread like a gentle breeze along the Opequon—Pastor John Casper Stoever Jr. was coming. By the time t...
07/11/2025

Word had begun to spread like a gentle breeze along the Opequon—Pastor John Casper Stoever Jr. was coming. By the time the sun rose on May 16, 1735, more than twenty-seven family members were already arriving near what we now call Bartonsville, just below Kernstown. The morning air was cool —a perfect day for baptisms along the fertile banks of Opequon Creek.

From his small stone house, Joist (or Jost) Hite stepped out with Pastor Stoever at his side. The old Indian trail stretched before them, a well-worn path that would one day be known as Route 11. In the distance, they could see wagons rumbling slowly, their wooden wheels creaking over the uneven earth. Family members walked alongside, their voices carrying faintly in the spring air. Suddenly, a bright call came in German: “Hallo Pfarrer! Hallo Pfarrer!” Young Lizzie Froman’s voice rang out as she waved to the minister. Behind her, more families arrived—smiling, embracing, children skipping ahead in excitement. Joist’s wife, Anna Maria, had already begun setting a long table outdoors, its simple boards soon to be laden with the bounty of their kitchen. The scent of fresh bread mingled with the earthy aroma of new grass. Today would be a day of love, laughter, and deep devotion to God.

When all were gathered, they found spots in the soft grass beneath swaying willows. The service began with a hymn, not from books but from memory and tradition. Pastor Stoever read from the Scriptures, his voice measured and full of warmth. One by one, he offered the bread and wine of the Holy Supper, and those in attendance felt their hearts lifted in gratitude and praise.

Then came the baptisms—an outpouring of faith and family. Mary Hite and her husband, George Bowman, brought forward their two young boys and infant daughter. Jacob Chrisman and Magdalena Hite stepped forward with Abraham and little Sara. Paul Froman and Elizabeth Hite followed with their children, Sarah and John. Abraham and Susanna Hite Wiseman came with their brood. Peter Stephens held his son, John Henry, while Jacob Sickles presented baby Zacharias. John Colvert carried his 18-month-old daughter Rebecca, and John and Ana Snapp brought their daughter Anna to the waters. Finally, the Bucher family came forward with Rosina, their precious little girl.

When the last prayer was spoken, the gathering moved toward Joist and Anna Maria Hite’s table. Children tumbled into the grass, giggling and sharing in the joy of the day, while Mary and Elizabeth Hite joined their mother in carrying out steaming platters from the modest kitchen. The Opequon Creek shimmered in the sunlight, its banks rich and green. It must have been a beautiful scene that day at Grosspapa Heydt’s (Grandpa Hite's)—filled with family, faith, and the comforting presence of God’s word. Even now, nearly 300 years later, the original Hite home is still visible from Route 11—just stone and crumbling walls...yet a timeless witness to those sacred moments so long ago.

HISTORY ALERT - Sometimes history, when told long enough and often enough, settles into the comfortable shape of fact. F...
07/10/2025

HISTORY ALERT -
Sometimes history, when told long enough and often enough, settles into the comfortable shape of fact. For generations, the story of how Berryville came to be called Battletown has traveled on the wind like an old tavern yarn. Was it called Battletown because the fiery General Daniel Morgan, known for his rough fists and sharper tongue, loved to punch out tavern patrons in the dusty streets? It’s a story with swagger, to be sure. I owe a large thank you to Cathy Kuehner for bringing the Major Charles Smith story to me. The Morgan story had been told for so long, but the truth is far more compelling—and much more dignified.

Let’s journey back to the mid-1700s, when this land was still rugged and full of frontier promise, shaped by the hands of men hardened by war. Among them stood Major Charles Smith, a seasoned veteran of the French and Indian War who had once served under a young Colonel named George Washington. At the Battle of Great Meadows—also known as the Battle of Fort Necessity—Smith paid a heavy price, losing his left hand in the ferocity of combat. But such a loss did little to break his spirit. Returning to Virginia, he pressed on with unwavering determination, eventually earning the rank of captain among the Virginia troops.

In 1763, Major Smith married Rebecca Hite, daughter of Colonel John Hite and granddaughter of Joist Hite, one of the valley’s earliest settlers. Through his father-in-law, Smith acquired a large swath of land—some 800 acres that had once belonged to Isaac Pennington. It was here, in the rolling heart of this estate, that Major Smith built his home. And it was he who gave this large tract of land its enduring name: Battletown.

It was not a name born of street brawls or wild tavern nights. Rather, it reflected a quiet, proud theme common among Clarke County’s returning soldiers—homes christened in honor of service and sacrifice. Nearby, one could find estates called “Soldier’s Rest,” “Saratoga,” and “Soldier’s Retreat.” Battletown fit neatly in their company, a tribute to both the struggle of war and the peace of a soldier’s return.

After Major Smith’s death, his estate passed to his four children. John Smith, the second eldest, eventually sold a portion of his inheritance to a man named Benjamin Berry. It was Berry who saw opportunity in the land, carving 200 acres into town lots and giving his new settlement a fresh name: Berryville.

As for Major Smith’s house—the anchor of that great 800-acre Battletown estate—it still stands today. Known as “The Nook,” this venerable home on East Main Street remains a quiet witness to centuries of change, its very timbers holding the memory of those early days.

So, while the idea of Daniel Morgan settling scores with his fists in the dusty streets makes for a rousing fireside tale, the truth of Battletown’s name is richer, steadier, and more deeply rooted in the valley’s history. It is the story of a soldier’s resilience, a family’s legacy, and the land that grew from it all.

South of present-day Wi******er, where the head branches of Opequon Creek still twist gently through meadows and groves,...
07/08/2025

South of present-day Wi******er, where the head branches of Opequon Creek still twist gently through meadows and groves, there stands a humble stone structure that has weathered centuries of Virginia’s changing seasons. Known to some as Colvill’s Fort and to others as Fort Colvin, it is one of the areas earliest buildings—a relic of a time when the frontier was raw and uncertain, and families built not only homes but strongholds against the unknown.

The fort was built around 1750, its thick stone walls springing up from the earth on the east bank of the Opequon’s headwaters. The site was chosen wisely, positioned directly over a bubbling spring that gave life to those who sought refuge within. Its architecture, with sturdy stonework and a simple gable roof, speaks of the Irish hands that most likely laid its foundation. Perhaps these settlers, far from the green hills of home, saw in the Virginia frontier both promise and peril—and so they built for both.

Directly across the creek lay the homestead of Joseph Colville, a man of enterprise and resolve who had purchased 360 acres from Joist Hite in March of 1744. Hite himself had been among the first to carve settlements out of the Valley’s wilderness. By the time Joseph drew up his will in May of 1758, the French and Indian War was at its peak, and the fear of conflict weighed heavily on every local family. Colville left instructions for his sons Joseph and Andrew to disperse twenty pounds each to their younger brother Samuel, but to hold back part of it—“only fifteen pounds”—until “the troubles of the times” had passed. It was a practical measure in an age when promises could be made but survival could never be guaranteed.

Colvill’s Fort was the closest of these small strongholds to Fort Loudoun, Colonel George Washington’s larger frontier fort in Wi******er. It remains unclear whether Colvill’s was officially part of Washington’s chain of forts or simply a privately constructed settler refuge. Less than a mile to the north stood another similar structure, Long Meadow Fort, erected by Robert Glass in 1755 in the community known as Opequon. Together, these forts formed a fragile line of defense against the waves of uncertainty that swept the region during the war.

Today, Colvill’s Fort still stands in quiet dignity in the Stonebrook neighborhood off Jones Road. Time has softened its edges and the wilderness around it has yielded to open lawns and quiet streets, but the fort remains an exceptional example of 1750s stone-and-frame construction. Measuring 24 by 34 feet, with its gable roof and interior chimney, it is nearly perfectly centered over the spring that once sustained it.

To stand before it now is to feel a gentle hush—a sense of lives lived in cautious hope. You can almost see a mother drawing water from the spring below, glancing toward the woods for any sign of movement, or hear the muffled sound of a flintlock being checked and rechecked by a father determined to keep his family safe.

Colvill’s Fort is more than stone and timber. It is the story of a frontier family, of a people who brought with them from Ireland not only their craftsmanship but their grit, their faith, and their stubborn determination to make this new land a home. It has stood through “the troubles of the times” and remains, even now, a quiet testament to resilience in the heart of Virginia’s Shenandoah Valley.

Lieutenant James Nugent gripped the staff of the regimental standard with steadfast hands as chaos erupted around him. S...
07/08/2025

Lieutenant James Nugent gripped the staff of the regimental standard with steadfast hands as chaos erupted around him. Smoke hung heavy at the stone wall in front of the old Pritchard house in Kernstown. He and a handful of Union soldiers pressed forward, forming a protective barrier around his uncle, Colonel James Mulligan, who had just been struck in the leg and toppled from his mount.

The air crackled with Confederate volleys as the Union line wavered, determined to hold. Then, in a heart-stopping instant, a bullet found its mark. Lieutenant Nugent fell where he stood, the cherished flag slipping from his grasp and drifting down to veil his face. Another hail of lead struck the wall, striking Colonel Mulligan twice more. Mortally wounded, the gallant officer was carried from the field as the tide turned in favor of the Confederates during the Second Battle of Kernstown.

In the aftermath, Lieutenant Nugent was buried in an unmarked mass grave alongside others lost to the day’s carnage. Colonel Mulligan, clinging to life, was taken to the Pritchard home, where his condition worsened.

Far to the north in Cumberland, Maryland, Marian Nugent Mulligan—Colonel Mulligan’s devoted wife and sister to the fallen lieutenant—remained unaware of the full weight of tragedy that had befallen her family. Pregnant and fragile in health, she was urged not to make the journey. But love and duty left her no choice. She had to see her James once more.

Accompanied by her nephew, Lieutenant Martin Russell, Marian began the arduous trek south, crossing enemy lines near Bath (Berkeley Springs). Confederate pickets, moved by her mission of love, allowed her safe passage #.

A day into the journey, exhaustion overtook Marian. She was taken into a sympathetic Unionist home in Wi******er to recover. Lieutenant Russell pressed on alone to the Pritchard farm, arriving too late. Colonel Mulligan had succumbed to his wounds the day before. His body lay in a simple pine coffin on the porch, the stillness of death a cruel contrast to the storm of battle that had raged there.

Russell ordered the coffin loaded onto a wagon, his thoughts heavy with how he would break the news to Marian. He searched desperately for Nugent’s grave but found no trace. Somewhere in those rolling fields lay the young lieutenant, his resting place lost to history.

Back in Wi******er, Marian stood outside the house as the wagon approached. When she saw the coffin, she collapsed in anguish, her cry piercing the quiet morning: “Oh James…” Confederate soldiers, hearing of the Union colonel’s death, filed past his open coffin in a solemn procession, paying respects to a noble adversary. The next day, Marian and Russell departed, traveling north through Martinsburg and into Union lines at Hancock, Maryland, before finally reaching the safety of Chicago.

For years after the war, the Nugent and Mulligan families made pilgrimages to Kernstown, seeking the lost grave of Lieutenant Nugent. Notices were placed in Wi******er newspapers, handbills were posted across town, and inquiries were made to aging Confederate veterans who might recall the site. Yet his final resting place remained elusive. Maybe he lies beneath the rolling fields of the Pritchard farm. Perhaps his remains were among those later moved to the Wi******er National Cemetery, now resting beneath a headstone marked simply: “Unknown.”

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