Mrs. A.P. Hill

A number of women had the opportunity to become Mrs. A.P. Hill, most notably the future Mrs. George McClellan and the future Mrs. G.K. Warren.

But Hill’s heart eventually went to a woman by the name of Kitty Morgan McClung.  If you don’t know much about A.P. Hill, you probably know little about his beloved wife, the woman Powell called “Dolly.”

Not long after he lost the hand of the future Mrs. George McClellan, Hill was back out attending parties in Washington.  Apparently, he was of somewhat delicate health even prior to the Civil War and as such he had been assigned to duty with the Coast Survey in the capital.  At one of these Washington parties, Hill met a young widow named Kitty Morgan McClung.

She was a Kentuckian, the sister of future Confederate cavalry general John Hunt Morgan; Kentucky was a border state and divided sympathies were common, but the Morgan family was thoroughly Confederate in allegiance with another sister marrying yet another Rebel cavalry general named Basil Duke.  In 1855, Kitty married a cousin from St. Louis named Calvin McClung.  He died suddenly soon after, however, and Kitty found herself at a young age a widow.  It was in this capacity that the 23-year old met A.P. Hill.

At this point in his life, Hill was not worn down and haggard from illness; he was a slim, dashing soldier with a red mustache and a charming manner that easily won over the opposite sex.  Hill was smitten by the lovely young widow from Kentucky.

Hill seems to have often poured out his deepest thoughts and feelings to his favorite sister Lucy.  He wrote her that, “I can reach you and you can reach me easily, that in case either of us be married, we can surely attend the other. Look out for mine at any time! You know I am so constituted, that to be in love with some one is as necessary to me as my dinner, and there is now a little siren who has thrown her net around me, and I know not how soon I may cry, ‘Pecavvi!’ and yield up my right to flirt with whom I please.”  Kitty, Powell noted, “is a sensible little beauty, and if the spasm will stay in me long enough, and she will say ‘yes,’ why I don’t believe I could do better.”  To his old friend McClellan, Hill opined that Kitty was “gentle and amiable, yet lovely, and sufficiently good looking for me;” he felt his old friend would “like her, and when you come to know her, say that I have done well.”  He closed the letter with an invite to the wedding, to be held at the Morgan family home in Lexington.

Kitty and Powell married on July 18, 1859.  Kitty wore a silk wedding dress; Hill wore his blue lieutenant’s dress uniform.

To Hill, Kitty was forever “Dolly.”  This was the nickname Kitty was given by a black servant charged with caring for the Morgan children.  He was proud of her musical talents.  She possessed the same sense of charm that Hill did, and the couple made friends easily in Washington society.

Undoubtedly, she must have known of Hill’s “youthful indiscretion,” for she knew of his other affairs.  Powell wrote Lucy to not “tease Dolly about Miss Wilson and my other affair.”  The other affair could only have been the infamous affair with “Miss Nelly” — that affair ended abruptly when Mrs. Marcy let out word that Powell had contracted a venereal disease at West Point.

When Hill resigned his commission to cast his lot with Virginia, Dolly dutifully followed him.  What her thoughts at the time were are uncertain, but she probably enjoyed being the wife of a successful Confederate general.  When their Culpeper home became untenable, Dolly attached herself to the Army.  General Scales noted, “Mrs. Hill is not satisfied with remaining here after all the ladies had been ordered away & all the other had left, but said she had no home & she might as well make Orange her home as any where else.”

Unlike Mrs. R.S. Ewell, Dolly apparently did not interfere with military affairs or with the staff of the Light Division or the Third Corps.

But she followed her husband closely.  She would roll her jewelry and other valuables into her chesnut hair for safekeeping and set out with the Army.  Sometimes she followed too closely and apparently she was a spunky woman with a nose for adventure.  According to legend, one night Dolly learned that cavalry general Philip Sheridan was expected in a hotel not far from Confederate lines. Dolly snuck into enemy territory in hopes of picking up useful military information. But, she quickly became an object of suspicion and had to flee with shots ringing out behind her.

The couple had four children, all girls.  Two of these daughters lived till adulthood; one was born after her father was killed at Petersburg.  Dolly and the Hill children were popular with General Lee.  In a letter, Dolly noted that Lee “comes very frequently to see me. He is the greatest and best man on earth, brought me the last time some delicious apples.”  J. William Jones recalled a story about Lee and Lucy Hill

In calling one day in Petersburg upon the accomplished lady of the gallant and lamented General A. P. Hill, his bright little girl met him at the door and exclaimed, with that familiarity which the kind-hearted old hero had taught her: ” O General Lee, here is ‘ Bobby Lee ‘ (holding up a puppy): ” do kiss him.” The general pretended to do so, and the little creature was delighted.

Lucy Lee Hill, one of his two daughters who survived to adulthood, had been christened with Lee as the godfather during the winter of 1863.

Dolly and Powell spent the night of April 1, 1865 together.  On the morning of April 2, Hill parted from his wife and rode out to attempt and rally his lines that were broken beyond possibility of repair.  Soon thereafter, he was shot through the heart and instantly killed.

Dolly was seven months pregnant.  Lee entrusted Hill’s trusted chief of staff, Colonel William Palmer, to tell Dolly the terrible news.  She was engaged in small household tasks and singing.  When she saw Palmer, she threw up her hands in anguish and cried, “The General is dead! You would not be here if he had not been killed!” Palmer tried to temper his news that he didn’t know if Hill was indeed dead or not only that he had been shot, but a few minutes later soldiers came back carrying his lifeless body. Members of his 5th Alabama Regiment had gone out and recovered Hill’s body. When his gauntlets were removed, Dolly noted how conspicuous his wedding ring looked on his mangled hand.  For two days she rode next to his body as first an attempt was made to bury him in Richmond’s Hollywood Cemetery, then as the body was transfered to Chesterfield for burial in a family cemetery.

It was probably this final experience that embittered Dolly towards the Confederacy and “The Lost Cause.” ¹  She did not participate in post-war activities, although she did give permission for Hill’s body to be buried underneath the statue it now reposes under in Richmond.  She never again went by the name Dolly after Hill’s death.  Not content to wear black for the rest of her life (like Mrs. Jeb Stuart, for example), she remarried in 1870, this time to a doctor, but again outlived her husband.

Despite her dislike for the “Lost Cause,” Mrs. A.P. Hill was among the longest lived of the Confederate generals widows.  She died on March 20, 1920 in Lexington, Kentucky.  She is buried there as “K. Forsyth” — under the surname of her final husband.

1. Dolly was also no doubt broken by the death of her brother John Hunt Morgan as well. [↩]

the unusual case of R.S. Andrews

Even before being diagnosed with Hodgkin’s Disease — an occurence that caused me to spend a lot of time learning about medicine — I have had an interest in the medical aspects of the Civil War.  In fact, my screen-name when I was a member of American Online was CWSurgeon0.  And I even have a website about a Civil War surgeon named Hunter McGuire.  You probably know Dr. McGuire best as Stonewall Jackson’s medical director.  He was actually a lot more than that and although he is probably best remembered for failing to save Jackson, he had an extremely distingushed medical career.

As usual I digress.  The point of this post was to tell the story of Snowden Andrews.  Most of the material for this post comes from Krick’s excellent book, Stonewall Jackson at Cedar Mountain.  I warn you ahead of time that this is graphic and not to be read while eating (unless you are the twisted type who likes to eat and read about horrific battle wounds).

Robert Snowden Andrews (1830-1903) was a 31 year old architect from Maryland.  He survived one of the worst wounds of the Civil War at the battle of Cedar Mountain.  Remarkably, he was coming off a prior wound; Andrews had suffered a leg wound during the Seven Days and as such was not quite yet up to par health wise at the time of the battle. It was said “Anyone not of his temperament would have been away in a hospital or on sick leave.”  But being on sick leave wasn’t Andrews style.

Thus, the 31-year old found himself on the Cedar Mountain battlefield in August 1862 as part of Stonewall Jackson’s command.  As Charles Winder’s chief of artillery, Andrews commanded cannons on the field near what is termed the “Crittenden Gate,” near the center of the battlefield. (This is also very close to where Jackson would try to draw his sword — it had rusted into its scabbard! — and make the famous rally of his troops).

It was while commanding and directing his guns with “success and gallantry,” that Andrews rode into the path of an exploding artillery shell. The result was catastrophic. A sharp piece of the projectile sliced open the right side ofhis abdomen, nearly cutting him into two pieces. Andrews threw one arm across the gaping hole and slid off his horse and onto his back. (Falling forward would have caused the Major to have almost certainly been disemboweled.)

Such wounds were almost universally fatal in the Civil War.  Any Civil War buff can tick off a litany of officers who died of “belly wounds,” perhaps the most famous case of all being dashing Confederate cavalry commander Jeb Stuart.

So it is no surprise that General Taliaferro, who lauded Andrews four days later in an official report, sadly opined of his being wounded “I fear mortally.” Almost all who saw Andrews thought he was to surely die. In fact, this wound was very much like the one that Andrews chief, General Charles Winder, took in the same battle, except that Winder’s wound was to his left side and Winder did not survive. (Winder died quietly near sun down.)

My man General A.P. Hill at some point passed Andrews lying on the battlefield and promised to send help for him. Help arrived in the form of Dr. Hunter McGuire, Jackson’s medical director. (Yes, the same McGuire I referred to in the beginning of my post.)  McGuire, well-known for his bluntness and candor, told Andrews that there was simply no hope and nothing he could do. Andrews, who had already been seen a few other surgeons at this point, retorted “Yes, that’s what you fellows all say.” McGuire detailed two Georgia brothers, Drs. Thomas and William Amiss, to take care of Andrews.

The surgeons later described the injury thusly: Andrews was “completely disemboweled, his intestines covered with dust, hen-grass, sand, and grit.” The Amiss brothers also declared that there was no hope. Andrews angrily answered that he had been hearing that was the case, but if “you damned doctors would do something for me I’d get well.” Andrews noted that he once had a hound that “ran a mile with its guts out and caught a fox, and I know I am as good as any damned dog that ever lived and can stand as much.” The doctor replied with a pun, “This man is full of all kinds of grit.”

Finally, Andrews was taken from the battlefield and carried in great agony to a field hospital. Near midnight, the surgeons began to operate on Andrews and his seven hour old wound on the dining room table at the Garnett House. When the blood and gore was cleared, it was found that Andrews had a second severe wound near the hip that ran across his upper thigh.  (Such a wound could itself easily be mortal).  Nevertheless, the doctors carefully cleaned the wounds and then replaced the intestines, sewing the wound shut with cotton and a “common calico needle” as that was all that was available.

The medical prognosis continued to be characterized as beyond grim.  Dr. Harvey Black, a good surgeon and friend of Andrews, when asked replied that there was almost certainly no hope for Andrews.

Andrews came out of the surgery cool and composed, repeatedly asking the question of what his chances were. When he asked if it was at least one in ten or one in twenty, the doctor said “not more than that.” Andrews cheerfully declared his intention “to hold on to that one chance.”

Andrews wife had been staying in Baltimore with her three children. From the morning newspaper, she learned her husband had been mortally wounded. (She had already suffered one scare where her husband had been reported dead.) Mrs. Andrews left for Culpeper and arrived near 6 PM on August 16 with the couple’s seven month old baby. It was the first time that Andrews had seen the child.

Despite having survived this long, all the doctors were convinced that peritonitis must set in and Andrews would die. Within five weeks, however, the wound had healed enough that Andrews could sit up. A few weeks more and he was limping around on crutches. He was able to return to limited ordnance duty by October. Astonishingly, Andrews  actually eventually returned to FIELD SERVICE with the Army of Northern Virginia in the spring of 1863, wearing a silver plate over his wound. Once back, he quickly managed to get wounded again, this time at  the minor battle of Stephenson’s Depot on June 15, 1863. At this point, someone decided that it would be in Andrews best interest to serve the Confederate cause on ordnance duty in Europe. Andrews did not object.  Sent to Germany, Andrews proudly showed off his scar of the “most desperate wound ever received by a man from which he recovered.”

After the War, Andrews was a renowned architect in Baltimore. He grew to an “enormous size” and won at least a few bets with surgeons for bottles of wine over his wound.  Andrews died a natural death on January 6, 1903 at the age of 73.  The bloody and torn jacket he wore at Cedar Mountain is on display at the Maryland Historical Society.

In a war where a Union general died of a scraped shin, recoveries like Andrews’ — although exceedingly rare — are absolutely remarkable.  If you ever feel like giving up hope because no one says there is any, remember the story of Major Andrews and the terrible wound he took at the battle of Cedar Mountain.