Frank
Wilkeson was born in Buffalo, New York State, on 8th March, 1848.
He was the youngest son of the journalist, Samuel Wilkeson (1817-1889),
and Catherine Cady, the sister of Elizabeth
Cady Stanton.
Samuel Wilkeson covered the American Civil
War for the New York Times.
Meanwhile, the 14 year old Frank ran away from home and on 26th March,
1864 joined the Union Army. Claiming
he was an eighteen year old farmer, Wilkeson enlisted in the 11th
Battery of New York Light Artillery.
Wilkeson
was sent to Northern Virginia where he took part in the military campaign
led by General Ulysses S. Grant. This
included Wilderness (May, 1864)
and Petersburg (June, 1864). On
21st June, 1864, Wilkeson was commissioned as a 2nd Lieutenant in
the 4th U.S. Artillery. He was sent to Washington
and later he led a unit guarding prisoners in Elmira. Wilkeson left
the army in March, 1866.
Wilkeson worked as a mining engineer in Pennsylvania and after marrying
Mary Crouse in 1869, the couple settled in Johnstown. In 1871 they
moved to Gypsum, Kansas, where they managed a large cattle ranch and
wheat farm.
In the 1880s Wilkeson wrote for several newspapers including the New
York Times. A book on his military experiences, Turned
Inside Out: Recollections of a Private Soldier was published
in 1887. Frank Wilkeson died at Chelan, Washington, on 22nd April,
1913.
(1)
Frank Wilkeson wrote about the fighting in the Wilderness
in his book, Turned Inside Out: Recollections of a Private Soldier
(1887)
During the first day's fighting in the Wilderness, I saw a youth of
about twenty years skip and yell, stung by a bullet through his thigh.
He turned to limp to the rear. After he had gone a few steps he stopped,
then he kicked out his leg once or twice to see if it would work.
Then he tore the clothing away from his leg so as to see the wound.
He looked at it attentively for an instant, and kicked out his leg
again, then turned and took his place in the ranks and resumed firing.
There was considerable disorder in the line, and the soldiers moved
to and fro - now a few feet to the right, now a few feet to the left.
One of these movements brought me directly behind this wounded soldier.
I could see plainly from that position, and I pushed into the gaping
line and began firing. In a minute or two the wounded soldier dropped
his rifle and, clasping his left arm, exclaimed: "I am hit again!"
He sat down behind the battle ranks and tore off the sleeve of his
shirt. The wound was very slight - not much more than skin-deep.
He tied his handkerchief around it, picked up his rifle, and took
position alongside of me. I said: "You are fighting in bad luck
today. You had better get away from here." He turned his head
to answer me. His head jerked, he staggered, then fell, then regained
his feet. A tiny fountain of blood and teeth and bone and bits of
tongue burst out of his mouth. He had been shot through the jaws;
the lower one was broken and hung down. I looked directly into his
open mouth, which was ragged and bloody and tongueless. He cast cast
his rifle furiously on the ground and staggered off.
(2)
Frank Wilkeson, Turned Inside Out: Recollections of a Private
Soldier (1887)
Wounded soldiers almost always tore their clothing away from their
wounds so as to see them and to judge of their character. Many of
them would smile and their faces would brighten as they realized that
they were not hard hit and they would go home for a few months. Others
would give a quick glance at their wounds and then shrink back as
from a blow, and turn pale as they realized the truth that they were
mortally wounded. The enlisted men were exceedingly accurate judges
of the probable result which would ensue from any wound they saw.
They had seen hundreds of soldiers wounded, and they had noticed that
certain wounds always resulted in death. After the shock of discovery
had passed, they generally braced themselves and died in a manly manner.
(3)
Frank Wilkeson, Turned Inside Out: Recollections of a Private
Soldier (1887)
Near Spotsylvania I saw, as my battery was moving into action, a group
of wounded men lying in the shade cast by some large oak trees. All
of these men's faces were gray. They silently looked at us as we marched
past them. One wounded man, a blond giant of about forty years, was
smoking a short briarwood pipe. He had a firm grip on the pipestem.
I asked him what he was doing. "Having my last smoke, young fellow,"
he replied. His dauntless blue eyes met mine, and he bravely tried
to smile. I saw he was dying fast. Another of these wounded men was
trying to read a letter. He was too weak to hold it, or maybe his
sight was clouded. He thrust it unread into the breast pocket of his
blouse and lay back with a moan.
This group of wounded men numbered fifteen or twenty. At the time,
I thought that all of them were fatally wounded and that there was
no use in the surgeons wasting time on them, when men who could be
saved were clamoring for their skillful attention. None of these soldiers
cried aloud, none called on wife, or mother, or father. They lay on
the ground, palefaced, and with set jaws, waiting for their end. When
my battery returned from the front, five or six hours afterward, almost
all of these men were dead.
Long before the campaign was over I concluded that dying soldiers
seldom called on those who were dearest to them, seldom conjured their
Northern or Southern homes, until they became delirious. Then, when
their minds wandered and fluttered at the approach of freedom, they
babbled of their homes. Some were boys again and were fishing in Northern
trout streams. Some were generals leading their men to victory. Some
were with their wives and children. Some wandered over the family's
homestead; but all, with rare exceptions, were delirious.
(4)
Frank Wilkeson, New York Times
(28th July 1884)
Murrayville has one main street, from which, at intervals, are offshoots
in the shape of side streets. It is about 75 feet wide, and is full
of the stumps of the trees cut to make room for the town site. On
either side of this main street, for perhaps an eighth of a mile,
are ranged the stores. They are of every conceivable kind and shape.
There are a few log houses, more tents and tent houses, but one-story
frame buildings abound. A tent house is half log or frame house and
half tent; it is simply a shell of logs or boards with a canvas roof.
This kind of building is very plentiful in the West, and particularly
popular in new towns. The canvas is not made specially for the houses;
it is an ordinary tent adapted to the purpose. Their size is often
considerable. I have seen them 90 by 30 feet, but the average are
from 60 by 20 to 40 by 20. They are plentiful because they are cheap,
lumber being an expensive article in a new country, but they are more
comfortable than a tent. Anything covered with canvas is damp in rainy
weather, and insufferably hot when the sun pours down upon it; besides
light canvas is not waterproof, and here eight-ounce or bucking is
used almost exclusively.
There is
no seasoned lumber in the town, and promises not to be for some time
owing to the limited capacity of the sawmills of the gulch. Everything
has been built of green material, and for a long time lumber was worked
into houses the same day it was sawed. It sells now for $35 per 1000
feet, and before any sawmills were put in it was at one time as high
as $300 per 1,000 feet. At that time every plank was whip sawed, the
amount made was small, and the demand was very great. Many thousands
of feet were sold at $300, $275, $250 per 1,000 feet, and most of
it was sold before it was cut. The sawmills, of course, hurt the tremendous
profit of the business, but for a long time both they and the whip
sawyers coined money. They have held prices up most persistently,
but $35 per 1,000 feet is a high figure, and ought to satisfy them.
The whip sawyers have not given up; they are still working and making
sales.
For the
benefit of those who know little of lumber I will say that whip-sawing
is done by two men. The log is placed on two uprights. One man stands
above on the log; the other is below. They have a long thin saw, with
handles on either end. One man is continually pushing the saw, while
the other is pulling it. The man below usually wears goggles to keep
the sawdust from his eyes; whip sawing is hard work and slow work,
but it pays, because running expenses are almost nothing. The freshness
of the timber is seen most plainly in the frame houses. From those
recently erected the pitch can be seen oozing in quantities. Besides
this habit of oozing, the pitch has an extremely rude and unmannerly
way of dropping constantly. When the inhabitants are not kept busy
dodging the glistening balls, they have lively times making a general
clean-up.
Available from Amazon Books
(order below)
