That Document You May Have Heard About, Part I.

It is a fundamental truth that all things come to an end. But it is how those things end which are often the most compelling stories. Wars are events of enormous upheaval. One of the reasons that scholars, students, and citizens have been studying warfare for a thousand years is because the subject is heavy with natural drama. The history of war is replete with life and death decisions, stunning success, tragic failure, and horrific loss all in the hands of the most human of beings.

Some of the most significant events in our history have taken place at the end of wars. It is often the end of war that does much to determine how the peace will be conducted. I have always been fascinated by the ends of wars, because the events of those final days are full of portent, move at a rapid pace, and take on a life of their own. If the American Civil War was a grand and terrible drama, then the final act was the most important.

The history of those early days in April, 1865, is well known. But it is difficult to imagine what it was like to be there. After the fall of Richmond and Petersburg, Gen. Robert E. Lee’s Army of Northern Virginia was desperately scrambling to the west in order to get to a rail junction that could carry his men south to unite with Gen. Joseph E. Johnston’s army in North Carolina. Nipping at their heals are Gen. U.S. Grant and the Army of the Potomac. When the spring campaign of 1865 began, few of the officers and men of the Army of the Potomac doubted it would be the last of the war. The string of defeats suffered by the Southern Confederacy in the fall and winter had left it staggering like a wounded animal toward its death.

Though they marched west on the same roads, the two armies were, in fact, marching in different directions. For the Army of Northern Virginia, the end was near. Exhausted and starving, the Rebels were carried along by the frail hope that they could get to Johnston and carry on the war. For many, however, this hope was not enough, and thousands of Lee’s men chose to desert and make their way home. The Army of the Potomac was marching faster than it had ever marched before. Equally exhausted, but well feed and equipped, these men were motivated to greater effort by the knowledge that if they just marched a little faster, and a little farther, they could get in front of Lee’s army and end the four year struggle that had taken the lives of so many of their friends and comrades.

The end came at the little hamlet of Appomattox Court House, Virginia. Lee discovered that the Union Cavalry Corps and the Fifth Infantry Corp under Gen. Phil Sheridan had gotten in front of him and closed the door. There was no where else to run. With an overwhelming sense of relief, both armies collapsed into rest, and themselves became spectators in the final act of the war in Virginia: the surrender of the Army of Northern Virginia.

We have in our collection several relics that relate to the epic events of the last days of the war. Little did we know we may have one of the most significant artifacts of them all. Prior to moving the collection out of the building, we went through the archival collection in order to account for every item. In the process, we discovered what we believe to be a truly incredible piece of not only the end of the war, but of all of American history: a copy of the surrender document signed at Appomattox on April 10, 1865.

Needless to say, we were somewhat surprised.

The document was found by a former employee of ours, Herb Kaufman. He was going through all the boxes in the archives to make sure we knew exactly what was there before we packed it up. He came to me with a document that he had found at the bottom of a box of old, worthless prints of our old museum. The document consisted of two sheets of slightly yellow paper glued to a fragile heavy stock backing paper and brushed with some sort of lacquer on the surface. The sheets had handwriting and signatures. We had both recognized what it was right away; it was the protocol for the formal surrender of the Army of Northern Virginia. We both assumed it was a facsimile. The lacquer on the surface gave it a shiny, artificial appearance. But the shiny surface drew our eyes to one of the most important aspects of the document: pen marks on the paper.

The pen marks, slight indentations on the surface of the paper, were the first indication we had that the document in our hands may not be a facsimile. The indentations lined up exactly with the pen strokes on the page, indicating that the document was hand written. We were intrigued. So we had this document, and an idea what it might be, but we had no proof. We had to start somewhere, so the first step was to establish how many of these documents may exist in the world. It was time to solve a mystery!

I should take a moment here to provide a little historical background on the document we believe we have. On April 9, 1865, Generals Lee and Grant met in the McLean parlor to negotiate a preliminary agreement on the terms of surrender of the Army of Northern Virginia to the Army of the Potomac. At that meeting, Lee and Grant agreed to appoint three commissioners each to meet the next day to create the formal terms of surrender. Grant appointed Generals John Gibbon, Wesley Merritt, and Charles Griffin, and Lee selected Generals James Longstreet, John B. Gordon, and William N. Pendleton. After an all day meeting on April 10, the terms were agreed to, and all six men signed the document. It is the April 10 document of which we believe we have a copy.

So my first step in unraveling the mystery was to call an archivist at the National Archives. Without saying what we thought we had, I asked him about the April 10 surrender document and where the existing copies might be located. Without having the benefit of looking into it, he told me that there was one copy, and it was in their possession. He indicated to me that not only did they have it, but that it was available to view on their website. This proved to be very helpful, because it was clear that the one we had was very different than theirs. The document in the National Archives was written on lined paper and had words added and other editing marks. Our copy was unlined, was not edited, and was in a different handwriting. At this time I described the document we had and asked for his help in tracking down the history. He told me he would get back to me.

He did so within the next couple days, and the information he had was not entirely clear. He told me that he had found a reference to there being another copy, that it was at the Maryland Historical Society and that it may have been donated by Col. Walter Taylor, who lived in Baltimore after the war. Taylor was Robert E. Lee’s aid during the war. This led us to believe that perhaps the answer was in the person of Gen. John Gibbon. Gibbon was the officer that presided over meeting that produced the surrender document and was, after the war, commander-in-chief of the Military Order of the Loyal Legion of the United States, the organization that founded our museum. It seemed to be a reasonable hypothesis that if he had a copy, he might have given it to M.O.L.L.U.S.

This theory led me to call the Maryland Historical Society to confirm that they had a surrender document. I spoke to a librarian down there who told me that they did in fact have a surrender document and that he believed it had been donated by Taylor. This seemed to confirm the information we received from the National Archives. Or at least it did, until I received another call from our man at the National Archives. He had managed to track down a magazine article written by Gibbon and published some years after his death in which he described the surrender meeting in some detail. Gibbon wrote that there were three copies of the surrender document made, and that he had kept one of them for his personal records. He then stated that he himself had donated that copy to the Maryland Historical Society.

So our theory that we had Gibbon’s copy went right out the window. I called the Maryland Historical Society back and talked to an archivist who was more familiar with the document. He confirmed Gibbon’s account, and told me that they had a letter from Gibbon documenting that their copy was the one from his collection. So we had to come up with a new theory. At the same time, we contacted a conservator from the Conservation Center for Art and Historic Artifacts so that we could have someone look at the document at tell us something about what we had. While they could not comment on the historical aspects of the document, they could give us a condition report on its physical nature. One of the most important things they told us was that the document was a hand written original and not a facsimile. This was extremely important as we continued to investigate.

Where we went from there was a simple process of elimination. We knew from Gibbon that three copies were made. We could account for two of them. Gibbon’s personal copy was at the Maryland Historical Society. We knew that in any such written agreement as this, both parties would get a copy of the terms. It was logical enough to believe that the copy in the National Archives was the one that would have been forwarded to Grant’s headquarters and on to Washington. As an official document, it makes sense that it would end up in the National Archives. Therefore, the only copy unaccounted for would be the Confederate copy. If our document was authentic, then we must have the Confederate copy.

Having reached this conclusion, we were confronted with the next obvious question; why on Earth would we have the Confederate copy? In the history business, it is not enough that you think you have something of enormous historical significance; you must also be able to explain how you came to have the object. So I began to dig through our old records to find out what we had on the document. The first record of the objects in the Museum’s collections was an inventory of relics and framed items done in 1935. One of the very first projects I worked on when I was hired as a Project Assistant Curator four years ago was to help transcribe everything written in this inventory into an Excel spreadsheet. It was among the most mind-numbing things I ever had to do at the Museum, but I was sure glad it had been done on this occasion. It was so much easier to search the database than to go through the old book.

I found the document listed in the Catalogue of Pictures and Framed Relics section of the inventory. The citation read:

“Original Terms of Surrender of the Army of Northern Virginia at Appomattox. Presented by Companion Bruce Ford.”

The transcription indicated that someone had handwritten the word “Photostat” next to the listing. I pulled out the box with the original inventory books and checked to see if there was anything else written in them that we may have missed when we originally transcribed them. The first two copies of the inventory had no handwritten note. The third did, so it must have been the one we transcribed from. Unfortunately, there was no additional clue to be found. However, in the box was another partial inventory of notable objects done in 1968. The inventory gave the same information as the 1935 inventory, and also said that the document was framed and hanging by the front door. It too had a handwritten note, this one saying “copy??”

As was true with every step in this mystery, every piece of information we found brought as many questions as it answered. We now knew that the document had been framed at on time, and that it had been on display. We knew it was in the collection in 1935, and was still on display in 1968. We also knew that a Mr. Bruce Ford gave the document to the Museum. Now we needed to find out about this Bruce Ford.

Herb took on the task of looking through the old M.O.L.L.U.S. application files and he found that Bruce Ford had joined M.O.L.L.U.S. in about 1917. He was eligible because his father had been an officer from New York during the War (though his father had never joined). Some digging around on the internet revealed that Bruce Ford had established a company that made batteries for U.S. Navy submarines, a company that later became Exide Batteries. Ford also married a woman named Sophia DuPont. Yes, of THOSE DuPonts. We looked up the service record of Bruce Ford’s father, and found no evidence that he was present at the surrender meeting. Mr. Ford certainly had the resources to buy the document, as did his wife and her family. A call down to the Hagley Library revealed no immediate evidence that the document came through the DuPunt side of the family.

So at this point there were some things we knew, and many more we did not. We knew that there were three copies made, and that we knew the location of two of them. We knew that the object had been framed when it was hanging in the museum, but had been removed from that frame sometime after 1968. We knew it had come to the Museum sometime between 1917 and 1935. We knew that Bruce Ford, a man of some means, had donated it sometime in those years. With the information we had, we could make some educated guesses. It seemed to me that the notations in the 1935 and 1968 inventories indicated that as time passed they had lost the provenance of the document and began to believe it was a Photostat copy even though the 1935 inventory entry firmly states that it is an “original copy.” I believe that sometime after 1968 the document was removed from its frame and placed in an obscure box in the archives because the individuals handling it at the time believed it was a worthless copy.

One of the things we could not account for was the time period from April 10, 1865 until 1935. Nor could we find any evidence of how Bruce Ford came into possession of the document. It did make sense that of the three copies, the Confederate surrender document would be the one most likely to end up in private hands. The Confederate government had fled Richmond and was on the run when the Confederate copy reached Robert E. Lee’s headquarters. There was no government to speak of when Lee and his staff finished the surrender procedures and left Appomattox Court House. Any official documents not turned over to the Federal government were likely carried off as souvenirs. It is not unlikely that someone at Lee’s headquarters simply pocketed the document and walked away.

At this point, we were making some progress toward solving the mystery when things got away from us a little. Due to the pending move, we had put the continuing investigation of the document on hold for a while. We had a full plate. In anticipation of the move, we had submitted some stories and images to our publicity people in order to generate some press coverage around our closing. We included an image of the document and a little summary of what we knew so far. Soon after, we got a call from an Associated Press reporter who wanted to do a story on the document. We agreed and the reporter stopped by, did the usual interviews, took some pictures and was gone. We didn’t give it any thought after that.

In our next installment, we’ll see how a little news story turns into a very big deal, and a curator has a moment of doubt.

Next time on History Mystery Theater!

One Foot in the Past.

As you can see, I have spent the last few posts writing about the process of moving the collections out of our old home at 1805 Pine Street. Before I move on to other topics, I wanted to take a moment and say something about the old building that served us so well for so long. The Civil War Museum of Philadelphia is the oldest chartered Civil War institution in the country. We were founded here in Philadelphia by Union veterans in 1888. Since 1922, the museum has called 1805 Pine Street home. Through the many years, the museum has taken on new names and new missions. It has seen the passing of the last of the Civil War veterans that founded it, and several generations of those who took on the responsibility of caring for their memories. It saw days when several hundred people climbed up and down its narrow stairs, and many more days when no one came to our door. It was a silent observer of our comings and goings for eighty-six years.

I first came to it as a visitor about ten years ago. I’m not ashamed to confess I feel in love with the place on that first visit and vowed to myself to find a way to work there someday. I became a volunteer there five years later. On November 1, 2004 I was hired on the do a survey of all the objects as part of an eighteen month grant funded project. At the end of the grant, I was kept on as the full time curator and have been honored to hold that position ever since. In the course of the last four years, I have spent a great deal of my time at 1805 Pine Street, mostly in the musty basement. The benefits of the experience are immeasurable to me. I was able to handle some of the most extraordinary Civil War artifacts in the world. I got to meet, talk to, and work with some of the best people I have known. The memories I take from there are very personal and very special to me, but I will spare you the stories.

So, it was a bittersweet experience when we came to the end of the move, and it was time for me to leave the old house for the last time. I know as well as anyone how inadequate the building was for the safe storage of our collection, for proper exhibition of artifacts, and for the access of our patrons. But it was a special place, filled with the phantoms of long lost memory. We museum people are a special breed and we live our lives with one foot in the past. Nostalgia is especially dangerous for us, because we bathe in it every day. It is too easy to believe the past is better, clearer, and safer. But I know that the best days of the Civil War Museum of Philadelphia are yet to come, and I look forward to the part I will play in creating them.

So when I ran my hand over the marble doorframe and walked away, I didn’t look back. I knew I had no reason. I learned during the move that the phantoms of memory swirl around the artifacts, not the house. I had packed those phantoms as carefully as every uniform, painting, and sword. The house is now an empty shell, ready to take on whatever role its new owner intends. The soul of the place is coming with us. The great thing about living with one foot in the past is that you are also a bridge to the present… and the future.

Packing Old Baldy

Perhaps the most famous single item in our collection is the stuffed head of Maj. Gen. George Gordon Meade’s favorite war horse, Old Baldy. Old Baldy had occupied a position of honor in our museum, specifically a case of honor, in the Meade Room for decades. In that case, relatively secure against the passing of time, Old Baldy looked out at the world with his particular glassy-eyed stare. He saw the museum through good times and bad, endured many a joke, and through no effort of his own became our most enduring symbol. I have a passion and reverence for all things Civil War, both as a person and a professional, so everything in our collection is of great significance to me. But for some reason, perhaps it is his record of service and battle wounds, or that he is the remains of a living thing, it is very hard not to get a little sentimental about Old Baldy.

Old Baldy has been on display in a custom made case for over two decades. In that time, the only access to him was through an opening in the top of the case, and even that was mostly to change the light bulbs in the fixture inside. So, like the large painting, a big part of the challenge of packing Old Baldy was that we would have no clear idea how to do it until we cracked open the case and looked at the situation. Even this proved harder than we thought.

The case itself had essentially been assembled around him, and was clearly intended to be hard to open. It was a steel frame with the wood and Plexiglas built over it. There was a good bit of redundancy built into it, as we discovered when we started taking screws out. After we had removed every screw that could conceivably be holding the case together, nothing moved. We pushed, pulled, jimmied, and wedged as gently as possible, and still nothing. We climbed over it, under it, and through it until we removed every screw we could find. It turned out that the backboard to which Old Baldy was attached was connected to the rest of the case in a way we never would have thought of, and it wasn’t until we removed the very last screws that it finally came loose. Once we knew how it came apart, we had the information we needed to make a plan for packing Old Baldy for moving. As a precaution, we reassembled the case so that he would be protected as other items were being moved out of the room.

The plan to pack Old Baldy was beautiful in its simplicity. I have to give all the credit to Justin, one of the excellent movers who worked on this project with us. Clearly a student of the measure twice, cut once school of doing things, Justin had the job broken down into four steps that were prepped and ready so we could move easily from one step to the other. The idea was this: we would pack Old Baldy on an L-pallet that fit inside a crate. We would remove him from the backboard that fit in the case and attach him to a new board that fit in the L-pallet. In preparation, we disassembled the case, and had two saw-horse work stations set up, and had the L-pallet and the crate lined up.

One thing we did have to think of before we actually moved Old Baldy was the safety of both Baldy and the crew. We knew nothing of Old Baldy’s internal structure and little about the hazardous chemicals that were used to treat him. In this area we got a great assist from Jennifer, who works for one of the outstanding natural science museums here in Philadelphia. Her familiarity with taxidermy, and her evaluation of the condition of Old Baldy, gave us vital information on the issues relating to the safety of the object and the crew and the confidence to proceed with the move.

The two most important things we learned from Jennifer’s report were that Old Baldy was structurally sound, and that he posed a moderate chemical risk to the crew. The structural report was a great relief, because we had been concerned that Baldy could come loose from his plaque if he were jostled or laid on his back. Knowing this was not an issue, we felt much more comfortable about the plan we had in place. The chemical risk, in the form of arsenic in the hair and skin, and lead in the ears, were things we took seriously. Since the threat was from contact, not through any airborne transmission, the crew wore protective suits and gloves throughout the process (I have to confess that while I wore the gloves, I did not wear the suit. This may or may not have been wise, but as Curator I accepted risks that would not have been acceptable for the crew.).

Old Baldy, being a popular guy, had some special guest to keep him company as he left his old home. Nancy Caldwell, who was a former volunteer and an advocate of horses in the Civil War, and her sister had attended our final open house when we closed the building to the public. Both had long been Old Baldy’s biggest fans, and they asked if they could be there to see him off. It was my pleasure to have them there to watch, and they took some excellent pictures of the process, like the ones at the top of the page. In addition, the story had caught the eye of Ed Cunningham, a reporter for WHYY, the local PBS station here in the Philadelphia. He was interested in doing a video blog of the process of creating the new museum, and the packing of Old Baldy was a great place to start. It was an honor to have him as our guest, and his first piece can be seen here: http://www.whyy.org/community/edsphilly.html

Once we had everything laid out and ready, the transfer from the case to the crate went fairly smoothly. We disassembled the case and gently tipped Old Baldy on his back and placed him on the first saw-horse work station. There we removed the large screws that secured the heavy wooden plaque on which Old Baldy is mounted from the backboard. At the next saw-horse station, the new board was ready and waiting. We easily slid Old Baldy from one station to the next, and bolted him to the new board. The new board was then fitted into the L-pallet and bolted down. At this point we encountered the only problem of the entire operation. We noticed a gap between Old Baldy’s plaque and the new board he was bolted on that was not there when he lay flat. The concern was that the plaque was too heavy and the screws were not holding the weight. We detached him from the L-pallet and put him back on the saw-horse station to add more screws. When we bolted him back on the L-pallet, the gap returned, albeit smaller. The actual problem was that the new backboard was slightly warped, so that Old Baldy was flush when we attached the screws at the work station, but not when the board was bolted to the pallet. Once we figured that out, we were not too concerned. As a precaution, however, we bolted an extra strap across the top of the plaque to provide more support. We then attached a brace across the L-pallet, under Old Baldy’s head but not touching it, as insurance that if he came loose from the plaque he would not fall far. We then slid the L-pallet into the case and bolted it shut. It fit perfectly. In the end, the whole process went like clockwork. It was a testament to the good planning done beforehand.

As I said, it was hard not to be sentimental when packing Old Baldy. I think for me it went beyond just who he was and what he represented. Even though he was one of the first large items we packed, I think that putting Old Baldy in a crate and taking him out the door was the first time I truly realized that our time at 1805 Pine Street was coming to an end. If Old Baldy had left the building, the rest of the collection, and its curator, would soon follow.