Henry Harrison Stover was a son, husband and father who wanted nothing more than to be left alone to farm and care for his family. His family called him “Squire” which happened to be the name of one of his great grandfathers, Squire Boone. Squire Stover and his wife Louisa lived in peace near Osgood in Darke County, Ohio while the tumult of the Civil War grew. All was fine until Squire was drafted.
Family stories from that time period tell us of the torment the family suffered taking him to the train station. Squire was so distraught at the thought of never seeing his family again that his arms froze around his six-year-old son Charlie and he could not stop hugging him. The train left the station only to have it suddenly squeal to a stop. Charlie was pulled from Squire’s arms and ran back along the tracks to his mother at the station.
Squire and Louisa exchanged many letters and he told the family about the horrible conditions at the military camp in Tennessee. The family sent food, blankets, mittens, and socks hoping to help. Then they got word that Squire was ill.
The newspaper told of a man seeing Squire at the camp and offering to take him home, but Squire refused. We don’t know if he was too sick to travel the hundreds of miles home or if we was afraid to carry disease home to his children. He died at the camp, one of the thousands who died of dysentery and cholera. Squire was buried at the new military cemetery alongside those who had fought at Shiloh. Family records don’t reveal if anyone was ever able to pay respects.
It seemed like we should.
We have now visited Arlington National Cemetery, Punch Bowl in Honolulu, and Henri Chappelle American Cemetery in Belgium, but this seemed different to us.
Nashville National Cemetery was huge and free of landscaping. The trees were bare and the cemetery was void of color. Most of the graves were Civil War casualties. There were thousands and thousand of men just like Squire resting under long, curving rows of white stone markers. We were the only people there in the cold midwinter. A railroad track cut the grounds in half and two large oak trees stood out in the middle.
We had his grave number and, after a short walk, found Squire at the base of the largest oak tree beside his brothers in arms from Indiana, Pennsylvania and Illinois.
So what do you say? My husband is descended from that that little boy who Squire would not let go, so we told him Charlie had a good life and a big family on his farm. And that the family remembered him. We left a handful of fresh flowers and my husband left a coin on the headstone.
A stone’s throw away, we found the grave of another relative, my three-times great grand uncle who was shot at Shiloh. John Frazier was the son of a Scottish immigrant. Uncle John died in Hospital 17 a year after being shot. There were so many hospitals that they had numbers instead of names. He was one of three Fraziers to die there in Tennessee. No wonder that branch of the family has been difficult to research. He died single and most likely no one in the family ever traveled that far to pay respects. We left flowers and a coin for him as well.
Visiting this cemetery helped me understand more of how the Civil War still has an effect on our family today.
There is a lesson to be learned here. And its not just about genealogy.
Our nation is as deeply divided today as it was 160 years ago, except that we live side by side. Instead of North and South, we are divided between cities and rural areas. We need to look at those Civil War cemeteries and vow to not come to blows over political differences. Americans need real conversations among ourselves that don’t resort to repeating insults. We cannot treat half our population as unworthy of respect. We are equal and need to find common ground based on common sense and logic.
Squire Stover and John Frazier and their comrades are still reminding us to find other ways settle national differences besides violence.
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