Touch the Elbow - Blogging the Civil War

It was raining, it was pouring, but this was one old man who was not snoring. After falling asleep around 2:30 a.m., I was wide-awake at 5:00 a.m., with an hour to kill on a Sunday morning before either Dunkin Donuts or Starbucks opened. They say the longest hours in Nashua, N.H. are just before the dawn. You get no argument from me on that one.

After attending a brunch with my family, during which time I silently debated whether to sponsor my nephew Ian in the 2007 Nathan’s hot dog eating contest, I dropped people off at the Manchester airport, hooked up with the highway again and headed north with a certain degree of uncertainty. My destination was Franklin Falls. The map listed a town by that name, minus the word Falls. Not to fear, as it turned out they were one in the same.

I received quite a welcome as I entered the town, ah hem, city of Franklin. Just as I crossed into the downtown area a huge flash of white light filled the car’s back window followed by a loud bang. When I saw the flash my immediate thought was that I had run a stop light and the town, ah hem, city, possessed the world’s most powerful traffic camera. I was convinced, too, the bang I’d heard was some device that had latched onto the vehicle’s rear axle and at any second would be jerked to a sudden stop and the car, minus back wheels, would be tilted upward at a fifteen-degree angle. Imagine my relief when I was able to keep driving and later learned an electrical box on a light pole had exploded.

Now that I’m thinking about it, the timing of the explosion and my arrival at the town’s, ah hem, city’s police station may have been responsible for the seemingly chilly reception I received. In these days of post 9-11 terrorism threats it can be quite comforting for some to speak to an officer who’s standing behind bullet proof glass, his right hand mere inches from his holster. I politely asked for directions to the town’s, ah hem, city’s cemetery, cautioning myself not to make any sudden or indiscreet movements. I was motivated out of concern for the officer, believing a ricocheting bullet would strike him if he made a sudden decision to fire his weapon at me. I repeated the directions he gave me, he nodded, and I jumped back in the car and promptly headed, as it turned out, in the opposite direction of where I needed to go. I certainly can’t accuse the officer of not having a sense of humor.

All right already, I’ll explain the repeated use of “ah hem.” Franklin, which is officially designated a city, has a population, according to the 2004 U.S. Census, of 8,683 people and it’s downtown area covers four or five very short blocks. Maybe it was the weather, but it had the feel of being a worn down and dreary little place to live in. I’m not convinced a bright shinning sun would have altered that perception. We should give the City’s Web page developers credit for at least trying, even though everything but the home page has been under construction since 2005. If you were a fire fighter in Franklin driving a 1938 model truck, you’d probably be just a wee bit envious of the fleet of late model cars the police cruise around in.

I know I shouldn’t be so rough on Franklin. There are dozens upon dozens of mill towns scattered throughout New England that went into steep economic decline when the textile and paper mills abandoned them for the sunny South. Universally their motto has become “live by the mills, die by the mills.” I’m descended from men and women who toiled in mills stretching from Lawrence, MA to Pawtucket, RI, and take more pride in that than I do with other family lines that can be traced to the royal houses of Europe. I empathize with the incredibly long hours spent in terrible working conditions, all for a mere pittance of a pay. They were good people, who laughed, danced, and sang, but whose labors led them to age before their time and to early deaths. In fact, death and a grave were what had brought me to Franklin.

Charles Tilton Cunningham was born Nov. 10, 1840 at Dobbs Ferry, Westchester County, N.Y., the son of James H. and Lucy Marilla (Robinson) Cunningham. By 1861 he was residing in Wrentham, MA and working as a paper maker, when he enlisted as a Private in Co. I of the 18th Massachusetts Infantry. He was engaged with the Regiment during the Peninsula Campaign in the spring of 1862, including the siege at Yorktown. On August 19, 1862, after being evacuated by hospital transport at Harrison’s Landing, he was admitted to Hampton General Hospital at Ft. Monroe, diagnosed with Chronic Diarrhea and Typhoid Fever. Cunningham was to spend the next five months recuperating until discharged due to disability on January 27, 1863.

Cunningham may have actually been fortunate in his illness. At the time of his admission to the hospital the 18th Mass. had been reduced to 899 officers and men and the Regiment would suffer a combined 33 per cent causality rate in terms of killed and wounded in two battles, Second Bull fought on August 30th and at Fredericksburg on December 13th. The actual rates at Fredericksburg were even higher, with 40 per cent of the 350 officers and men killed or wounded

Returning to Wrentham following his discharge, he married a woman named Sophia in 1863. Six months later they were in Lawrence, MA, where Charles continued work as a paper maker, and the couple’s three children, Charles, Nellie, and Myrtielana, were born. Perhaps in search of better wages, the family migrated north to Franklin in 1875, where Sophia died three years later. With children then ranging in age from 6 to 14, Cunningham quickly remarried to Minerva G. Bean at Franklin. They would later have a daughter, Edith, born Oct. 14, 1881. It’s unknown how long Charles continued to work in the mills, but he lived out the rest of his days in Franklin and died at his home on Russell St. on April 4, 1914.

As with my visit to Amherst cemeteries, I had no idea where Cunningham’s grave was located. I ruled out the Catholic Cemetery and parked on a lane in the town cemetery (directions complements of the Fire Department), where sheltered by an oversized umbrella took the first steps of what would prove to be a three-hour search. I have a method when searching for graves. I immediately rule out the newer sections of cemeteries, which can be judged by the size, shape, and type of stone used, and walk the cemetery by sections, trying to read names in as many as two or three rows at a time, but invariably you can’t ever maintain a straight line in an older cemetery. And then there are the times when you pause, because a grave compels you to read the inscription. Children always have the most heart rendering epitaphs. Losing one child at any early age is a difficult burden for any parent to bear, but losing three within a year would crumble anyone’s spirit and faith in God.

At the two-hour mark I began to have doubts and half an hour later had totally abandoned hope of discovering Cunningham’s grave, although I did discover my Timberland boots were not necessarily waterproof. I’m stubborn though and to prove to myself that I had given the effort my best shot I slogged on. The very last section to cover held thirty or forty gravestones. By this time my mind was wandering and pre-occupied with thoughts of a 20-ounce Dunkin Donuts coffee. Then, suddenly, I did a double take! Literally. C-u-n-n-i-n-g-h-a-m. I know this is going to sound strange, but I was laughing and beside myself as I approached the grave.

If you seek the dead, they will let you find them.


I know this is going to sound even stranger, but I have a ritual whenever I visit the dead of the 18th Massachusetts. I introduce myself outloud, informing them that I’m the third great-grandson of Sgt. George Washington Thompson and the second great-grandson of Pvt. Samuel Harris Jordan, both of Co. I. I do not, repeat, do not, believe in this stuff. I only wonder if the mind is so powerful that it allows one to imagine an aura emanating from a grave. I’ve sensed unique qualities of sadness, laughter, curiosity, kindness, well being, silence, and a leave me alone attitude at markers from Maine to Georgia. After my introduction I then read the information I have on the deceased aloud, speaking as if I were speaking to someone still alive. Again, not believing in this stuff, I had a sense of warmth emanating from Cunningham’s grave, which seemed to increase when I laid my hand on his marker in a gesture of parting.

My visit to Franklin was not quite over, however. I had to see the house where the Cunningham family had resided. I don’t know where Cunningham’s first wife Sophie is buried, but I did learn from the cemetery his daughter Myrtielana married a gentleman named Robert T. Wallace and died in 1954. I did some further digging after my return home. The 1930 Census lists the home being owned by Robert and Myrtielana, with Edith, the youngest of the Cunninghams, a boarder. The 1932 Franklin City Directory documented Edith was a Superintendent with the New England Telephone and Telegraph Company. It’s possible she may have inherited the house as her brother-in-law and sister were childless, and possible, too, she lived there until the mid or late 1960’s, as she died in 1969.

I can’t imagine the green, two-story house sitting at the bottom of Russell Street has changed much since it was built. I was standing in the middle of the street preparing to take a second picture when I heard a voice call out, “Excuse me, but what are you doing?” I looked up and saw a woman staring at me, arms folded, gripped by suspicion. It was an uncomfortable situation for both of us. I offered an apology, followed by a quick explanation. She became less vigilant and even extended an invitation for me to come inside the house, which I politely declined. Rather I held my ground, rattling off facts about Charles Cunningham and his family. You could see the look of astonishment register on her face as she realized I was telling her more about the house’s history than she had ever known before.

Upstairs from a second floor window a young child was peeking at me from behind a curtain. It struck me then and there that maybe, just maybe, Edith Cunningham had peered down at a stranger from that very same window when she was a child.

And the seasons they go round and round
And the painted ponies go up and down
We're captive on the carousel of time
We can't return we can only look behind
From where we came
And go round and round and round
In the circle game