The Unknown
And now for something completely different…
I read with great interest a story in the New York Times today about a mystery from the Civil War, Whose Father Was He? by Errol Morris. It’s a five part story, and so far only parts one through three have been published.
The “he” in question is Amos Humiston, a Union soldier from New York state who died at Gettysburg and could not be identified from his body or personal effects. He was an unknown soldier for a few months, but through the efforts of a doctor, he was finally identified due to a photograph he held clutched in his hand at the time of death. The doctor publicized the photo and succeeded in discovering Humiston’s wife and three children.
Part three ends rather ominously with the foreshadowing that the story will take a “wicked” turn, so I am looking forward to reading the next two installments.
What fascinates me about stories such as this is how, through chance, later generations might learn of the life of an ordinary person living over a hundred years ago. Unless we possess some claim to fame, whether through notoriety or genius, not many of us linger on this world after death, in the form of artifacts, stories, and documentary evidence.
I’ve always thought it a great injustice that those who take lives in the most horrific manner—the Manson family, for example—will live forever in books, documentaries, and websites, while their victims are accorded almost footnote status. And as for the rest of us, we aren’t even graced with being a footnote in history.
But here was an ordinary man, Amos Humiston, who died an ordinary death in battle at Gettysburg, and who due to chance “survives” in a sense to this day. Someone has even written a book about him [Mark Dunkelman, Gettysburg’s Unknown Soldier: The Life, Death, and Celebrity of Amos Humiston (Westport, CT: Praeger, 1999].
I say “due to chance” because luck really does play a part in the story. If he hadn’t been holding that photograph of his children…if it had been destroyed…if it hadn’t come into the hands of a tavern owner…if Dr. Bourns hadn’t passed through and stopped at the tavern…if he had never seen the picture, or if his interest hadn’t been piqued…if…if…if…
I went through something like this recently when my great-grandmother died and I was left a stack of letters from one of her nephews, a World War II veteran. He was pretty much a forgotten family member, since he died so young, in a car accident shortly after the war. But because my great-grandmother saved his letters, as well as other artifacts, such as the Bible he carried, his dog tags, and the news article describing the circumstances surrounding his death, I was able to know quite a bit about this person.
I transcribed his letters, organized the originals and placed them between sheets of acid free paper, then filed them chronologically in acid free folders, and then donated the to the Veteran’s History Project at the Library of Congress. I did my best to, in short, build a kind of memorial to this family member I’d never even heard of.
Preserving/archiving the letters of an unimportant person, in an unimportant family, might seem like a waste of time–even by a family member. But I often think ordinary people have the most fascinating stories to tell, though they don’t realize it. Nor do they have the means to tell it, even if they recognize it’s importance. For example, I’ve come to the conclusion I will never write my story. I just don’t possess the talent.
Yet every life does have a story. Most remain untold, or are lost, forgotten. One of the main reasons I used to think I wanted to be a writer, a story teller, is this desire within me not to forget, the desire to conserve or preserve through the written word.
Thus it’s pleasing to me to discover the story of Amos Humiston, and judging by the comments on the article, other people are fascinated as well.