The majority of young men who flocked to the colors during the early years of the Civil War did so with the naïve expectation of accumulating their fair share of both glory and adventure. Very few of them, if any, left home seeking romance. However, one young recruit from western Pennsylvania reaped all these benefits as a result of the events that transpired one afternoon at Gettysburg.
Born on a farm in Greene County in 1841, James Jackson Purman displayed an independent streak combined with a strong work ethic from his earliest years. At the age of 12 he took a job in the printing office of the Waynesburg Eagle, and four years later traveled to Illinois to work as a typesetter at the Fulton County Democrat. Purman returned home soon afterward and matriculated at Waynesburg College, where he earned his tuition by teaching at a local academy during the winter months.
When President Lincoln issued a call for more troops during the summer of 1862, Purman decided to forego his final year of studies to help recruit a company of volunteers. During the organization of what would become Company A, 140th Pennsylvania Infantry, he received enough votes to secure the post of first lieutenant. The material of the regiment offered considerable promise. Most of its members descended from the restless Scot-Irish pioneers that forged westward to settle the primitive regions along the western boundary of the Commonwealth. They were reputed to be a class of men with above-average intelligence with an exceptionally high standard of manhood and morality.
Although losing some men at the Battle of Chancellorsville, the regiment’s true mettle would not be tested until July 2, 1863. As part of Brigadier General John C. Caldwell’s division of Winfield Scott Hancock’s Union Second Corps, the 140th Pennsylvania vacated its original position on Cemetery Ridge to reinforce the endangered left flank of the Union line.
As the Pennsylvanians hustled off, some of the men in Company A noticed that Lt. Purman was not wearing his distinctive broad-brimmed straw hat. During the previous morning the officer shared with an old schoolmate a presentiment that he would be killed in action. Not wishing to tempt fate, Purman exchanged his headgear with a drummer boy with the hope that a standard kepi would make him a less conspicuous mark.
Anchoring the far right of Caldwell’s formation, the 140th Pennsylvania, over 500 strong, swept across the northwest corner of the Wheatfield and scrambled up the side of a rocky, tree-covered knoll, later dubbed the Stony Hill. The charging Yankees ran headlong into two South Carolina regiments and a desperate firefight ensued in the shadows of the woods. The volleys became increasingly deadly as the two lines closed together in equal determination. The 140th stubbornly held its position as Caldwell’s spirited attack cleared the Wheatfield of Southern troops.
The victory was only temporary. Reinforced by fresh brigades, the Confederates reappeared, converging upon their adversaries from three directions. Now the roles were reversed. Organization dissipated as Caldwell’s men fell back singly or in small groups.
After passing safely through the initial gauntlet of bullets, Lt. Purman and Orderly Sergeant James Piper paused for a breather along the opposite side of the field. Seconds later, enemy riflemen burst into view. “We must get out of here or we’ll be gobbled up” shouted the lieutenant. The pair had not gone far when they stumbled upon a comrade prostrated by wounds to both legs. Ignoring the fast approaching danger, they carried the immobile soldier to a more sheltered position between two large rocks.1
The short delay proved costly. Ignoring the shouts of their pursuers to halt, Purman and Piper fled at top speed. Almost instantly a leaden missile struck the officer near the left ankle and brought him down. His companion was also hit. Lying in the trampled wheat, Purman read the inscription of the 24th Georgia on a crimson battle flag as a Southern regiment charged over him. Near twilight yet another Union attack pushed the Confederates back across the hotly contested battlefield. Nearly 24 hours would elapse before Purman’s rescue could be affected.
Suffering from shock and surrounded by a chorus of cries and groans, he obtained little sleep and would be forever haunted by the sights and sounds of that long evening: “The almost full moon was shining, with drifting clouds passing over her face. At intervals a cloud obscured the moon, leaving in deep darkness the wheatfield [sic] with its covering of trampled and tangled grain, boulders and wounded and dead men, then passing off revealed a scene of cold, white upturned faces.”2
Daylight brought new horrors. Although no major action would take place in this sector on July 3, the opposing pickets regularly exchanged shots across the field around and over those trapped between the lines. One of these stray rounds penetrated Purman’s lower right leg. Growing increasingly desperate for water, he called out to a Confederate officer seen moving along the front of a body of troops.
Eventually, a lieutenant from a Georgia regiment crawled out to the exposed position with a canteen of fresh water. He poured some of the precious liquid on the enemy officer’s wounds and cut off his boots to ease the throbbing pain. After a little coaxing, the Southerner carried Purman on his back while crawling on all fours into the Confederate lines along the edge of the woods. He propped the Pennsylvanian under a tree on a rubber blanket and provided him with more water and biscuits before taking his leave.
Following Pickett’s Charge on the afternoon of July 3, an attack by the Pennsylvania Reserves pushed the lingering pockets of Confederates from their strongholds along the southern end of the battlefield. Near sundown a stretcher party found Lt. Purman and carried him to a field hospital near Little Round Top. The next day a surgeon amputated the officer’s left leg below the knee. Purman’s premonition did not come true – though, unfortunately, the soldier he had rescued did succumb to his wounds. Both Purman and Piper received, in later years, the Congressional Medal of Honor for their heroic deed.
Equally interesting, as an indirect result of Purman’s compassionate act, he received a reward that, to him, was of infinitely greater value. The chronicler of the regimental history recounted these serendipitous circumstances:
“A touch of romance entered into the experiences of suffering which fell to the lot of this gallant officer [Purman] at Gettysburg….after his rescue from the hands of the enemy, he was carried into the house of Mary Witherow in the town and was so tenderly cared for in this hospitable home that a feeling stronger than good will was awakened within his breast for the fair lady who so graciously ministered to him. This feeling was fully reciprocated and in due time there was a marriage, as was eminently fitting, between ‘the brave and the fair’ in the city of Washington, D.C.”3
The future bride resided with her widowed father and sisters in a house that still stands on the eastern side of Baltimore Street, about one half block north of Breckenridge Street.
Following his discharge on a surgeon’s certificate in May of 1864, Purman resumed his studies and graduated that same year. Afterward, the couple moved to the nation’s capital, where James practiced law. Mary passed away years before her husband, and was buried in Arlington National Cemetery.
Before joining his beloved in eternal rest on May 10, 1915, Purman realized a long held wish. For many years he had exchanged letters with the Confederate officer who had rescued him at Gettysburg. This individual proved to be Thomas P. Oliver of the 24th Georgia, a long-time resident of Athens. In 1907, when Oliver and a delegation of fellow Georgians traveled to Washington, the former enemies met in person for the first time since that summer day in 1863. Purman had the pleasure of introducing his old friend to President Theodore Roosevelt. Oliver died the following year, just after being elected alderman of Atlanta. Had it not been for this soldier’s bold act of mercy in the Wheatfield at Gettysburg, his Union counterpart may have perished there along with one of the romances that blossomed amid the carnage of war.
Sources:
Robert L. Stewart, History of the One Hundred and Fortieth Regiment, Pennsylvania Volunteers. (Philadelphia: Franklin Bindery, 1912), pp. 4-6, 289, 394-395, 424-429, 458; Gregory A. Coco, A Vast Sea of Misery (Gettysburg: Thomas Publications, 1988), pp. 47, 141-142; Pension Records of James Purman, National Archives and Records Administration, Washington, D.C.
End Notes:
Stewart, p. 425.
Ibid., p. 426.
Ibid. p. 395.
Michael Dreese is a writer, historian, and professional photographer who is a frequent visitor to Gettysburg. He is the author of several books, including The Hospital on Seminary Ridge at the Battle of Gettysburg, published by McFarland and Co, Inc., and Never Desert the Old Flag!, published by Thomas Publications of Gettysburg. These books and others are available at most local bookstores and places of business. Mr. Dreese lives in Kreamer, Pennsylvania.
