13 Hidden, Haunted, Hotspots of Gettysburg #12
Young Major Joseph W. Latimer was supposed to be graduating with his class at the prestigious Virginia Military Institute. But he had left the school in his sophomore year when war between the two sections of the country broke out and volunteered his services to his native South. The baby-faced warrior first taught drills to the Hampden Artillery, a volunteer unit in Richmond, having studied Artillery Tactics at VMI under a professor thought odd by his students, Thomas J. Jackson, soon to be revered as “Stonewall.” At this moment—late afternoon July 2, 1863—instead of holding a cherished sheepskin diploma, Latimer was desperately fighting for his life with his artillery battalion on a hill unsuitable for artillery east of Gettysburg – Benner’s Hill. He wasn’t yet twenty years old.
A grave responsibility it was for a young man. Behind him rested the left flank of the entire Confederate Army of Northern Virginia. General Robert E. Lee was to be meeting his officers at a farmhouse just behind this position. And while the Yankees had not shown the gumption to attack, so far, in the battle, one never knew. Latimer’s artillerists—most of whom were older than their commander—were the iron studded outpost placed upon Benner’s Hill, discouraging any Yankee attack upon this flank.
Latimer originally lined the 14 guns of his battalion along the ridge that extended from Benner’s Hill across the road to Hanover. But the counter-battery fire from the Yankee batteries, placed on an opposing hill with the cemetery on it, made it untenable. Never on the drill fields of VMI—or even the battlefields of this war—had he seen such fire.
Still, he held his guns in their exposed position for several hours. Outnumbered by Union artillery, no doubt he was torn by lessons learned from his prosaic professor. As far as artillery tactics were concerned, this was no place for big guns; but as far as withdrawing, it was a choice abhorrent to his old professor. After holding out as long as he could in the open against overwhelming odds, the young major finally requested permission to withdraw his guns, which was granted. Since he was obligated to protect the left flank of the entire Confederate army, he chose to personally remain behind on the hill with just four guns, because he wouldn’t ask another officer to command in such a dangerous position. It was a decision that would cost him his life.
The firing finally died down a bit and Latimer probably could have sat out the rest of the battle. But that evening, Confederate infantry began an assault toward the cemetery and Latimer opened fire to support them.
While the majority of his guns were withdrawn, the Union guns were still at full strength, now aiming at four targets instead of fourteen. Finally, an exploding shell mangled the young major’s left arm and killed his horse, which fell on him. He was painfully extracted from beneath his mount and, as night was falling, gave his last orders to his battery commanders: to withdraw the guns to a safe place, something he never would have done for himself.
After nightfall, the farmhouse to the rear of Latimer’s battle, at the bottom of the ridge, to which the wounded lad was taken, must have resembled something out of the young man’s nightmares. The once bucolic home of Daniel Lady and his family had been transformed in a matter of hours by the hideous necessities of war into a battlefield hospital. He no doubt heard the moans and pleadings of the wounded: Don’t…please…please!…don’t cut…please leave my arm…no…no…no!
Through the windows he would have seen the orderlies holding down a struggling man as a blood-covered surgeon lifted a blood-covered knife and made a rapid, circular cut around a mangled arm, much like his own. He could have heard the pitiful scream as hot steel cut into raw, tender flesh. He undoubtedly saw strange pyramids below each window and in the flickering candlelight realized the unbelievable: they were human hands and feet and legs and arms discarded recklessly out the windows as just so much unwanted trash. Leaning up against the walls of the farmhouse and scattered about the farmyard were the broken bodies of those the surgeon was finished with, and those yet to be taken into the stinking hell of the front room. Blood was everywhere, in spots and rivulets on the floor. He must have known also that the surgeon’s bloody table was to be his fate as well. How a young man, not yet twenty years old could have stood the dreadful anticipation, is beyond understanding.
There’s no knowing, but we can only hope that young Latimer’s time on the operating table was brief. Some surgeons prided themselves on the rapidity with which they could cut through the skin and muscle, saw though the bone and sew up veins, arteries, and the flap of skin covering the stump. It was better to get something like that over as quickly as possible. Often, especially toward the end of a battle, the patient received only a shot or two of army whiskey before the operation to make him giddy, if not pain-free. Sometimes, for the officers, the orderlies would save some anesthetic to knock them out. Hopefully, young Major Latimer—late VMI cadet—had the benefit of at least that.
Latimer survived the surgery, probably because of his robust youth. He was transported along with the retreating army in the spring-less wagons used for the wounded. He made it through the rainy days and nights of the retreat and the anxiety of hearing the rear-guard battle raging around the army at Falling Waters as Lee waited for the Potomac River to recede. On to Winchester, Virginia, for recovery, but picked up and moved again, farther up the Shenandoah Valley to the home of Confederate Colonel E. T. H. Warren in Harrisonburg, Virginia. He was safe from everything except the gangrene that had set in. The surgeon’s saw had carried some then unknown microbe, to be deposited in the young major’s body. His youth ended not with old age, but with his death. The Virginia Military Institute lost another hero to the war. Joseph W. Latimer, “The Boy Major,” died August 1, 1863, three weeks short of his twentieth birthday.
Major J. W. Latimer was buried at VMI in Lexington, Virginia. But his legacy may have remained in the farmhouse, where his sufferings were most severe, in a corner of the battlefield of Gettysburg.
Directions to Benner’s Hill: From the center of town, head east on York Street. At the “Y” go straight onto route 116 East (Hanover Road). Cross over Rock Creek. At the top of the hill turn right onto Latimer Drive. You are about 1 mile from the center of town.
This area is part of the Gettysburg National Park, so be sure to adhere to the seasonal closing times.
[image error] Benner’s Hill
Benner’s Hill is a rarely visited part of the battlefield and relatively quiet for paranormal investigations, especially in the early morning or evening. In just one short Electronic Voice Phenomena (EVP) session, I collected a few voices, garbled, but attempting to answer my questions.
[image error] Major Joseph W. Latimer
The Daniel Lady Farm is owned, preserved, protected and administered by the Gettysburg Battlefield Preservation Association (GBPA). It is now off-limits to paranormal investigations, but the GBPA does offer tours of the restored farmhouse and barn.
[image error] Daniel Lady Farm
The Daniel Lady Farm, to me personally, is one of the most paranormally active sites on the battlefield. During a visit with a group of paranormal investigators, as they sat in a circle on the ground behind the barn, I looked at the woods to the west. I had to blink several times before the vision became clear enough to ascertain: the figure of a human, silhouetted against the dim light of what remained of sunset. It stood there for almost the entire time the circle was together. The thing I remember most about the figure is that it wore red pants. When the circle broke up, I asked the leader if everyone in his group was accounted for. Yes, they were all in the circle. I then told him what I had witnessed for the 15 or 20 minutes they were doing their paranormal work. No, he said, it couldn’t have been one of them.
The odd thing about the vision was that the signature color associated with the artillery was red. Uniform collars, cuffs, and, at least early in the war, trouser trim and even the trousers, themselves, in some artillery units were red.
Another time, in the same place with a different group, I felt my sleeve tugged. I had to turn to see who wanted my attention. No one was there.
One afternoon I was called to the Lady Farm to witness the impossible. A rust-colored liquid mysteriously appearing on the floor of Mrs. Lady’s front room from some unseen source. Two hours later, the liquid vanished without a trace. A thin layer of dust was on the floor in its place, as if it had never been there. You can read the full story in Ghosts of Gettysburg VII.
