New Photo of Private Henry Ira Banks Emerges!

Private Henry Ira Banks, post-Civil War 1860's

On a recent trip to Seattle, my sister, Sandi invited me to join her on a side trip up North to Mount Vernon, to visit my Dad's sister, Marie. Aunt Marie brought out an old photo album with portraits of relatives on her mother's side. She was hoping I could help identify some of the photos. Incredibly, I located a photograph of Henry inside the photo album. I had never seen this likeness of him, but it was obviously taken just after his service in the Civil War, since he appears older in the 1872 image that I procured from cousin Mary Emma Allen. Also, note the medal he is sporting. I believe it is a GAR medal, but the jury's still out. Some other photos emerged of my Great-great Grandfather, David Irish Banks, Henry's older brother. In a letter from their mother, she mentions that David warned Henry of the consequences of deserting, which he was seriously considering after his involvement in the 102nd Illinois Volunteers extended far beyond the brief period he expected. I like to believe that his big brother's encouragement saved Henry's life, and dignity.

David Irish Banks, 1860's

Henry Ira Banks, Gentleman Farmer,
Salina, Kansas, 1872

Preparing for 2nd Leg of the Journey

It wasn't long after I returned to Texas from my trip to Tennessee and Georgia that a life-altering shift in my routine took place. My employer, a high tech data storage company had its third in a series of layoffs in 2013, and this time three of my team members and yours truly were escorted to a conference room and awarded  a meager severance packages and a handshake. To our surprise, the remaining employees had been shuffled off into a larger conference room where they would have to wait as we raced the clock to clean out our office, and exit the premises within thirty minutes as the HR Manager stood in the hall tapping his foot and eying his watch. Our computers had been seized, and all valued contacts I had established during my year as Marketing Director had been wiped from all devices. I felt particularly horrible, since I had hired my team one-by-one, hand-picked for their various talents, and we had made some great strides together, producing measurable results that gave incremental sales a significant boost. Yet here we sat together, humiliated, and anxious to get through the process and move on.

Eight months later, I reached the tail end of an aggressive job search, I had finally had enough of the routine, and the seemingly endless string of frustrations and disappointments that come with rejection letters, lackluster hiring managers, empty promises, and time wasted answering expired postings. I had obviously reached a point in my career where I was either too experienced, too expensive, or both. Taking stock in my talents, strengths, experience and my writing ambitions, I sat down and wrote myself a letter of recommendation. Passing a series of nerve-racking interviews with myself, I presented a handsome offer which I immediately accepted. 

I formed my own Video Production company virtually overnight, and fell in with the ranks of the self-employed. It didn't take long before I landed my first paying contract, and another that was pro bono. I was excited, expectant, nervous, but I was not going to go through another layoff as long as I kept my new venture afloat. That was my motivation.  

My writing and research had taken a back seat to that grueling job-hunting schedule, which gave way to the creation of a business plan, a full-blown website, and a handful of capability videos to help market my services. At about that time, an unexpected opportunity presented itself, and reignited my passion to continue my pursuit of Henry Banks that had since come to a grinding halt. 

Shortly after my trip through Tennessee and Georgia, I had sent a copy of one of Henry's letters to the Resaca Battlefield Preservation Organization. Through some correspondence, an advertisement arrived in my inbox that announced the 150th anniversary Reenactment that would take place at Resaca over a weekend in May. A few emails later, I had an official invitation to fall in with the 125th Ohio Union Regiment who would be camping out over the weekend of May 16-18 at Resaca, and participating in battle reenactments to take place upon the actual field that Henry had charged across in 1864. When I had originally set forth to capture Henry's story, the notion to actually suit up in the Union blues had never even occurred to me. Looking back across nearly ten years of involvement, and all of the unexpected connections and fortuitous encounters that I had experienced along the way, I had only one response to this unexpected opportunity: "Of course."

I found a download online of a pocket sized field manual derived from Brigadier General W. J. Hardee's Rifle & Infantry Tactics. I sent the file to my printer, and stapled it together to form my own portable study guide to keep with me for quick reference. I had no idea that being a skirmisher required so much preparation. I was both excited and apprehensive to join the ranks of seasoned Reenactors, and to keep up with their drills and maneuvers. One of the officers had written to set my mind at ease, and promised to spend some prep time with me the day before the battle, and to pair me up with an experienced comrade. Still, I kept my handbook within reach, and referred to it whenever the opportunity arose.

The final days of my trip would fall on Memorial Day weekend, so I made arrangements to meet up with Andi's cousin Fleming and her boyfriend, Chris who was very familiar with DC. I had never visited our nation's capitol, and now that I was approaching my 50th birthday, I figured that it was about time to make that trip, even if it was just for the weekend. Would it be a befitting ending to the entire journey? Or would it produce more open doors into the Banks family saga? Time would tell, but one thing was for certain...I was pumped to get back on the road, and was ready for just about anything. I had a list as long as my arm of family members, friends, acquaintances, former colleagues, and perfect strangers who were rooting for me, and looking forward to acquiring their copy of my finished book, or at least hearing about the details of the final leg. I wouldn't dare disappoint them. This was going to get interesting.

Tennessee Trippin

The following is an excerpt from my own journal, which I updated daily as I made my way from Nashville to Atlanta in July of 2013. 

I must have dozed off for about two hours, or so. Otherwise, I didn't sleep a wink on the night of July 3rd, 2013. I couldn't wait to get on the road, and the only obstacles in my path were the 40-minute drive to the airport and the 3.5-hour flight from Austin. I hadn't packed more than I would need to make it from Nashville to Atlanta and back. Still, my enormous sea bag was bursting at the seams, with clothes, a day pack, a 2-man tent, a lantern and sleeping bag, for I wouldn't be checking in at The Hilton. If I was going forward with this escapade to find the exact locations where Uncle Henry stopped to write his Civil War letters that I had recently acquired, then I would do my damnedest to rough it "soldier-style". What better way to spend Independence Day than camping under the stars in some of the most highly disputed territory of the Civil War? 

Based on past experience, I made a concerted effort to reserve a direct flight to Nashville from Austin, while bypassing DFW at all costs. I have a more intimate history with that airport than I care to think about, due to canceled flights, weather related delays, and poorly-timed layovers. Once airborne, I buried my face into my iPad, poring over details of my forthcoming adventure. We landed in Nashville, incident-free, and I made a beeline to baggage claim to pick up my seabag. I stepped up to the carousel before the waiting throng of grumpy passengers squinting for their luggage, tapping their feet, and glancing at their watches. I made an announcement to lighten the mood. "Everyone, please let me know if you spot a big black bag." It took a few seconds for some to react, since there was a veritable sea of black ballistic nylon floating past us. A well-dressed woman turned to me and said, "Really dude?" I counted about half a dozen conversions from grimace to grin, and my work was done here. Finally, my giant duffle was riding on my shoulder, and I was hoofing it to the stall where my rental car waited. I knew I would be covering some distance, so I opted for a compact model for efficient fuel economy. Comfort was a feature that I would just have to sacrifice, but to what degree? This would be a continuing theme throughout my route, as I followed the march of federal troops into enemy territory, but the ghosts of southern sons would soon have their vengeance.

Downtown Gallatin, TN

It didn't take long before I was northbound on the 65 Freeway, en route to Gallatin, Tennessee, the Sumner County seat, named for the U. S. Secretary of State, Albert Gallatin, established in 1802, population: 30,678. As I drew closer, the weather grew more and more inclement, and my windshield wipers were gradually becoming ineffectual. Still, I drove onward with my trusty GPS app guiding the way. I had previously spoken on the phone to a very gregarious elderly woman who I assumed was the curator at the Sumner County Museum, and was assured that despite the national holiday, the facility would be open for business on the Fourth of July. As I often did while I drove en route to landmarks and historic sites, I reviewed my mental notes, remembering that my octogenarian contact at the museum had knowledge of a Civil War fort that once stood at the intersection of Blythe and West Eastland Avenue. I viewed an image online of a historic map of Gallatin while we spoke, and confirmed the location of "Fort Thomas" exactly where she stated that it once stood. She didn't seem to posess any further intel regarding this site in particular, but she wasn't shy about voicing opinions on other unrelated matters that resulted from the defeat of the South during the War of the Rebellion. In her case, it seemed, the resentment was still fresh. I was truly looking forward to spending some time in conversation with this lady, for she seemed very sharp, inquisitive, and most likely had a better handle on the local history than most. 

The rain continued to pour as I parked the car on Main Street beneath a cluster of beautifully preserved historic brick facades that flanked the Sumner County Courthouse, where, according to a nearby historic marker, the first African-American volunteers took their oath to join the Union cause as "The Thirteenth United States Coloured Infantry". As I read the plaque, I was impressed by the enormous gravity of this event, considering the time and place where, and when it occurred. I couldn't imagine what it would take to make such a bold stand. Though the weather had not improved, I spent some time walking around the square that surrounded the courthouse, imagining what the general climate was like for the local townfolk of an "occupied" city, which Gallatin most certainly was, from 1862-1870. I found my way back to the car, and continued driving along Main Street until I slid into the gravel driveway of the Museum which was clearly marked, and positioned at the rear of a preserved historic residence called Trousdale Place. This impressive Flemish-style brick structure was the former home of Willliam Trousdale (1790-1872), governor of Tennessee (1849-1851) and U.S. minister to Brazil (1853-1857). He was considered the "Elder Statesman" of Gallatin during the occupation, and opened his grand home for various uses for the occupying Union forces, despite his staunch Confederate loyalty. 

The rain had increased in its intensity and volume, so I donned my wide-brimmed hiker hat, and abandoned my vehicle. As I approached the front door to the museum, it dawned on me that mine was the only vehicle in the parking lot. The sign hanging in the window of the museum's front door confirmed my surmounting fear. "CLOSED FOR THE HOLIDAY". I was inclined to call down curses on the old woman who balked on her invitation, but I recoiled, took a deep breath, and directed my concentration to locating the Fort Thomas site, where Uncle Henry had spent six long months in camp, carved his wooden bible, and wrote one of his first letters home. It wasn't far to the intersection where

Early map of Gallatin, showing the location of Fort Thomas, near the railroad depot,
 in the typical stockade star shape

Water Street doglegged, transformed into West Eastland Street and crossed Town Creek, and the railroad tracks. Referring to my bookmarked historic map, I was parking at the very spot where the train depot once stood. Fort Thomas had been built in 1862 on a high point nearby, to afford a broad view of the city and its citizens, and to serve as a visual deterrant discouraging Confederate troublemakers from disrupting the railroad operations. I hiked up the hill to the intersection of West Eastland and Blythe. A small convenience store now occupied a corner, along with a church, and some odd unmarked, windowless buildings behind barbed wire fencing that I perceived to be a government installation of some sort. There was no marker or sign that identified the spot where the fort once stood. I was satisfied, however that I had located the spot where Henry had spent his first months in the war. I returned to my vehicle, and drove in concentric circles around the location, just to make certain I wasn't missing any details. 

Gallatin's Train Depot building, near the location of Fort Thomas

By this time, I was ready for some lunch, so I kept an eye out for a place to grab a bite. I drove down West Eastland Street, back across Town Creek, and up Water Street again when I spotted a couple of local gentleman in faded baseball caps, conversing on a bench in front of some sort of luncheonette. One was a cross between Santa Claus and a member of ZZ Topp. His beard was yellowed, and stained around the mouth, most likely from tobacco, bourbon, or both. As I drove by at a snail's pace, I watched the twosome rock back and forth on the wooden bench beneath a rusting red metal awning, both of them roaring with laughter, despite the torrent pounding the street before them which was beginning to flood. The scene was rich with "patina" and though the establishment seemed a bit suspect, I nudged my rental car into an empty spot in the alley behind the building excited and simultaneously skittish. I locked the car, and rushed to round the corner leading to the cafe, with the intention of striking up a conversation with the two gents, but I was denied the privilege, as an old Chevy pickup sped off with the pair seated in the cab, sheltered from the rain. I stood in front of the diner, and gulped hard as I mustered the courage to step inside. I sidled up to the counter, where a matronly, apron-clad young lady worked the grill and register with a prowess. She owned the Water Street Lunch Rush! That rush consisted of myself, and a 60-something local man, who had his nose buried in the paper, in spite of the national news that blared out of the tinny speaker of the small television hoisted above the smoking grill, sizzling and popping with grease, oozing with rust, and bits of charcoal. Still my appetite dominated my common sense, and I proceeded to order a hamburger and a diet coke. Out of respect for the establishment, and the help, I will not pronounce on the sad state of my meal upon its arrival. Suffice it to say that I managed to choke down every last crumb, and got right down to business. "So…(cough)...are either of you familiar with the history of this part of Gallatin?" I could tell by the blank stares from both the hostess and patron that I would need to be more specific. "As it pertains to the Civil War." Still nothing. I continued, "There was a fort over by the train depot, up on the ridge where the church is...did you know?" Finally the gentleman spoke up. "I don't know much about the history here." The waitress snapped her towel over her shoulder, and returned to her grill. "Hey thanks. Y'all have a great day" I said, as I pushed through the squeaky screen door, and out into the deluge that now flooded the storm drains flanking the aptly-named “Water Street”. My attempt to drum up some local scuttlebutt was a dismal fail, and I needed a drink. I sprinted to my car, but managed to soak myself through to the skin, anyway. The windshield steamed up with the humidity and moisture that I introduced to the interior. I crept out of the parking lot with the defroster blowing at full blast, and made my way up Water Street at a careful crawl, at least until the fog cleared, and I could see clearly. 

The bar at Gallatin's Whiporwill.

I found The Whiporwill Bar that once was the town pharmacy near the courthouse. The original bold signage from the 1950's was still intact inside the establishment which stated: "PRESCRIPTIONS" above the bar. It was stacked floor-to-ceiling with an impressive selection of hard liquor. I prescribed myself a cold local microbrew, as I plotted out the next leg of my trip, which would be LaVergne, Tennessee.

Highway 24 would carry me through Nashville once again, and another 30 minutes or so would pass until I reached LaVergne. LaVergne was a significant spot, since it was mentioned in the Civil War Widow's Pension demands of Emma Bowlus-Gain-Banks as the location where Henry had first contracted his lethal intestinal disorder. Also, though it was short-lived, the "Battle of LaVergne" that occurred on October 6th, 1862 was featured in many major newspapers at the time, including The New York Times. As I drove South, I spotted a few directional signs to "Lebanon" which would potentially take me about 1.5 hours off course. Since I was on a schedule to get to my campground before sundown, I had to bypass the exits, while I surmised that the town's unique name just had to have a story behind it, so I made a mental note to research its origin. As suspected, it turns out that the founders of Lebanon bestowed upon it this title because of the area's abundance of cedar trees, referring to the "Cedars of Lebanon" mentioned numerous times in the Old Testament. When I learned of this detail, the first thought I had was of the reddish hue in the wood Henry chose to craft his palm-sized bible. I had seen my share of cedar when I lived in Washington State, especially while working three summers as a roofer, sometimes hauling cedar shakes by the bundle up ladders to dizzying heights. Henry's bible appeared to be softer like cedar tends to be, and received the knife easily, as evidenced in Henry's etchings. It mattered little whether or not the wood block was from the nearby Lebanon cedar forest or not, but the ironic biblical parallel offered something for me to scratch my head over.