western portion of the grounds … On discovering this second error I caused the officers to
be buried around the garden. 19
Meigs blamed Gen. Rene E. DeRussy, who had his headquarters at Arlington, for subverting his plans. To make sure this did
not happen again, Meigs moved to evict DeRussy and his staff from the mansion, replacing them with two full-time chaplains
who would oversee day-to-day operations at Arlington. 20 The appointment of chaplains also served another purpose—to quell public criticism of the military’s slapdash approach to
burials. “The Quartermaster’s Department is, I think, unjustly blamed for interring the soldiers without appropriate ceremonies,”
Meigs wrote Edwin Stanton on June 16, 1864. “It has not the appointment or employment of chaplains,” Meigs protested. “Its
officers are occupied with their appropriate duties, and cannot be present at the cemetery constantly. The interments are
going on all day.” 21
Meigs then suggested a solution. If chaplains set up residence at Arlington, they could “take charge of the whole conduct
of the interments, and perform appropriate religious services over all persons interred therein.” 22 Stanton quickly approved the plan. 23 DeRussy was out and Meigs’s chaplains were in, along with Capt. James M. Moore, a loyal lieutenant from the quartermaster’s
corps. Moore and his family moved into the mansion to keep an eye on the cemetery. These administrative shifts proved to be
critical in the evolution of Arlington, which would gradually become less important as a strategic military site and more
so as a national symbol of the martial virtues—duty, honor, and sacrifice.
Once Meigs had his new bureaucratic arrangements in place, Mrs. Lee’s garden began to fill with graves. Union captains and
lieutenants joined the handful of officers already sleeping on the hilltop, one felled by a shot to the chest, another by
a thigh wound, an arm wound, a face wound, a shoulder wound, a knee wound. Others died of diphtheria, typhoid, or dysentery;
others from the shock or infection from amputation. One died from drinking bad whiskey. 24
The most curious garden burial was marked by a short, square stone with no identifying name, merely the number 5232. Beneath
it three amputated legs had been interred, all from Union soldiers treated at Judiciary Square Hospital in May 1864. One of
the legs belonged to James G. Carey, a private in the 106th Pennsylvania Infantry, who not only survived his operation but
lived until 1913; the fate of the second solider, Arthur McQuinn, 14th U.S. Infantry, is unknown; the third, Sgt. Michael
Creighton, a native of Ireland in the 9th Massachusetts Infantry, survived his amputation for two weeks but died on June 9,
1864. He was interred in the Lower Cemetery the next day, separated from his left leg by more than half a mile, which makes
him the only person at Arlington with two graves. 25
In a capital where surgeons performed amputations throughout the Civil War, it is unknown why the legs of Creighton, McQuinn,
and Carey were chosen for this peculiar but honorable burial. Unlike most others in Mrs. Lee’s garden, none of these three
was a commissioned officer, which places them in a distinct minority. 26 Most amputations were buried in unmarked mass graves or burned. Why was this trio singled out? Perhaps their symbolism mattered
more than their individual identities, another rebuke for the Confederate general who had caused so much Union suffering.
The gesture could not have been an afterthought—someone had to label the remains, transport them from the hospital across
the river, record the particulars in a ledger, ready a marker for the grave, and bury the legs in the garden. Like much else
that transpired at Arlington in those days, there is no official explanation for it, just a worn white stone rooted in the
grass, one of three thousand graves appearing in Arlington’s inaugural year as a
be buried around the garden. 19
Meigs blamed Gen. Rene E. DeRussy, who had his headquarters at Arlington, for subverting his plans. To make sure this did
not happen again, Meigs moved to evict DeRussy and his staff from the mansion, replacing them with two full-time chaplains
who would oversee day-to-day operations at Arlington. 20 The appointment of chaplains also served another purpose—to quell public criticism of the military’s slapdash approach to
burials. “The Quartermaster’s Department is, I think, unjustly blamed for interring the soldiers without appropriate ceremonies,”
Meigs wrote Edwin Stanton on June 16, 1864. “It has not the appointment or employment of chaplains,” Meigs protested. “Its
officers are occupied with their appropriate duties, and cannot be present at the cemetery constantly. The interments are
going on all day.” 21
Meigs then suggested a solution. If chaplains set up residence at Arlington, they could “take charge of the whole conduct
of the interments, and perform appropriate religious services over all persons interred therein.” 22 Stanton quickly approved the plan. 23 DeRussy was out and Meigs’s chaplains were in, along with Capt. James M. Moore, a loyal lieutenant from the quartermaster’s
corps. Moore and his family moved into the mansion to keep an eye on the cemetery. These administrative shifts proved to be
critical in the evolution of Arlington, which would gradually become less important as a strategic military site and more
so as a national symbol of the martial virtues—duty, honor, and sacrifice.
Once Meigs had his new bureaucratic arrangements in place, Mrs. Lee’s garden began to fill with graves. Union captains and
lieutenants joined the handful of officers already sleeping on the hilltop, one felled by a shot to the chest, another by
a thigh wound, an arm wound, a face wound, a shoulder wound, a knee wound. Others died of diphtheria, typhoid, or dysentery;
others from the shock or infection from amputation. One died from drinking bad whiskey. 24
The most curious garden burial was marked by a short, square stone with no identifying name, merely the number 5232. Beneath
it three amputated legs had been interred, all from Union soldiers treated at Judiciary Square Hospital in May 1864. One of
the legs belonged to James G. Carey, a private in the 106th Pennsylvania Infantry, who not only survived his operation but
lived until 1913; the fate of the second solider, Arthur McQuinn, 14th U.S. Infantry, is unknown; the third, Sgt. Michael
Creighton, a native of Ireland in the 9th Massachusetts Infantry, survived his amputation for two weeks but died on June 9,
1864. He was interred in the Lower Cemetery the next day, separated from his left leg by more than half a mile, which makes
him the only person at Arlington with two graves. 25
In a capital where surgeons performed amputations throughout the Civil War, it is unknown why the legs of Creighton, McQuinn,
and Carey were chosen for this peculiar but honorable burial. Unlike most others in Mrs. Lee’s garden, none of these three
was a commissioned officer, which places them in a distinct minority. 26 Most amputations were buried in unmarked mass graves or burned. Why was this trio singled out? Perhaps their symbolism mattered
more than their individual identities, another rebuke for the Confederate general who had caused so much Union suffering.
The gesture could not have been an afterthought—someone had to label the remains, transport them from the hospital across
the river, record the particulars in a ledger, ready a marker for the grave, and bury the legs in the garden. Like much else
that transpired at Arlington in those days, there is no official explanation for it, just a worn white stone rooted in the
grass, one of three thousand graves appearing in Arlington’s inaugural year as a
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