Samuel Montgomery Burchfield: A Civil War
Story of Service, Survival, and Family Legacy
Download the Original Pension File (87 Pages of History)

Samuel Montgomery Burchfield

A McGill Branch for Memorial Day – The Story of Samuel Montgomery Burchfield
written by Christine Applegate

Recently, cousin Kerri reached out to her connection at the National Archives to request some Civil War records—and what came back was something far more than paperwork. Samuel Montgomery Burchfield’s pension file spanned 87 pages, filled with old-timey cursive—the kind that looks like a chicken ran across the page—alongside hand-drawn doctor’s notes, injury reports, and a marriage certificate that would later become unexpectedly important.

Samuel was born on August 12, 1834, in Woodcock Township, Crawford County, Pennsylvania. He was the son of John H. Burchfield, originally of Maryland, and Nancy McGill, whose father, Patrick McGill, was among the early Irish settlers of that rugged corner of the state. Samuel was one of ten children in a family shaped by pioneer grit. Older siblings Sarah Ann, James, Charles, William, Robert Reid, and Augustus came before him, and younger siblings Esther, Caroline, and John Jr. followed. A cousin once remarked that Nancy’s children were “fine-looking people,” and no one who saw the Burchfields file into church on Sunday would disagree.

A Soldier’s War

As the 1860s dawned, war cracked across the country like thunder. One by one, the Burchfield boys took up arms. William served in the 98th Pennsylvania Veteran Volunteers. Robert enlisted in the 63rd Pennsylvania in 1863. Caroline’s husband, Henry Minnely, joined the 56th under Colonel Samuel B. Dick. Cousin Augustus McGill served in Company F of the 83rd Pennsylvania Infantry. Even cousin William Johnston McGill, who married Charlotte Ross, served with the 9th Pennsylvania Reserves.

Samuel, age 30, enlisted in the 145th Pennsylvania Volunteers on August 26, 1862. He was no green youth—he entered the war as a grown man with responsibilities—but he carried the same fire as the younger boys.

On the march toward Gettysburg in the summer of 1863, he suffered sunstroke, an early sign of the physical toll the war would take. The following year, at Cold Harbor in June 1864—one of the bloodiest and most hopeless battles of the war—Samuel refused to surrender. “D—d if I surrender on such easy terms,” he is said to have shouted, rallying a group of men and leading them out under fire. During the escape, he was struck in the head, the bullet tearing into the upper right side of his scalp and leaving lasting damage to his skull.

Just months later, in August 1864, he was captured during the Battle of Reams Station. He was sent first to Richmond, then to the prison camp in Salisbury, North Carolina. It was there that his health began to fail. Official records listed his condition as “rheumatism,” but the symptoms described—shortness of breath, irregular heartbeat, swollen joints, and chronic pain—strongly suggest a more serious illness, likely related to rheumatic fever, a condition common in Civil War prison camps and often resulting in long-term damage to the heart and joints.

Samuel was listed as missing in action for several months before being recovered in February 1865 and sent directly to a hospital in Annapolis. His brother Robert was not so fortunate. Robert died in a Confederate prison in Florence, South Carolina, just weeks before the war’s end, leaving behind a wife, Emeline, and three children—and a loss the family would carry forward.

Samuel was discharged from the army on May 31, 1865.

After the War: Building a Life

Less than a year later, on March 10, 1866, Samuel married Matilda Hart in a ceremony officiated by Reverend F. F. Bradford. Together, they built a life in Waterford, Pennsylvania, raising a large family. Their children included Samuel C. (born 1866), Nella (1867), Hal (1869), Ferrin (1873, named after Matilda’s father), Lizzie (who died young in 1880), Georgia, and Frances Letia (born 1881).

In 1889, like many veterans, Samuel applied for a pension. That process brought its own challenges. The Army had enlisted him as “Samuel Burchfield,” while he consistently signed his name S. M. Burchfield. Resolving the discrepancy required affidavits, testimonies, and persistence. One letter in his own hand survives, offering a rare glimpse of the man behind the records.

A Widow’s Fight

In January 1895, at age 60, Samuel was struck with a violent stomach illness. Though it seemed to pass, his strength was gone. Just two days later, while attempting to sit upright in bed, his heart failed. He died on January 27, 1895, and was laid to rest in Edinboro Cemetery.

Those who knew him remembered a man who was brave, proud, stubborn, and deeply loyal—to both his country and his family.

Matilda, now widowed and with limited means, turned to the pension bureau for support. But even in grief, she faced scrutiny. Officials questioned her marriage, called in handwriting analysis, and asked—just weeks after Samuel’s death—whether she had remarried. She stood firm, producing witness statements, letters, and the only existing copy of their marriage certificate. The government kept it. She never saw it again.

In a particularly telling moment, officials pressed her about whether she was receiving compensation related to her grandson, James Montgomery Austin, who had served in the 16th Pennsylvania National Guard and later in Company G of the 112th Infantry. He died of wounds sustained in France during World War I and was buried there, far from home. Even this sacrifice was examined not as honor, but as a possible reason to deny her claim.

Matilda endured. She lived another 40 years, passing away at age 93 on October 11, 1935. Her life was one of quiet resilience—raising children and grandchildren, sewing, remembering, and holding fast to the story of a man and a war that shaped everything that followed.

Legacy

And now, through a fragile collection of preserved papers—and the persistence of one determined descendant, Kerri—that story lives again.

Samuel Montgomery Burchfield’s life reminds us that behind every census entry and every weathered headstone is a human story—someone who marched, bled, loved, and endured. The records may fade, the ink may blur, but the lives they represent still speak, if we are willing to listen.