Big Personality. Big Mouth. Big Drama. That was William Hogan Higgins

The Fourth Episode of Company D delves into the complicated character of The Old Warhorse of Phippsburg, Maine.

The fourth episode of Company D, “The Old Warhorse,” launches today.

Available now on Spotify, Apple Podcasts, Amazon Music, and more.

Transcript Episode 04

March 1862.

A bone-chilling rain pattered through the bare branches of a cedar grove just outside Alexandria, Virginia. The heavy, leaden sky hung low, and the mist smelled like wet soil and rotting vegetation.

A group of soldiers gathered around a fresh grave. Among them, Sergeant William H. Higgins of Company D. He gripped his cap in his thick-knuckled fist, the rainwater dripping from the ends of his graying chevon mustache.

The weight of the moment settled into Higgins’s bones. He clutched his cap tighter. He ached for home—for his wife, Mary Ann, for the smell of fresh bread in their kitchen, for the salty breezes on Popham Beach on a summer day. He was tired. Tired of sleeping in a canvas tent hardly suitable for a dog, tired of the bad coffee, and tired of writing letters home with news that kept getting worse.

Private John Bowker had a habit of fooling around. Even when he was doing his chores—which included exercising Lieutenant Colonel Edwin Burt’s prized mare—he wasn’t the brightest kid—even back home in Phippsburg, Maine.

But the men loved him.

Bowker thought it would be funny to spook the men in camp, kick the mare into a gallop, and send the boys scattering. But something went wrong.

The mare reared. Bowker lost control. He didn’t even have time to scream. The horse bucked—hard. Bowker flew, arms flailing.

Then—crack!

His skull smashed into a tree trunk. Higgins had shared the story with his wife, Mary Ann, in a letter home:

“The next morning, I went down to see him,” he told her. “He didn’t know me. Or anything else.

“He didn’t know anything at all. He never regained his sense after he struck the tree.”

“He didn’t seem to suffer much pain.”

“He died that evening.”

Higgins had been friends with Bowker’s father. He had rushed to Bowker’s side with several other soldiers and carried his limp body to the regimental hospital. The surgeons did what they could, and Bowker was transported to a general hospital at nearby Fort Monroe.

Bowker’s death cast a shadow over Companies A and D of the Third Maine Infantry Regiment.

Higgins forced himself to write a letter to Bowker’s father. It had been the hardest thing he had done since joining the Third Maine.

He tried to raise Mary Ann’s spirits—but his words were probably meant for himself: “Cheer up, dearest. The darkest hour is just before day.”

But war has a way of proving men wrong.

—–

Hello again, and welcome to Episode 4 of Company D, the history podcast about the forgotten stories of the American Civil War. History tends to remember the generals, the grand battles, and the politicians.

But what about the regular people? The farmers, the carpenters, and the shopkeepers—the ordinary men and women who experienced the war firsthand?

That’s what Company D is about. The individual stories of the soldiers from one regiment—The Third Maine Volunteer Infantry Regiment—and one company inside that regiment—Company D.

We have collected stories of courage and cowardice, sickness and survival, betrayal and loyalty, with plenty of mystery and intrigue.

For me, the story is personal. My great-great-grandfather, Charles F. Snell, joined Company D while visiting his brother in Bath, Maine. At just eighteen years old, his diary is a firsthand account of the experiences of Company D. That diary served as a starting point for this podcast.

I’m your host, George F. Snell III.

Today, we dive into the story of William Hogan Higgins—an unlikely hero. You might remember Higgins from our second episode—the sergeant who went out of his way to sabotage his own nephew’s military career. Uncle William—the loud, brash carpenter from Phippsburg, Maine.

After his fight with his nephew, Higgins’s life takes a strange turn. He ends up at one of the most notorious federal prisons in the Civil War—Fort Mifflin. A cold, ancient brick structure in Philadelphia.

Fort Mifflin was the place where the Union Army imprisoned its own soldiers—criminals. deserters, looters, robbers…

And even murderers.

CHAPTER ONE: HOW A BRIDGE EXPLAINS WILLIAM HIGGINS

The townspeople of Phippsburg, Maine, gathered inside the white, clapboard Town Hall for a special town meeting. There’s one agenda item—a proposed bridge across Morse River. Before the debate could even begin, one man stood up and tried to shut it down.

Seventy-nine-year-old William Hogan Higgins—known as “The Old War Horse of Phippsburg Center.” His voice—booming and theatrical—filled the hall.

“I move to kill this proposal!”

The motion failed, and the debate began. Higgins stayed silent. Arms crossed. Brow furrowed. One by one, prominent citizens spoke in favor of the bridge, Popham Beach was a growing tourist destination. The bridge would bring opportunity by connecting it to the rest of town.

The tide was turning. Higgins knew it.

Then—just as the discussion wrapped up—Higgins was on his feet again. He made a second motion—

This time, he fully supported the bridge. A complete reversal in a matter of hours. The newspaper article on the special meeting referred to Higgins as “Captain Higgins.” There was one problem. He never held that rank. Twenty years after the war, Higgins had promoted himself.

That was William Hogan Higgins. A man built for drama. Loud, opinionated, and full of audacity.

CHAPTER TWO: ALL IN THE FAMILY

William Hogan Higgins was born in Georgetown, Maine, on May 13, 1817. He was the ninth of twelve children born to farmers Simeon Higgins and Margaret Hogan. His father was a veteran of the War of 1812, and his grandfather, Reuben Higgins, fought in the American Revolution.

It was a household full of noise, work, and survival. His parents had their hands full, running a farm and raising twelve children. William’s mother died when he was just 14 years old. His older sisters likely stepped in to raise him.

His sister, Sarah, married Thomas Hall. And six months after Margaret’s death, she gave birth to Woodbury Hall—Higgins’s nephew. A baby Higgins likely cradled in his arms. A man he would grow to despise.

William Hogan Higgins was born in Georgetown, Maine, on May 13, 1817. He was the ninth of twelve children born to farmers Simeon Higgins and Margaret Hogan. His father was a veteran of the War of 1812, and his grandfather, Reuben Higgins, fought in the American Revolution.

It was a household full of noise, work, and survival. His parents had their hands full, running a farm and raising twelve children. William’s mother died when he was just 14 years old. His older sisters likely stepped in to raise him. His sister, Sarah, married Thomas Hall. And six months after Margaret’s death, she gave birth to Woodbury Hall—Higgins’s nephew.

A baby Higgins likely cradled in his arms. A man he would grow to despise.

Georgetown was surrounded by shipbuilding and industry. It was located downstream from Bath on the other side of the Kennebec River. Eventually, Higgins went across the river to Phippsburg, the town directly south of Bath.

Higgins married Mary Ann Campbell at 24. She was 19, the daughter of a devout Baptist family in Georgetown. Mary Ann was the second of six children born to farmers Ejiah Campbell and Phebe Emerson.

Higgins and Mary Ann may have tried their hand at farming. But soon, William found his true trade and became a master ship’s joiner. They had three children—Helen, Frances, and a son, Franklin.

Higgins wasn’t the only one in his family to enlist.

His nephew, Woodbury Hall, joined him in Company D, along with Woodbury’s brother-in-law, Stephen A. Dodge. Another nephew, Henry Tarbox, served in Company I. Higgins was 44 years old when he enlisted—one year under the age maximum. So he lied about his age—shaving off six years and claiming to be 38 years old. Higgins was named Second Sergeant of Company D, and Woodbury to Fourth Sergeant.

Higgins’s younger brother, Simeon, signed up at the age of 41—too old for a long-term enlistment, so he joined the Twenty-Fifth Maine for a nine-month stint.

His wife’s brother, Elijah Campbell, enlisted in the Nineteenth Maine. He worked his way up to sergeant but was discharged in 1863, overcome by illness.

And there were others. Six more nephews fought in the war. Most made it home. But not all. Albert and William Webber. George and Charles Higgins. Benjamin Higgins. They all returned. But Valentine S. Cummer didn’t. A private with the Eleventh Maine, he was shot to death near Bermuda Hundred, Virginia, on June 2, 1864. He was 21 years old.

Two photographs of Higgins survive from the war. In both, he looks tired. His pale blue eyes—heavy-lidded. His hair was graying and thinning. His face was thick with a chevron mustache and a messy Van Dyke goatee. At five foot eight, broad-chested, and weathered by the war, he looks like a man with too much on his shoulders.

He could be actor Ed Harris—if Harris gained about thirty pounds. In a letter to his brother, Higgins describes himself: “I look rather rough. I am tanned almost to blackness with a long mustache and beard dressed in a blue suit of clothes and cap armed with a Belgian Rifle, a sword, and Colt Revolver, and altogether I look warlike.”

That revolver was an interesting detail. Because William had to throw a tantrum to get it—and threaten a governor.

CHAPTER THREE: STUPIDITY COMBINED WITH ARROGANCE WILL GET YOU GUN

William Hogan Higgins wanted a revolver. Not a rifle. Not a bayonet. A pistol—like the officers had. But the infantry rules were clear: sidearms were for officers and First Sergeants. Higgins was a Second Sergeant. He wasn’t eligible for a pistol.

He fumed. He demanded a pistol from his superiors—and they refused. But he wouldn’t take no for an answer. So, he took his complaint to the highest office in Maine. Governor Israel Washburn was buried in politics and logistics—raising regiments, equipping soldiers, and keeping Maine’s war effort moving.

Yet, Higgins expected him to drop everything… and buy him a pistol.

Higgins opens with confidence: “I take the liberty to write you a few lines at this time; being a stranger to you, it may appear to you that I take too much liberty, but I think not.” Higgins underlined those last three words for emphasis.

Then he gets to the point: “I am an American. I am trying all that is in my power to fight for my country and her flag in this unhappy struggle, but I am not sufficiently armed. I have asked many times for a pistol, but I can’t have any.”

Then he demands action: “Now I ask you, as you are the Governor of my State, to send me a Navy Revolver from the Arsenal or as a present from yourself.” And finally—the line that makes this letter so remarkable: “I will wait patiently for your answer for one week, and if I ever return to Maine, I will call and see you—whether you send me one or not.”

Once again, Higgins underlined those final three words. Was he threatening the Governor of Maine? Somehow, despite this letter…William Hogan Higgins was promoted to First Sergeant of Company D on September 21, 1861.

First Sergeants got pistols. Higgins had his sidearm. But he would come to regret that letter.

CHAPTER FOUR: THE GREAT AND AWFUL BATTLE FOR LIEUTENANT

Winter, 1862. The Third Maine was dug into winter quarters in Arlington, Virginia. Company D needed two new lieutenants to work with the newly appointed Captain William H. Watson. His picks were Alfred S. Merrill and Woodbury Hall.

Despite being the highest-ranking sergeant in the company, Higgins wasn’t on the list. It’s clear that Watson wanted nothing to do with his fiery First Sergeant. He made that clear to his superiors.

But Higgins had other ideas. He saw himself as already leading the company. In a letter to his brother, he scoffed at the idea of Woodbury Hall outranking him. Of the possibility of his younger nephew giving him—William Hogan Higgins—orders.

He wrote that he did “more than any captain or lieutenant in the regiment.” He even claimed that the colonel had called the best sergeant in the Third Maine. How could he not be the best choice for First Lieutenant? As was his nature, Higgins didn’t plan to go down without a fight.

Then—Watson was ordered to hold an election. The enlisted men of Company D cast their votes. The results showed overwhelming support for… William Higgins. It wasn’t even close. Higgins won in a landslide. Watson tallied the votes, but when he sent them to his superiors, he downplayed the results. He urged them to appoint his original choices as the best men for the job.

Watson wanted Merrill and Woodbury. The enlisted men wanted Higgins. Watson got his way. Higgins was furious. The men of Company D rallied behind him. Private John Lakin sent a letter to Governor Washburn—claiming to speak for 44 enlisted men. He wrote:

“Sergeant Higgins is a firm man that always has his head clear. We know he is the man that will not leave us in the hour of danger.” The letter was urgent. Demanding. Words were underlined for emphasis. It sure sounded a lot like Higgins.

The letter made it to Governor Washburn’s desk. He ignore it—just like he ignored Higgins’s previous letter about wanting a revolver. You know—the disrespectful and rude letter with the menacing tone.

Merrill was promoted to First Lieutenant. Woodbury was made Second Lieutenant. And Washburn? He had the last laugh. Because payback, as Higgins learned…is a bitch.

CHAPTER FIVE: A VICTORY… OF SORTS

On June 4, 1862, Higgins received news from home. His father was dead. Simeon Higgins, the old veteran of the War of 1812, passed away at the age of 85

Back in Georgetown, his sister, Mercy, had been his father’s caretaker. A widow at 43, working as a seamstress and looking after their elderly father. She had done everything for their father. Higgins wrote to his brother, promising he would never forget Mercy’s sacrifice. As his father’s death weighed heavily on him, Higgins did something he likely swore he would never do again.

He wrote to Governor Israel Washburn again. But this time, he struck a different tone. His letter, dated July 12, 1862, a month after his father passed, opened with something rare from him: restraint.

“I have served my country faithfully for more than a year. I have been in every battle the Third Maine has been in, and I have been disappointed several times in my company. Others have been promoted by me—no matter now what cause. Now, will you give me a Lieutenant’s commission in one of the regiments you are raising in Augusta?”

Higgins mentioned his unwell wife and his children, whom he missed terribly. He acknowledged the obvious. “I fear that you might be angry with me…this will be the last time I trouble you to grant me any favor.”

And this time, he promised to be forever grateful.

It seemed to work. On October 27, 1862, after Captain Watson’s resignation, Higgins was finally promoted to Second Lieutenant of Company D. The victory was bittersweet. Woodbury Hall was promoted to First Lieutenant and Merrill to Captain.

One small consolation? At least he got rid of that crank, Captain Watson. The quitter.

CHAPTER SIX: THE GODS OF THUNDER

The distant thunder of cannon fire rumbled across the hills. Smoke curled above the rooftops. The sharp scent of gunpowder mixed with the smell of churned-up earth.

December 11, 1862. Fredericksburg, Virginia.

Newly minted Second Lieutenant William Hogan Higgins and the Third Maine marched into the small city nestled along the banks of the Rappahannock River. They spent the next two days in a state of confusion. Orders came—move forward. Halt. Set up camp. Move again.

The tension grew. Nerves jangled. Soon, they knew—the battle was coming.

Then, on the morning of December 13, the order came. Shouldering their rifles, they moved to the river. At 10 a.m., after delays, they crossed the Rappahannock on floating pontoon bridges. The dark river water gurgled. The air, an unseasonably warm 56 degrees.

They were ordered to Marye’s Heights—a steep hillside crawling with Confederate troops, dug in behind a stone wall. Artillery lined the ridges above. Yet, despite this enormous disadvantage, the Third Maine was ordered to shed their knapsacks, form a battle line, and get ready to charge.

Colonel Moses Lakeman remembered the Confederate shells “flying thick and fast over us.” The Third Maine took position to support the Second Maine Artillery Regiment. Their objective was to protect the artillery regiment and the cannons. They settled into position for six hours. Long, brutal hours.

Artillery shrieked overhead. Musket balls cut through the ranks. Thick smoke—nearly blinding sightlines. Confederate sharpshooters shot any man foolish enough to leave his cover.

Late afternoon, disaster struck. One of the Second Maine’s cannons became disabled. The regiment’s horses had all been killed; there was no way to pull it back. Then, movement on the ridge. The Confederates charged, aiming to seize the gun. The Third Maine met them head-on. Musket fire at close range. The clang of bayonets. The Rebels fell back.

Under covering fire from the Third, the Second Maine hauled the cannon back to safety. By day’s end on December 13—it was clear. Fredericksburg was a terrible defeat.

Union forces suffered catastrophic losses. The Union attempted fourteen separate assaults on Marye’s Heights and Prospect Hill.

Fourteen attacks. Fourteen failures.

Not one charge had gotten within a hundred feet of the Confederate line. The Union lost more than 6,500 soldiers in those futile attempts. The Third Maine’s toll: three dead, 25 wounded, and four missing.

It was Higgins’s last fight with the Third Maine. During the last desperate clash on December 13, a bullet tore through Higgins’s leg—shattering bone. He collapsed on the battlefield—unable to stand. His men dragged him out of harm’s way. He was taken to the regimental hospital and then transferred to a general hospital in Washington, D.C.

The Old War Horse of Phippsburg Center would never return to Company D. Or the Third Maine.

CHAPTER SEVEN: DOUBLE SECRET PROBATION

November 1863.

William Hogan Higgins was still in Washington, D.C., hospital when he got the news. He had been promoted to First Lieutenant. Although he would be moved to Company C, he was finally on equal footing with his nephew, Woodbury Hall.

Despite the pain from his wound—he must have felt great satisfaction. But there was a catch. Higgins never made it back to his new company. Months passed. Recovery was slow. When he could finally walk again—he received new orders. He was being reassigned. Special duty in Philadelphia.  Fort Mifflin.

Fort Mifflin was old, older than the nation itself. Built during the Revolution, it sat on the banks of the Delaware River—crumbling, damp, and isolated. A maze of red-brick buildings, mustard-yellow barracks, and thick earthen walls, surrounded by a rank moat. A place so bleak it earned the nickname: Mud Island Fort. It felt pulled from an Edgar Allan Poe story.

But Fort Mifflin wasn’t just a relic of the past. It was now a prison.

Higgins left behind the battlefield. No more marches. No more canvas tents. He sat at a desk. His world was now paperwork. In the early winter of 1863, he became the adjutant of Fort Mifflin. He served under Captain J. Orr Finnie and later Lieutenant Colonel D.P. Whiting.

He assigned the cells to the Confederate soldiers captured at Gettysburg. He filled out the paperwork on the Union men convicted of desertion, mutiny, and murder. Among the prisoners was one name that would come to haunt Fort Mifflin. Private William H. Howe. A farmer. A cigarmaker. A deserter.

Howe fell sick with dysentery after Fredericksburg. Rather than stay in the regimental hospital, he went home to Pennsylvania to his wife and three children. Three federal officers followed, armed with an arrest warrant and pistols.

A gunfight erupted. One officer fell dead, killed by a bullet wound. Howe fled, but he didn’t get far. He was captured, tried, and convicted of desertion and murder. He was sentenced to death.

He was imprisoned at Casement #5 at Fort Mifflin and assigned by First Lieutenant William Higgins.

Howe’s story spread. Soldiers wrote letters on his behalf. Even President Lincoln received pleas for clemency. But he never answered them. August 26, 1864. A gallows was built in the courtyard of Fort Mifflin. At noon, hands cuffed behind him, 24-year-old William H. Howe climbed the steps. He was the only prisoner ever executed at the fort.

Higgins didn’t witness Howe’s execution. By then, he was gone. Fort Mifflin had taken its toll on Higgins. The dampness. The cold. Disease spread through the prison. Dysentery hit hard.

Higgins fell ill. He was sent to the U.S. General Hospital in Annapolis. There, he read about Howe’s execution like everyone else. Bedridden. Suffering abdominal cramps. Fever. Severe diarrhea. Higgins lost weight.

June 21, 1864. The War Department issued Special Order No. 215, releasing Higgins from duty. After three years of war, William Hogan Higgins was heading home.

CHAPTER EIGHT: OLD SCORES

He returned to Mary Ann. To his children. The War Horse was back in Phippsburg. But the town had changed and so had he. He was 46 years old. When he left, his daughter, Helen, was a teenager. Now, she was 23 and married. Six months after his homecoming, Helen had a baby boy, Willie Frank Jewell. Higgins was a grandfather.

Although he probably disliked Helen’s new husband, Turner Jewell, a carpenter who avoided service in the war. Turner was also a drinker, moody and mean. He eventually abandoned Helen and his son—fleeing to Chicago in 1869. One wonders if Higgins didn’t help run him out of town for the way he treated his daughter.

When Higgins didn’t like you, watch out. Ask Woodbury Hall or Oliver F. Brackley, who became Higgins’s new obsession when he got home. The war was winding down. The Confederacy was crumbling. Most veterans moved on. But Higgins couldn’t let go. It wasn’t in his nature.

So, when he got word about the whereabouts of Brackley, a deserter from Company D. He wasn’t about to let it go. Brackley was a 21-year-old caulker in Bath when he enlisted as a private. Raised in poverty in Avon, Maine, he moved to Bath to work in the shipyards. He married young and perhaps thought that joining the infantry would be an adventure.

But the war wasn’t what he expected. On October 28, 1862, a few weeks after the Battle of Chantilly, Brackley ran. He wasn’t alone. Private James A. Kirkpatrick bolted with him. Kirkpatrick—a six-foot-one carpenter from Canada—likely fled back to Nova Scotia. But Brackley was hiding in Boston. Here was another man who abandoned his wife and had a reputation for cruelty.

Higgins had spent more than a year managing a prison surrounded by deserters. Men who walked away. Men who shunned their duty. Men he thought deserved to be punished. So, when he learned about Brackley—he acted. On July 9, 1865, he wrote to military authorities in Boston.

“I wish you to tell me what is to be done with deserters if found now that the war is over. I don’t know exactly where Brackley, but I can have him found if you authorize my doing so.”

Then, he made it personal: “Brackley was a mean cuss, and I want to know if he is to go unpunished.”

And finally—the part that mattered most to Higgins: “I hate to have deserters fling it up that they done better by deserting than we did who served.” But Higgins would get no satisfaction. There was no official pardon for deserters. But there was no real effort to punish them, either. Oliver Brackley was never arrested or prosecuted. In fact, Brackley eventually returned to Bath to work as a shoemaker.

But he was smart enough to wait until the Old War Horse was dead.

CHAPTER NINE: SOUTHERN BELLE, YANKEE VETERAN

William Hogan Higgins’s son, Franklin, didn’t just follow in his father’s footsteps; he surpassed them. He started as a ship’s carpenter but soon climbed the ranks to ship’s master, the officer responsible for navigation. Eventually, he became captain, reaching the highest position possible at sea. With that title came wealth, social standing, and prestige—a far cry from his father’s hard-scrabble beginnings.

On one of his many voyages, Franklin met a young woman who would change the course of his life: Isabelle Strickland of Blackshear, Georgia. A Southern.

Isabelle came from Southern wealth. Her father, James Strickland, was a merchant and farmer and, before the war, a slave owner. In 1860, Strickland held three people in bondage—a 40-year-old Black woman and two children: a 12-year-old girl and a 10-year-old boy. Their names have been lost to history, and what became of them after the war remains unknown.

Despite their vastly different upbringings, Franklin and Isabelle fell in love. On May 8, 1879, they married at her family’s Baptist Church in Georgia. Franklin was 29, and Isabelle was 21. Strangely, Isabelle’s father and brothers didn’t fight for the Confederacy. But Blackshear, Georgia, was once the site of a temporary prison for captured Union soldiers. At one point in 1864, a stockade-style prison in the middle of a pine forest housed more than 5,000 inmates. A brutal detention camp—but it was used only for a month. There’s no record of any Third Maine soldiers being held there, but it’s possible.

After their wedding, Franklin brought Isabelle home to Maine. They settled in Phippsburg with his father, the grizzled, battle-hardened William Higgins. One can only imagine the tense conversations about the dinner table. Higgins, a Union veteran with a bullet scar from the war, now shared his home with a woman whose family supported the Confederacy. The war had left its mark on him—physically and emotionally.

Did he welcome Isabelle with open arms? Did he grit his teeth and tolerate her? Did he resent her family’s past? We don’t know. But we do know, he let her stay. In his home. Franklin and Isabelle had one daughter, Marion, born on February 12, 1880.

But then tragedy struck. At just 36 years old, Franklin died of tuberculosis after suffering for months with the disease. His father was devasted. The town mourned his son’s passing, and Higgins personally took charge of administering Franklin’s estate.

Isabelle stayed in Phippsburg for a few more years. Then, in 1890, she remarried—this time to an older ship captain. Eventually, she made a final journey home, returning to Georgia with her daughter. She lived the rest of her life in the Deep South, dying in 1936 at the age of 78—nearly half a century after her first husband, Franklin.

As Isabelle aged, one wonders how she remembered her Union soldier father-in-law. Was it with fondness? Or was it a memory she kept buried?

CHAPTER TEN: EVEN DEATH DOESN’T STOP HIM

William Hogan Higgins spent the remainder of his years in Phippsburg. He was deeply involved in civic affairs and local politics. When he officially registered as a veteran in 1890, he identified himself as First Lieutenant with Company D.

After 56 years of marriage, Higgins lost his beloved wife, Mary Ann, to a stroke on August 19, 1898. She was 75 years old. She was buried in the family graveyard known as Higgins-Blaisdell Cemetery in Phippsburg.

Her headstone carries a simple inscription: “MOTHER.” Higgins didn’t last long without her. He moved in with his now divorced daughter, Helen, but his health declined quickly. Heart disease finally claimed him on June 21, 1900. He was buried beside Mary Ann, and his headstone mirrored hers. At the top, it reads, “FATHER.”

But his marker also notes his service with the Third Maine—and his rank. Not First Lieutenant. But Captain. Higgins, of course, never achieved the rank of Captain. But finally—in death—he managed to surpass the rank of his old nemesis, his nephew, Woodbury Hall.

A final act of defiance. A parting shot from beyond the grave.

Maybe, just maybe, William Hogan Higgins, the Old War Horse of Phippsburg Center, got the last laugh after all.

—–

We hope you enjoyed this episode of Company D and invite you to join us for the next one. Please subscribe to Company D on your favorite streaming service—it sure would help us out. We also encourage you to send us a message or engage with us on social media. You can learn more about William Higgins—and even see what he looks like—on our website.

Thanks for listening. I’m your host, George F. Snell III. See you next time.

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