The Flagship

 

It's a curiously simple collage picture,
a watercolor painting of a naval warship
steaming through a blue-green sea
next to a vignette of a handsome bearded man
who wears a flashy regal uniform and is framed
in a laurel wreath above two billowing flags.

In the lower corner is the artist's signature:
Willy Stöwer 

I recognized the name as I have collected
many of this German illustrator's nautical artworks on postcards,
but this uncomplicated picture intrigued me for two reasons.
The postmark date is 1898, placing it
at the beginning of the postcard age
as one of Stöwer's earliest postcards.

And that man was not the portrait I expected
to find on a 1898 German postcard.

Who was he? 

 Finding the answer uncovered a history of a failed empire.

SMS Deutschland in 1898 at  
Source: Wikimedia

The ship was called S.M.S. Deutschland for Seiner Majestät Schiff (His Majesty's Ship) in the Kaiserliche Marine (Imperial Navy), the navy of the German Empire which existed between 1871 and 1919. In 1898 when the photo above was taken, the S.M.S. Deutschland was the flagship of the German navy's East Asia Squadron. Here it is anchored in the harbor of Port Arthur, now known as Dalian, in Liaoning province, People's Republic of China. The position of the ship and its surroundings are very like the illustration on this postcard, but the dates do not align, which I'll explain later. 

The S.M.S. Deutschland was the second and final ship of the Kaiser-class of ironclad warships built for Germany by the Samuda Brothers shipyard in London, England. These Kaiser-class ships were ordered just after the Franco-Prussian war of 1870-71 which was won by the North German Confederation states which soon became the German Empire under the King of Prussia, Wilhelm I. These modern ironclad warships were considered military insurance against any future French mischief. The keel was laid down in 1872, it was launched in September 1874, and she was commissioned on 20 July 1875. It would be the last capital ship built by a foreign ship-builder for the German Navy. For the next 43 years all its warships would be built in Germany, with many more to come.   

The full postcard shows the picture of the ship centered with lots of empty space along the borders for a message. A caption explains the scene:

Flaggschiff "Deutschland" verlässt Kiel
~
Flagship "Deutschland" leaves Kiel

The sender's message is in German and dated 9 III 98. The writer had so much to say that they risked annoying the Imperial German Postal Service by continuing onto the back, which in 1898 was strictly verboten!  The card was sent from Altona, a district of the port city of Hamburg on 9 March 1898 and arrived the next day in Steinhorst, a town in Schleswig-Holstein about 30 miles east of Hamburg. The sender had a florid style and the last name is partly covered by the postmarks but I think it is addressed to Frau(?) Aug. Bruchmüller(?) of Steinhorst. 

The S.M.S. Deutschland was 293 ft (89 m) long and had a beam of 62 ft 8 in (19.1 m). It burned coal to fire eight boilers providing power to one 2-cylinder single-expansion steam engine that turned one screw propeller. On full throttle it could make 14.6 knots (27.0 km/h; 16.8 mph) and with less steam travel 3,200 nmi (5,900 km; 3,700 mi) before needing to re-coal. It was armed with one 21 cm (8.3 in) gun and eight 26 cm (10.2 in) guns, and carried a complement of 32 officers and 568 sailors.

In the 1870s steam-powered ships were still thought undependable had not yet become the dominant maritime vessel so the Deutschland was equipped with three masts rigged for sails. It's first service was in squadrons sent to the Mediterranean as Germany, a new empire, was eager to compete with other nations to be a major world power. In the summer of 1889, the Deutschland joined the German fleet which traveled to Great Britain to celebrate the coronation of Kaiser Wilhelm II. This fleet now had many ships larger and faster than the Deutschland so it was relegated to the training squadron based in the North Sea. 

SMS Deutschland before 1896
Source: Wikimedia

As more navies around the world began expanding their fleets, Kaiser Wilhelm II pushed Germany's shipbuilders harder. During maneuvers in the fall of 1894, the German navy simulated a two-front war against France and Russia. The Deutschland's squadron acted as the Russian fleet during the exercises.

Following this, the Deutschland was rebuilt at the Imperial Dockyard in Wilhelmshaven and converted into an armored cruiser. Work was finished in January 1897 when it rejoined the fleet. It now had thicker, heavier armor; a secondary battery of eight 15 cm guns; four auto-cannon for defense against torpedo boats; and five torpedo tubes mounted in the ship's hull below the waterline. The center mizenmast was replaced with a lighter pole used just for signaling. This was the ship that Willy Stöwer painted for this postcard. 

Willy Stöwer (1864–1931) in his studio, 1903.
Source: Wikipedia

Willy Stöwer, born in 1864 in Wolgast, a town on the Baltic coast, was the son of a sea captain and as a young man trained as a metalworker and engineering technician in German shipyards. He was a self-taught artist whose first work came from commissions to illustrate nautical scenes of commercial steamships and naval warships. He proved to be a very prolific artist, and over a career from 1892 to d 1929 created over 900 black-and-white and 335 color illustrations for 57 books, as well as countless  posters, postcards, trading-cards, labels, brochures and calendars. Stöwer's artwork was praised by Kaiser Wilhem II and he became the Emperor's favorite naval painter, sometimes accompanying him on several sea junkets around Europe.  As we can see in this photo of him in his studio, Stöwer painted on really big canvases which was probably part of his artwork's appeal to the people who lived in very big houses.  

The man whose portrait Stöwer painted on my postcard of the Flaggschiff Deutschland confused me because this was not Kaiser Wilhelm, whose imperial visage was instantly recognizable for his Prussian mustache with upturned points. This man's trimmed beard more resembled George, Duke of York, the future King George V, or his first cousin, Tsar Nicolas II. 

George, Duke of York and Tsar Nicholas II, circa 1890s
Source: the Internets

As it happens the man on my postcard was actually related to all three. He was Prince Heinrich of Prussia (1862–1929), the younger brother of Kaiser Wilhelm II. Their mother was Victoria, Princess Royal (1840–1901) who was Queen Victoria's eldest child, which made Heinrich, like Wilhelm, a first cousin of King George V (1865–1936). 

The German royal family was also related to the Russian Tsar Nicholas II (1868–1918) , so that Heinrich and Wilhelm were Nicolas's second cousins once removed through descent from King Frederick William III of Prussia, and third cousins as great-great-grandsons of Tsar Paul I of Russia. One can see Victorian genetic connection in the photo above, George on the left and Nicholas on the right. It was taken in the 1890s but I've been unable to find a source for the original image. Of the three cousins, Heinrich, born in 1862 is the oldest, and Nicholas, born in 1868 was the youngest.

Prince Heinrich of Prussia (1862–1929)
pastel by Max Krusemark, 1902
Source: Wikimedia

This portrait of Prince Heinrich of Prussia was made in 1902 by German artist Max Krusemark. The features and uniform resemble Stöwer's smaller portrait, but I think that is a coincidence since most royalty learned at an early age to model their uniforms in their most favored photogenic style. 

Since Heinrich's older brother was destined to become the German Emperor, Heinrich followed a different path. When he was 15 years old he entered the Imperial Navy cadet program which began with a two-year voyage around the world (1878–1880). He passed his first naval officer examination in October 1880 and began attending the German naval academy (1884–1886). In 1887, he was given command of a torpedo boat and then simultaneously the First Torpedo Boat Division. The next year he was made commander of the Imperial Yacht S.M.Y. Hohenzollern. 

When the S.M.S. Deutschland was refitted in 1897 for a return to service, Prince Heinrich was already an experienced seaman with the rank of Konteradmiral. In December 1897 as commander of the East Asia Squadron Heinrich left Kiel onboard his flagship Deutschland along with a second warship. They arrived in Hong Kong in March 1898. Since this date is the same as when my postcard was sent, it seems impossible that the photo of the Deutschland at Port Arthur harbor was used for Stöwer's painting of it. 

It was a chaotic time for a warship to be in Asian waters. In April 1898 the Spanish–American War (April 21 – August 13, 1898) began with the sinking of the USS Maine in Havana Harbor in Cuba. Soon the United States Navy was steaming towards Manila Bay in the Philippines where on May 1, Commodore Dewey, commanding the Asiatic Squadron aboard USS Olympia, defeated a Spanish squadron. In a matter of weeks the United States acquired the Spanish foreign possessions and become a major colonial world power. 

The Asian region was still recovering from the First Sino-Japanese War (1894–1895) when a modernized Japanese army sought to acquire the Korean peninsula from China. It was followed by the 1895 Japanese invasion of Taiwan which Japan occupied for the next 50 years.    

The S.M.S. Deutschland remained in China until 1900 before returning to Germany, though I don't know if Prince Heinrich stayed for the duration. In any case the ship and its crew were there during the turbulent Boxer Rebellion (1899-1901), an uprising of North Chinese peasants who feared the expansion of foreign spheres of influence. Militant groups of these peasants, called Boxers because they practiced Chinese martial arts, which in this era was called "Chinese boxing", attacked foreigners, destroyed property and railroads, and murdered Chinese Christians and missionaries. 

This conflict is remembered for the Siege of the International Legations in Beijing (June 20 – August 14, 1900), The 55 day siege was lifted by a military force of the Eight-Nation Alliance—comprising American, Austro-Hungarian, British, French, German, Italian, Japanese, and Russian troops—that invaded China to relieve the besieged legations. They did not march there. They came by ship.

I've greatly compressed this history yet hope it can still explain how this era of colonial expansion by European powers and the new colonial might of the United State was a time of tremendous stress for the world. There were countless conflicts everywhere that involved people fighting against colonial grievances, class injustice, and religious and ethnic oppression, many of which remain complex problems in the 21st century. 

At the turn of the beginning of the 20th century battleships were a way of measuring world power. The S.M.S. Deutschland was just one small ship that served a specific function but it became almost obsolete when it was first commissioned in 1875. When it returned to Germany in late 1900 it was relegated as a harbor ship and renamed Jupiter as a new battleship class would take over the name Deutschland. In 1906 it was removed from the naval register and in 1907 converted into a target ship by adding more watertight bulkheads and ballast. Beginning in June 1908 the ship was deployed in several exercises where multiple battleships and cruisers shelled it. Though it sustained around 140 hits from calibers ranging from 24 cm (9.4 in) down to 10.5 cm (4.1 in), it was not significantly damaged by shell hits above the waterline. However she was sunk twice by shells that struck the water and penetrated the hull below the side armor. 

The results of this target practice on an armored cruiser demonstrated that warships were difficult to sink by shellfire alone, but they were vulnerable to the until-then unknown phenomenon of diving shells. The Jupiter/Deutschland was raised both times after she sank, but after the last raising she was sold for scrap in 1908. 

Prinz Heinrich Cigaretten, circa 1910
Source: Wikimedia

Like royalty around the world, Prince Heinrich took advantage of his celebrity status and licensed his likeness for commercial use. This photo shows his portrait on a tin box for cigarettes. Printed inside the box was a company claim: 

"Prinz Heinrich cigarettes, made from the finest turkish tobacco, are proof that German-made cigarettes far succeed Egyptian brands. Sole manufacturer / Adler Compagnie Cigarettenfabrik Aktien -Gesellschaft Dresden"

The tragic irony here is that Prince Heinrich died of throat cancer on 20 April 1929 at his estate on the Baltic coast.

S.M.S. „Prinz Heinrich“ takes coal in the port of Kiel, circa 1902
painting by Willy Stöwer
Source: Wikimedia

By the time S.M.S. Deutschland was being broken up for scrap, Prince Heinrich had reached the rank of Großadmiral and made Inspector General of the Imperial Navy. At the start of World War One he was commander-in-chief of the Baltic Fleet. In 1902 he was honored by getting his name on his own armored cruiser, the S.M.S. Prinz Heinrich. And of course, Willy Stöwer painted a picture of it. 

The Prinz Heinrich was longer than the Deutschland, at 415 ft (126.5 m) but about as wide. It bristled with armament, including two 24 cm (9.4 in) guns, ten 15 cm (5.9 in), ten 8.8 cm (3.5 in), and four torpedo tubes. It was capable of reaching 20 knots powered by three triple-expansion steam engines, each with it own screw propeller. Surprisingly the ship's complement was a little less than the Deutschland with 35 officers and 532 sailors. During the war the Prinz Henrich served mainly in the Baltic participating in mine-laying and clashes with the Russian navy. In 1916 it was in need of repairs and deemed unsuitable for combat. Her main battery guns were removed and converted into heavy railway guns for use on land. The ship was taken off the navy register and moved to the imperial shipyard in Kiel where for the remaining years of the war the Prinz Henrich served as a floating headquarters for Prince Heinrich, the commander in chief of naval forces in the Baltic. 

 

Prince Heinrich seems to have genuinely earned the many medals and awards he wore on his uniforms. During his life he was an avid automobile driver who promoted the first auto races in Germany. He also was one of the first royalty to travel in Graf Zeppelin's airships. And when the Wright brothers brought their airplane to Germany, Prince Heinrich earned one of the first pilot licenses. Though I expect he followed his elder brother's political policies, I have to wonder what he thought about the terrible war that began in that fateful summer of 1914. Unlike Wilhelm, Heinrich had a broad military experience and surely understood the powerful and horrific havoc which was released upon the world. 

Prince Heinrich of Prussia (1862–1929)
photograph by Emil Bieber, 1913
Source: Wikimedia

This last photo appeared in a book entitled "Men around the Kaiser; the makers of modern Germany"  by Frederic William Wile, a prominent American journalist who worked as a Berlin correspondent for the London Daily Mail and the New York Times. About Prince Heinrich he wrote:

    It was under the personal supervision of the Kaiser's brother that the German Navy rose to the emergency with promptitude and thoroughness and made itself ready, as if overnight, to hold its own in the new conditions of sea warfare.  That is why the Admiral Royal, whose pictures so often make him look like a twin of King George or the Czar, holds a place in the affections of his Fatherland almost second to none.  Germans have had few national idols since Bismarck. Prince Henry is one of them.

    

    Thoroughly imbued with the democracy of the sea, with an active career of more than thirty years to his credit, Prince Henry is a sailor-man through and through—an admiral first and a Prince after- wards.  He has had little time, and less inclination for the luxurious pastimes of his royal estate.  The fashions and frivolities of Court life have never appealed to him.  His hobby is the sea, and he is happiest when cultivating it.  Naval cadet at sixteen, when the fleet was little more than a flotilla of nondescript frigates; battleship-captain at thirty, and rear-admiral four years later, 1906 found Prince Henry commander-in-chief of the homogeneous squadrons which the German Admiralty keeps assembled in home waters as one great sledge-hammer entity, steam up and eager to deliver the decisive blow at the psychological moment. An apostle of the "Ready, aye ready!" policy of perpetual preparedness for war, he was fitted both by temperament and training for the leadership of the Empire's battle forces afloat.

    Only the most urgent diversions, such as important foreign missions on behalf of the Kaiser, enticed

him from his flagship at Kiel, where, too, he has long had his home.  A stickler for discipline, his indomitable energy and devotion to duty were at once the marvel and inspiration of the entire Fleet.  German naval officers are notoriously the hardest working—and hardest-worked—in the world. They

had a constant example in Prince Henry.  He took a deep interest in the men behind the guns and the unseen heroes of the hold.  Regardless of personal comfort he participated regularly in the long

practice cruises of the High Seas Fleet in and out of season, and he is to-day given chief credit for the strategic and tactical skill which the Kaiser's battle squadrons have attained.  After Prince Henry hoisted his farewell signal as Commander-in-Chief of the Fleet three years ago, he was rowed ashore from his flagship by a crew of lieutenants, a pretty and affectionate tribute to the esteem in which the Navy cherishes him. 

Prince Heinrich of Prussia (1862–1929)
Photograph by Ernest Flagg, 1914
Source: Wikipedia

This story turned out to be a biography, naval history, and art review all-in-one. I had not expected to discover such a prominent, but now largely forgotten, historic figure as Prince Heinrich of Prussia hidden in a postcard. The S.M.S. Deutschland was not an important ship and did not participate in any great sea battles. Instead it represents a little cog in a gigantic military-industrial complex which led the nations of the world to war in 1914. Untold millions of marks, dollars, and pounds were spent on naval warships, each larger and more weaponized than those before. The race between nations to build the largest navy of dreadnaught-size battleships is considered one of the causes of the Great War. Tragically these monstrous and expensive battleships were not a decisive factor during the war. Instead it was new destructive inventions of machine guns, barbed wire, submarines, and airplanes that changed how a war is waged.

Looking backwards at the history of the Great War allows us to see how international political relations broke down; how military decisions were forced upon entire populations; and how futile it was to spend incalculable public money on a conflict that could never be won. In 1898 the outcome could not have been predicted or even imagined, but the wheels and cogs of the military-industrial complex kept turning relentlessly and mindlessly. That is how empires fail. I worry that in 2026 we are facing the same kind of unimaginable dreadful future. 

Prinz-Heinrich-Mütze
Prince Henry yachting hat
Source: Wikimedia

I can't resist adding one more historic note on Prince Heinrich. He was clearly a sailor who loved all kinds of ships and boats. Outside of the navy he enjoyed participating in yachting, basically a recreation on big sailboats. His naval uniforms were inappropriate for what was essentially an activity for civilians, albeit wealthy ones. So he popularized a wool cap that was the headgear of the Imperial Yacht Club. It is known today as a Prinz-Heinrich-Mütze or Prince Henry cap. It is usually made of corduroy in dark blue, black, or gray. It is similar to a mariner's cap, also called a Greek fisherman's hat, which I have in my wardrobe and wear in the cooler fall and winter months.  

However there is another hat in my home that looks pretty close to being a Prince Henry cap, too. It is on a bust of my father-in-law, Isador Caplan, who many years ago was honored for his generous contributions to a British arts organization by having his likeness preserved in bronze. The artist did such an amazingly accurate sculpture that Isador's glasses and his hat fit perfectly. Isador passed away many years ago but his bust is a treasure my wife and I are proud to display and tell stories about his life. I think he would be very pleased at his cap's connection to Prince Heinrich of Prussia.

This is my contribution to Sepia Saturday

where most folks are tied up securely to the dock.

Four Portraits of Drummers

A bass drum is the heartbeat of any musical ensemble. In a military band its beat sets the stride cadence for marching soldiers. In a pop band its thumping accents mark the step turns for dancers. In an orchestra it thunders at every crescendo and always strikes the last wallop in a finale. It's an essential instrument for a wide variety of rhythmic music but it's often underappreciated for how it synchronizes the pulse of an ensemble's musicians. 

This bass drummer certainly knew his worth as he wrote a note on his postcard photo. 

Let this do Your Drumming  

He is a young man, late teens or early twenties, dressed in dark trousers, a bright white uniform jacket with white bowtie, and a white hat with his band's name — ELLINGTON. He is actually holding two instruments—a bass drum and a set of cymbals. His drum uses old-fashioned rope tensioning for the heads. Bits of leather called ears tighten the rope loops to make the heads taunt for a ringing thud. One cymbal is attached to the drum shell while the other is held in the drummer's left hand. It's a traditional coupling for a percussionist which lets the bass drum sound strong beats while cymbals mark weaker afterbeats as in BOOM-pah, BOOM-pah, BOOM-pah, etc. And so he doesn't lose count there is a music lyre attached to the top of the drum to hold his part.

Unfortunately his postcard is not marked and I can only guess that it was taken in the United States sometime around 1906-1916. There are eight towns named Ellington in the U.S. and it's likely that each one had a band in the early 20th century. And of course the band might be named for its band leader, too. However I don't think Duke Ellington's band, which was formed a few decades later, every did much marching. 

* * *

My second drummer stands in front of a photographer's studio backdrop, a painted scene of a bucolic landscape. At his waist hangs a snare drum which has threaded rod tensioners and possibly a metal shell. The drum is tilted so that his drumsticks are positioned in a characteristic grip that puts more power to the dominant right hand. Notice that he has his music held in a lyre which is pinned to his coat. This man looks to be in his late twenties or thirties. He wears a bandsman's uniform and kepi hat in a dark color, typical of those worn by bands in the late 19th century. His long twisty mustache likely dates him to the 1890s. 

This cabinet card photograph was taken at the Photographic Art Studio of C. Numa in Halstein, Iowa. At sometime in the distant past the photo was mounted on a wall as it has four holes punched through the cardstock.  

Halstein is situated in west central Iowa about 46 miles east of Sioux City. In 1890, on its first census, it had just 539 inhabitants. A decade later in 1900 it could boast of a 61.4% increase to 870. Its current population is about 1,500.   

* * *

My third percussionist is a cymbals player, technically not a drum, but still a vital part of a drum section. The flashy clash of brass cymbals has always been an important sound color in music dating back to the ancient cultures of China, Egypt, and India. European music adopted cymbals from the Ottoman Empire's Janissary military bands. In the late 18th century both Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart and Joseph Haydn used cymbals to add an exotic Turkish flavor to their music.  

This young man stands in front of another photographer's faux wooded glen but with extra 3-D shrubbery, grass, and stumps to add realism. He keeps a tight grip on his pair of cymbals as the most embarassing moment for any percussionist is to unwittingly initiate an accidental cymbal crash. His bandsman's uniform is similar to the previous drummer but I think it dates from the 1880s. The white belt across his left shoulder is for his music satchel, hidden by his right hand. I don't know that I've ever seen a cymbalist use a music lyre. Maybe they just memorize the score. His kepi hat has large badge that in neat lettering reads Seventh Ward Band,  which relates to a neighborhood section of his hometown of Johnstown, Pennsylvania.

The photo was taken by photographer G. M. Greene of No 127 Franklin Steet, opposite the M. E. Stone Church, in Johnstown, Pennsylvania. Johnstown. His full name was George Miles Greene. Born in 1835 he set up a successful studio in downtown Johnstown which was tragically destroyed in the Great Johnstown Flood of 1889. 

This horrendous catastrophe occurred on Friday, 31 May 1889, after the South Fork Dam, located on the Little Conemaugh River, 14 miles (23 km) upstream of Johnstown, ruptured after several days of extremely heavy rainfall. Over 14.55 million cubic meters of water was suddenly released and the resulting flood killed 2,208 people. The damage cost to the city and environs was estimated at $17 million (equivalent to $536 million in 2024).

Mr. Greene was able to restart his business but in 1894 poor health forced him to sell it. He died the following year at age 65. 

Because of this terrible calamity this photo must date prior to May 1889. It also begs a question, did the young man survive? We can never know but it adds a special back story to the photo.

* * *

My fourth drummer is a handsome young man with arguably the best mustache. He leans against a faux plinth with a dramatic natural scene behind him, not a landscape, I think, but either a seascape or river/lake view. His arms and legs are casually crossed with his shako hat and music satchel placed atop the plinth and his snare drum lying at his feet. He wears a very impressive military style uniform with striped trousers, cutaway jacket, white belt, and fringed epaulets. It very like a state militia/nation guardsman's uniform. On his white music satchel is a name: Chelsea.  

Chelsea is a small city in Washtenaw County, Michigan, about 53 miles west of Detroit, in between Ann Arbor and Jackson, Michigan. In 1880 Chelsea had 1,160 residents and in 140+ years its population has grown to around 5,500. 

The photographer was E. E. Shaver of Chelsea whose cardstock back has an nice illustration of a camera and artist's palette illuminated by the sun. Just above is a wonderful clear note with names and a date. 

Mr. G. A. Lacey
Original member of the
Excelsior Cornet Band
organzed (sic) Feb. 19 - 1878
Presented by Lillie Wackenhut

The snare drummer was George A. Lacey. In the 1880 U. S. census for Chelsea village he was listed, age 29, next to his wife, Phebe Lacey, age 27, with no children. George's occupation was "Watch Tinker", i.e. watch repairer. Unfortunately I was unable to find any more references to him in any official records or newspapers. So he will remain lost in time.

The photographer was Ernest Ebenizer Shaver. He was also listed in Chelsea's 1880 census, at age 30 living with his wife, Martha Shaver, age 22, but without children. Ernest's occupation was "Deguerian (sic) Artist."  According to another short history on Chelsea, Ernest Shaver, like George Lacey, was also a founding member of Chelsea's Excelsior Cornet Band. I found just one reference to the band in an 1881 report about a county band contest where it won 2nd prize. It was described as having just 13 musicians. In other reports it played for local dances and patriotic events but does not seem to have lasted more than a decade. Shaver died in 1917.

 Lillie Wackenhut was also in the 1880 census. She was the youngest of two daughters of George and Martha Wackenhut. Her older sister Letta was 3 and Lillie was just 1 year of age. George Wackenhut was 29 and worked as a "Clerk in Store". Since he was the same age as George, I suspect they both played together with Ernest in the Excelsior Cornet Band. I'd bet anything that Ernest made portraits of all the band's members, too, especially as I think George Lacey is posing in a splendid new uniform. 

The bottom phrase in the annotation: "Presented by Lillie Wackenhut" sounds to me like it was a gift from Lillie, and not to Lillie, especially as she was not yet born when the Excelsior Cornet Band was established. I suspect that when she was much older she gave this photo to someone or some historical society as a memento of Chelsea's cultural history. I also think it's possible that she had copies of the other portraits of the band's members and may have donated them too. Lillie May Wackenhut died in 1965 at age 86 and is buried with her parents in a cemetery in Chelsea, Michigan. I could not find any information that she ever married or had children. 

***

Nearly every antique photograph in my collection of a band has drummers. A band's name was often stenciled onto the head of a bass drum which serves to identify the band and its location. Bass drums, snare drums and cymbals are not complicated instruments and, of course, never get to play a melody. But to keep a musical group together, drums require a player who has a fine sense of rhythm and impeccable timing. For some inexplicable reason portraits of drummers are surprising rare. I have hundreds of cdv and cabinet photos of individual musicians with their cornet, clarinet, trombone, tuba, violin, cello, and the like, but hardly any percussion musicians pictured with their drum. The cymbal player from Johnstown is the first one I have acquired like that. I'll keep my eye out for more.      

To finish with some drum noise
here is a short YouTube video
from the Marching.com channel
of the U.S. Marine Drum & Bugle Corps Percussion
playing their warmup drill just before the closing ceremony
of the World Association of Marching Show Bands (WAMSB)
2023 World Championships held in Buckhannon, West Virginia.
It's a good demonstration of how drummers
think differently than other musicians.

Did you know the U.S. military issued cow bells?

And here is another YouTube video
from the Marching.com channel
of the Euroband Rotterdam (Netherlands)
in the 2025 Corso Zundert flower parade.
The cameraman is positioned at the front
of the band as it marches
giving a great viewpoint of the drummers
and the drum major.

This is my contribution to Sepia Saturday

where no one ever keeps score.

 

The Well-dressed Trombonist - Under the Eagle

 

The America Bald Eagle has been the symbol of our nation since 1782 when Congress chose it for the design of the Great Seal of the United States. With wings spread wide, an eagle's talons grasp 13 arrows in its left foot and an olive branch with 13 leaves in its right. In its beak is a ribbon with the Latin phrase: E Pluribus Unum ("Out of many, one"). 

Great Seal of the United States
Source: Wikimedia

In 1775 during the Revolutionary War, General George Washington had his officers display cockades on their hats to distinguish their rank. Initially he wanted these decorative knots of ribbons or rosettes in different colors so that "the field officers may have red or pink colored cockades in their hats, the captains yellow or buff, and the subalterns green.” But by 1777 his ragged army from the 13 colonies changed to using a simple black cockade, which, not by chance, happened to be the Hanoverian color of King George III.

In February 1778 the United States signed a Treaty of Alliance with France. Since the color favored by the French King Louis XVI was white, Washington ordered his soldiers to display a new Alliance Cockade on their hats that was black with a white center. The supporting French troops likewise wore an Alliance Cockade of white with a black center.

When George became President in 1789 among his many new responsibilities was deciding on appropriate uniform colors and insignia for the U.S. military. The old black cockades wouldn't work since that were still a British army style. The white on black was similarly politically incorrect since France had adopted a new tricolor of  blue, white and red as a symbol of its recent revolution. (Poor Louis XVI tried to wear one but it didn't really suit his hat.) 

To solve this fashion problem some clever Americans came up with an easy solution that Washington approved—putting an eagle pin onto the center of a black rose cockade. On 9 January 1799 his Secretary of War, James McHenry, ordered "All persons belonging to the army, to wear a black cockade, with a Small white Eagle in the centre. The cockade of non-commissioned officers, musicians and privates, to be of leather, with Eagles of tin." 

This pin depicted an eagle with down-swept wings sitting on a bank of clouds. That design lasted hardly more than a decade when in 1812 it was changed to suit another war with King George III, this time adding arrows and an olive branch to the eagle. In 1821 it was reworked again by removing the clouds and setting the eagle with outstretched wings and a shield on its breast. With only small alterations, over the next two centuries that eagle design became the standard insignia worn by officers and troops in the U. S. Army. My dad wore one on his hats during his 25 year career as an army officer.

  

Today, in honor of the 250th anniversary of America's Declaration of Independence I present a collection of eagles worn by bandsmen, mostly trombonists, who served in regimental bands. The bandsmen also wear a pointy headgear that for a few decades in the late 19th century was the fashionable helmet used by most military bands and troops. 

My first trombonist posed in a photographer's studio leaning casually on a fine upholstered chair in front of a painted scene with weird perspective. It's a half-plate tintype, more correctly called a ferrotype, about 6¼ x 4½ inches, an uncommon  size that's larger than other tintypes of musicians in my collection. His dark color uniform, I'm guessing maroon red, has a cut-away jacket adorned with three rows of brass buttons. His hat is a style resembling British police helmets called custodian helmets first used by the London Metropolitan Police in 1870. 

Since this photo is a tintype it is a unique image that could not be reproduced. Light captured by the collodion emulsion on an iron plate created a reversed image like a mirror. Sharp eyes might have noticed that this man's button seam is on the wrong side and he seems to be holding a left-handed trombone. 

   

Flipping the image with digital software puts the instrument in its proper orientation, bell on left shoulder and slide on right. It also puts the eagle's arrows on the correct side of the insignia. I'm not sure about the cord hanging from his helmet. It may be a chin strap released for the photo. He looks like a young man in his early 20s or even late teens. Notice the photographer has tinted his cheeks pink. I bet it made his mother proud.

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This next photo is a cabinet photo of two bandsmen and a soldier, all wearing pointy helmets with white plumes. There is no mark for photographer or location. All I can guess is they are members of a state militia band somewhere in the United States in the late 19th century. Such bands were made of professional musicians who were hired as a group to perform for a state guard regiment's annual training camps and civic parades. The bandsmen did not serve in the regular army and were paid by each regiment. In 19th century America the most popular entertainment in every town or city was a parade. Any opportunity to rally around the flag and march along with a band excited the public. Regimental bands competed with each other to provide the best music and present the most splendid uniforms.

The two bandsmen play brass instruments and the one seated on the right holds a piston valve instrument with a large bell. The plumbing looks long enough to be a kind of folded up valve trombone. It might be a flugelhorn or bass trumpet, but for the purpose of my theme I'll call it a trombone. I'm sure it sounded the same notes. 

The bandsman on the left has a standard cornet, possibly the higher E-flat model. Their uniforms are very ornate with striped trousers, fancy embroidery and fringed epaulettes. There is a subtle nod to the Grand Seal of the United States as their button embroidery are leaves with thirteen points.

The soldier standing guard in the center is an unusual addition to this trio. Except for his pointy helmet, his unform is very different. He wears a longer coat with white gloves and holds a rifle with a long bayonet fixed to the end. I would not want to be challenged by him for the password of the day.

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This bandsman's portrait is an unusual long 7½ x 4¼ inch Promenade mount but, like the previous photo, has no name of the photographer. The expanded size would have been suitable for a regular slide trombone but this fellow has a stubby piston valve trombone like the previous unknown bandsman. He cuts a fine figure with his trim uniform jacket which has three rows of buttons, a wide white belt and fringed epaulettes.

Piston valve trombones were popular in the 19th century as three valves simplified a traditional trombone's slippery slide system of infinite pitch. Different makers came up with several compact plumbing patterns which made the instrument easier to play while marching in a parade or mounted on a horse. 

According to my copy of the Encyclopedia of United States Army Insignia and Uniforms by William K. Emerson, his helmet eagle is a design from 1881 which added a banner in the eagle's beak. The shield would typically have the regiment's number. His helmet plume was white horsehair and on a detachable mount.

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This next bandsman is another member of the three valved trombone society. He is seated with a casual crossed leg, fingers on the valve buttons, looking direct at us as if to ask, "Have we met before?" His uniform is similar to the previous bandsmen's kit though this man's epaulette fringe seems longer and he wears a white cross-sash belt, attached to which is a small satchel marked HOLYOKE.  His eagle is looking left not right, so I think it pre-dates the previous bandsman, maybe late 1870s. I think he uses a softer conditioner on his plume too. He looks like an affable chap who could tell a good story.

The photographer on this cabinet card photo has an imprint on the back, J. D. Crane Photographic Studio, of No. 63 Dwight St., Holyoke, Massachusetts. Duplicates can be had at any time.  

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My final trombonist under the eagle is pictured on a tintype, in a more typical 3¾ x 2¼ inch format. He wears a white coat with three rows of buttons and lots of gold braid knots, simple shoulder boards instead of fringe epaulettes, and a custodian helmet with a point but without a plume. This photo is fairly dark like most tintypes, but my digital software improves the contrast. His instrument is a B-flat tenor slide trombone which has hardly changed from the sackbut, the trombone's Renaissance ancestor, and remains the same as trombones seen in today's modern bands and orchestras. 

As I often do with tintypes, I reverse the image to the subject's true aspect. This places his trombone in the right orientation but it also revealed a very important detail that was not visible in the other bandsmen's photos. 

It's a number on the eagle.

A regiment number more significant

in the history of American bands
than any other number.

The number is 22, which makes this trombonist a member of one of the most celebrated professional bands of the 19th century, the Band of the Twenty Second Regiment of New York. It was lead by Patrick Sarsfield Gilmore (1829–1892), an Irish-American composer and military bandmaster who immigrated to Boston in 1848. As a young man he established himself as a talented musician and bandleader with a variety of bands. In 1861 at the start of the Civil War, Gilmore's Band joined the 24th Massachusetts Volunteers, accompanying General Ambrose Burnside to North Carolina and later playing for Federal troops in New Orleans. He is credited with writing the lyrics to the song "When Johnny Comes Marching Home". Gilmore expanded a concert band instrumentation to include a larger woodwind section that made his band sound more like an orchestra. 

Patrick Sarsfield Gilmore (1829–1892)
Bandleader of the 22nd Regiment Band, c. 1890−92
Source: Wikimedia

After the war Patrick Gilmore organized massed orchestra and band concerts  with gigantic choruses for the National Peace Jubilee in 1869 and the World's Peace Jubilee and International Musical Festival in 1872. His success in Boston established him as the leading bandmaster of the postwar era. 

In 1873 Gilmore was invited to New York City to take over the band of the 22nd Regiment. This regiment was one of the premier elite state guards which was supported by many wealthy New York families. The band was its public image and with Gilmore it soon became known as "Gilmore's Band." 

Brooklyn Daily Times
21 March 1874

In New York the 22nd Regiment Band competed with fine bands from the 23rd and 7th Regiments. Band concerts were regular features in New York's society season and regimental bands offered a wide variety of music and solo artists. On one concert in March 1874 Gilmore promoted his friend, the great cornetist Matthew Arbuckle (1828–1883), and the saxophone virtuoso Edward A. Lefebre (1834–1911) who introduced New Yorkers to this new novel French instrument. He also had a trombone soloist, Herr Letsch on the same program.

Yonkers, NY Gazette
5 February 1881

 

Many instrumentalists in Gilmore's 22nd Regiment Band earned star billing on his programs and became as well known in New York's entertainment world as stage actors or opera singers. In a concert performed in February 1881 Gilmore listed a trombone soloist named C. Kappa. This was Carlo Alberto Cappa (1834–1893), an Italian-American trombonist who would go on to become a bandmaster in his own right. He is best remembered for leading the celebrated Seventh Regiment Band of New York which I recently featured on this blog in The Seventh Regiment Band, 

Rochester, NY Journal & Post Express
18 September 1883

In September 1883 at a concert in Rochester, New York, Gilmore listed another solo trombonist named Herr Stolz. These regimental bands attracted talented musicians from many nations like Germany, Italy, France, Belgium, and Great Britain. Gilmore's choice of the best soloists helped accelerate the growth of band music in America, especially because these bands also toured the country performing at expositions and state fairs. And everywhere they went, the band marched in a parade.

The Seventh Regiment Band on March
Harper's Weekly, vol. 33, 16 March 1889
Source: HathiTrust.org

This illustration from a March 1889 article in Harper's Weekly shows the Seventh Regiment Band marching on parade. The bandsmen wear tall white helmets with dark plums and dark tunics. The trombone section is in the front rank as their drum major leads the way. The postcard photo in my recent story on The Seventh Regiment Band was taken in 1905 when the band's uniforms, though still brilliant. had changed with the fashions of a new century. By 1900 guard regiments had replaced the pointy custodian helmet with more practical headgear. But for a time it was where the American eagle soared, sparkling atop the heads of spectacular marching bands. 

I will finish this collection of vintage trombonists
with a 2022 performance by the trombone section
of the United States Air Force Band with guest artist
George Curran, bass trombonist of the New York Philharmonic
in a Henry Fillmore's circus screamer, "Rolling Thunder".

And since I post this story on the 4th of July,
it seems fitting to hear the trombone quartet
of The United States Army Field Band
perform the "The Star-Spangled Banner" our national anthem.
It was  arranged by bass trombonist Master Sgt. Wesley Ballenger. 

Please stand.

For more trombonists wearing pointy hats
and fancy uniforms check out:

The Well-Dressed Trombonist
The Well-dressed Trombonist - Valve and Plume Edition
More Tinplated Brass, the Uniform Edition

This is my contribution to Sepia Saturday

where London bridges can sometimes fall up, too.