The losses of the 157th regiment in the battle of Chancellorsville fight, aggregated about one hundred. Co. G lost, Asa Lawrence, killed; John Pfleiger badly wounded and Henry Whaling slightly wounded,—the least number hit of any company in the regiment. Co. A lost the most men in that battle—one lieutenant and three men killed and sixteen men wounded and missing. Co. B came next, with three men killed and ten wounded.
It was sad to think, after computing the fatalities and speculating upon the fate of the missing, that away up in Lenox the people were reading in the newspapers that Co. G were not so great a success, after all. That their dear boys had "marched up the hill," exchanged shots "and then marched down again." As communities, would Clockville, Hoboken, Wampsville and Canastota have preferred to see their sons brought home on their shields rather than had Hooker made a failure? Perhaps so. Very likely. But Co. G were satisfied to live just as long as possible.
Nor did the galling tirades of War Critics cease with the passing of the moment. Before the War Committee of Congress, and in standard history, the bile of the enemies of the 11th Corps is spread the mark of Cain. Many of those critics are now dead, but their works do follow them. No Corps of the Army is so bitter in comment of this kind as the 1st Corps, and they did not reach the field until after Jackson was checked. Then there was still time to win laurels, fresh and brilliant. Ah, the world will never know why the corps did not come up in time to help Co. G whip the naughty Jackson.
One of the missing of Co. G was Dan Brockway, the bodyguard for Ziba's violin. A few days passed and the news came that Brock was a prisoner. But he was promptly exchanged and was soon present at roll-call.
"Brock, how about the violin?" asked one.
"Well it was this way, boys. I was in the tent, when the rebs came and told me to crawl out. They sent me to the rear."
"And the fi-f-f-fiddle," asked John Miller. "T-t-tell us about the—here—here—f-fiddle."
"Oh, I carried the fiddle with me. By and by along came a reb and wanted to borrow the thing. I told him it belonged to Ziba, and I didn't like to part with it. 'Oh,' says the johnny, 'I'll take good care of your fiddle; there's a right smart of we'uns can play.' So I let him take it and he never brought it back."
"I'll tell you what, b-boys, we oughter do. Jest take the b-blamed little cuss over there and exchange him for the here—here—fiddle. What do you say, boys—hey?"
It was a dreary reception the boys found on their return to their old shanties. Rain was falling and the interiors of the huts were thoroughly soaked. But they stretched once more their tent covering and moved in. Fires were started and fresh boughs laid upon the bunks, so it was not long before everyone was comfortable and the routine of camp once more established.