from The Worcester Spy, 15 July 1863 (Volume 92 #27),
Capt. H. P. Jorgensen

It is a fact worthy of grateful mention in the history of our country that, in her struggles against oppression and despotism of whatever kind, she has always had the generous aid and sympathy of the noble minded of all classes in Europe. Poland, France, Prussia, Germany, Denmark, Sweden, and Ireland, have all sent to us their choice spirits, who, sighing over tyranny at home, have appreciated with a keener sense the blessings of freedom. The monuments scattered over our land to the memory of these brave men from foreign climes, who have fallen in the defense of our liberties are witness that we feel the value of such devotion. Their honored names have been called to mind as we thought of the sad but glorious fate of the brave officer whose name stands at the head of this article.

From the banks of the Potomac, the fields of Antietam, the terrible carnage at Fredericksburg, and the almost superhuman struggle at Gettysburg, have been brought to us from time to time, the gallant dead of the fifteenth regiment. With the prayer of Christian faith and hope, they have been carried to their last resting places, to lie among their kindred, in the beautiful cemeteries of their own New England homes, and loving hands have garlanded their graves with flowers.

But sleeping his last sleep, far away from his native land, on the battle field on a strange soil, lie the remains of one who has laid upon the altar of liberty an offering as pure as any that have yet been place there. Death has set his seal upon the earnest words yet ringing in our ears, “Liberty, here and everywhere, now and forever the same, I would give my life for it, more if I had it.” The intelligence of his death was received with the deepest sorrow by his numerous friends in this community,

“Who shuddering heard of victory,
When one so dear, so dauntless fell.”

Captain Jorgensen was born in Copenhagen, Denmark, and received a good education in the schools of his native city. When the troubles broke out between his country and Germany, in the revolt of Schleswig Holstein, he joined the army at the age of twenty-one, and was three years in the service of his country. Without friends or money he came to the United States, and ignorant of our language or customs, he entered at once upon mechanical pursuits. But he was always a student, and often surprised those with whom he conversed by his superior knowledge. His simple but correct criticisms upon works of art, his (own?) satisfaction in reading books of the highest order, his genuine appreciation and enjoyment of music proved to his friends his large and comprehensive mind, and, joined to a kind and genial nature, gave a peculiar charm to his social intercourse with them.

Identified with the fifteenth regiment from the first, and proud of the distinction it always won, he gave to it he faithful service and best energies of his nature. At Ball’s Bluff, Fair Oaks, Glendale, Allen’s farm, Savage station, White Oak swamp, Malvern Hill, Ashby Gap, Antietam, Fredericksburg, Chancellorsville, and Gettysburg, in the midst of danger and defeat, he was always found at his post. It is melancholy to think, that after sharing the incredible hardships and many disasters of that patient, much enduring, glorious old army of the Potomac, he should have fallen before, before the long hoped for and welcome shouts of victory reached his expectant ear.

Doubly melancholy when we think of the enthusiasm with which he wrote, just before the battle of Chancellorsville: “I think we are sure of victory. I am not ashamed to be one of the army of the Potomac. Next Sunday you will be singing Te Deum in all your churches.” And still later, after the weary, weary march from Falmouth to Gettysburg, he closes his letter dated June 30 by saying: “ There is no doubt as to the result of this battle. Give my love to all my friends, and tell them the old fifteenth is still gaining laurels, and by the time we shall get home we shall be completely covered with glory.” They have indeed won their laurels and are covered with glory forever more; and though

“No soldier discharged his farewell shot
O’er the grave of the hero they buried,”

be patient at some not distant day his remains will be brought to lie in our own quiet cemetery, among those who may well be proud to call him friend and brother.