A Young Immigrant Searching for a Future

Before Robert put down roots in America, before his name appeared in census records and land deeds, he was just a young Irish immigrant stepping onto unfamiliar soil, hoping for a better future. His story, like so many others, begins in Ireland—but with more questions than answers.

Robert was born in 1842 in Kilkeel, County Down, Ireland, the son of William Hanna and Jane Chambers. This is confirmed on his death certificate, but beyond their names, little else is known of William and Jane. Did they survive the famine? Did they live long enough to see their son leave for America? Or was leaving not a choice at all, but the only option they had?

The only record of his family is a single baptismal entry:

"[William Hanna] of Magheramurphy; husband of Jane Chambers; father of Charles, born October 23, 1844, and baptized November 10, 1844, at Mourne Presbyterian Church."

Robert was likely baptized in the same church as his brother Charles, under the same roof where his family worshiped, where generations of Hannas may have once gathered. Beyond that, the details of his early life remain unknown.

Kilkeel, nestled between the Mourne Mountains and the Irish Sea, is a place of both beauty and hardship. In Robert’s time, it was a small fishing and farming community where people depended on the land and sea to survive. Life here was not easy—success depended on forces beyond their control.

The town itself had narrow streets and stone buildings along the coast, where fishermen hauled in their daily catch and farmers worked stubborn, rocky soil. The Mourne Mountains loomed in the background—a striking landmark, but also a reminder of the isolation of this place.

But Kilkeel wasn’t just shaped by nature. It was scarred by history. The Great Irish Famine (1845–1852) devastated the region, leaving families starving, sick, and homeless. Many were forced to leave—some because they had no land left, others because they had no other way to survive. For a young boy like Robert, Kilkeel may have been home, but it was also a place of struggle and loss.

By the time he was 17, he made his choice. He left Ireland behind.

What pushed him to go? Was it the promise of opportunity? The devastation left by the famine? The understanding that staying meant hardship, while leaving offered even the smallest chance at something better?

We’ll never know for sure.

But what we do know is that Robert never looked back. Kilkeel was where he was born, but it would not be where he built his future.

A Young Immigrant Searching for a Future

So why was Robert living with her?  Was he just a hired farmhand? Or was there more to the connection—an employer, a distant family member, a benefactor, maybe even something personal? The records don’t say.

What we do know is that he didn’t stay in Saratoga County for long.

By June 1861, Robert was in Wilmington, Delaware, enlisting in the Union Army. Maybe he had moved south looking for work. Maybe fellow Irish immigrants led him there.

Or maybe, like so many others, he saw what was happening and knew that America’s war had become his war, too.

Leaving Saratoga: The Unknown Road Ahead

Robert's journey from Saratoga County, New York, to Wilmington, Delaware, was likely fueled by opportunity and ambition, following key 19th-century migration routes. By the mid-1800s, Wilmington had become a booming industrial hub, drawing skilled workers and entrepreneurs with its thriving shipbuilding, ironworks, and textile industries. Robert likely traveled from Saratoga County, New York, to Wilmington, Delaware, via key 19th-century trade routes:

• Hudson River & Erie Canal (Most Likely Route): He may have sailed south to New York City, then traveled by coastal ship or overland through Philadelphia.

• Railroad Expansion: By the 1850s, the Philadelphia, Wilmington & Baltimore Railroad (PW&B) provided faster, more reliable migration routes, accelerating the movement of workers like Robert.

His journey wasn’t just about distance—it was about progress, resilience, and seizing the promise of a thriving future.

Robert Hanna and the 2nd Delaware Infantry, Company D

In June 1861, Robert enlisted in the Union Army in Wilmington, Delaware, joining Company D of the 2nd Delaware Infantry Regiment. This regiment would go on to earn a reputation for fearless fighting and unbreakable resolve, so much so that they were nicknamed the “Crazy Delawares”—not because they lacked reason, but because they lacked fear. They earned this name at the Battle of Antietam because they refused to retreat when ordered to do so.

Robert was no ordinary soldier. As a color bearer, he held a position of immense responsibility and danger—charged with carrying the regiment’s flag into battle, a role that made him an immediate target for enemy fire. But for Robert, the flag was more than fabric—it was the soul of his regiment, the symbol of everything he fought for.

Photos of Antietam. For nearly 35 years, on the first weekend of December, 23,000 candles have been lit at Antietam, each flame honoring a soldier killed, wounded, or missing on September 17, 1862—the bloodiest day in American history.

Petersburg, Capture, and the Path to Andersonville Prison 

As Union forces launched fierce but costly attacks, Robert, serving as the color bearer, found himself cut off and surrounded in Petersburg, Virginia. Capture was inevitable, but surrendering the regimental flag was not an option. Determined to keep it from falling into Confederate hands, he hid it beneath his uniform.

On June 16, 1864, his luck ran out. He was taken prisoner, and by July 1, he was officially listed as a Prisoner of War.

Hiding the regimental flag was more than just an act of duty—it was an act of defiance. It was a symbol of loyalty, resilience, and the unwavering spirit of the men who fought beside him.

A Wilmington, Delaware newspaper later described what happened:

Another newspaper confirmed his actions:

For the men trapped in Andersonville, that flag became more than just a piece of cloth—it was a reminder of home and of the lives they were desperate to return to. Fellow soldier Thomas Peters later recalled how Robert’s flag gave them hope:

A Comrade’s Testimony

Years later, a fellow Andersonville prisoner gave sworn testimony about what Robert had endured. The affidavit, dated June 13, 1894, was signed by U.S. Commissioner John C. Rotzell and contained the words of a soldier who had been there with him:

This firsthand account confirms what Robert went through—the brutal conditions, the suffering, and the toll it took on his health. It also speaks to the deep bonds formed between soldiers who endured captivity together.

A New Life in St. Louis: Land, Family, and Legacy

After he was discharged, Robert wasted no time building a future. On July 2, 1868, he married Ellen Murray at the Church of St. Andrew’s Church in New York City. The witnesses, John Couway and Margaret Hanna, offer a small glimpse into the people who surrounded him during this new chapter of life.

That very day, the couple left New York for St. Louis, Missouri, where Robert and Ellen would reside for the rest of his life. Robert and Ellen likely traveled from New York City to St. Louis by steamboat via the Ohio and Mississippi Rivers, one of the most common and reliable routes westward. They may have first taken a train or steamboat to Pittsburgh, a major gateway to the Midwest, before boarding a steamboat down the Ohio River to Cairo, Illinois. From there, they would have transferred to another steamboat on the Mississippi River, carrying them directly to St. Louis. This route was cheaper, faster, and far less grueling than overland travel, making it the preferred choice for many east-to-west migrants during the mid-19th century.

On October, 23, 1876, Robert became a Naturalized Citizen in St. Louis. Ireland was the past. The United States was the future.

By 1880, Robert Hanna had built a life in St. Louis, Missouri, appearing on the U.S. Federal Census with his wife Ellen and their growing family.

Robert was a teamster—a grueling, backbreaking job that demanded strength, endurance, and long hours on the road. His employer, Parker-Russell Mining and Manufacturing Co., had been founded in 1866, just two years before Robert moved to St. Louis. Given his proximity from his residence to the company, and his listing in the St. Louis City Directory as a teamster as early as 1873, it’s likely that Parker-Russell had been his employer from the start.

Unlike New York and Boston, where Irish immigrants often faced hostility and exclusion, St. Louis offered a different reality. The city’s large Irish population had carved out its place, particularly in Kerry Patch, a working-class neighborhood where Irish families built tight-knit communities, found work, and gained political influence. The city’s booming industries—shipping, railroads, and manufacturing—offered jobs, but not necessarily choices. Most Irish laborers were confined to physically punishing work: dockworkers, factory hands, construction crews, and teamsters.

Robert left New York City the day he married Ellen, heading west to St. Louis, a city that offered opportunity but no guarantees. As a former soldier and prisoner of war, his body bore the scars of battle and captivity. Teamstering may not have been his ambition, but it was steady work. It didn’t require formal education—only grit, muscle, and the ability to navigate the city’s crowded streets, muddy roads, and bustling riverfronts.

Each morning, he would have climbed onto his heavy wooden wagon, gripping the reins with hands hardened by war and labor, guiding his team of horses through the smoke-filled air of industrial St. Louis. The sounds of blacksmiths hammering iron, factory whistles screeching, and merchants calling from the markets would have filled his days. The work was brutal, the pay modest, and the hours long. But it was a living. It was a way forward. It was survival—something Robert had always known how to do.

Achieving the Unthinkable: From Ireland to America, Robert and Ellen Hanna Become Landowners

Their modest early purchases suggest financial caution, while their later larger acquisitions indicate growing economic confidence. Their ability to purchase multiple properties—especially in the 1880s—demonstrates financial resilience after surviving the Civil War.  Ultimately, Robert and Ellen's real estate legacy wasn’t just about acquiring land—it was about creating the stability his family could never have had in Ireland, ensuring that his years of sacrifice paved the way for a secure and lasting future.

A Soldier’s End: Robert Hanna’s Final Years

Robert’s pension records reveal that his health began to decline in 1890:

Even as his strength faded, Robert remained a man of precision and duty. His Last Will and Testament, written in 1892, was clear and resolute:

• He appointed his wife, Ellen, as executrix of his estate.

• He directed that all funeral expenses and debts be paid.

• He left each of his sons and daughters one dollar—a customary practice when the primary inheritance was designated elsewhere.

• He bequeathed all of his real estate and personal property to Ellen—but only as long as she remained unmarried. If she remarried, everything would be divided equally among their children.

In 1899, Robert's health continued to decline further:

In the 1900 Census, Robert was still listed as a teamster, naturalized, and living in the same home in St. Louis with his children—including John Hanna, my great-grandfather. By 1906, it was clear that Robert was entering the final stage of his life.

On April 18, 1906, a surgeon’s certificate states that Robert was: 

By 1908, Robert's final year, his name still appeared in the city directory, but this time, there was no occupation listed beside it. The same man who had once marched into battle, endured the horrors of Andersonville, and spent decades rebuilding his life could no longer work. The years of war, captivity, and hardship had left their mark—his body, once strong enough to survive it all, had finally begun to fail him.

On October 7, 1908, Robert Hanna—a soldier, a survivor, a father, and a man who had carried his regimental flag through the gates of hell—took his last breath. His war had ended long ago, but his legacy remained. The battles he fought, the sacrifices he made, and the life he built after it all would not be forgotten.

Epilogue: When Past and Present Collide

At 19, I arrived at the University of Delaware—a proud Blue Hen, ready to carve out my own path. I packed my bags, moved into a dorm, and stepped into classrooms, eager to explore history as a major. My family had no roots in Delaware. To me, it was just another stop along the way, a stepping stone to my future. Or so I thought.

At 19, Robert Hanna went to war. Instead of packing for college, he shouldered a rifle and marched onto the battlefield. Instead of sitting in lecture halls, he endured cannon fire, starvation, and the horrors of combat. As the color bearer for his regiment, he carried the flag into battle—not just a symbol of unity, but a target. The enemy aimed for men like him first, determined to strike down the colors he held high. While I spent my days studying history, at his age he was fighting to survive it—serving in the 2nd Delaware Infantry, under the banner of a state that was never truly his home.

I had spent years buried in old records, piecing together stories of the past, never realizing that one of those stories belonged to me. Robert had walked this path before me—not in search of knowledge, but through war, survival, and sacrifice.

More than a hundred and forty years apart, our footsteps crossed in the most unexpected of places. He left Delaware as a soldier, marching into the unknown. I arrived in Delaware as a student, drawn toward history. Neither of us knew what awaited us. Yet somehow, our journeys led back to each other.