I read this article writting by Branch Spalding in The Journal of the American Military Institute, Vol. 3, No. 1 (Spring, 1939). I found the thesis very intriguing, so I thought I would share it with all of you.
A multiplicity of historians have dealt with the Battle of Fredericksburg (December 13, 1862). They present it with varying factual emphasis, with some display of divergent sympathies. All concur, however, on certain facts: Lee took up a strong position on the heights south and west of the Rappahannock River, commanding the river plain, with Longstreet's Corp on the left of his line, and Jackson's Corp on the right, Burnside crossed the river and attacked the position with two separate columns; Sumner's Right Grand Division, heavily reinforced by elements of Hooker's Center Grand Division, hit that portion of Longstreet's Corps posted on Marye's Heights, back of the town of Fredericksburg, and was repulsed; somewhat simultaneously, the left column, Franklin's Left Grand Division, moved against that portion of Jackson's line in the vicinity of Hamilton's Crossing, the extreme Confederate right; a relatively small part of the Left Grand Division was employed, and Meade's Division of Reynolds' Corps, finding an interval in the Confederate line, handsomely drove through and penetrated to a depth of four hundred yards only to be boxed off, compelled to withdraw and narroly escaped capture or annihilation. By nightfall, the battle was over, and Lee had given the Army of the Potomac another costly lesson with regard to frontal assault of a strong defensive position.
Many writers mention the fact that Jackson's Corps occupied a front of slightly less than two miles, and roughly three brigades constituted the front line (Archer with two regiments of Brockenbrough, Lane, and Pender), the flanks of no one brigade being in contact with those of the next in line. Some of them made no comment of this unusual disposition, or the great depth of line, which the three supporting divisions created. (The Corps strength was 38,944) Other's point to the "coincidence" that the breech between Archer and Lane afforded Meade his great opportunity. Some dwell on the fact that a German officer on Stuart's staff admonished about this condition before the battle. Some speak of it as a serious mistake. Most of them agree that it represents an oversight. One points to the piecemeal arrival of the corps and exigency of the situation. A.P. Hill, 12,978 strong, arrived at 10:00 A.M., December 12. Taliaferro came up by noon. During the night on December 12, and early morning of the thirteenth, Early's and D.H. Hill's Divisions came on the field. This is not an excessive time lapse of delivery of all units of a corps of some thirty-nine thousand men. Since the attack did not begin until 10:00 A.M. on the thirteenth, time was ample for closing the intervals in the front of the line with units of A.P. Hill's or Taliaferro's divisions. Argument could scarcely be supported that these dispositions were compelled by the exigency of time and the presence of the enemy. The presence of an enemy, a mile or more distant, and not yet deployed for attack, was no immediate threat in this sense.
It is a remarkable fact that not one of the historians suggests that this strange tactical disposition was deployed by Jackson deliberately and with a design, or calls attention to the striking similarity between Jackson's formation and what is known in modern warfare as a flexible defense.
On the front of thirty-three hundred yards, Jackson's first line was occupied by three brigades of A.P. Hill's Division. On the right was Archer's Brigade and two regiments of Brockenbrough. In the center was Lane's Brigade, an interval of six hundred years occuring between Lane and Archer. On the left and sharply refused, after another interval of six hundred yeards, was Pender's Brigade. Lane's position was well in advance of Archer's and Pender's. Thus the intervals were both front and lateral for Lane; and one can readily understand the perturbation his report indicates tha the felt before the attack. The aggregate strength of those front line units was approximately seventy-nine hundred.
On the wooded high ground behind each of the intervals was posted a brigade along a military road four hundred to six hundred yards in the rear. Gregg covering the right interval, and Thomas the left. Behind Gregg, and supporting the right, was Early's entire Divisipn; and behind Thomas, Taliaferro's Division. In general reserve was the large division of D.H. Hill (10,161 aggregate). Thus a thinly-manned front line (the garrison posted in three isolated units), was supported by deeply massed reserves, concealed in a forest and on a height. The force occupying the front line totaled seven-nine hundred men, while supports massed behind it totaled thirty-one thousand men and made a one mile depth of line. There were better than eleven men per yard of front.
In an age of close-order deployment and mass-line defense, here was an alluring invitation to an attacking force -- but the kind of invitation the spider extended to the fly. All that the attacker had to do was march straight for one of those two wide intervals (approximately six hundred yards each), taking as they advance a terrific cross fire of artillery and direct muskety, and the defensive line would be cracked. After they had penetrated to a suitable depth, Stonewall Jackson would do the rest with that dense reserve of sixteen brigades masked in the thicket. He would box and butcher them. And that is precisely what happened to Meade's Division. It was an invitation to a Cannae.
Monday, April 21, 2008
Sunday, April 20, 2008
General Orders Number Fifteen
I wanted to share a letter that I found in Major Henry McClellan's book, I Rode With Jeb Stuart. It was written by General T.T. Munford on August 4, 1884, and it describes a meeting Munford had with Jackson during the Seven Days' Battles. I love this letter, and I hope you enjoy it, too.
"My recollection is very distinct in regard to what happened on that day(June 30th). On the evening before, I had heard of some forage and provisions which had been left by the enemy at a point about four miles on our left; and as we (2nd Virginia Cavalry) had no quartermaster and no wagons, I started to carry my regiment over to this place to get food for man and beast. When I left him, General Jackson ordered me to be at the cross-roads at sunrise the next morning, ready to go in advance of his troops. The worst thunderstorm came up in the night that I ever was in, and in that thickly-wooded country it became so dark that one could not see his horse's ears. My command scattered in the storm, and I do not suppose any officer ever had a rougher time in any one night that I had to endure. When the first gray dawn appeared I started courier, adjutant, and officers, to blow up the scattered regiment; but at sunrise I had not more than fifty men, and I was half a mile from the cross-roads. When I arrived, to my horror, there sat Jackson waiting for me. He was in a bad humor, and said: "Colonel, my orders to you were to be here at sunrise." I explained my situation, telling him that we had no provisions, and that the storm and the dark night conspired against me. When I got through, he replied: 'Yes, sir. But, colonel, I ordered you to be here at sunrise. Move on with your regiment. If you meet the enemy drive in his pickets, and if you want artillery, Colonel Crutchfield will furnish you.'
"I started on with my little handful of men. As others came straggling on to join me Jackson noticed it, and sent two couriers to inform me that my 'men were straggling badly.' I rode back and went over the same story, hoping that he would be impressed with my difficulties. He listened to me, but replied as before. 'Yes, sir. But I ordered you to be here at sunrise, and I have been waiting for you for a quarter of an hour.'
"Seeing that he was in a peculiar mood, I determined to make the best of my troubles, sent my adjutant back, and made him halt the stragglers and form my men as they came up; and, with what I had, determined to give him no cause for complaint. When we came upon the enemy's picket we charged and pushed the picket evey step of the way into their camp, where were a large number of wounded and many stores. It was done so rapidly that the enemy's battery on the other side of White Oak Swamp could not fire on us without endangering their own friends.
"When Jackson came up he was smiling, and he at once ordered Crutchfield to bring up sixteen pieces of artillery, and very soon one or two batteries were at work.
"After a lapse of about an hour my regiment had assembled; and while our batteries were shelling those of the enemy; Jackson sent for me and said, 'Colonel, move your regiment over the creek and secure those guns. I will ride with you to the swamp.' When we reached the crossing we found that the enemy had torn up the bridge, and had thrown the timbers into the stream, forming a tangled mass whch seemed to prohibit a crossing. I said to General Jackson that I did not think we could cross. He looked at me, waved his hand, and replied, 'Yes, colonel, try it.' In we went, and you never saw such a time as the first squadron had; but we floundered over, and before I had formed the men, Jackson cried out to me to move on at the guns. Colonel Breckinridge started out with what we had over, and I soon got over the second squadron, and moved up the hill. We reached the guns, but they had an infantry support which gave us a volley; at the same time a battery on our right, which we had not seen, opened on us, and back we had to come. I sent General Jackson a dispatch telling him where I had crossed, but his engineers thought they could cross better above than below. A division of infantry was put in above the bridge, and hammered away all day, but did not get over. I never understood why he did not try the ford were I had crossed. He sent me a little slip of paper saying, I congratulate you on getting out,' or words to that effect. He held on to the idea of crossing over the bridge."
"My recollection is very distinct in regard to what happened on that day(June 30th). On the evening before, I had heard of some forage and provisions which had been left by the enemy at a point about four miles on our left; and as we (2nd Virginia Cavalry) had no quartermaster and no wagons, I started to carry my regiment over to this place to get food for man and beast. When I left him, General Jackson ordered me to be at the cross-roads at sunrise the next morning, ready to go in advance of his troops. The worst thunderstorm came up in the night that I ever was in, and in that thickly-wooded country it became so dark that one could not see his horse's ears. My command scattered in the storm, and I do not suppose any officer ever had a rougher time in any one night that I had to endure. When the first gray dawn appeared I started courier, adjutant, and officers, to blow up the scattered regiment; but at sunrise I had not more than fifty men, and I was half a mile from the cross-roads. When I arrived, to my horror, there sat Jackson waiting for me. He was in a bad humor, and said: "Colonel, my orders to you were to be here at sunrise." I explained my situation, telling him that we had no provisions, and that the storm and the dark night conspired against me. When I got through, he replied: 'Yes, sir. But, colonel, I ordered you to be here at sunrise. Move on with your regiment. If you meet the enemy drive in his pickets, and if you want artillery, Colonel Crutchfield will furnish you.'
"I started on with my little handful of men. As others came straggling on to join me Jackson noticed it, and sent two couriers to inform me that my 'men were straggling badly.' I rode back and went over the same story, hoping that he would be impressed with my difficulties. He listened to me, but replied as before. 'Yes, sir. But I ordered you to be here at sunrise, and I have been waiting for you for a quarter of an hour.'
"Seeing that he was in a peculiar mood, I determined to make the best of my troubles, sent my adjutant back, and made him halt the stragglers and form my men as they came up; and, with what I had, determined to give him no cause for complaint. When we came upon the enemy's picket we charged and pushed the picket evey step of the way into their camp, where were a large number of wounded and many stores. It was done so rapidly that the enemy's battery on the other side of White Oak Swamp could not fire on us without endangering their own friends.
"When Jackson came up he was smiling, and he at once ordered Crutchfield to bring up sixteen pieces of artillery, and very soon one or two batteries were at work.
"After a lapse of about an hour my regiment had assembled; and while our batteries were shelling those of the enemy; Jackson sent for me and said, 'Colonel, move your regiment over the creek and secure those guns. I will ride with you to the swamp.' When we reached the crossing we found that the enemy had torn up the bridge, and had thrown the timbers into the stream, forming a tangled mass whch seemed to prohibit a crossing. I said to General Jackson that I did not think we could cross. He looked at me, waved his hand, and replied, 'Yes, colonel, try it.' In we went, and you never saw such a time as the first squadron had; but we floundered over, and before I had formed the men, Jackson cried out to me to move on at the guns. Colonel Breckinridge started out with what we had over, and I soon got over the second squadron, and moved up the hill. We reached the guns, but they had an infantry support which gave us a volley; at the same time a battery on our right, which we had not seen, opened on us, and back we had to come. I sent General Jackson a dispatch telling him where I had crossed, but his engineers thought they could cross better above than below. A division of infantry was put in above the bridge, and hammered away all day, but did not get over. I never understood why he did not try the ford were I had crossed. He sent me a little slip of paper saying, I congratulate you on getting out,' or words to that effect. He held on to the idea of crossing over the bridge."
Friday, April 18, 2008
General Orders Number Fourteen
"We failed, but in the good providence of God apparent failure often proves a blessing." - General Robert E. Lee
In eighth grade, I had to read Gone With the Wind. I loved it. In my teens and twenties, I read the book over and over. I could quote huge sections of it from memory. I went through my thirties without reading it and picked it up again in my early forties. But something surprising had happened. In my earlier readings, I thought Scarlett was a person to emulate, and I held Ashley Wilkes in such contempt that I hated when he appeared on the page. Especially, after the war, when he just appeared to be helpless and hopeless. Grandma Fontaine called him a turtle on his back. An apt description, I thought. Why didn't he just roll over and get on with it, I huffed in my superior teenage wisdom.
Because sometimes, you just can't. And it wasn't until I had suffered a catastrophic failure of my own a little more than 10 years ago that I came to understand that. I thought I had my life figured out, but I didn't. In the years after that bitter disappointment, I was a turtle on my back, living through my own personal Gotterdammerung. I was afraid I was being winnowed out. That God had weighed me in the balance, and I had been found wanting. My reaction was to lay on the couch and try to eat my weight in birthday cake. I was angry at everything and kicking madly against the oxgoads. I was slowly being poisoned by bitterness.
The reason I love these men, Lee, Jackson, and Stuart, is because they taught me how to act in the face of overwhelming disappointment and failure. They remained constant...believing that the Lord held them in His hand and, even if they didn't understand it, their failure served His greater purpose.
Jackson lost his life six months after his long awaited daughter was born. "Let us cross over the river and rest under the shade of the trees." As Stuart lay dying, he lifted his golden voice in praise of the Lord. He told those around him that he was resigned; God's will be done.
Six years ago, I set out with a goal. I wanted to get a PhD in Middle East politics. I put my all my energy into that pursuit. Today, that dream has come to an end. Of the four grad schools I applied to, all have rejected me. In this heartbreaking moment, with an unknown future and no idea what I'm going to do in less than two months when I return home, I draw comfort from Lee's words and the examples of the men that I have studied for the past four years.
Failure is a necessary part of life. The challenge is in how we face it. Do I give in to the anger and self-pity like I did ten years ago. Or, am I a little wiser?
Think about the soldier of the Army of Northern Virginia on the morning after the surrender. He is heading home. But he has lost everything. If he is from the deep South --Georgia or Mississippi or parts of South Carolina --then his home is gone, his fields are barren, and his money is worthless. Maybe his family is scattered and he doesn't know to where. All he owns is on this back and in his pockets. The political environmnent of Reconstruction will do all it can to keep him defeated.
Yet, these gallant men returned home and began to rebuild. In Gone With the Wind, you see that happening. The great rebuilding. The years after the war revealed the quality of their characters more than the war itself. They put their hands to whatever was before them and rebuilt their lives. Their faith in God sustained them. They lived quiet and productive lives under the flag they fought.
Lee is an epistle written by God. He returned to Richmond without a home, without a career, with no money... and only the reputation of his name. He had a wife and three daughters to care for. He didn't dissolve into self pity. He looked forward and never back. That is so important. Jackson, on his death bed, looked forward. Stuart, on his death bed, looked forward. In looking forward, they saw the purpose of God and moved toward it rapidly and gladly.
So, my disappointment in not being selected for grad school will dissipate. I will return home in less than two months to rebuild. But I have been equipped with some powerful tools that I obtained in the six years I spent getting a very good education. The professors at Tel Aviv University taught me to how to be a historian. In the quiet of the two years I spent in Israel, I have discovered just what it is I want to study. I have a trilogy to finish and another one to begin. And I have a biography of Stuart that I am going to write. I want to write more musicals with my best friend. Unlike the soldier on the morning of April 10th, I am not destitute. I suffer from an embarresment of riches and a deep abiding peace that God is faithful.
In eighth grade, I had to read Gone With the Wind. I loved it. In my teens and twenties, I read the book over and over. I could quote huge sections of it from memory. I went through my thirties without reading it and picked it up again in my early forties. But something surprising had happened. In my earlier readings, I thought Scarlett was a person to emulate, and I held Ashley Wilkes in such contempt that I hated when he appeared on the page. Especially, after the war, when he just appeared to be helpless and hopeless. Grandma Fontaine called him a turtle on his back. An apt description, I thought. Why didn't he just roll over and get on with it, I huffed in my superior teenage wisdom.
Because sometimes, you just can't. And it wasn't until I had suffered a catastrophic failure of my own a little more than 10 years ago that I came to understand that. I thought I had my life figured out, but I didn't. In the years after that bitter disappointment, I was a turtle on my back, living through my own personal Gotterdammerung. I was afraid I was being winnowed out. That God had weighed me in the balance, and I had been found wanting. My reaction was to lay on the couch and try to eat my weight in birthday cake. I was angry at everything and kicking madly against the oxgoads. I was slowly being poisoned by bitterness.
The reason I love these men, Lee, Jackson, and Stuart, is because they taught me how to act in the face of overwhelming disappointment and failure. They remained constant...believing that the Lord held them in His hand and, even if they didn't understand it, their failure served His greater purpose.
Jackson lost his life six months after his long awaited daughter was born. "Let us cross over the river and rest under the shade of the trees." As Stuart lay dying, he lifted his golden voice in praise of the Lord. He told those around him that he was resigned; God's will be done.
Six years ago, I set out with a goal. I wanted to get a PhD in Middle East politics. I put my all my energy into that pursuit. Today, that dream has come to an end. Of the four grad schools I applied to, all have rejected me. In this heartbreaking moment, with an unknown future and no idea what I'm going to do in less than two months when I return home, I draw comfort from Lee's words and the examples of the men that I have studied for the past four years.
Failure is a necessary part of life. The challenge is in how we face it. Do I give in to the anger and self-pity like I did ten years ago. Or, am I a little wiser?
Think about the soldier of the Army of Northern Virginia on the morning after the surrender. He is heading home. But he has lost everything. If he is from the deep South --Georgia or Mississippi or parts of South Carolina --then his home is gone, his fields are barren, and his money is worthless. Maybe his family is scattered and he doesn't know to where. All he owns is on this back and in his pockets. The political environmnent of Reconstruction will do all it can to keep him defeated.
Yet, these gallant men returned home and began to rebuild. In Gone With the Wind, you see that happening. The great rebuilding. The years after the war revealed the quality of their characters more than the war itself. They put their hands to whatever was before them and rebuilt their lives. Their faith in God sustained them. They lived quiet and productive lives under the flag they fought.
Lee is an epistle written by God. He returned to Richmond without a home, without a career, with no money... and only the reputation of his name. He had a wife and three daughters to care for. He didn't dissolve into self pity. He looked forward and never back. That is so important. Jackson, on his death bed, looked forward. Stuart, on his death bed, looked forward. In looking forward, they saw the purpose of God and moved toward it rapidly and gladly.
So, my disappointment in not being selected for grad school will dissipate. I will return home in less than two months to rebuild. But I have been equipped with some powerful tools that I obtained in the six years I spent getting a very good education. The professors at Tel Aviv University taught me to how to be a historian. In the quiet of the two years I spent in Israel, I have discovered just what it is I want to study. I have a trilogy to finish and another one to begin. And I have a biography of Stuart that I am going to write. I want to write more musicals with my best friend. Unlike the soldier on the morning of April 10th, I am not destitute. I suffer from an embarresment of riches and a deep abiding peace that God is faithful.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
General Orders Number Thirteen
I recently joined an on-line society that has been all abuzz with the opening of the new visitors center at Gettysburg. From all the emails bombarding my inbox, the visitors center is really something. An issue was raised, though, about the display citing slavery as the cause of the war. Some in the society were afraid that this could upset the Lost Causers, but the overwhelming sentiment was "too bad," because... well, you know those Lost Causers.
Congress passed a law that makes it mandatory for all national parks to emphasize slavery as the sole cause of the war. The new visitors center at Gettysburg has complied. A new generation of children will grow up believing that the South started the war to protect their "peculiar institution" from the meddling Yankees. Judging by the society's emails, the majority doesn't have a problem with that explanation. And if someone does protest... well, what do you expect from a Lost Causer.
Now, I keep throwing that term around "Lost Causer." Those employing it in their emails do so as an insult. We Lost Causers are living in denial about why our great-great-great-great (I hope that is enough greats) grandfathers picked up their guns and started the war. I don't see it as an insult, but as a compliment. Why? Glad you asked.
As a Lost Causer, my argument is that slavery was not the sole reason for the war. This argument is sound. Thumbing through Earth's history, just how many wars had only one singular cause? Just one that historians can confidentally point to and say, "this right here is why the war was fought." I don't know of any. (But I don't claim to know all causes of all the wars fought) Life and politics are much more complicated than that. There were many issues tearing the country apart during the first half of the 19th century and not just slavery.
Now, to be honest, I have heard some of my friends say that slavery had nothing to do with the war. That is as false a statement as slavery was the only cause. You don't have to read too far into the historical record to see that slavery and all that slavery represented to the Southern economy was a powerful reason for the split in the nation. So, I want to go on record and say that yes slavery played a significant part but it was not the sole reason for the war.
Here's my problem with Congress' demand that the war be reduced to slavery, and the Gettysburg visitor centers' compliance with that edict. First of all, it's not true. It represents one side as all good (the Union) and the other side as all bad (the South). It reduces all arguments to the contrary as the ravings of the lunatic Lost Causer. And it paints all those who fought and died as fighting and dying for one goal. The Confederates to keep their slaves, and the Union to set all men free. And sorry, it's just not that simple.
What do you do with the Union soldier, who, upon hearing of the Emancipation Proclamation, was furious and wrote home that he felt like he had been betrayed. He didn't take up arms to free the slave but to preserve the Union. Or the Confederate soldier who didn't own any slaves but took up arms to defend his home. These real motives have been swept aside as unimportant. No, Congress, in its infinite wisdom, has decided to give all the participants one motive - slavery!
The purpose of the visitors center is to teach the history of the battle. By reducing the cause of the war to a such a simplistic reason, the visitors center doesn't seem to care what history it teaches or the damage it causes: to the soldiers or those who come to the center to learn about the battle. And that probably makes me the angriest of all.
Congress passed a law that makes it mandatory for all national parks to emphasize slavery as the sole cause of the war. The new visitors center at Gettysburg has complied. A new generation of children will grow up believing that the South started the war to protect their "peculiar institution" from the meddling Yankees. Judging by the society's emails, the majority doesn't have a problem with that explanation. And if someone does protest... well, what do you expect from a Lost Causer.
Now, I keep throwing that term around "Lost Causer." Those employing it in their emails do so as an insult. We Lost Causers are living in denial about why our great-great-great-great (I hope that is enough greats) grandfathers picked up their guns and started the war. I don't see it as an insult, but as a compliment. Why? Glad you asked.
As a Lost Causer, my argument is that slavery was not the sole reason for the war. This argument is sound. Thumbing through Earth's history, just how many wars had only one singular cause? Just one that historians can confidentally point to and say, "this right here is why the war was fought." I don't know of any. (But I don't claim to know all causes of all the wars fought) Life and politics are much more complicated than that. There were many issues tearing the country apart during the first half of the 19th century and not just slavery.
Now, to be honest, I have heard some of my friends say that slavery had nothing to do with the war. That is as false a statement as slavery was the only cause. You don't have to read too far into the historical record to see that slavery and all that slavery represented to the Southern economy was a powerful reason for the split in the nation. So, I want to go on record and say that yes slavery played a significant part but it was not the sole reason for the war.
Here's my problem with Congress' demand that the war be reduced to slavery, and the Gettysburg visitor centers' compliance with that edict. First of all, it's not true. It represents one side as all good (the Union) and the other side as all bad (the South). It reduces all arguments to the contrary as the ravings of the lunatic Lost Causer. And it paints all those who fought and died as fighting and dying for one goal. The Confederates to keep their slaves, and the Union to set all men free. And sorry, it's just not that simple.
What do you do with the Union soldier, who, upon hearing of the Emancipation Proclamation, was furious and wrote home that he felt like he had been betrayed. He didn't take up arms to free the slave but to preserve the Union. Or the Confederate soldier who didn't own any slaves but took up arms to defend his home. These real motives have been swept aside as unimportant. No, Congress, in its infinite wisdom, has decided to give all the participants one motive - slavery!
The purpose of the visitors center is to teach the history of the battle. By reducing the cause of the war to a such a simplistic reason, the visitors center doesn't seem to care what history it teaches or the damage it causes: to the soldiers or those who come to the center to learn about the battle. And that probably makes me the angriest of all.
Saturday, April 12, 2008
General Orders Number Twelve
When I first became aware that there was such a thing as a Civil War enthusiast, I was overjoyed. I met a whole bunch of them on an on-line forum. Wow! People who were as interested in the war and the men who fought it as I was. I was like a kid turned loose in a candy store. Happy, happy! Joy, joy!
Needless to say, I was in for a rude awakening and a valuable education. Sides were drawn and, if you didn't pick one, your fellow enthusiasts would pick one for you. And once that happened, in the eyes of the "other side" all your comments were tainted and basically lies. The conversations were cut-throat, rude, and had one goal... to destroy any argument you might bring to the forum. I couldn't believe it. This wasn't rooting for Ohio State to beat Michigan. This wasn't putting a bumper sticker on your car that reads, "my favorite teams are Ohio State and whoever is playing Michigan." No, these enthusiasts were deadly serious about defending their side against the other.
Actually, I thought it might just be confined to that forum and those particular enthusiast. But, I'm learning that is not the case. Sad to say, after the surrender of Lee 143 years ago this week (April 9), that most enthusiasts have a dog in the fight.
I was reading a book about Grant's leadership. Now, I like Ulysses S. Grant. But the author was determined to advance Grant's case at the expense of Lee. Grant was all brilliance. Lee was overstated. Grant was all that and a bag of chips and Lee was not. Whatever.
But this mentality is even in the most casual of conversations. If I don't believe that slavery was the lone cause for the war, I'm branded a Lost Causer. I recently joined another on-line group, in which a poster stated that it wasn't fair for Phil Sheridan be compared to Jeb Stuart, since using Stuart as a standard was setting the bar a little low. I'll admit, I was a little offended for my poor Stuart, but mostly, I was suddenly tired of the whole attitude that permeates any meaningful discussion on the war.
If all we are doing is protecting our side at the expense of the other side... then what's the use of having these conversations? Why can't you admire the men who fought on both sides? Why act like it still matters who was right and who was wrong? The war is over. The men who fought it are consigned to their graves. The issue has been resolved and there is nothing anyone can do about it now. Both sides followed the conviction of their hearts. Both sides believed they were right. Both sides believed they were fighting for their homes and their families. One side won and one side lost. This attitude to strip one side or the other of the valor and honor that is due them is juvenile. Why can't we honor all their sacrifices... all their heroism... all their choices?
As this week closes, 143 years ago, Robert E. Lee, accompanied by his aide-de-camp, Colonel Charles Marshall, rode up to the McLean house at Appomattox Court House to surrender the Army of Northern Virginia to General Ulysses S. Grant. Now, in this scene, my heart is drawn to Lee. I can't help it. I've read about his actions, his feelings, his behavior and I am moved by the quality of his character. But I don't perceive Grant as the "enemy," to be hated. When I read about his magnanimous behavior in light of his army's victory and his kindness toward the vanquished, I am equally moved by the quality of his character. Both behaved admirably and with honor and a respect toward each other that today is seldom seen when enthusiasts get together to "refight" the war.
Perhaps the answer is that simple. Some come together to "refight" the war. For those who support the Union, I see an attitude that is likened to doing an end-zone dance and spiking the football in triumph. For the South, it is the need to strike back at the victors. If that is the purpose for the conversation or debate, then, I guess, it does matter which dog wins. I don't like poor losers or winners. So, I won't be joining you.
But if you are like me, and the reason you study the war is because you are drawn to the men and want to honor the lives they lived, then you and I have a lot to talk about. I really don't care about the politics of the era. What I care about is the courage under fire, the genius under duress, the honor in defeat, and the compassion in victory. For me... these are the great lessons to be learned from the Civil War.
Needless to say, I was in for a rude awakening and a valuable education. Sides were drawn and, if you didn't pick one, your fellow enthusiasts would pick one for you. And once that happened, in the eyes of the "other side" all your comments were tainted and basically lies. The conversations were cut-throat, rude, and had one goal... to destroy any argument you might bring to the forum. I couldn't believe it. This wasn't rooting for Ohio State to beat Michigan. This wasn't putting a bumper sticker on your car that reads, "my favorite teams are Ohio State and whoever is playing Michigan." No, these enthusiasts were deadly serious about defending their side against the other.
Actually, I thought it might just be confined to that forum and those particular enthusiast. But, I'm learning that is not the case. Sad to say, after the surrender of Lee 143 years ago this week (April 9), that most enthusiasts have a dog in the fight.
I was reading a book about Grant's leadership. Now, I like Ulysses S. Grant. But the author was determined to advance Grant's case at the expense of Lee. Grant was all brilliance. Lee was overstated. Grant was all that and a bag of chips and Lee was not. Whatever.
But this mentality is even in the most casual of conversations. If I don't believe that slavery was the lone cause for the war, I'm branded a Lost Causer. I recently joined another on-line group, in which a poster stated that it wasn't fair for Phil Sheridan be compared to Jeb Stuart, since using Stuart as a standard was setting the bar a little low. I'll admit, I was a little offended for my poor Stuart, but mostly, I was suddenly tired of the whole attitude that permeates any meaningful discussion on the war.
If all we are doing is protecting our side at the expense of the other side... then what's the use of having these conversations? Why can't you admire the men who fought on both sides? Why act like it still matters who was right and who was wrong? The war is over. The men who fought it are consigned to their graves. The issue has been resolved and there is nothing anyone can do about it now. Both sides followed the conviction of their hearts. Both sides believed they were right. Both sides believed they were fighting for their homes and their families. One side won and one side lost. This attitude to strip one side or the other of the valor and honor that is due them is juvenile. Why can't we honor all their sacrifices... all their heroism... all their choices?
As this week closes, 143 years ago, Robert E. Lee, accompanied by his aide-de-camp, Colonel Charles Marshall, rode up to the McLean house at Appomattox Court House to surrender the Army of Northern Virginia to General Ulysses S. Grant. Now, in this scene, my heart is drawn to Lee. I can't help it. I've read about his actions, his feelings, his behavior and I am moved by the quality of his character. But I don't perceive Grant as the "enemy," to be hated. When I read about his magnanimous behavior in light of his army's victory and his kindness toward the vanquished, I am equally moved by the quality of his character. Both behaved admirably and with honor and a respect toward each other that today is seldom seen when enthusiasts get together to "refight" the war.
Perhaps the answer is that simple. Some come together to "refight" the war. For those who support the Union, I see an attitude that is likened to doing an end-zone dance and spiking the football in triumph. For the South, it is the need to strike back at the victors. If that is the purpose for the conversation or debate, then, I guess, it does matter which dog wins. I don't like poor losers or winners. So, I won't be joining you.
But if you are like me, and the reason you study the war is because you are drawn to the men and want to honor the lives they lived, then you and I have a lot to talk about. I really don't care about the politics of the era. What I care about is the courage under fire, the genius under duress, the honor in defeat, and the compassion in victory. For me... these are the great lessons to be learned from the Civil War.
Friday, April 4, 2008
General Orders Number Eleven
As I have mentioned, I am writing an alternative history trilogy about the Army of Northern Virginia. The series is called The Chancellorsville Chronicles, and volume 1 is entitled Throw Away the Scabbard. I have received alot of needed feedback (for which I am grateful). That also means that the novel has undergone a severe rewrite from Draft Five to Draft Six. As I prepare the manuscript for the daunting task of finding an agent and publisher, I've posted the prologue below to wet appetites. LOL!
I hope you enjoy it. Of course, I am always open to suggestions and thoughts. And if the grammar cop inside of you just has to say something about my comma use, I would be especially thrilled to hear from you.
I hope you enjoy it. Of course, I am always open to suggestions and thoughts. And if the grammar cop inside of you just has to say something about my comma use, I would be especially thrilled to hear from you.
Thursday, April 3, 2008
Throw Away the Scabbard - Prologue
Prologue
Virginia Wilderness
Near Chancellor’s Crossing
May 2, 1863
Lieutenant General Thomas Jackson, commanding the Second Corps of the Confederate Army of Northern Virginia, raised his hand. His small party of eight staff members halted on the Mountain Road, a half-mile in front of the corps’ skirmishers. Jackson was inching his way down the heavily-rutted road, cut through an impenetrable terrain of pines, shrubs, and hardwood trees, trying to spy out whether the Union army was going to run all the way back to Washington or make a stand in the wilderness and fight. Since he heard nothing but tree limbs rasping in the cool evening breeze, Jackson nudged Little Sorrel, his small red Morgan, and continued down the road.
The moon escaped from its cloudy shroud, illuminating the road and the thickets on either side of him. He scanned them, but they were empty. A flurry of activity, two hundred, no, maybe three hundred yards directly in front of him caught his attention. He flung up his hand. His aides pulled up, not making a sound. Jackson leaned forward in his saddle, listening. The sounds were recognizable: the sharp ring of axes on trees, shovels scraping against the rocky ground, shouts, and commands. All the sounds associated with the hasty construction of breastworks.
Jackson took out his watch, tilting it until he could read the thin black hands in the faint moonlight. It was nine o’clock. Four hours ago, the Second Corps had smashed into the Union’s right flank, surprising the Yankees at dinner. When 25,000 Rebels came screaming out of the woods, the Yankees threw down their plates and ran. Jackson ordered his men to give chase. With fatigue, darkness, and the thick undergrowth unraveling his assault, Jackson instructed his three division commanders to reorganize the men as quickly as possible. Not satisfied with routing the Yankees, he was determined to cut them off from the fords along the Rapidan and Rappahannock Rivers, which bordered the wilderness to the north and west. While his men hastened into formation, he had pressed ahead to see if he could determine what the Yankees planned to do. A tree crashed to the ground. He had his answer. They were going to fight.
“Let’s return,” he said, turning Little Sorrel around and heading back toward the Confederate line, back to the battle, and back to the two year war for Southern Independence.
He followed his aides onto the Bullock Road where he had left the 18th North Carolina Infantry Regiment holding the Confederate forward position. Suddenly the woods exploded with the thunder of hundreds of guns. Musket flashes pierced the darkness, lighting up the blooming dogwoods. Bullets ricocheted off trees, whistled through the underbrush, and slammed into the dirt. A branch crashed to the ground on Jackson’s left. His aides stampeded to avoid the deadly fire.
Before Jackson could flee, someone knocked him out of his saddle and onto the hard earth. He groaned when his ribs smashed onto a large root. A heavy body landed on top of him, pinning him down, while bullets smashed into the tree above his head. “Lie still, General.” Jackson recognized the voice of his brother-in-law, Joseph Morrison.
Another volley pierced the night. He tried to rise, but Joe shoved him back down to the ground. The root dug into his sore ribs. Overhead, his men yelled for the Tarheels to cease firing. Slowly, the gunfire abated, like the end of a rain storm.
Jackson shifted impatiently. “Lieutenant, you can get off me now. The shooting has stopped.”
Joe released his grip and rose to his knees. Jackson sat up, leaned against the tree, and felt his ribs. He winced.
“Are you bad hurt?” Joe asked.
“It’s a trifling. Providence has been kind to us this evening.”
More horses poured down the road, this time from the direction of the Confederate line. In the moonlight, Jackson saw the red shirted Ambrose Powell Hill, commander of the Light Division, jumping off his horse. He knelt down next to Jackson. “General, are you hurt?”
“Just a couple of bruised ribs,” Jackson replied, after completing a very thorough search of his person. He stood, plucking his weather-stained kepi from the ground. He shook the dust from it. “Tell me, Hill, have you managed to find your way to the Rappahannock?” Jackson asked. He drew the kepi down over his eyes.
“Yes, sir, but the men are exhausted. I think we should hold off the attack until morning.”
“No, sir. No! Press them!” Jackson stabbed his finger into Hill’s chest. “Don’t let them escape. Cut them off from the United States Ford.”
“Yes, sir.” Hill remounted and disappeared into the night.
“Lieutenant Morrison, I want you to return to General Lee. Tell him we’re in possession of the fords along the Rappahannock River. He must press forward immediately.”
Joe galloped away. Jackson swung up on Little Sorrel and rode back in the direction of the army, leaving the rest of his aides scrambling to catch up.
Near Chancellor’s Crossing
May 2, 1863
Lieutenant General Thomas Jackson, commanding the Second Corps of the Confederate Army of Northern Virginia, raised his hand. His small party of eight staff members halted on the Mountain Road, a half-mile in front of the corps’ skirmishers. Jackson was inching his way down the heavily-rutted road, cut through an impenetrable terrain of pines, shrubs, and hardwood trees, trying to spy out whether the Union army was going to run all the way back to Washington or make a stand in the wilderness and fight. Since he heard nothing but tree limbs rasping in the cool evening breeze, Jackson nudged Little Sorrel, his small red Morgan, and continued down the road.
The moon escaped from its cloudy shroud, illuminating the road and the thickets on either side of him. He scanned them, but they were empty. A flurry of activity, two hundred, no, maybe three hundred yards directly in front of him caught his attention. He flung up his hand. His aides pulled up, not making a sound. Jackson leaned forward in his saddle, listening. The sounds were recognizable: the sharp ring of axes on trees, shovels scraping against the rocky ground, shouts, and commands. All the sounds associated with the hasty construction of breastworks.
Jackson took out his watch, tilting it until he could read the thin black hands in the faint moonlight. It was nine o’clock. Four hours ago, the Second Corps had smashed into the Union’s right flank, surprising the Yankees at dinner. When 25,000 Rebels came screaming out of the woods, the Yankees threw down their plates and ran. Jackson ordered his men to give chase. With fatigue, darkness, and the thick undergrowth unraveling his assault, Jackson instructed his three division commanders to reorganize the men as quickly as possible. Not satisfied with routing the Yankees, he was determined to cut them off from the fords along the Rapidan and Rappahannock Rivers, which bordered the wilderness to the north and west. While his men hastened into formation, he had pressed ahead to see if he could determine what the Yankees planned to do. A tree crashed to the ground. He had his answer. They were going to fight.
“Let’s return,” he said, turning Little Sorrel around and heading back toward the Confederate line, back to the battle, and back to the two year war for Southern Independence.
He followed his aides onto the Bullock Road where he had left the 18th North Carolina Infantry Regiment holding the Confederate forward position. Suddenly the woods exploded with the thunder of hundreds of guns. Musket flashes pierced the darkness, lighting up the blooming dogwoods. Bullets ricocheted off trees, whistled through the underbrush, and slammed into the dirt. A branch crashed to the ground on Jackson’s left. His aides stampeded to avoid the deadly fire.
Before Jackson could flee, someone knocked him out of his saddle and onto the hard earth. He groaned when his ribs smashed onto a large root. A heavy body landed on top of him, pinning him down, while bullets smashed into the tree above his head. “Lie still, General.” Jackson recognized the voice of his brother-in-law, Joseph Morrison.
Another volley pierced the night. He tried to rise, but Joe shoved him back down to the ground. The root dug into his sore ribs. Overhead, his men yelled for the Tarheels to cease firing. Slowly, the gunfire abated, like the end of a rain storm.
Jackson shifted impatiently. “Lieutenant, you can get off me now. The shooting has stopped.”
Joe released his grip and rose to his knees. Jackson sat up, leaned against the tree, and felt his ribs. He winced.
“Are you bad hurt?” Joe asked.
“It’s a trifling. Providence has been kind to us this evening.”
More horses poured down the road, this time from the direction of the Confederate line. In the moonlight, Jackson saw the red shirted Ambrose Powell Hill, commander of the Light Division, jumping off his horse. He knelt down next to Jackson. “General, are you hurt?”
“Just a couple of bruised ribs,” Jackson replied, after completing a very thorough search of his person. He stood, plucking his weather-stained kepi from the ground. He shook the dust from it. “Tell me, Hill, have you managed to find your way to the Rappahannock?” Jackson asked. He drew the kepi down over his eyes.
“Yes, sir, but the men are exhausted. I think we should hold off the attack until morning.”
“No, sir. No! Press them!” Jackson stabbed his finger into Hill’s chest. “Don’t let them escape. Cut them off from the United States Ford.”
“Yes, sir.” Hill remounted and disappeared into the night.
“Lieutenant Morrison, I want you to return to General Lee. Tell him we’re in possession of the fords along the Rappahannock River. He must press forward immediately.”
Joe galloped away. Jackson swung up on Little Sorrel and rode back in the direction of the army, leaving the rest of his aides scrambling to catch up.
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