I’m here not to gape at the giant windows that tower above but, instead, to tuck myself away along one of the corridors of alcoves that flanks the main chamber. One small bay after another, granite pods masoned into gothic arches and trims.

I’ve come here to this great monument to our national spirit because it’s also the site of my favorite Lee-Jackson memorial. Here, if anywhere, live Gods and Generals.

The first time I saw the Memorial Bay dedicated to Robert E. Lee and Stonewall Jackson, it nearly floored me. How the two Confederate icons found their way into the National Cathedral boggled my mind. Yet there they stand in stained glass, each in his own niche, side by side. Lee and Jackson, the Christian soldiers.

Original design sketch of the Lee alcove. The Jackson alcove, located adjacent to the right, looks the same.

Each niche in the Memorial Bay measures nine feet from side to side, fourteen feet from entrance to window, and twenty feet from marble floor to vaulted ceiling. The Bay is located near the front of the cathedral’s nave, along the south wall—“a prominent place near the center of the church where thousands pass each week,” noted L. M. Bashinsky, the U.D.C. chairwoman who oversaw the windows’ completion.

According to The History of the United Daughters of the Confederacy, Parts One and Two, the memorial “was born in the ‘mind and heart of a Texas daughter, Mrs. Oscar Barthold’” in 1931, who originally proposed a bronze tablet with a relief portrait of Lee to cost “no more than $1,000.” After “due consideration,” however, the U.D.C. felt it was “better to defer this memorial until others have been completed.”

Another 15 years passed before the effort got up and going again, under the direction of Bashinsky, who shepherded the project through to its dedication in 1953. By that point, the scope of the project had changed dramatically.

According to Bashinsky, the dean of the cathedral said “only a memorial commensurate with General Lee’s position among the nation’s great men would be acceptable to the Cathedral. In keeping with the memorial to Washington and [Woodrow] Wilson, the Lee Niche was proposed.” (Wilson is buried in the cathedral a few bays away.)

“To Washington, Wilson, Jefferson, and Madison great personal memorials have been erected already,” Bashinsky told U.D.C. members.

Now the opportunity to erect a fitting memorial to Robert E. Lee here in this great sanctuary has been presented to the people of the South. By whom else could this work be so significantly or lovingly done? Where else could it be so advantageously placed as here, in the city now not only the capital of the United States, but of the world—a mecca for the footsteps of posterity—here where thousands go who will never cross the Potomac to see the South’s veneration of Lee as evidenced at Stratford and Lexington?

Of special appeal to U.D.C. members was the ability to memorialize their organization and the legacy of the Confederacy.

[H]ere, where the nation’s heroes are to be honored side by side, the patriotism of the Confederacy shall have recognition. No boy from either side of the line must ever stand in this great gathering of soldiers and wonder at the absence of a Southern hero. One must be there lest the question be: were the men who wore the Gray really patriots; did they fight for their country to keep it the way their forebears founded it? They were and they did; and, for their sake, their beloved leader must have place where the great spirits of our nation’s history are to be enshrined.

The project evolved from a $1,000 plaque into a $110,000 “Memorial Bay consisting of two niches—one for Lee and the other for Jackson. Thus, “the U.D.C. had the privilege of thus honoring two great Christian soldiers,” the organization’s history said. Nearly half the money came from non-UDC donors, including Northern philanthropist James Sheldon.

In the U.D.C.’s final report, Bashinsky said

these memorials…in this great temple of worship, dedicated to the glory of God and the good of Mankind, are memorials not only to Robert E. Lee and to ‘Stonewall’ Jackson, to the Confederate Government and the principles for which it stood, but in the years to come, a Memorial to the United Daughters of the Confederacy in America’s Westminster Abbey among the nation’s Great and Good, and will attest to the world our interest in things spiritual and that we passed this Way, the Way of Truth and Light.

Lee’s double-window stands to the left. It depicts scenes of Lee as an engineer, of his time at West Point, of his victory at Chancellorsville, and of as an exemplar of Christian virtue. “Lord lettest now thy servant depart in peace,” it says, with a robed Lee outstretching his arms. Beneath the window, inscribed in stone, is the following legend:

To the Glory of God, all righteous and all merciful, and in undying tribute to the life and witness of Robert Edward Lee, servant of God, leader of men, general-on-chief of the armies of the Confederate States whose compelling sense of duty, serene faith, and unfailing courtesy mark him for all ages as a Christian soldier without fear and without reproach, this memorial bay is gratefully built by the United Daughters of the Confederacy.

Jackson’s double-window stands to the right. Scenes depict him in Mexico, at VMI, kneeling on the battlefield while reading a Bible, and crossing the river. “So he passed over and all the trumpets sounded for him,” it says. Beneath the window is the inscription:

To the Glory of the Lord of Hosts whom he so zealously served and in honored memory of Thomas Jonathan Jackson, lieutenant general, C.S.A., like a stone wall in his steadfastness, swift as lightning, and mighty in battle, he walked humbly before his Creator, whose word was his guide, this bay is erected by the United Daughters of the Confederacy and his admirers from South and North.

Together, the windows represent the most stunning example of Lee-Jackson memorialization I have ever seen.

An organ demonstration starts up, shaking me from my reverie with music as loud as artillery. It’s as if, just for the briefest of moments, the windows have their own soundtrack—some thunderous church standard that might just as well be the Lee-Jackson version of “Ride of the Valkyries.” The feeling passes, and instead, the notes trapped in the alcove press in tighter than the claustrophobic stone. Time to go.

I dip my head in a brief nod. The Confederate chieftains not only made it into the Federal capital after all, they’ve been enshrined there. Part of me is aghast—and part of me remains delighted.

————

Sources:

Bashinsky, L. M. “The Proposed Memorial to General Robert Edward Lee in the Washington Cathedral.” The Virginia Magazine of History and Biography. July 1949. Vol. 57, pp. 301–6.

The History of the United Daughters of the Confederacy, Parts One and Two. Kessinger Publishing Company. pp 279-281.

Confederate President Jefferson Davis

The symbolism of choosing the 22nd was further magnified by the opening paragraph of the inauguration speech given by Davis.

“On this the birthday of the man most identified with the establishment of American independence, and beneath the monument erected to commemorate his heroic virtues and those of his compatriots, we have assembled to usher into existence the Permanent Government of the Confederate States. Through this instrumentality, under the favor of Divine Providence, we hope to perpetuate the principles of our revolutionary fathers. The day, the memory, and the purpose seem fitly associated.”

Today we celebrate the 280th birthday of our “Founding Father” George Washington. However, 150 years ago today Jefferson Davis was using America’s First Citizen to inspire a Second American Revolution. What would our “Founding Father” have thought about that?

President George Washington

One of Morgan’s Men is an outstanding addition to an ever increasing body of Civil War memoirs and accounts. John M. Porter fought for the Confederacy with the Ninth Kentucky Cavalry and served under General John Hunt Morgan. Porter’s experiences and his retelling of them give us a wonderful perspective on many aspects of the Civil War.  Editor Kent Masterson Brown lets Porter’s memoir speak for itself. Written around 1872 for his family, Brown states that Porter’s memory of his experiences was very complete.  Porter’s narrative is rich in details and is supported by Brown’s editing, endnotes, pictures, and maps, instead of being made comprehendible by them. Brown’s additions serve to flesh out Porter’s story without muting his voice. The result is a very accessible look into the world of Civil War Kentucky and Morgan’s raiders.

John Hunt Morgan

Serving with Morgan’s raiders, Porter and his comrades had a different experience than soldiers who fought with more regular units. Morgan’s cavalrymen participated in raids through Union territory in Kentucky and Tennessee, destroying Union supplies and transportation while dodging the enemy. This gave the men considerably more freedom than their counterparts in other units. Oftentimes, between raids or while in enemy territory Morgan’s men had to split up into small groups or individuals, fending for themselves until a predetermined time. Operating in states that had populations of Unionists and Confederate sympathizers as well as territory held by both sides, fending for oneself meant locating those sympathetic to your cause who were willing to help you, a relationship between soldier and civilian that endangered both.

Porter describes utilizing Confederate sympathizers and kinship networks to survive within enemy territory. In addition, Porter details the deceptions he and his men used to keep themselves away from harm, from pretending to be Unionist civilians to avoid prison to manipulating the tracks of their horses to confuse Union soldiers. This extended to Porter’s home as well. Even though his family was pro-Confederate, they were living in Union territory. Porter had to be very careful whenever he went home, and he recounts the deceptions used to keep his identity from his family’s slaves, afraid they would report him to the Union. This constant interaction with home and relatives is another aspect that is unique to these men. In contrast to soldiers who remained with their unit during their whole term of service, unless lucky enough to get a furlough, Morgan’s men were in continual contact with family and friends. In fact, Morgan used that to his advantage, sending men on raids into their home counties and towns because they knew the territory.

Another valuable aspect of Porter’s memoir is that we see Porter as cavalryman and raider and also as prisoner of war. During a failed raid in June 1863, Porter was captured and eventually sent to Johnson’s Island in Ohio. His narrative of the nineteen months he spent there is less detailed, because of the monotony of the days, but he does provide detailed descriptions of the camp itself, their escape attempts, and other aspects of prison life.

Brown’s masterful handling of Porter’s memoir allows the narrative voice to be heard. The editing is not intrusive and Brown’s use of census records, other memoirs, and published and unpublished monographs to add endnotes and introductory sections to each chapter of the memoir gives the reader a full understanding of the context around Porter’s activities. Porter’s memoir is a wonderful addition to the body of Civil War literature, offering many unique stories and perspectives to readers of that subject.

General Robert E. Lee seems gray.  His uniform, his hair, his horse–little if any sparkling personality comes through the mists to convince a reader that Lee was charming, or congenial. He just seems . . . gray.  Even Theodore Roosevelt noticed this. “He stood that hardest of all strains, the strain of bearing himself well through the gray evening of failure . . .”

Imagine the delight of finding out that this Marble Man had a chicken for a pet. She was a small, black hen, and arrived in Lee’s camp, sometime in early 1862, with a shipment of chickens sent to the Army of Northern Virginia for food. Sensing that no good could come from staying with the flock, she escaped and ran, taking cover in a tent with an open flap. The tent was warm and chicken-killer free, so she stayed. As hens are wont to do, at some point she laid an egg under the cot in the tent, and settled herself down on it to see what would happen.

Here’s what happened: fortunately, the tent to belong to General Robert E. Lee, and, fortunately, General Lee enjoyed a fresh egg for breakfast. These two pieces of incredible luck combined to save the life of the little black hen. Lee named her either “Nellie,” or “Hen,” depending on the source. Let us combine them into “Nellie Hen” for the purposes of this article. Imagine the look of pleased surprise on Lee’s face when he discovered her gift. He took the egg to his former slave and current butler and cook, William Mack Lee, who inquired as to its provenance. Lee explained about the chicken.

From that time forward, Nellie Hen had a regular nesting spot in one of the baggage wagons that followed the army.  She laid an egg, “mighty near every day,” and, when not on the march, she wandered the camp.  The General kept his tent flap open for her, and she often bivouacked under his cot.

In July, 1863, the Army of Northern Virginia suffered a defeat at the hands of the Yankees in a place called Gettysburg.  As the southern army was preparing to return to Virginia, Lee suddenly realized that Miss Nellie was missing from her usual spot.   “Where is the hen?” he asked, in a concerned tone.  By this time, the soldiers knew about the hen, and her absence caused much concern. The retreat came to a halt as the men looked for Nellie.  The General himself joined in the hunt.

Finally she was found.  Those reading this who have an animal (especially a cat) will know exactly how Lee felt when she was finally discovered–perched safely in an ambulance on an impromptu nest, where she had probably been all along.  Only then could the retreat from Gettysburg continue.

Little Nellie the Hen travelled with the Army of Northern Virginia for over two years, laying an egg for General Lee almost daily to earn her keep and safe haven.  No doubt she brought solace and a memory of home in Arlington to the General with her faithful eggs and friendly clucking.  But, to the approximately 11,400 Confederate casualties from the Battle of the Wilderness, there must be added one more: Nellie Hen.

On May 4, the eve of the fighting, General Lee invited some people over for dinner.  According to the memoirs of William Mack Lee:

On dat day–we was all so hongry and I didn’t have nuffin in ter cook, dat I was jes’ plumb bumfuzzled.  I didn’t know what to do.  Marse Robert, he had gone and invited a crowd of ginerals to eat wid him, an’ I had ter git de vittles.  Dar was Marse Stonewall Jackson, and Marse A. P. Hill, and Marse D. H. Hill, and Marse Wade Hampton, Gineral Longstreet, and Gineral Pickett and sum others.

I am a touch “bumfuzzled” how Stonewall Jackson was there, having died in 1863, but allowances must be made.  The book, History of the Life of Rev. Wm. Mack Lee, Body Servant of General Robert E. Lee Through the Civil War–Cook From 1861-1865, was published in 1918, and written, unfortunately, in dialect.  Perhaps memory failed the Reverend Lee just a bit.  After all, a lot of time had passed.

William Lee had planned to serve flannel cakes (soft, fluffy pancakes), tea and lemonade, but he “ ‘lowed as dat would not be enuff fo’ dem gemm’n.”  Swallowing hard, he went out to catch “de little black hen, Nellie.”  He found her, dispatched her, and plucked her.  She was served to the gemm’ns with bread stuffing mixed with butter.  The stuffed chicken and dressing was a culinary hit, but General Lee was suspicious.

Just where had such a plump little chicken come from?  Surely not from foraging!  Upon questioning, William admitted to the deed.  After hearing the sad truth, Lee asked, “William, now that you have killed Nellie, what are we going to do for eggs?”

“I jes’ had ter do it, Marse Robert,” William replied.

But General Lee kept up the pressure.  “No, you didn’t, William; I’m going to write Miss Mary about you.  I’m going to tell her you have killed Nellie.

Marse Robert kep’ on scoldin’ me mout dat hen.  He never scolded ‘bout naything else.  He tol’ me I was a fool to kill her whut lay de golden egg.  Hit made Marse Robert awful sad ter think of anything being killed, whedder der ‘twas one of his soljers, or his little black hen.

Rest in peace

 Miss Nellie Hen

You, too gave your last full measure,

as a true War Chicken should.

Note: In some sources, Lee’s cook is referred to as “Bryan.” 

Further Reading:

The Slaves’ War: The Civil War in the Words of Former Slaves, by Andrew Ward

Robert E. Lee’s Slave.

A Young William Smith

As Chris Mackowski and I forge ahead with our current book project, we happen upon some interesting facts, stories, and personalities. As I worked most of Sunday researching and writing, I happened upon one of those great personalities of the war, Major General William “Extra Billy” Smith. Smith is one of the great characters in the annals of the Army of Northern Virginia, and one of those political generals that plagued both armies. I thought I would post a brief biography, for those of you that may not be familiar with the man.

William Smith was born on the Northern Neck of Virginia in 1797. (For those of you familiar with the area his family home stood near the intersection of Route 3 and 301 just east of the Sheetz Gas Station).  Following the death of his parents, the young man took up the study of law and traveled to nearby Fredericksburg where he began his studies. From Fredericksburg, Smith traveled to Warrenton Virginia and Baltimore Maryland, and by 1818 had established his own practice in Culpeper Virginia.

During his time in Culpeper, Smith established an overland mail route that eventually ran from Washington D.C. to Milledgeville Georgia. While over seeing the postal route Smith received “extra” compensation. Thus “Extra” Billy Smith was born.

In 1836 Smith entered the world of politics. He was elected to the state senate of Virginia and later served five terms in Washington as a member of Congress. To top it all off he was a prewar governor of Virginia.

When war broke out Smith’s popularity in Virginia, mixed with his political connections brought him to command the 49^thVirginia Infantry. Smith’s and the regiment fought well at First Manassas, the colonel exhibited bravery, but like many politicians turned officer  lacked in the finer points of leadership. Ever the politician, Smith ran for a seat in the Confederate Congress and won election.  The colonel-congressman alternated commanding his regiment and attending to politics in Richmond.

Extra Billy as a Confederate General

While in the army, Smith exhibited no respect for West Point or her graduates.  The former governor referred to West Pointers as “those West P’int fellows.” Still, Smith did what he could to train his unit. According to Robert Chilton “It is said that he used to drill his regiment at Manassas. Sitting cross-legged on the top of an old Virginia snake fence, with a blue cotton umbrella over his head and reading the orders from a book. On one occasion he was roused by the laughing outcry, ‘Colonel, you’ve run us bang us against the fence!’ ‘Well, then boys,’ said the governor, looking up and nothing daunted; ‘well, then, of course you’ll have to turn around or climb the fence.’”

At Chantilly, September 1, 1862, Smith went into battle with his umbrella in hand. Chantilly was the scene of vicious fighting and a terrible thunderstorm. During the heaviest rain and fighting Smith paced the line with his umbrella over his head and beaver skin hat atop his head, for Smith also hated military uniforms. (The colonel also turned his nose up at riding horses as other officers did, no Billy rode about in a carriage.)

At Antietam Smith assumed brigade command and was wounded three times. After leaving the army to recuperate he was promoted to Brigadier General, dating from January 31, 1863. The former governor was promoted more for his political prowess and not his battlefield acumen. By the time of the Chancellorsville Campaign Smith was again running for the governorship of Virginia and assumed command of Jubal Early’s old brigade.

At both Chancellorsville and Gettysburg Smith turned in sub-par performances as a brigade commander. Early did his best to keep Smith’s brigade out of trouble. Smith could lead the column when on the march, but when engaged in battle, were kept to the rear or the flank farthest from the enemy.

Smith was a particular problem during the Gettysburg Campaign. In May, Smith was elected governor of Virginia. Since, he was not set to take office until January 1864, the old politician stayed with the army and his brigade. Having the governor-elect of Virginia as brigade commander was a headache and liability. Luckily for Smith’s division commander Major General Jubal Early, following the Gettysburg Campaign Smith returned to Richmond to recruit soldiers and prepare to succeed Governor “Honest” John Letcher. Smith ended his Confederate military service as a major-general.

Extra Billy in his golden years.

With the end of the war Smith took to farming at his estate “Monterosa”, near Warrenton Virginia. Politics called to Billy one last time, and from 1877 to 1879 he served in the Virginia House of Delegates.

Smith died in 1887 at the age of 90. Like so many other Virginia politicians and generals William “Extra Billy” Smith was laid to rest in Richmond’s Hollywood Cemetery.

Marine Corps Major General Smedley Butler and President Warren Harding in the Wilderness, when Butler may or may not have dug up Jackson's arm.

A mythos is a set of beliefs or assumptions about something, and every hero needs to be surrounded by one. Confederate General Thomas Jackson has probably one of the best mythos anywhere, from eating lemons to last words. Did he really hold his hand in the air to balance his legs? What was all that praying about? Could anyone have had better nicknames than Jackson? “Ol’ Blue Light” alone is mythos at its finest, though “Stonewall” is best known.

And there is the arm . . . that transcendental body part which, over the last one hundred forty-eight years, has assumed its own set of myths. Currently, the arm is lost. No one knows quite where it is buried.

My favorite part of the Jackson “mythos within a mythos”–Jackson’s Arm–is the tale about Smedley Butler and the reburying of the arm in a metal box.

According to NPS historians, Jackson’s arm is somewhere in the Ellwood Cemetery, which is behind Ellwood Manor, on the grounds of the Wilderness National Battlefield. And that is all they will claim as truth. (For more on the NPS’s work with the arm, check out this three-part series.)

But the mystery is part of the fun, and part of that mystery—part of the mythos of Jackson’s arm—has become inextricably linked to Smedley Butler.

Smedley Butler was quite a man. He was a major general in the U. S. Marines, and at the time of his death, in 1940, he was the most decorated Marine in American history. How we lose track of our heroes amazes me.

He is one of only nineteen men to have received the U. S. Medal of Honor twice, one of only three to be awarded both the Marine Corps Brevet Medal and the Medal of Honor, and the only man to have been awarded the Brevet Medal and two Medals of Honor. He served in World War I, commanding Camp Pontanezen in Brest, France, and became the Commanding General of the Marine Corps Base in Quantico, Virginia after the war. Upon retirement, he ran for a Senate seat in Pennsylvania, but was defeated.

I had been thinking of him lately, as the Occupy Movement began to take up an increasing amount of news time, starting last fall. One of the planks of Butler’s Senate campaign concerned the Bonus Army.

The Bonus Army, grandfather (maybe even parent) to today’s Occupy movement, was the popular name for about 17,000 World War I veterans and their families, who gathered in Washington, D. C. in the late spring and early summer of 1932. They had come together during the depths of the First Great Depression to ask President Hoover to redeem their service certificates early.

These certificates, created by the World War Adjusted Compensation Act in 1924, were issued to qualified veterans, and had a face value of the soldier’s promised payment plus compound interest. Because many of the returning soldiers were out of work, the men felt that a redemption of the certificates would be one way to help them and their families through hard times.

There was much Congressional support for this, but Hoover & the Republicans reasoned that taxes would have to be increased to cover the payout, and this was something they were not willing to do.

Most of the Bonus Army made camp in a Hooverville (a pre-Occupy encampment) on the Anacostia Flats just south of the 11th Street Bridges–now Section C of Anacostia Park. On June 17, they marched from Anacostia to the United States Capitol to demonstrate for their cause, but the Senate defeated the Wright-Patman Bonus Bill, already approved by the House, by a vote of sixty-two to eighteen. Retired General Smedley Butler, learning of this political defeat, came to the encampment to back the effort and encourage the marchers. Apparently, he stayed for quite a while, getting their particular Hooverville shaped into a model military encampment, with proper latrines and regular streets, and checking the credentials of each marcher to be sure he had been honorably discharged from his term of service.

No government has ever been particularly hospitable to such demonstrations, then or now. On July 28, Attorney General William D. Mitchell ordered the veterans and their supporters off all government property. The Washington police showed up to enforce the Attorney General’s orders.

The police met with resistance from Bonus Army members, and shots were fired. Two veterans were mortally wounded. President Hoover then called in the regular U. S. Army to clear the veterans’ campsite.

The Army showed up, all right. Army Chief of Staff General Douglas McArthur commanded both infantry and cavalry, supported by six tanks. Among McArthur’s officers were Dwight Eisenhower and George Patton. The Bonus Army, made up of veterans from World War I, along with their wives and children, were fired on by the Army they had once joined. Be appalled. Be very appalled! Smedley Butler certainly was.

It is this Smedley Butler who, according to the mythos of General Jackson, reburied Stonewall’s arm. The story goes like this:

In 1921, the U. S. Marines conducted training maneuvers on farms adjacent to Ellwood Manor. Butler commanded these forces. He had heard about the arm burial, but was not sure if it was true. “Bosh! I will take a squad of Marines and dig up that spot to prove you wrong,” he is said to have declared. He then ordered a squad of Marines to dig beneath the marker erected by Jackson staffer Lieutenant James Power Smith, in 1903. To General Butler’s astonishment, the arm, buried in a long wooden box, was unearthed. Butler had the arm placed in a metal box and reburied, then ordered a bronze plaque noting the event to be cemented to the stone marker already in place.

Is this really true? Many claim it is, but there is doubt, especially on the part of the National Military Park Service. In 1998, after the NPS chose to open Ellwood Manor and surrounding lands to the public, there was concern that General Jackson’s arm might be a temptation to looters and grave robbers. To offset this possibility, it was decided to create a concrete covering over a larger area than just the identified “grave” site.

However, when the archeologists came to verify the placement of the arm, and of the Butler episode, no arm could be found. No box, no bones, no traces of remains in the soil–nothing. There was no evidence to prove that General Butler did anything at all about Jackson’s arm, or that Jackson’s arm had ever been in that particular place.

Currently, the NPS feels the arm is buried somewhere in the Ellwood Cemetery, but is not sure of the exact location. Butler’s plaque is no longer on the stone marker, but there are signs that it once was. The plaque can be viewed at the Chancellorsville Battlefield Visitors Center. It is inscribed, “A Tribute to the Memory of Stonewall Jackson.”

One of the arguments against the Butler story is that General Butler would never have disturbed military remains. Here is my counter to that argument: If General Butler’s quote is even partly correct, he felt there were no remains there anyway. He was attempting to prove the existence of a hoax, which he felt dishonored Jackson. When the arm, in its wooden box, was discovered, Butler quickly sought to make amends. He reburied the arm in a more substantial coffin, then added the plaque, as it says, in “a tribute.” If the entire story is only that–a story–why would there be a plaque?

That’s my mythos, and I’m sticking to it.

—————

Recommended Reading:
The Last Days of Stonewall Jackson by Chris Mackowski and Kristopher D. White. pp. 62-67.

http://usa-civil-war.com/Jackson/jackson_arm.html

http://www.historynet.com/visiting-stonewall-jacksons-left-arm-at-chancellorsville.htm

http://www.roadsideamerica.com/story/28903
Confederates In the Attic, by Tony Horowitz. pp. 230-236.

Battle of Arkansas Post (Fort Hindman)

Lately, I have been shifting my gaze east of the river and focusing on the war in the Western Theater.  I’ve been exploring broad Union/Confederate strategies in the region, and I was struck by just how damaging one particular strategy proved to be for the Confederate cause.

15,000 at Henry and Donelson.  Perhaps as many as 7,000 at Island No. 10.  5,000 at Arkansas Post.  31,000 in Vicksburg and another 6,000 from Port Hudson.  In summation, roughly 64,000 Confederate soldiers were captured in river fortresses in the Western Theater.  These soldiers were not killed or wounded on the battlefield but captured en masse, and while they may have endured perilous and miserable sieges, they failed to inflict anywhere near comparable casualties on Federal forces.  While some of these men were paroled and exchanged, their exchange simply freed just as many Union soldiers.  The Confederate strategy to invest large numbers of men in river fortresses to guard vital waterways proved to be a disastrous policy.

Siege of Vicksburg

On the surface, it seemed logical to fortify rivers such as the Tennessee, Cumberland and of course the mighty Mississippi.  Unlike the Eastern Theater where most rivers flowed from west to east (the James, Rapidan, Rappahannock, Potomac, etc.), the majority of the rivers in the Western Theater flowed from north to south, towards the Gulf.  Thus, whereas rivers proved to be an indispensable defensive barrier for Confederates in the East, they were a glaring weakness in the West.  These rivers were essentially aquatic highways headed straight into the heart of the Confederacy.  The Mississippi River of course bisected the fledgling, would-be nation.  The Tennessee cut through its namesake state and into northern Alabama.  The Cumberland was a direct route to Nashville, one of the few vital industrial cities in the South.  The rivers were sure to be used by the Federals as avenues of invasion, and the Confederates had a huge interest in preventing Union control of these waterways.

The answer was to build forts to protect these vital rivers.  As esteemed historian Fletcher Pratt highlights, the chief architect of this strategy was President Jefferson Davis himself, who imagined powerful fortifications, aided with naval and mobile land elements, stolidly defending these waterways south.  It is important to realize that the forts that fell in 1862-’63 to such disastrous consequences for the Rebels were in fact intended to be a secondary line of defense.  In 1861, Davis and other Western commanders, especially Generals Albert Sidney Johnston and Leonidas Polk, were focused on the construction of a defensive line stretching from Missouri through Kentucky.  Of course, Kentucky’s neutrality (soon to be violated by Polk) and the Confederate defeat at Mill Springs made this defensive line untenable, so it was the secondary line of works along the Mississippi, Tennessee and Cumberland that soon found themselves besieged.

Early Union successes against Forts Henry and Donelson and Island No. 10 (which  opened up the Tennessee and Cumberland Rivers and led to the fall of Memphis, respectively), should have warned the Confederacy that their river fortifications were far from impregnable, and indeed could prove to be veritable infantry traps.  Yet the Confederacy continued to rely on such river fortresses to protect the Mississippi, and while Vicksburg and Port Hudson may have lasted longer and fared better than Forts Henry and Donelson, their fall came at an even higher, unbearable price.

Federal gunships under fire at Port Hudson

Approximately 64,000 troops were captured in these river fortresses alone.  One was to wonder what impact the 15,000 men from Henry and Donelson may have made at Shiloh?  Or how the 31,000 prisoners from Vicksburg may have aided Joseph Johnston or Braxton Bragg or John Bell Hood?  It seems clear that the loss of so many Confederate soldiers, a large number lost early in the contest, must have seriously crippled Confederate strategic options later on in the war.  Were there better ways to utilize these 64,000 men in defense of the Southern waterways other than to huddle them up in river fortifications?  What are your thoughts?

Zac Cowsert received his Bachelor of Arts Degree in History and Political Science from Centenary College of Louisiana, a small liberal-arts college in Shreveport.  He is currently a graduate student at West Virginia University focusing in U.S. History and the American Civil War.  His studies and research often explore the Trans-Mississippi Theater.  ©

Further Reading and Sources:

Arkansas Post.  The Encyclopedia of Arkansas History & Culture.

Fletcher Pratt.  Civil War on Western Waters.  New York:  Henry Holt and Company, 1956.

Steven E. Woodworth.  Decision in the Heartland:  The Civil War in the West.  Lincoln:  University of Nebraska Press, 2011.

Gettysburg’s Forgotten Cavalry Actions:

Many historians and students of the Battle of Gettysburg ultimately conclude the fighting near the Copse of Trees and the end of Pickett’s Charge. However, author Eric Wittenberg takes the reader beyond the High Water Mark, to tell three distinct stories of Union and Confederate Soldiers who clashed late on the afternoon of July 3, 1863. Wittenberg is one of the foremost cavalry historians today and through Savas Beatie Publishing has released a revised and expanded edition of his 1998 book, Gettysburg’s Forgotten Cavalry Actions: Farnsworth’s Charge, South Cavalry Field and the Battle of Fairfield, July 3, 1863.

Wittenberg begins the narrative by providing the reader with a brief overview of the situation on the field up until the morning of July 3 and introducing the key players in the drama that unfolded after Pickett’s Charge. Not only does one meet such famous names as Wesley Merritt and Judson Kilpatrick but throughout the text, Wittenberg relates the stories of other, lesser known individuals, including George Hillyer of the 9th Georgia Infantry and William Wells of the 1st Vermont Cavalry, who would receive a Medal of Honor for his actions that day.

The reader is then carried to a portion of the battlefield that is often overlooked by visitors. There, in the fields fronting Big Round Top, would take place one of the most tragic events of the battle. Throwing discretion to the wind, Union Cavalry division commander Judson Kilpatrick committed the regiments of Elon Farnsworth’s brigade piecemeal against the Confederate line. After witnessing the repulse of two of Farnsworth’s regiments, Kilpatrick ordered Farnsworth and the 1st Vermont Cavalry forward. The assault would cost Farnsworth his life. Farnsworth was one of the “Boy Generals” promoted just days before the battle and with his passing, the Union Cavalry would never realize his full potential.

Wittenberg infuses his tireless research into his re-worked account of Farnsworth’s famous charge, weaving primary accounts into the text in a magnificent fashion, leaving the reader feeling as if they are riding alongside Farnsworth. The new map by National Park Service historian John Heiser is a valuable addition. Wittenberg also devotes a chapter to thoroughly examining and critiquing the many accounts surrounding the circumstances of Farnsworth’s death.

Wittenberg then carries the reader to an even more remote part of Gettysburg, South Cavalry Field. Advancing up the Emmitsburg Road, Brigadier General Wesley Merritt and his brigade of U.S. Regulars and the 6th Pennsylvania Cavalry would squander an excellent chance during the fight to turn the Confederate line and ultimately wreak havoc in the Confederate rear.

Moving outside the National Park, the reader is taken to the strategic town of Fairfield, Pennsylvania. Whichever side controlled this town would effectively control one of the possible retreat routes for the Confederate army. On the afternoon of July 3, Merritt would detach one of his regiments, the 6th U.S. Cavalry to attempt to capture an enemy wagon train. The Regulars and the wagons and William E. “Grumble” Jones’ brigade of cavalry, some of the best the Confederates had to offer. Severely outnumbered, the Sixth put up a gallant fight, but would eventually be driven from the field. Like the chapter on Farnsworth’s Charge, Wittenberg has also re-worked the fight at Fairfield

Of special interest to the reader are the appendices which feature an Order of Battle as well as two driving tours of the sites discussed in the work. Each of the stops contain a brief summary of the events that took place there and GPS Benchmarks. Also included is an additional and fascinating examination of Farnsworth’s Charge. This section was written by Wittenberg and one of his co-authors, J. David Petruzzi in response to an article in the Gettysburg Magazine that presented different theories as to the location of the charge and the events surrounding Farnsworth’s death. The authors effectively challenge these theories and provide more details concerning the event that complement the text.

Readers will also find an interesting interview with Wittenberg, Petruzzi and fellow co-author Michael Nugent, discussing their book One Continuous Fight: The Retreat from Gettysburg and the Pursuit of Lee’s Army of Northern Virginia, July 4-14, 1863 (also published by Savas Beatie).

As an avid follower of the Union Cavalry in the Eastern Theater and owner of the First Edition of the book, I was very excited to learn that a revised edition was in the works. To say the least, my expectations were exceeded. Wittenberg is at his best; analyzing the leadership skills on both sides and the tactics employed during the fighting while at the same time weaving a very compelling and easy to read narrative. He provides an excellent glimpse into actions and events that have long been forgotten and overlooked by visitors of the battlefield. I highly recommend this book to anyone interested in the cavalry of the Army of the Potomac as well as students of the battle itself.

In his latest work, author Jefferey Wert examines Lee’s Army in its time of its greatest successes. Wert, picks up the story as Lee takes over command from Joseph Johnston on the Peninsula. Readers are taken from battlefield to battlefield with Lee and his men. Along the way, Wert explores the commanders and command structure within the Army of Northern Virginia.

Wert keeps the time period of the book relatively compact. The author examines the time of Lee’s greatest success and ends around Gettysburg, at the time of one of Lee’s greatest defeats. Although we visit many of the famous battlefields in the east, we do not explore each in great detail, which would bog down a work like this.

Through the work, Wert is able to weave a story of how and why Lee’s army went from a powerful war machine to a nearly broken instrument of war at Gettysburg. The losses within the high command coupled with the losses at the brigade and regimental level all  compounded on themselves to breakdown the cohesion of the Army of Northern Virginia.

Wert also weaves in the thoughts and conclusions of many other prominent historians. It is a great way to see what the author is saying, while comparing and contrasting the thoughts of others into one volume.

A Glorious Army: Robert E. Lee’s Triumph, 1862-1863 is a great addition to the recent works on the Army of Northern Virginia. It is a refreshing take on Lee and his fighting men. Many serious students of the Eastern Theater may find the book a rehash of what other authors have said, while those not so familiar with the east or Lee’s Army will find this a great one-stop read to bring them up to speed on Lee’s success and failures as a commander. In the end, most students of the war will find this well-written one-volume work a worthwhile read.

Confederate President Jefferson Davis

A different kind of post…

I recently finished Steven E. Woodworth’s excellent Decision in the Heartland:  The Civil War in the West, a slim volume that succinctly and persuasively surveys the war in the west and argues that it is the Western theater where the Union won the war.  Woodworth especially highlights the dearth of good, solid Confederate leadership out west.  He places blame of much of the Army of Tennessee’s various crises in command at the foot of Confederate President Jefferson Davis, a position he furthers in his work Jefferson Davis and His Generals.

Woodworth makes a strong case for his Western-centric views and the faults he finds in Jeff Davis.  Yet as I pondered the situations and scenarios Davis faced, I was struck by the sheer difficulty of his choices and the murkiness of his options.  And I wondered…what would I do?

So I ask, what would you do?  This post will be an experiment in engagement, participation and interaction between bloggers, readers, and our imaginations alike.  I’ll give you the scenario.

Current Army of Tennessee Commander Braxton Bragg

It is the cold winter of 1863/1864.  Braxton Bragg is the commander of the Confederate Army of Tennessee out west.  He has retained command of the army for some time, seeing it through the ill-fated Kentucky campaign and the bloodbath at Stones River.  He managed a fortuitous but incomplete victory at Chickamauga, then ensnared the Union army at Chattanooga…only to see his efforts stymied by the work of Union generals William “Baldy” Smith and Ulysses S. Grant.  He has offered his resignation to you (Jefferson Davis) before, and he is offering it again.  Bragg has little support within the army and even less among the acrimonious officer corps.  The campaigning season of 1864 is on the horizon; Atlanta and the Deep South must be defended.  Do you keep the controversial Bragg or replace him?  If you’re thinking the latter, with whom do you replace Bragg?

Candidate Joseph Johnston

Perhaps you bring back popular Pierre Gustave Toutant Beauregard, the victor of Manassas and the victim of Corinth?  He’s been inconsistent in his leadership to say the least.  Do you promote one of your bitter enemies, Joseph E. Johnston?  Johnston failed to save General Pemberton and Vicksburg the year prior in a devastating blow to the Confederacy, but he’s a popular choice among many officers and still retains a credible military resume.

Candidate John Bell Hood

Maybe the choice should stay in-house.  You could appoint William J. Hardee, the senior corps officer of the Army of Tennessee, over his own objections to promotion.  Do you search for someone more aggressive and fiery, perhaps the Texan warrior John Bell Hood or the adopted Arkansan-Irishman Patrick Cleburne?  The Eastern theater contains a bounty of skilled officers, maybe one of them should get a chance with the Army of Tennessee.  Longstreet, despite Knoxville?  Hill?  Ewell?  Early?  Lee himself?  The answer could even lay even further west, across the great Mississippi, to someone like Edmund K. Smith or Richard Taylor.

Candidate Patrick Cleburne

In short, play armchair general.  Who takes command if you are Jefferson Davis in the winter of 1863/’64 and why?  Keep in mind the time-frame; some things have yet to be revealed or have happened (Johnston’s “fighting” retreat to the gates of Atlanta, Hood’s Nashville nightmare, Taylor’s brilliant victory at Mansfield, etc.).  Other military, political, social or economic calculations may factor into your decision.  This should be a fun discussion and debate!  Keep it civil, but prepare to defend your appointment and challenge those of others!

Who do you choose?

Western Theater

Following the Battle of Williamsburg in May, 1862, the buildings of the old city were filled with wounded from either side. In one was Captain John “Gimlet” Lea of the 5th North Carolina Infantry, shot through the leg. Laying there wounded, Lea was found by one of his former West Point classmates, now a Union lieutenant, George Armstrong Custer. Custer would write of the experience:

When we first saw each other, he shed tears and threw his arms around my neck and we talked of old times and asked each other hundreds of questions…I carried his meals to him, gave him stockings…and some money…This he did not take but I forced it on him. He burst into tears and said it was more than he could stand…His last words to me were “God bless you old boy!” The bystanders looked with surprise when we were talking and afterwards asked if the prisoner were my brother.

Lea would be taken to Bassett Hall to recover. The home had been built between 1753 and 1766 and took its name from Burwell Bassett, a nephew of Martha Washington, who purchased it in 1800. At the time of the Civil War, the dwelling was owned by Goodrich Durfey. While Lea recuperated at the Durfey home, and as fate would have it, he fell in love with one of Mr. Durfey’s daughters, Margaret. The two would be engaged and set a wedding date of later that summer in August.

The reunion with Lea after Williamsburg made quite an impression on Custer. When the Army of the Potomac withdrew back through Williamsburg following the Seven Days Battles, Custer, now a brevet captain serving on George McClellan’s staff, sought for and received permission to locate Gimlet Lea. Custer found him at Bassett Hall. After visiting for an evening, Custer returned to camp and received permission to visit Lea again. When he arrived again at Bassett Hall, Lea informed Custer that he was to be married to Margaret and requested that Custer join the wedding party as a groomsman.

Following the ceremony, Custer remained at Bassett Hall for another two weeks. He would look back on the time fondly: 

Every evening was spent in the parlor. We were all fond of cards and took great interest in playing. When doing so, Lea and I were the only players, while the ladies were spectators. He won every time, he representing the South, I the North.

Bassett Hall still stands today, a reminder that the bonds of friendship and brotherhood stretch far beyond the battlefield.

The bombardment and looting of Fredericksburg are remembered as part of Burnside’s folly. The bombardment of the city was and still is viewed as a frustrated Burnside unleashing his fury on a helpless city. In reality, that’s not entirely accurate. Burnside was painted into a corner throughout much of the Fredericksburg Campaign. The blame should not lay solely at his feet alone. Blame should also be placed with Abraham Lincoln, Henry Halleck,  Robert E. Lee, William Barksdale, and a handful of Burnside’s subordinate officers.

Burnside’s woes began as he reached the banks of the Rappahannock River. The pontoon bridges that were to be waiting for him were nowhere to be found. Major General Henry Halleck, Lincoln’s right hand in Washington, delayed in getting the orders out to the proper areas, thus Burnside was stranded on the banks of the Rappahannock.

Burnside’s next issue was General Robert E. Lee’s Army of Northern Virginia. The ANV arrived on the far bank of the Rappahannock, blocking Burnside’s most direct route to Richmond. Compounding the issues that Burnside dealt with was the Lincoln administration pushing for a victory before they issued the Emancipation Proclamation. By forcing Burnside’s hand, Lincoln sealed the fate of the Army of the Potomac. Lee was in a blocking position on strong high ground. Lee was allowed to prepare the battlefield, organize, and wait.

Market House, Fredericksburg.

Lee’s part of the destruction of Fredericksburg can be directly tied to the delaying action of William Barksdale. Barksdale set up a defense-in-depth in the city. By using the buildings of the city as a defense line, Barksdale and Lee forced Burnside to bombard the city in an attempt to drive out the Confederates. By not withdrawing, and instead fighting it out in the city, Barksdale and Lee brought more destruction on Fredericksburg.

The looting of the city was a breakdown of leadership on Burnside’s part as well as the part of his junior officers. The anger and resentment that built as the Army of the Potomac sat watching their comrades shot down left and right did not sit well with many Federal soldiers. The city represented all that was holding them back. This wrath should have been aimed towards the enemy, not the city and civilians.

Still, when the army arrived in the city, some tried to aid the civilians. The 72nd Pennsylvania went to work helping extinguish the fires around Princess Anne Street. Some officers saved private homes by using them as headquarters, but the rest of the city was left to the hoards. Those hoards should have been brought under control immediately. Since they were not, the looting of Fredericksburg was and still is a dark moment for the Army of the Potomac and Burnside’s short-tenured command.

In the end, the loss of the Fredericksburg Campaign fell squarely on the shoulders of Ambrose Burnside. Post-battle, Burnside did not shy away from taking the blame. Unlike many other commander in the war, he stood and took the blame without pointing fingers and making excuses. But it was not all Burnside’s fault. As we have seen through the series Lincoln, Halleck, and other Union subordinates are to blame, as well. Lee and his subordinates also played a huge role in influencing Burnside’s decisions. It was not just Ambrose Burnside who doomed the City of Fredericksburg—it took the actions of many to change the small, sleepy city forever.

Downtown Fredericksburg at the intersection of William and Caroline Streets.

Some Side Notes:

The City of Fredericksburg itself did not make a full economic recovery from the battles in and around the area for nearly one hundred years. Major portions of the population left and never returned to the war-torn area, including thousands of newly freed slaves.

The Union Army wasn’t the only one to bombard the city; the Confederates did, as well. As the First and Second Battles of Fredericksburg raged, the Confederates fired upon the Union forces as they emerged from the city. The Union bombardment focused on the first three blocks from the river. The Confederate bombardment focused on the two blocks on the western side of the city. The Confederates also fired into the city on the night of the December 13-14. They fired on any light they saw, adding to the woes and destruction of the city.

Sandy Bottom, Fredericksburg. Much of this destruction was done by Confederate Artillery.

The scars of the war are still visible today. The makeup of the downtown area is a great indicator of the destruction brought on by the Union Army. As you drive down the main street, Caroline Street, you will notice on the north and south ends of the town homes and other buildings of the 18th and 19th Centuries. But in middle of the city near George and William Street’s you see more 20th Century buildings. This was the area where the Federals concentrated their bombardment. Because of the bombardment and the loss of the civilian population (many moved and never returned), it took a great deal of time for the city to grow again. When the population city began to grow and thrive again, so did the business district. So as you walk or drive along Caroline street, those buildings of the mid 20th Century replaced their predecessors destroyed in 1862.

More of the Battle of Fredericksburg and the decisions made by Burnside will be explored in future posts (December and January 2011-2012) covering the battles at Marye’s Heights and Prospect Hill.

The most common assumption, of course, is that if Stonewall Jackson hadn’t gotten shot at the Battle of Chancellorsville, then Gettysburg would have turned out differently.

And indeed, that’s true—because there probably wouldn’t have been a Gettysburg to begin with.

Last week, I challenged readers to reconsider the assumptions behind the commonly held belief “If Jackson hadn’t gotten shot….” A fuller examination of the situation on the ground offers better context for understanding those assumptions.

Jackson had been sick before the battle. Who knows how his illness would have progressed had he not been shot?

Beyond the immediate situation, it’s important to remember that Jackson died from pneumonia, not from the injuries he sustained in battle. Had he not gotten shot, he still would have had to content with illness, although it might not have been as severe. Because of his wounding and subsequent amputation, Jackson lost half his blood; it’s likely that his pneumonia progressed as quickly as it did, then, because of his weakened condition.

If he hadn’t gotten shot, there’s no way to tell how his illness might have progressed or what he’d have done to take care of it. It’s not impossible that he would’ve taken some time away from the army to recuperate. Or, had he stayed with the army, it’s not impossible that his fatigued state would’ve blunted his aggressiveness (as it had done on the Peninsula the previous spring).

How events would’ve played out in the woods of the Wilderness on the night of May 2, or how Jackson might have contended with his illness in the wake of battle–that all seems forgotten when people conjure the sense of Jackson-possibility: “If Jackson hadn’t gotten shot….” They hardly ever consider the immediate short-term picture because they’re already fast-forwarding two months ahead to July of 1863.

“If Jackson hadn’t gotten shot,” they suppose, “Gettysburg would have turned out differently.”

In most instances, that’s an implied condemnation of Richard Ewell’s performance on the first day of the battle and his decision not to take Cemetery Hill. Jackson, the assumption goes, would have found an assault there “practicable;” Ewell did not. It is, doubtless, the most second-guess decision of the war.

August 2010

In the August 2010 cover story of Civil War Times, Kris White and I explained why Ewell’s decision was militarily sound. I won’t rehash that here, but I’ll stand by what we’ve said all along: Ewell made a prudent decision.

It’s a major assumption to think Jackson would have assaulted the hill—although people make that assumption all the time. They assume, because of Jackson’s aggressive nature, that he’d have pushed forward even though the military situation—as Ewell very well knew—looked questionable. True, Jackson tended to push his men forward, sometimes (such as at Fredericksburg) when it was foolhardy to do so, but he also knew that not every position could be successfully assailed. “My men have sometimes failed to take a position,” he once told Heros von Borcke, Jeb Stuart’s chief of staff, “but to defend one—never!”

It’s safer to assume Jackson would’ve looked for a way to flank the Federal position—a Jackson trademark if ever there was one—and would have gone after Culp’s Hill instead. That’s exactly what Ewell tried to do. A recalcitrant Jubal Early, who refused to move although Ewell ordered him to, let Culp’s Hill fall into Union hands. It’s hard to envision Jackson letting Early getting away with that kind of insubordination.

Ever-after, in the memory wars of the post-war years, Early tried to cover up his foot-dragging by shifting the attention from Culp’s Hill to Cemetery Hill and the blame from himself to Ewell. Ewell died in 1872, unable to defend his own reputation from Early’s assaults, which lasted for another twenty-two years.

Gibboney's alternative history tackles the war's greatest What-If--and the South still loses.

Be all that as it may, there’s one salient fact underlying all Jackson-related scenarios in Gettysburg that everyone seems to forget. Lee reorganized the Army of Northern Virginia into three corps following Jackson’s wounding at Chancellorsville because he didn’t feel comfortable elevating someone to take Jackson’s place. Instead, he made his army’s corps smaller and easier for his newly promoted lieutenant generals to handle.

“I have for the past year felt that the corps of this army were too large for one commander,” Lee wrote to Jefferson Davis on May 20, 1863. “Nothing prevented my proposing to you to reduce their size & increase their number, but my inability to recommend commanders…. The loss of Jackson from the command of one half the army seems to me a good opportunity to remedy this evil.

In other words, the corps were to big, but he didn’t have anyone he felt comfortable promoting; the loss of Jackson forced his hand. Had Jackson lived, then, Lee would not have had any incentive for making the shuffle.

Down the chain of command, Hill would have still then been in charge of his division, so Henry Heth, who stumbled into Gettysburg, would’ve still commanded his brigade and, consequently, would not have been in a position to stumble anywhere.

With only two corps instead of the three, Lee’s orders would have necessarily been different, even assuming he decided to still move north into Pennsylvania, which he did to avoid having to send men west to relieve Pemberton under siege at Vicksburg. It’s likely, still facing that same pressure, Lee would have chosen to undertake offensive operations—but with different marching orders, there’s absolutely no way to tell how things would’ve transpired.

So, to assume things would have been different had Jackson been at Gettysburg is to assume the armies would’ve been in Gettysburg at all—and that premise alone has serious faults.

The great What-If’s that surround Jackson’s death are central to Lost Cause mythology, and they have become as much a part of the legend of Stonewall Jackson as anything he ever did in life. “His name alone is worth ten-thousand men,” a Union soldier once said—and because of that, his absence still makes all the difference.

The infuriated Army of the Potomac moved across the Rappahannock River en-mass on December 12th. Robert E. Lee and William Barksdale held Ambrose Burnside’s juggernaut at bay for most of December 11.

Rocky Lane. This restored roadway led much of the Union Army from the Middle Pontoon Crossing to Caroline Street, Fredericksburg.

Lee forced Burnside and the AOP to work on his timetable and fight the battle by Lee’s rules. The Union Army was forced to dislodge the Confederates in the city itself by any means necessary. A stealthy crossing was initiated on the morning of the 11th, but as the day wore on, artillery and infantry were employed. Finally, the Federals expelled the Southerns from the city at the point of the bayonet.

During the morning and afternoon of the 11th, the Union Army had front-row seats to the death and destruction poured upon their comrades by Southern riflemen. Their anger and frustration grew—a frustration that stemmed back to the failure of the Peninsula Campaign, that rolled through Second Manassas, Antietam, and the loss of their beloved George McClellan. Many were turning wrathful. They would turn their wrath on the city itself.

By the evening of December 11th, troops of the 2nd and 9th Corps occupied the city of Fredericksburg. Skirmishers and scouts moved to the edge of the city. In the downtown area, other soldiers fanned out into the buildings and businesses of the city. Burnside spent December 12th scouting the Confederate lines and developing a battle plan. While Burnside dallied, the soldiers became restless.

Many of the soldiers in the city began to drink, and then they began to loot the defenseless city. Officers allowed men to run wild and take their aggression out on the city that they had viewed from afar for weeks.

Lieutenant Josiah Favill of the 57th New York paints a most vivid scene of what happened next:

Early this morning {12th}…our division…marched up the cut and filed off into the principal street to the right.  Here we stacked arms and the men were dismissed.  They immediately made a dash for the houses, and ransacked them from cellar to garret.  Very soon the streets were filled with a  motley crowd of men, some of them dressed in women’s clothes, others with tall silk hats, curiously conspicuous where nothing by caps are worn; many brought out sofas, chairs, etc., which were planted in the middle of the street, and the men proceeded to take their ease.  Some carried pictures; one man had a fine stuffed alligator, and most of them had something.   It was curious to observe these men upon the eve of a tremendous battle rid themselves of all anxiety by plunging into this boisterous sport.  No attempt was made by the officers to interfere, and thus their minds were distracted, until summoned to fall in to storm the heights.

Looting of Fredericksburg.

The downtown was a wild scene of pandemonium. Fires still burned from the Federal shelling of the city. Other fires were set by men in the street. Men dressed in women’s cloths worked their way up and down the streets, some dancing with other soldiers. Others rode up and down the street in carriages. Many attempted to get stolen goods back across the river and into the Union camps on Stafford Heights.

In the midst of the chaos, civilians still lingered. Most had left the city before and during the bombardment, but perhaps as many as 1,000 civilians were still in town. Mamie Wells wrote of her experience dealing with the Union mob:

…that night! The pounding at our doors; the peering in the cellar windows by eyes red with intoxication; the oaths and curses; the ringing of axes and hammers; breaking in the tenantless houses; the firing of the buildings opposite; the insults heaped upon the occupants; the streets literally packed with soldiers in a complete state of moral demoralization…

Some homes, taken up as headquarters by general officers, were spared the enlisted men’s wrath. One Federal wrote:

…I was ordered to take charge of a very fine house that Gen. Sully had selected as his headquarters. It was an elegant mansion and finely furnished. There was a large and well stocked library; an elegant piano and the walls of the rooms were hung with beautiful paintings and engravings and especially of costly mirrors. In the storeroom was a goodly supply of sugar, meat, flour, etc….

Brigadier General Alfred Sully

The residence that Sully chose was filled with fine paintings. Many of the paintings were actually done by the general’s father. As Sully looked around, he even found a painting of himself that his father painted when the general was 3 or 4 years old. Sully posted guards at the house and allowed nothing to be taken.

General Oliver Otis Howard also took up residence in a home along Princess Anne Street. The general did not allow any of the plundering to affect his temporary home, either, though a resourceful private made off with a pie meant for the general. Someone had left the pie on the window ledge to cool, and the general never saw his dessert again.

Other wild scenes met the soldiers’ eyes. Some who entered the city saw an old man sitting on a porch rocking in a chair, laughing and talking to himself. It was once a stately home, but now only the pillars and the porch remained; the rest of the home was a pile of smoking rubble.

“In a parlor of a very elegant house, only about half blown up on Caroline Street, I saw one soldier holding a cow by the horns and milking her into his canteen,” one Federal soldier recalled. Another wrote:

One with cabinet tastes had a stuffed alligator, another with a pair of brass mounted andirons, and an apothecary’s pestle; still others with mirrors, musical instruments, warming pans, fruitdishes, bonnets, silk dresses, mouse traps, and, in short, everything that was ever made to eat, drink, wear or use. It was a comic scene…

Provost Marshall Marsena Patrick

After hours of ransacking and stealing, the Federal mob was brought under control. Provost Marshall Marsena Patrick entered the city and began arresting soldiers, but the damage was done. The center of the city was nearly destroyed by an artillery bombardment, fires, and the Union Army.

Some had little remorse over what they had seen or done. A soldier in the 140th New York wrote as he witnessed the destruction:

At the present time we are witnessing a splendid sight, as the city of Fredericksburg is on fire…I call it beautiful because it is just the way that I wish to see our General’s operate, for then I begin to think that they mean business…About half-past six all firing ceased, and your correspondent, with a number of others, enjoyed themselves witnessing the fiery flames as they spread through the doomed city of Fredericksburg. The sight was splendid, it surpassed in grandeur everything that I have ever witnessed…

Sometimes, the phrase gets stated in the form of certainty: “If Jackson hadn’t gotten shot…” or even, “If Jackson had lived….”

The speaker hardly needs to finish the phrase. The unspoken suggestion hangs in the air plain enough: If Stonewall Jackson hadn’t gotten shot…the war would have been different.

Such a premise is, of course, impossible to argue with because if Jackson hadn’t gotten shot, of course the war would have been different by the mere fact that events themselves would have been different. That’s what “different” means.

Raising the “probability” of a different war, though, seems too easy, too self-evident, too smug. Most people who trot out that premise are ignorant about the context of Jackson’s wounding and so never bother to consider the assumptions behind it.

So let’s look at the question a little more closely: what if Jackson hadn’t gotten shot?

Despite the most hopeful wishes of Jackson fans and Lost Cause partisans, it is impossible to know what would have happened. Who’s to say he wouldn’t have hit his head on a tree branch by accident and knocked himself out of the fight that way? Or got pitched from a spooked horse? Or hit by a random Federal artillery shell?

I don’t say that to sound flippant. Had he not gotten shot, he might have just as likely had some other accident befall him. Or, perhaps, maybe he’d have simply changed his mind and waited until morning. The point is: there’s no way to tell.

Jackson’s hand-sketched map of the Chancellorsville area.

It’s more likely, I concede, that Jackson would have carried on as intended. That means he would have renewed his assault under the cover and confusion of darkness, urging A.P. Hill’s fresh brigades forward through the thick woods of Chancellorsville’s wilderness. “Allow nothing to stop you,” he told Hill. “Press on to the United States Ford.”

Of the 21,000 or so men who made up the first wave of Jackson’s assault—Raleigh Colston and Robert Rodes’ divisions, plus lead elements of Hill’s—about 800 of them ended up as casualties. Assuming all of the rest of Hill’s men made it into battle after their exhausting day of marching, that would have plugged roughly seven thousand new men into the fight, giving Jackson 27,000 tired, disoriented infantrymen for his planned night assault.

Ely’s Ford Road

In making for U.S. Ford, we know he intended to cut off the Federal route of retreat along Ely’s Ford Road. In doing so, Jackson would have driven even farther away from Lee than he already was.

Had he pushed toward Ely’s Ford Road and the road to U.S. Ford, though, Jackson would have run head-on into the Union First and Fifth corps.

The First Corps, 17,000-men strong, was literally just arriving on the battlefield via U.S. Ford after marching in from Fredericksburg. The corps had originally crossed the Rappahannock with the Sixth Corps south of the city on April 29 as part of Hooker’s diversionary force, but after the first-day’s fight at Chancellorsville, Hooker sent early-morning orders to corps commander Major General John Reynolds “to march at once, with pack train, to report to headquarters.” The summons brought Reynolds back across the river to join the rest of the army at Chancellorsville.

The Fifth Corps, meanwhile, had led the march to Chancellorsville from Falmouth on April 27, then led the northernmost thrust of the Federal advance out of Chancellorsville on May 1. Moving unopposed along the River Road, Major General George Gordon Meade’s men had advanced beyond the Confederate flank and were in the perfect position to swoop in. Instead, Hooker recalled Meade and ordered the corps into a defensive position that anchored the army’s left flank to the river. Meade blew a fuse, but he obeyed nonetheless.

By the evening of May 2, Meade was in a foul temper, spoiling for a fight. Reynolds, too, was ready to rumble. Both commanders demonstrated their offensive-mindedness on the evening of May 4 when Hooker called his Council of War: Reynolds and Meade both voted to resume offensive operations.

Aside from the two fresh corps that waited like juggernauts in the forest, Jackson had the rest of the Union army sitting on his right flank. True, Lee had held most of those Federals in place throughout May 2 with skillful demonstrations by the divisions of Lafayette McLaws and Richard Anderson. But Union forces, wounded and angry, had begun to mobilize to counter the Confederate flank attack. The fact is, the Union Second, Third, Twelfth, and remnants of the Eleventh corps all sat smack between the split wings of the Confederate army.

Lee recognized how dangerously vulnerable his army was by that point. He sent word to Jeb Stuart, who took over command of the Second Corps following Jackson’s wounding, to press the Federals “so that we can unite the two wings of the army.” Let nothing delay the completion of the plan, he stressed. “It is all important that you still continue pressing to the right, turning, if possible, all the fortified points, in order that we can reunite both with of the army,” Lee said, adding, “proceed vigorously.” In the two orders he sent Stuart, he reinforced the point six times.

The Wilderness was known as “a region of gloom.”

The Union army wouldn’t have been the only opponent Jackson would have had to contend with, either. The Wilderness itself had worked against Jackson’s assault all day, diverting men into soggy creekbeds, tangling them in thorny bushes, swallowing them up whole. And that had been in the daylight. “A more unpromising theater of war was never seen,” one officer later wrote. It was, said another, “a wilderness in the most forbidding sense of the word.”

So, had Jackson not gotten wounded and had, instead, carried out the night attack he’d contemplated, he would have had to keep 27,000 exhausted, disoriented men in formation as they pushed through the dark, close woods of the Wilderness at night, led by two men, Colston and Rodes, brand new to division command, fending off Union threats to his right while facing, head-on, two of the Union army’s freshest (and most battle-hardened) corps.

With all that in mind, it’s still impossible to know what would have happened had Jackson not been wounded.

However, a fuller appreciation of the situation on the ground makes it readily apparent that Jackson’s presence doesn’t automatically mean a Confederate win.

————

Those grave voices who conjure the counterfactual specter of Jackson’s survival are quick to make the jump from Chancellorsville to Gettysburg. However, that question, too, begs fuller consideration—which we’ll examine next week.

Over the years I have amassed quite a collection of works on Gettysburg. As I prepared to take the feared Guide Test I seemed to buy every book I could find on the topic. Some of the books were on the guide recommended readings list for the test, while others were books I thought might be valuable. So below is a list that I have been working with as of late, with some comments that I have on the works.

Feel free to post comments on the books with your thoughts, or post some other books that you like on the topic. By no means is this a comprehensive list of all that is out there, it is merely a small collection of some of my favorite works.

“Bayonet, Forward!” Civil War Reminiscences, by Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain. Worth a read to get see the spin Chamberlain puts on the war and battles he participated in. There is a good collection of post war writings and speeches. To better understand the man it is good to read some of his own thoughts.

Gettysburg, by Stephen Sears. Sears brings the most readable one volume work on the battle as a whole.

Gettysburg Requiem: The Life and Lost Causes of Colonel William C. Oates, by Glenn LaFantasie. A nice balance to the overwhelming number of books that are out there on the 20th Maine/Chamberlain. One could argue Oates was the polar opposite of his opponent on Little Round Top.

Gettysburg: The Second Day, by Harry Pfanz. This is arguably the best and most comprehensive book on the second day of the battle, from Cemetery Ridge to Little Round Top. Pfanz has another work covering Cemetery Hill and Culp’s Hill during the battle.

“Happiness Is Not My Companion.” The Life of General G. K. Warren, by David M. Jordan. A really nice book about Warren. A real eye opener about who the man really was. There is some excellent work in reference to the  post war memory of Warren on Little Round Top.

Stand Firm Ye Boys From Maine: The 20th Maine and the Gettysburg Campaign, by Thomas Desjardin. A far and balanced work, that is far from the hero worshiping that we see with some other 20th Maine books.

These Honored Dead: How the Story of Gettysburg Shaped American Memory, by Thomas Desjardin. Excellent read about various topics of the battle. The chapters on Little Round Top and Joshua Chamberlain are eye-opening to say the least.

The Attack and Defense of Little Round Top: Gettysburg, July 2,1863, by Oliver Norton. A must read for all serious students of the battle. The book is flawed, but is widely quoted and studied. For those not as familiar with the battle will find as they work their way through it that it is the basis for many books and arguments for and against the importance of Little Round Top.

The Gettysburg Campaign: A Study in Command, by Edwin B. Coddington. This is the Bible of battle. Need I say more.

The Maps of Gettysburg: An Atlas of the Gettysburg Campaign, June 3-July 13, 1863. Excellent maps that include a short text breakdown. Great to take along on the battlefield.

The Myth of Little Round Top, by Garry Adelman. A great work exploring why Little Round Top has taken on a life of its own. Gary looks at the historiography of the hill, the characters, and more. A short read but very well worth a buy.

Twilight at Little Round Top: July, 2, 1863-The Tide Turns at Gettysburg, by Glenn LaFantasie. More of a micro-history of the battle for Little Round Top. The book has some great retelling of the known story. The work also tells the story of the other regiments on the hill.

With a Flash of His Sword: The Writings of Major Holman S. Melcher 20th Maine Infantry, by Holman S. Melcher and  William B. Styple. An excellent collection of letters with accompanying text. The book follows the man who led the charge down Little Round Top, no not Chamberlain. A great appendix that covers the Spears-Chamberlain Controversy in the post-war years.

And then there was the matter of Stonewall Jackson’s arm.

"Arm Stone" of Jackson's left arm.

While Jackson was buried in his home town of Lexington, his amputated left arm remained in a burial plot of its own, one hundred miles to the east, just beyond the Chancellorsville Battlefield, where it had been laid to rest on May 3 by Rev. Lacy. Lacy had come that day to visit Jackson as soon as he had heard about the general’s wounding. When he arrived at the field hospital, he broke into tears when he saw the extent of Jackson’s injury. “Oh, General, what a calamity,” he cried. Lacy and Jackson had formed a close bond during their six months of service together.

Beverly Tucker Lacy.

The two had known each other in Lexington before the war, although for the four years prior to the conflict, Lacy had been pastor for the Presbyterian congregation in Frankfort, Kentucky. He had moved to Fredericksburg in 1862, then to Orange Court House, where he served wounded soldiers. In January of 1863, Jackson asked Lacy to oversee the chaplain service of the entire Second Corps.

Lacy was ideally suited for the position. Born in 1819 to a clergyman father in Prince Edward County, Virginia, Lacy eventually went on to Washington College and Union Theological Society. Mary Anna called him a true “spiritual comforter.” But on the morning of May 3, it was Jackson providing the comfort, meager as it was in his weakened condition. He consoled his friend, and when the time finally came for Lacy to depart, they parted on an optimistic note. Lacy would spend a great deal of time with Jackson over the next seven days, and he would serve as the principal messenger bringing communications from Lee. It would be Lacy to whom Lee would say, “He has lost his left arm, but I have lost my right.” As it happened, that left arm was much on Lacy’s mind. He found it, wrapped in a cloth, outside Jackson’s tent, where the doctors had placed it following the operation. Worried that it would end up as one of many on a pile of amputated limbs eventually destined for amass, unmarked grave, and convinced that it deserved a better fate, Lacy collected Jackson’s arm and determined to dispose of it in a more fitting manner.

Ellwood.

Lacy set out northeast across the fields toward the nearby home of his brother, J. Horace Lacy. Lacy’s home, called Ellwood, had been built around 1790. Lacy assumed ownership in 1848 when he married the daughter of the building’s original owner. The plantation grew corn, wheat, and oats, tended by several dozen slaves. However, the Lacy’s primarily used Ellwood as a summer home; they also owned a larger home in Fredericksburg, Chatham, which overlooked the Rappahannock River. Rev. Lacy laid Jackson’s arm to rest in the family cemetery. Later, Mary Anna was asked if she wanted the arm exhumed and buried with her husband in Lexington. “Was it given a Christian burial?” she asked. Assured that it was, she consented to let the arm remain at Ellwood.

Marine Corps General Smedley Butler. Butler is one of the few soldiers in United States history to be awarded two Medals of Honor.

Not that the arm necessarily rested in peace. When Union forces occupied the area in May of 1864, they dug up the arm and, satisfied that it was really there, reburied it. Popular legend also has it that United States Marine Corps General Smedley Butler, in the area for a Marine Corps exercise in 1921, excavated the arm and then reburied it, in a metal ammunition box, with full military honors. That story, which has taken on a life of its own, probably never happened. The Marines did, however, place a plaque on the side of the arm’s monument: “A Tribute to the Memory of Stonewall Jackson by the East Coast Expeditionary Force: United States Marines Sept. 26-Oct. 4 1921.”

The monument itself was placed there by an intimate of Jackson’s who sought to preserve the general’s memory: James Powers Smith. After the war, Smith had married Agnes Lacy, Horace’s oldest daughter, and went on to a successful career as a Presbyterian minister for a church on the corner of Princess Anne and George Streets in Fredericksburg. Smith always kept an eye on the grave of his beloved commander’s arm. In 1903, as one of ten granite markers Smith placed around the area’s battlefields, he installed the marker at the cemetery. It reads “Stonewall Jackson’s arm—Buried May 3, 1863.” Fifteen members of the Lacy family lie interred in the cemetery, but only Jackson’s arm has a marker. Still, Stonewall Jackson’s arm is not the only limb in United States military history with its own unique story.

Benedict Arnold.

Major General Benedict Arnold, who would go down in U.S. history as a notorious turncoat for switching his allegiance to the British during the America Revolution, has a monument for a lost limb. At the 1777 Battle of Saratoga, while still serving the American cause, Arnold led a brilliant charge against a British position, but British musket balls tore apart his left leg, which was then crushed under Arnold’s fallen horse. The monument, erected in 1887 near Freeman’s Farm, depicts a bas-relief boot, but the monument’s inscription refers only to the memory of “the most brilliant soldier” in the army without naming Arnold by name because of his subsequent infamy.

During the Mexican War, at the battle of Cerro Gordo, the 4th Illinois Infantry captured the cork leg of Mexican General Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna. The Illinois National Guard has kept the leg as a trophy, displaying it at their museum in Springfield.

Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna.

Another leg, this one belonging to flamboyant Union officer and politician Major General Daniel E. Sickles, remains in the possession of the Army Medical Museum in Washington, D.C. Sickles lost his left leg in the Peach Orchard on the second day of the Battle of Gettysburg. In a show of bravado as he was being carried off the battlefield, Sickles smoked a cigar and ordered that his dismembered leg be saved. He later sent it to the museum, which pickled it and put it on display. Sickles would visit his leg at least once a year for the rest of his life.

Authored by Chris Mackowski and Kristopher D. White

Photo of a Confederate believed to be Richard B. Garnett

On July 3,1863, George Pickett’s famous Virginian division stepped out from the woods of Seminary Ridge to begin the charge that would go down in the annals of history bearing their commander’s name. It was mid-afternoon and the Battle of Gettysburg was quickly reaching its climax. Much has been written about this fateful charge.

However, one mystery from the charge still remains.

One of the brigade commanders, Richard Garnett, suffering from a cold and from injuries sustained from a fall from his horse, was determined not to miss this opportunity for battle and what he hoped was a shot for redemption. A little over a year before, the late Major General Thomas J. “Stonewall” Jackson had relieved Garnett and pressed charges of cowardice against him after the brigade commander had ordered his brigade to retreat from the battlefield at the First Battle of Kernstown on March 23, 1862.

Garnett yearned for the chance to plead his case and redeem his honor, but the war interrupted any chance of a court convening to try the charges and exonerate him. Then, in May, before Garnett had a chance to defend himself in front of his peers, Jackson died from pneumonia following wounds received at the Battle of Chancellorsville.

Two months later at Gettysburg, Garnett urged his horse out into the open fields between the Confederate position on Seminary Ridge and the Union position approximately a mile away on the opposite Cemetery Ridge, determined to find that redemption on the field of battle.

The charge was desperate to begin with, and riding mounted, Garnett made an even more conspicuous target. Nearing the Union lines, somewhere between the Emmittsburg Pike and the stone wall, Union artillery pieces let loose a torrent of shot and shell. Garnett disappeared into a plume of smoke (the movie Gettysburg depicts this scene dramatically, with Garnett’s horse running rider-less out of the smoke). With the confusion and carnage, coupled with the Confederates retreating back to Seminary Ridge shortly thereafter, Garnett was unaccounted for. When the casualty list was organized, Garnett was counted among the missing—but presumed dead.

Garnett’s body was never identified.

In 1872, the Hollywood Memorial Association raised the funds to remove the Confederate dead from Pickett’s charge at Gettysburg and have them reinterred at Hollywood Cemetery in Richmond, Virginia. Garnett’s body is presumed to be among the remains collected.

Here is where the mystery begins.

About 150 miles north from where Garnett’s body presumably rests, and approximately 30 years later, another ex-Confederate general, George H. “Maryland” Steuart, came across Garnett’s sword in a second-hand shop in Baltimore. He purchased the relic, which was described as a sword with the initials “R.B. Garnett, U.S.A.” According to the Baltimore Sun, the sword was after the pattern of artillery officers in the United States Army.

Garnett, a graduate of the West Point Military Academy class of 1841, had served as an officer in the United States artillery until he resigned his commission in May 1861 and accepted a commission in the Confederate army. The sword he carried with him in the service of the United States went South with him.

Being a fellow graduate of West Point and United States cavalry officer, Steuart would have had a familiarity with the swords of the United States military. Before Steuart could locate the Garnett family to return the sword, though, he passed away in November 1903.

However, two years later, in 1905, the Baltimore Sun reported that the sword was returned by Steuart’s newphew, James Steuart, to the wife of Colonel John B. Purcell, who was the neice of the late Garnett. According to Col Purcell, the relic “will be treasured by her as a precious heirloom.” The sword that Garnett had carried into his last earthly charge 42 years earlier had finally found its way back to the late officer’s family.

But, that is where the facts end. Questions have arisen since the sword turned up in that second-hand shop in Baltimore, and therein lies the mystery. Did a Confederate, seeing his brigade commander fall, snatch it? Or was it gathered up by a Union soldier? How did it end up in Baltimore?

These questions can even lead to further questions: Did Garnett somehow survive and die after the battle, entrusting his sword to someone? Or was the sword just collected among the other debris of battle and, through a series of transactions, make its way to Baltimore?

All these questions are valid and good, but like the mystery they remain unanswerable—just like the ultimate final resting spot of the sword’s owner.

Upper Pontoon Crossing Site.

As the Union army completed its first-ever successful riverine crossing under fire, the boats came ashore at the foot of the Hawke Street/Sophia Street intersection. Out of the boats leapt the Michiganders who entered the first two houses they came across. One observer from the Stafford side of the river stated that they could follow the fighting room by room, muzzle flash by muzzle flash.

William McCarter of 116th Pennsylvania later described the scene:

Hundreds of my comrades and I on the hilltops looked down on the brave fellows on the river, tugging and fighting with death itself. An oarsman would be seen relinquishing his oar and falling down dead or wounded in the bottom of his boat or overboard into the river. Then another would drop while not a few of their partners with rifles in hand were suffering a similar fate by their side. I think this was sad. It may have been the saddest sight during my life in the army. The scene forced tears from many of my comrades and me who were eyewitnesses to it.

The 7^th secured the far bank and now distracted the Confederates enough to allow the engineers to go back to bridge building unmolested. The Union infantry, though, had much more work ahead of them.

7th Michigan Monument at the UpperPontoon Crossing.

At the middle crossing, located at the south end of town, Colonel Harrison Fairchild’s 89^th New York went across like their comrades from Michigan. The New Yorkers had an easier time of it. Once they reached the halfway mark of the river, they were not fired upon. The reason: Fredericksburg sits on a plateau, and the Confederates atop the plateau could not see over the riverbank to hit them, nor could the Rebels on the bottom floors of the warehouses and factories.

The only men who could hit them were a group of the 8^th Florida, who were along the river in an open field. The Floridians had come to a realization in the middle of the field: if they didn’t fire, the Union men on the far banks didn’t fire back. So they were content to stay where they were. The 89^thNew York came ashore and secured the bridgehead.

At the lower crossing, a few miles south of town, there was no need for a riverine crossing. Federal artillery and infantry dominated the area, and the bridges at that location were already completed. Burnside refused to cross the army there until the Upper and Middle Crossing bridges were complete, though.

Middle Pontoon Crossing.

Meanwhile, back at the upper crossing, the 7^th could not stay put like their comrades at the middle crossing. The aggressive Barksdale was ready to drive them back into the river. If that happened, the bridges and crossing would be compromised once more.

More Federals were fed into the breach. The 20^th Massachusetts, “The Harvard Regiment,” went across in boats next. Soon thereafter, the bridges were quickly finished, and across came the 19^th Massachusetts, 42^nd New York, 127^th Pennsylvania, and more. The flood of Union reinforcements presented a problem, though: there wasn’t enough room for all of them.

The 7^th Michigan had only advanced a half a block and stopped in an alley. The two Massachusetts regiments knew they needed to advance, but no one knew who should lead. They asked Division commander Howard for orders. As the men waited for his reply, casualties quickly mounted. Confederates held the “high ground”—that is, they were in the second and third floors of buildings, firing down on the Federals. “Nearly every house and cellar had someone in it, firing from the windows,” claimed one Union officer.

Finally word came back from the aloof Howard. He simply he told his subordinates “to push ahead.” Regimental commanders fought with one another over who had to take the lead. Hunt’s men had seen enough; they were happily tucked in their ally. So, it fell on the 20^thMass to secure the next block. In column, the Bay State men bravely advanced.

George Macy 20th Mass Infantry.

As they entered the Caroline Street/Hawke Street intersection, all of hell and damnation rained on them.

The Federals deployed in the open streets as best they could. One company swung north into battle line on Caroline Street; another to the south; the third drove straight across the intersection and kept going alone into the heart of the city. All the while, the 20^th took it on the chin from elements of the 13^th and 17^th Mississippi.

Though in buildings, the Confederates still took considerable casualties. The thin wood homes disintegrated as the bullets hit. “The most dangerous and trying part of the action, was that the enemy could fire a volley at such close range without being seen.” one Union soldier remembered. Splinters hit the Rebels in the eyes and wounded many.

Still, the 20^thwas in the open, and in less than 20 minutes one-third of the regiment were casualties.

Henry Abbott 20th Mass Infantry.

House by house, street by street, the fighting raged. By 4:30, there was little Barksdale could do. The Federals outnumbered him nearly 3 to 1, and more were poised to cross. Finally, Barksdale’s commander, Lafayette McLaws, reined in his pit-bull. Barksdale ordered his men out of the city, assigning the 21^st Mississippi to cover the retreat near dark.

Barksdale had held back the entire Union army for one full day. This allowed Lee the time he needed to assemble the entire Confederate army and improve fields of fire and fortifications. This delay allowed Colonel E. P. Alexander to prepare the Maryes Heights field so that, “…we can cover that ground…so well that we comb it as with a fine-tooth comb. A chicken could not live on that field when we open on it.”

The delay had come at a high price to the Union army, too. “The first street running parallel with the river was covered with Union and Confederate dead. One of the latter was lying in the middle of the street pierced with a shell, taking off both arms…” There were numbers of dead and wounded soldiers, with multiple wounds inflicted by the bayonet. It was a gruesome and chilling scene.  “Here we cleared the houses near us, but shot came from far and near—we could see no one and were simply murdered,” Captain George Macy of the 20^th Mass remembered, “…every shot of the enemy took effect.  How I escaped I cannot say, as…more than a dozen [men] actually fell on me.”

For the first time in the Eastern Theater, though, the army had engaged in urban warfare. Military historians today still study Fredericksburg because, there, the rules of that kind of warfare had been written for the first time. That action had come on top of the first riverine crossing under fire in American military history.

Now, the army was about to embark in the worst sacking of an American city since the War of 1812.

Looting of Fredericksburg.

© 2011 Emerging Civil War

Cross Bayou—looking out in the direction of where the Confederate Navy Yard would have stood

Centered on the Red River, modern downtown Shreveport, Louisiana is a hive of activity. Glitzy casinos and well-kept shopping malls, broad boardwalks and trendy clubs, traditional churches and intellectual colleges keep this rough-hewn, hardworking river town bustling.  Through all of this activity, old Louisiana Highway One cuts diagonally through the city. I travel this road often, as it takes me home to family in Texas or friends in Arkansas. Yet for the dozens of times I’ve passed it, I’ve never paid much attention to the old, overgrown historic marker right near the river. Perhaps the throbbing of the city’s daily routine or the casino’s lights kept me from noticing it.

Nevertheless, curiosity finally got the best of me recently, and I pulled over to read the sign, little knowing that it would send me on a wild goose chase for information regarding a foggy chapter of Shreveport’s Confederate past, involving the stories of three incredibly different Confederate warships….The sign, visible despite being surrounded by bushes, shrubs and a four-lane highway, simply reads:

Confederate Navy Yard-Historical Marker, Shreveport, Louisiana

Confederate Navy Yard

One block west near the mouth of Cross Bayou at Red River the ironclad Missouri and ram Webb built.  Missouri armored with railroad iron.  In 1863, Webb fought USS Indianola near Vicksburg.  Missouri was surrendered here May 1865.

Straightforward enough. I was a little surprised to discover that Shreveport was home to a Confederate naval yard—although a size-able enough town in the 1860’s, it hardly seemed to warrant the construction of a Rebel naval base. Desiring to learn a little more about this local maritime episode, I set off to the local libraries. As it turns out, the Shreveport Confederate Navy Yard was the center for one of the murkiest and little-known chapters in Confederate naval history.

Shreveport served as the Confederate headquarters for the Trans-Mississippi Department for much of the Civil War. The city was also home to an arsenal, powder house, foundry, sawmills, storage sheds and a small but active naval yard where Cross Bayou meets the Red River. The naval yard, under the command of Lieutenant Jonathan H. Carter, had been contracted in October of 1862 for the building of “one or more iron clad vessels of war” by Confederate Secretary of Navy Stephen Mallory. Work on the ironclad, however, was frustratingly slow, as manpower for its construction was in short supply. Finally on April 14, 1863, the newly christened CSS Missouri was launched. After the acquisition of armaments and trial runs, the Missouriwas ready for action by September.

The USS Indianola, which was sunk by the CSS Webb and CSS Queen of the West in February, 1863

The guns were courtesy of the cottonclad ram CSS William S. Webb.  While the Missouri was being outfitted before her trials in the late winter of 1863, the Webb was immersed in the crucial drama unfolding around Vicksburg, Mississippi. On February 24, the CSS Webb, along with the CSS Queen of the West, tangled with the USS Indianola on the Mississippi. The Webb and the Queen used their rams on the Indianola to lethal effect, all the while peppering her with shells and small arms fire. After six heavy blows by the enemy’s rams, the Indianola finally gave way and surrendered, ending the hour and a half engagement.  Banged up after her victory, the CSS Webb made its way up the Red River to Shreveport, seeking repairs in the naval yard. She brought along with her two captured Dahlgren naval guns (an 11- and 9-inch), spoils of war that were outfitted upon the newly completely CSS Missouri. Thus, in early 1863 the CSS Missouri was being outfitted and armed for service while the CSS Webb was being repaired following battle, both in the docks at the Shreveport Navy Yard.

During this busy time, however, a third strain of naval affairs was underway in northern Louisiana. Edgar C. Singer was an engineer from Port Lavaca, Texas. In 1863 Singer, along with a number of other engineers—many of whom had experience with the CSS H. L. Hunley—formed the Singer Submarine Corps. By the latter part of that year, Singer’s men, cut off from the eastern Confederacy by the fall of Vicksburg, were operating in north Louisiana in cooperation with department commander Lieutenant General Edmund Kirby Smith. Their work was straightforward and secret: the construction of five submarines (four in Shreveport, one in Galveston) to be used against the U.S. Navy.

Secret submarines, a new ironclad, ship repairs…the Confederate Shreveport Navy Yard was a humming and hopping place in the latter part of the war. The stories of our three sets of vessels—the CSS Missouri, CSS Webb, and the four Shreveport Singer submarines­­—all come to a head in 1864-’65.

For the CSS Missouri, the spring of 1864 seemed to be her chance to make a positive contribution to the war effort. Her ability to do so was questionable. The Missouri had a number of serious defects. She was ungainly to steer (with only a single paddle wheel), had a top speed of only four mph, had leaks and was armored with railroad irons that didn’t fit well together. Nevertheless expectations were high for Lieutenant Carter, in command of both the newly-finished Missouri and the repaired CSS Webb.

U.S. Admiral David Dixon Porter

Shreveport and the Confederate Trans-Mississippi faced its gravest threat in the spring of ’64. Union General Nathaniel P. Banks had marshaled a fighting force of roughly 30,000 men with which to invade northern Louisiana along the Red River and capture Shreveport; this was the largest army ever assembled west of the Mississippi up to that time. More pertinent to Lieutenant Carter was the cooperation with Banks of Union Admiral David Dixon Porter with his fleet of thirteen ironclads, four tinclads, and five other vessels. Opposing this massive force were approximately 8,800 men under Confederate General Richard Taylor, son of U.S. President Zachary Taylor, and the two ships under Lt. Carter.

Being heavily outnumbered (two ships against twenty-two ships), perhaps it is just as well that Lt. Carter and the Webb and Missouri never got a chance to see action. The water level in the Red River was very low that spring, and both ships were stuck in Shreveport, unable to move south and meet the oncoming enemy. Despite the lack of naval support, Taylor was able to soundly defeat Banks at the Battle of Mansfield on April 8, 1864, followed by another hard fight at Pleasant Hill on April 9. These twin battles forced Banks to retreat in ignominy and secured Shreveport and the region for the Confederacy.

For the Missouri, this one chance at battle never materialized, and in the end she never saw combat against the enemy. Following the disaster at Mansfield in April, 1864, Union forces retreated back down the Red River. Though easy enough for the army, the navy had a hard time of it—low water levels kept halting the retreat of the fleet. Porter was careful to lead with his biggest ironclad, the USS Eastport, which had the greatest chance of destroying an enemy ironclad—like the CSS Missouri, which Porter knew was stationed in Shreveport. But the low water levels that hindered Porter’s retreat also kept the Missouri from attacking. Porter escaped and no other opportunities presented themselves for the Missouri throughout the remainder of the war.

In the spring of 1865, the Missouri headed down the Red River to aid in the defenses of Alexandria; Lt. Carter would surrender here there on June 2. The CSS Missouri was the final Confederate ironclad to surrender in home waters. Similar to the Missouri, the four mysterious Singer submarines in Shreveport never emerged as a legitimate threat to Union forces. Although their existence has not been definitely proven, lots of solid evidence suggests that they were indeed a reality and construction was generally complete. Certainly the Union forces were concerned about the threat of these submersibles. David Dixon Porter, in command of the US Navy’s Mississippi Squadron, ordered a chain to be placed across the mouth of the Red River to prevent the submarines from entering the Mississippi itself.

By March of 1865, Admiral Porter had an even greater understanding of the menace in Shreveport in the form of a report by Maj. Jackson of the 10^thColored Heavy Artillery in New Orleans:

The following is a description of the torpedo boats…The boat is 40 feet long, 48 inches deep, and 40 inches wide, built entirely of iron, and shaped similar to a steam boiler.  The ends are sharp pointed.  On the sides are two iron flanges (called fins), for the purpose of raising or lowering the boat in the water.  The boat is propelled at a rate of four miles per hour by means of a crank…The boat is usually worked seven feet under water…Each boat carries two torpedoes, one at the bow, attached to a pole 20 feet long…The explosion of the missile on the bow is caused by coming in contact with the object intended to be destroyed.

The CSS H.L. Hunley-the famous counterpart of the Shreveport Singer submarines, which were apparently similar to the Hunley

The specifications of the described Shreveport Singer submarines closely match those of the H.L. Hunley, one whom some members of the Singer Submarine Corps had worked, and lend powerful credence to the existence of these submersibles. This detailed description certainly worried David Dixon Porter. Yet the subs never came, and indeed, when Union forces went north later in 1865 to secure both the Missouriand Shreveport, no submarines were found.  Perhaps they lay scuttled somewhere along the silted twists and turns of the Red or Mississippi Rivers even today.

The burning of the Confederate cottonclad CSS Webb on April 24, 1865 south of New Orleans, Louisiana after its mad dash for Havana

Thus, the Missouri and the mysterious Shreveport Singer submarines never experienced the heat of battle and faded into murky obscurity. The cottonclad CSS William S. Webb, however, went out with a bang. In April of 1865—the month of General Robert E. Lee’s surrender and President Lincoln’s assassination—the CSS Webb, under the charge of Commander C.W. Read, made a dash for Havana, Cuba with a load of cotton in hull. In her new role as would-be blockade-runner, the CSS Webb left the Shreveport Navy Yard and headed down the Red River into the Mississippi, no damage done. The Federals, however, were aware of the Webb’s dash, and New Orleans had been alerted. Despite the forewarning, the Webb managed to slip past the town under the guise of an army transport! Her ruse was uncovered too late by the enemy, and the Webb sailed past New Orleans in the final stretch towards the open waters of the Gulf of Mexico. Twenty miles south of New Orleans, however, the Webb encountered an oncoming warship. Unable to retreat back towards Federal-held New Orleans and unable to continue onward, Commander Read ran her aground and set her afire on April 24, 1865.  It was a fiery and fitting end for a cottonclad that saw much action throughout the naval war in the west.

The stories of all these ships—the CSS Missouri, CSS Webb, and the mysterious Singer submarines—are all inextricably linked with the Confederate Shreveport Navy Yard.  Although relatively little is known about this facility and what all went on there, it played a significant role in the naval warfare along the Red River and the lower Mississippi.

And all this, just from reading a historic marker!

Zac Cowsert received his Bachelor of Arts Degree in History and Political Science from Centenary College of Louisiana, a small liberal-arts college in Shreveport.  He is currently a graduate student at West Virginia University focusing in U.S. History and the American Civil War.  His studies and research often explore the Trans-Mississippi Theater.  ©

Further Reading & Sources:

Johnson, Ludwell H.  Red River Campaign:  Politics and Cotton in the Civil War.  Kent, OH:  Kent State University Press, 1993.

Joiner, Gary D.  One Damn Blunder from Beginning to End:  The Red River Campaign of 1864.  Wilmington, DE:  Scholarly Resources Inc., 2003.

Miers, Earl S.  The Web of Victory:  Grant at Vicksburg.  Baton Rouge:  Louisiana State University Press, 1955.

Ragan, Mark K.  Union and Confederate Submarine Warfare in the Civil War.  Mason City, IA:  Savas Publishing, 1999.

Soley, James Russell, USN.  “Closing Operations in the Gulf and Western Rivers” in Battles and Leaders of the Civil War:  Retreat with Honor.  Vol. 4.  Edited by Robert Underwood Johnson and Clarence Clough Buel.  New York:  Castle Books, 1883.

Still, William N. Jr.  Iron Afloat:  The Story of the Confederate Armorclads.  Nashville:  Vanderbilt University Press, 1971.

Mount Holly Cemetery-Little Rock, Arkansas

Spending time with friends in Little Rock this weekend, I had the opportunity to explore some Civil War-related sites in the area. Being somewhat familiar with the city, I pondered the more oblique ways to interact with the area’s Civil War past.  The result was several hours spent prowling through Mount Holly Cemetery, a beautiful, timeless and somewhat haunting burial ground in the heart of Little Rock’s throbbing downtown.

Hunting for half-forgotten headstones, paying respects to and remembering the actions of those buried is definitely one of the odder habits of history buffs. Nevertheless, the graves and stories I encountered helped expand my knowledge of the Civil War and its characters. Some of those stories I will share with you here.

John Edward Murray was a talented young officer who shot up the ranks of the Confederate army, a rising star whom myth declares was the youngest Confederate general (however, he in fact never gained the wreathed stars). Although born in Virginia, Murray grew up in Arkansas and entered West Point in 1860. One year later, he left the Academy to enlist in the Fifth Arkansas Infantry. Murray climbed the ranks from private to lieutenant-colonel, earning his lieutenant-colonelcy at the mere age of eighteen.

The grave of Confederate Colonel John Edward Murray, who died in the Battle of Atlanta at age 21

John, along with the rest of the Fifth, had a grizzly wartime experience. The Arkansas men’s blood was spilt at Perryville, Murfreesboro, and Chickamauga. In the latter fight, the Fifth Arkansas took forty-five percent casualties, including the unit’s commander; John Murray led the unit through the rest of the battle and won his full colonelcy. Standing at his grave, I reflected on this young man—the leadership and ambition it must have taken to forge such a meteoric rise. His story weighed heavy on my heart, for his illustrious career would be a short one. Leading his men into the fray at Atlanta on July 22, 1864, Murray was mortally wounded and died the following day. He was twenty-one years old—my own age. Murray’s story reminded me starkly of the bitterness of war: he represents the tens of thousands of future leaders and minds who fell dead so young in life. Who knows what that generation of youth could have accomplished?

The memorial to Elizabeth “Quatie” Ross, the first wife of Cherokee Chief John Ross; Quatie died on the Trail of Tears in 1839

Meandering off from Murray’s grave, I happened upon a unique and unexpected find. Elizabeth Ross (nicknamed “Quatie”) was the first wife of John Ross, the Principal Chief of the Cherokee during the Civil War. Quatie was Ross’ first wife, and like many other Cherokee, she was subjected to forced removal from her native home in Georgia along the Trail of Tears in the 1830’s. Also like many Cherokee, she did not survive this journey—she died on a steamboat headed west in 1839. A memorial to her stands at Mount Holly Cemetery.  For her husband John Ross, this was the first heartbreak among many in his life. Seventy years old at the outbreak of the Civil War, Ross struggled fruitlessly to keep the 21,000 Cherokee under his purview out of the white man’s conflict, despite attempts by both sides to forge an alliance with the powerful Native American tribe. Ross’ valiant efforts ended in vain, as the Cherokee people and their homeland were torn apart by the Civil War. During the war, Ross witnessed the devastation of the Cherokee nation, its people, and its future. He died in 1866 in Washington, D.C., a broken leader of a broken tribe.

Confederate General Thomas James Churchill

Following the discovery of Quatie’s memorial, I sought out the final resting place of Thomas James Churchill. General Churchill played a heavy role in shaping the Trans-Mississippi Theater from beginning to end. Born in 1824 in Kentucky, Churchill found a new home in Little Rock, Arkansas following the Mexican-American War. On the outset of the Civil War, Churchill raised the First Arkansas Mounted Rifles; the Rifles saw action from the very beginning, fighting conspicuously at the Battles of Wilson’s Creek in Missouri (August, 1861) and Pea Ridge in northwestern Arkansas (March, 1862). Churchill was promoted in the spring of 1862 and commanded a hard-fighting division under Edmund Kirby Smith during the Kentucky Campaign, winning laurels for himself and his troops.

The final resting place of Confederate General Thomas James Churchill

Unfortunately, Churchill was in command of Arkansas Post on the Mississippi River when it came under Union assault in January of 1863. Outnumbered six-to-one, Churchill’s command put up a brief but sharp fight before capitulating. The result was 4,700 Confederates captured. Despite the stinging defeat, Churchill continued to serve meritoriously. His brigade saw heavy fighting in the late stages of the war, helping to fend off the duel Union excursions northward up Louisiana’s Red River and southwards towards Camden, Arkansas in the spring of 1864. After the Civil War, Churchill served as both state treasurer and governor of Arkansas.

First Lieutenant Omer Rose Weaver

My day at Mount Holly Cemetery ended with the discovery of a fascinating story. First Lieutenant Omer Rose Weaver is a name you will not encounter often in Civil War literature. Yet the death of this man was powerfully symbolic for the town of Little Rock, Arkansas. Omer Rose Weaver was an officer in Arkansas’ Pulaski Light Artillery, a unit raised in central Arkansas and that rendered service throughout much of its native region—at Wilson’s Creek, Pea Ridge, Prairie Grove, Helena and Bayou Fourche.

Yet Omer Weaver’s war experience would be short and deadly. On August 10, 1861, the Battle of Wilson’s Creek was raging, and Lt. Weaver found himself in command one of his battery’s guns. His battery was locked in thundering artillery duel with the opposing Federals.  Captain W.E. Woodruff, Jr., commanding the Pulaski Light Artillery during the battle, related the following:

Weaver was struck within the first hour. He had just been relieved by his gunner, Sergeant Blocher, I believe, and, was struck a moment after with a solid shot, which broke his right arm and crushed his breast. Some one told me Weaver was wounded and wanted to see me. I went to him immediately, and he said, lying on the ground, his wounded arm across his breast: “I am done for; can’t you have me moved?” I said, “Yes, immediately, and I will try to get a surgeon.” He said, “All right; you had better go back to your gun or post.” I called Sergeant Button and told him to detail men to move Weaver, and to get a surgeon if he could. The fight was going on all the time…[following a battlefield burial] Weaver’s [body] was disinterred and sent to Little Rock for final burial, in charge of Lieutenant Brown. His grave is still bare of any memorial stone. This ought not to be, as Arkansas sent no more promising young soldier to the field.

First Lieutenant Omer Rose Weaver’s headstone at Mount Holly Cemetary

First Lieutenant Omer Rose Weaver died on the field of battle, and tradition holds that he was the first Little Rock citizen (perhaps the first Arkansan) to die in battle in the American Civil War. Fortunately, Woodruff’s concern for a memorial stone to Weaver was addressed, as a gravestone for Weaver rests under the shade of trees in Mount Holly Cemetery today. Weaver’s death was merely the first in a long line of young men from Arkansas, serving on both sides, to fall in defense of their causes, countries and comrades.

I have always found cemeteries to be not only places of solemnity and reflection, but also honor, appreciation and exploration of the past. Although the stories shared in this post represent only a portion of the men and deeds of days past I encountered at Mount Holly Cemetery, hopefully they will resonate with the reader and inspire excursions into your own local burial grounds and history.

Zac Cowsert received his Bachelor of Arts Degree in History and Political Science from Centenary College of Louisiana, a small liberal-arts college in Shreveport.  He is currently a graduate student at West Virginia University focusing in U.S. History and the American Civil War.  His studies and research often explore the Trans-Mississippi Theater.  ©

Further Reading & Sources:

Captain William Woodruff’s Account of the Battle of Wilson’s Creek. National Park Service, Wilson’s Creek National Battlefield.

Crute, Joseph H. Jr. Units of the Confederate Army. Midlothian, VA: Derwent Books, 1987.

Josephy, Alvin M.  The Civil War in the American West. New York:  Vintage Books, 1991.

Mount Holly Cemetery. The Encyclopedia of Arkansas History and Culture.

Warner, Ezra J.  Lives of the Confederate Commanders. Baton Rouge, Louisiana State University Pres, 1959.

© 2011 Emerging Civil War

Wesley Brainerd 50th New York Engineers.

Part three in a series

“I was standing at the extreme outer end of the bridge encouraging my men, when happening to cast my eyes to the shore beyond just as the fog lifted a little, I saw what for the moment almost chilled my blood. A long line of arms moving rapidly up and down was all I saw, for a moment later they were again obscured by the fog. But I knew too well that line of arms was ramming cartridges and that the crisis was near.”
— Captain Wesley Brainerd, 50th New York Engineers

Moments later, shots rang out from the buildings of Fredericksburg.

“The bullets of the enemy rained upon my bridge,” Brainer said. “They went whizzing and zipping by and around me, pattering on the bridge, splashing into the water and thugging through the boats.”

Around 5:15 am, Confederates opened fire on Burnside’s bridging parties. The Battle of Fredericksburg had begun.

Burnside’s ill-fated crossing of the Rappahannock had come to life around 2 am on December 11th. Three wagon trains full of pontoons and equipment had made their way to the river bank, and since then, all had gone according to plan.

It was a cold December morning, with the temperature hovering around 20 degrees, as the engineers went to work. According to some, there was a thin layer of ice on the surface of the river. The Yankee engineers worked as quickly and as quietly as they could, but the enemy could hear the sounds of boats launching, hammers pounding, and anchors being dropped in the river.

Confederate soldiers had taken up residency in the houses, warehouses, and factories along the river front.  They’d known it was only a matter of time before the Federals forced a crossing.

Longstreet had dispatched a brigade of Mississippians under the command of Brigadier General William Barksdale to picket the edge of the city. Barksdale, a prewar politician, had his men dig trenches, move into buildings and barricade parts of the streets. If the Yankees decided to cross, he would be ready.

At 5 am on December 11th, two cannon fired along the Confederate line. These shots were not aimed at the Federals that were bridging the river; they were warning shots to the Confederates themselves. The signal guns warned of the Federal crossing and told the Confederate units to congregate at Fredericksburg.

The signal guns also told the Federals what they already knew: the Confederates were on to them. The Engineers quickened their pace.

Lee had two choices before him: he could evacuate the city and allow the Federals to establish their bridgeheads unopposed, or he could have Barksdale fight it out. Lee chose the latter.

Bridge building under fire.

Near 5:15 am, Barksdale’s men opened fire. The two upper bridges near the northern end of the city were just past the halfway point across the river when the shots rained down on Captain Wesley Brainerd and his bridging party there.

The single middle bridge near the south end of the city was less than halfway across when the Confederates opened there on the 15th New York Engineers. The engineers who were in boats or on the flat bridge were in the middle of the river with no cover to be had. Therefore, as the shots rang out, the engineers naturally fled, and their supporting infantry did their best to quell the Confederate fire. It was of little use. It was still early in the morning, and though dawn was breaking there was still a heavy fog on the river. On top of this, the Confederates were hiding in and around the buildings. Union marksmen tried firing at the puffs of white smoke to no avail.

Much of the Confederate fire subsided after the engineers pulled off the bridges. This forced the officers to push their men back out onto the bridges. As they went out to continue the bridge construction, the fire kicked up again and losses quickly mounted.

Brigadier General Daniel Woodbury, who was in charge of the engineers, later reflected that “I was greatly mortified…to find that the pontoniers under my command would not continue to work until actually shot down…The officers and men showed a willingness to do so, but the majority seemed to think their task a hopeless one. Perhaps I was unreasonable.”

The author in front of a rebuilt pontoon bridge on the lawn of Chatham Manor, Fredericksburg.

Despite the best efforts of the officers and infantry, they just weren’t getting the job done. Casualties in their ranks were also mounting, both on the river and on the riverbank in the open.

The time for something more drastic had finally come. Brigadier General Henry Hunt and his artillery were now called upon to bombard Fredericksburg.

Barksdale had set up his headquarters at the Market House on Princess Anne Street. His men were spread throughout the city in a defense in depth (this will be explored in the next post).  His flanks were anchored by Captain David Lang’s undersized 8th Florida. Barksdale was there to stay. Now the pressure lay on Hunt and his big guns to drive them out.

According to Samuel Partridge of the 13th New York, “We refrained from bombarding for as long as we could, but our opening, when it came, was more destructive than an earthquake”

Hunt’s 147 cannon roared to life. One soldier estimated that more than 100 rounds a minute were falling on the city. Hunt ordered his guns to fire once every three minutes as to not waste ammunition (which was a sore point for him following Antietam). He urged his men to make every shot count because the fog mixing with the smoke obscured the targets. Some batteries fired a few quick rounds and then allowed the smoke to clear.

The Federals were making Fredericksburg a hot place in which to be.

One Mississippian recalled, “Tons of iron were hurled against this place, the deafening roar of cannon and bursting shells, falling walls and chimneys, bricks and timbers flying through the air, houses set on fire, the smoke adding to the already heavy fog, the bursting flames through the housetops, made a scene which has no parallel in history. It was appalling and indescribable, a condition which would paralyze the stoutest heart, and one from which not a man in Barksdale’s Brigade had the slightest hope of escaping.”

Surgeon Clark Baum of the 50th New York Engineers claimed, “When the artillery fairly opened the roar was terrific—dreadful—I know of no words to express it.  The screeching of the shells thru the air the whiz of the solid shot, the boom boom, boom of the cannon, the sharp ring of the rifles and rattle of the musketry all commingled made one’s ears tingle.”

Out onto the bridges went the engineers again, but again they fell quickly under sharpshooter fire. Barksdale’s men were securely in the city. Though Hunt’s guns could keep reinforcements from moving in, they could not drive out the Confederates who were already there. One of the major issues was the construction of the houses. Many were wooden structures. When a percussion shell hit the wood, it would not detonate but would instead punch a large hole in the home, which the Confederates could use to fire from.

Fredericksburg on fire.

The weather also had wreaked havoc on the Union artillery munitions. In the mornings, temperatures had been below freezing, but in the afternoons the temperature rose into the 50’s and 60’s. The frequent rain and snow compounded the problem, leaving Union artillerists with an equation for disaster. Many timed fuses simply would not detonate because the powder in the shells had become damp.

As hard as Hunt’s men tried, they could not dislodge the Confederates. Barksdale was holding back two-thirds of the Union army.

Meanwhile, south of the city, beyond Barksdale’s reach, engineers made progress on the lowest bridges. By 7 a.m., they were nearly completed, and the Federal guns there dominated the open plain. Burnside could have started his crossing there and flanked Barksdale with a corps, but he chose not to. Instead, he wanted all of the bridges up and running before he began crossing any of his army. This meant that Barksdale could stay as long as his men could withstand the artillery fire. To use a modern reference, the Union Army had a Monte Cassino situation on their hands.

Still, the longer the Confederates stayed, the worse it would get for the city of Fredericksburg itself.

The Federal commander was committed to a crossing at Fredericksburg: The pontoons were in the water and the army engaged. While he had not come looking for a fight, Lee and Barksdale were giving him one. Lee was forcing Burnside’s hand. With his army arrayed on the heights and more than 180 cannon online, Burnside obliged. The city, in the middle of it all, was paying the price for the Confederate occupation.

Bombardment of Fredericksburg

“It was a magnificent sight to see the bombardment of the sleepy old town,” wrote New Yorker Josiah Favill, “and we expected to see it quickly reduced to ashes, but the effect was ridiculously out of proportion to the noise and weight of metal thrown into the place, and we were all greatly disappointed.”

The shelling continued all day. Federal frustrations grew. After eight hours of fire—what must have seemed like an eternity—Barksdale was still there.

“There was a large clock in a steeple in the centre of the town which tolled out the hours and half hours as quietly as if it only regulated the occupations of peaceful life,” wrote a Third Corps staff officer, “and one young lieutenant of artillery, in the battery where I spent most of the day, was so exasperated at its monotonous sound that he fired a shot at it every time it struck. Without effect, however, as I heard the solemn peal long after the firing had ceased.”

Disappointment, anger, frustration all continued to mount in the Union Army.

In the next phase of battle, they would be unleashed.

© 2011 Emerging Civil War

Just how wide a swath, however, often goes unrealized.  In the minds of many citizens and even some scholars, the Civil War rarely extends beyond the Mississippi River.  Yet the ruinous tendrils of civil war had a long reach.  The conflict stretched far beyond the Father of Waters into the western frontier of the 1850’s and ‘60’s.  From the swampy bayous of Louisiana, north through the piney foothills of Arkansas and Missouri, westward through the wild plains of Indian Territory and Texas, even to the vast deserts of New Mexico Territory, the Civil War raged west of the Mississippi as well as east.

The Trans-Mississippi theater of the Civil War is often overlooked, dismissed, or forgotten.  Yet the battles, leaders, triumphs and tragedies of these forlorn frontiers played a critical role in the epic that is the American Civil War, and to ignore the actions west of the Mississippi is to ignore part of that incredible story.

I grew up in Oklahoma and Arkansas.  I now attend Centenary College of Louisiana in Shreveport, and my family resides in Texas.  I am, in many respects, a Trans-Mississippi man, and the Civil War in my native region has long fascinated me.  My contribution to this blog will largely focus on the war in the west, and I felt it fitting that my first post introduce some of the characters and actions within that area.

The Trans-Mississippi Theater

The war west of the Mississippi was the backdrop for campaigns with varying purposes and goals.  The early contests of 1861-’62 at Wilson’s Creek, Pea Ridge, and Prairie Grove determined the security of Missouri for the Union and threatened Confederate Arkansas.  Constant guerilla war, fueled by the actions of such men as “Bloody Bill” Anderson and subsequent Union reprisals, kept these two states in misery throughout the conflict.  While the nation tore itself apart, so too did the Native American tribes experience the bitterness of a brothers’ war.  Cherokees, Creeks, Choctaws and others all shot and mangled each other in their own terrible conflicts, turning modern-day Oklahoma into a wild, unsafe land.  It was in the far west that the Confederacy launched perhaps its grandest and strangest campaign:  an invasion of New Mexico Territory, aimed at securing the region for the Confederacy and slavery.  Yet the deserts of the arid Southwest and the dogged determination of Union forces there (including regiments from Colorado and California) kept the Territory in Union hands.

The U.S. had its own designs, constantly eyeing, of course, the Mississippi itself (and nabbing New Orleans early in the war), but also the coasts of Texas and the cotton along Louisiana’s Red River.  Their own offensives in 1863 and especially 1864 would come to naught, however.  A last bold raid into Missouri and Kansas by a ragtag Confederate army in the fall of 1864 proved too late to change fate’s cast.  It would be in the Trans-Mississippi were the Civil War would finally come to an end.  The last shots of anger were fired at Palmetto Ranch in south Texas in May, 1865, and the last major Confederate force under Cherokee Brigadier General Stand Watie surrendered in Indian Territory in June, 1865.

The Trans-Mississippi theater was largely shaped by the wide and varied array of generals who served within it.  Some of these men’s names will ring familiar to those better acquainted with the Western and Eastern theaters of the war.  Earl Van Dorn, often known as a Rebel raider in the Western theater, led an ambitious invasion northward in hopes of securing Missouri for the Confederacy in early 1862.  His hopes were dashed after a nimble showdown in the woods and hollows of a northwest Arkansan height dubbed Pea Ridge. Following a theatrical if eccentric performance on the Peninsula, the illustrious Confederate “Prince” John Magruder found himself organizing the defense of the Texas coast from late 1862 on, recapturing Galveston, Texas for the rebellion in 1863.

Confederate Major General Sterling “Old Pap” Price

Others names, however, may be new.  Certainly, many of these men, especially on the Confederate side, were natives of the states they found themselves defending, very literally fighting for hearth and home. Following Dorn’s disaster at Pea Ridge, it fell to adopted Arkansan T.C. Hindman, a dandy who wore white kid gloves, to manage the defenses of his state; the result was the bitter stalemate at Prairie Grove in December of 1862.  For Sterling Price, the amateur general from Missouri, the entire war would be a fruitless quest to pull his state into the rebellion.  From the opening shots of Wilson’s Creek in 1861 to his own infamous raid through Missouri and Kansas in 1864, Price would battle it out until the end.

Richard Taylor’s war certainly was a fierce defense of his home.  Son of U.S. President Zachary Taylor and exceedingly well educated (Harvard and Yale), Richard Taylor started the war commanding a brigade of Louisianans (including the famous/infamous Tigers) under “Stonewall” Jackson in the Shenandoah Valley.  He spent the lion’s share of the war, however, defending Louisiana from repeated Union attempts to wrest control of the state and its cotton out of Confederate grasp.  In the spring of 1864, Taylor unleashed a brilliant campaign along the Red River that decisively defeated Union forces under Nathaniel P. Banks, another general with previous service in the East.  Taylor’s victory may have offered a late hope for stalling the Union war effort all together.  By the end of the war, Richard Taylor was a lieutenant general, one of only three such generals without formal military training (the others being Wade Hampton and Nathan Bedford Forrest).

Union Major General Edward R. S. Canby

The Union had its own cast of characters.  Leading U.S. forces to victory at Pea Ridge was Samuel Ryan Curtis, a dutiful and solid soldier who was too apolitical to promote his several successes through the war.  Contrasting Curtis was proud Franz Sigel.  A subordinate under Curtis during the Pea Ridge Campaign, Sigel was a German immigrant whose immense political pull would swing him various military commands throughout much of the war.  William B. Franklin, tainted by politics following the disastrous Fredericksburg Campaign in Virginia, got several chances for redemption off the Louisiana coast.  Efficient and business-like, Edward R. S. Canby led his troops skillfully during the New Mexico Campaign in 1862, checking Confederate designs not only on New Mexico, but also on the goldfields of Colorado and the coasts of California.  In another grim tale of friend vs. friend, Canby would oppose the efforts of Confederate General Henry H. Sibley, to whom he had been the best man at Sibley’s wedding.

Ultimately, it is probably correct to assume that the war efforts west of the Mississippi were of less political, military, and economic importance than those east of the river.  That does not mean, however, that they were of no importance at all.  In fact, perhaps it could be argued that from a human standpoint, the stories and valor west of the Mississippi need to be told the most, since so far they have been told the least.  The soldier who died in an unnamed Louisiana swamp or a barren stretch of New Mexican desert gave no less for his cause or country than the man who died in Pickett’s Charge at Gettysburg or in the fortifications of Atlanta.  These men, their experiences and the ramifications of their actions, deserve to be remembered.  Likewise, the war west of the Mississippi so deserves to be remembered.

I hope, as I explore this great conflict and its lesser-known theater, I can share some of my excitement, knowledge, and growth with you through this blog.

Zac Cowsert received his Bachelor of Arts Degree in History and Political Science from Centenary College of Louisiana, a small liberal-arts college in Shreveport.  He is currently a graduate student at West Virginia University focusing in U.S. History and the American Civil War.  His studies and research often explore the Trans-Mississippi Theater.  ©

Unlike the two army commanders, though, I’ve come here, to north-central North Carolina on the outskirts of Durham, with intent rather than through happenstance. 

Sherman and Johnston found themselves on opposite sides at that great opening battle, Sherman as a colonel in command of a brigade of three-month volunteers and Johnston as commander of all Confederate forces.

From there, the war took them on different paths until the spring of 1864, when they clashed again outside Atlanta. By then, Sherman commanded all Union troops in the Western theater. Johnston, who’d been shuffled from command to command because of his poor relationship with Confederate President Jefferson Davis, had landed with the Army of Tennessee.

Sherman far outnumbered Johnston, who nonetheless led a skillful defensive campaign, although it eventually got him fired. Months later, after Sherman overran Johnston’s replacement and then ran roughshod over Georgia and South Carolina, Johnston came back to command for a final round. While he struck a blow at Bentonville, NC, Johnston knew there wasn’t much he could to stop Sherman unless he united with Robert E. Lee’s beleaguered Army of Northern Virginia. Lee’s surrender to Grant at Appomattox made that option moot.

So that he could negotiate from strength, Johnston kept his own army together and far from Sherman’s reach. He hoped to secure terms for his men more favorable than the ones offered to Lee. Sherman, for his part, feared that Johnston would disperse his army into the mountains and carry on the war as a guerilla campaign—an option Sherman saw as disastrous—so he sought to do whatever he could to avoid that.

After a few rounds of shuttle diplomacy, the two men met along a forest road near Durham, midway between Johnston’s HQ in Greensboro and Sherman’s HQ in Raleigh. When Sherman asked Johnston if he knew of a place where they could confer privately, Johnston suggested a small farmhouse he and his staff had just passed.

The home, owned by 59-year-old James Bennett—also spelled Bennitt—was a modest two-story building with a spacious common room, where the two generals sat down to hammer out terms. The pall of President Lincoln’s assassination hung over the table, but Sherman nonetheless offered sweepingly generous terms. He had no way of knowing that northern sentiment, hostile in the wake of Lincoln’s murder, would turn against him and his magnanimous offer. In fact, the terms were so generous, and sentiment so rancorous, that Grant was forced to pay a personal visit to his trusted subordinate.

In the end, Sherman was forced to revise his offer so that it mirrored the terms Grant had extended at Appomattox, although Sherman also agreed to a supplementary set of conditions for Johnston’s men.

Sherman and Johnston met a total of three times at the Bennett’s farmhouse as they worked to finalize their agreement. On April 26, both men put pen to paper. Johnston surrendered all Confederate forces in the Carolinas, Georgia, and Florida—more than 89,000 in all—making it the largest surrender of the war.

It was not the last surrender, though. Richard Taylor would surrender in Alabama on May 4, Edmund Kirby Smith would surrender Trans-Mississippi forces on May 26, and Sam Watie would surrender in Indian Territory on June 23. The Confederate raider Shenandoah wouldn’t surrender until August.

The grand vision for peace that Sherman and Johnston shared was commemorated at the site in 1923 with a memorial. Two columns support a block that says “Unity.” A bronze tablet, featuring a picture of the Bennett farmhouse, recounts the story.

The farmhouse burned down in 1921, although the stone chimney survived. In the 1960s, to coincide with the Civil War’s centennial, the state of North Carolina reconstructed the farmhouse based on photographs and wartime sketches. The state now operates the facility as a state historic site.

The original road trace, lined by a snake-rail fence, still runs past the farmhouse. A kitchen and smokehouse stand nearby, and a fenced-in garden and a livestock corral, empty, sit quietly beyond.

As I walk from the visitor center, I listen to the crunch of my shoes on the gravel. I have the place to myself. Earlier, before I’d watched the orientation film and visited the small museum, a docent had led a handful of tourists around the property. The orientation he provided hadn’t been all that great, frankly, but at least he was friendly.

Fortunately, Bennett Place speaks for itself. I can hear its voices in the crunch of the gravel, the hollow clunk of the farmhouse’s front door closing, the imagine sound of footfalls on the house’s plank floor.

Some of the voices, like cavalry rivals Wade Hampton and Judson Kilpatrick, seethe and burn and snarl. Others, like Johnston’s, are quiet, firm, authoritative or, like Sherman’s, gruff yet reasonable—and, mayhaps, even pleasant.

I’ve come here today to hear these voices as they seek a way forward. Bennett Place is a place of surrender, of ending, but it is also a place of beginning. Not only did peace and unity begin here, so did a long friendship between Johnston and Sherman.

For me, this spot also represents a beginning. I’m about to launch into a new phase of my Civil War career—which began some thirteen years ago on Henry Hill—as a blogger. I wanted something new, something big, to help me get in the right mindset.

And what could be bigger than the future? As “Old Joe” Johnston and “Uncle Billy” Sherman sat at that table, affixing their names to bold, hopeful ideas, I can hear them talking—and I share their optimism.

Last known picture of Stonewall Jackson, April 1863. Taken at Belvoir near Fredericksburg Virginia.

For my first post, I decided to write on the last few days of Lieutenant General Thomas Jonathan “Stonewall” Jackson. I have spent a great deal of time with Jackson material over the years. I lived in a house for about a year just 300 yards from where he was wounded, and I worked at both the Chancellorsville Battlefield Visitor Center (site of his wounding) and the Stonewall Jackson Shrine (site of his death). I have co-authored a book and a few articles on the man, too; therefore I thought it would be a great place to start a series of posts. (Don’t worry–I will be mixing it up between a variety of topics, not just Stonewall.)

The last two weeks of Jackson’s life held two of his greatest highs both personally and professionally. Personally, Jackson was able to meet his daughter Julia for the first time. The general was able to be both a father and husband for a short while.

Professionally, Jackson led one of the most daring maneuvers of the war at Chancellorsville, marching 28,000 men around the front of Major General Joseph Hooker’s Army of the Potomac to strike the enemy in the flank, eventually driving the entire Union 11^th Corps from the field. However, at the height of his success Jackson was struck down by his own men, May 2, 1863.

Wounded in three places, the general’s left arm was amputated around 2:30 AM on May 3. Leadership decided to evacuate Jackson to Guinea Station, which was 27 miles south of the battlefield. Once at Guinea, the plan was to evacuate Jackson to the general hospitals of Richmond.  This plan was dashed, however, and when Jackson arrived at Guinea he was stranded. His old West Point roommate, Brigadier General George Stoneman, had cut the Richmond, Fredericksburg, and Potomac Rail Road to the south. Jackson would eventually die at the small Virginia whistle-stop.

One of the first things I picked up on as a historian for the National Park Service were the many common misconceptions regarding Jackson’s death that a great many visitors held. Most who entered the Stonewall Jackson Shrine and knew the story of Jackson’s last days knew a clean and wholesome tale of a great leader quietly passing into the beyond. Unfortunately for Jackson this was not so. His last days were spent in and out of consciousness and pain. The building that housed him was cramped with staff and family and was very noisy. Guinea Station itself was full of soldiers and supplies for Lee’s Army. Far from being an idyllic, quiet passing, Jackson’s death was messy, noisy and difficult.

The Chandler Office Building (AKA, the Stonewall Jackson Shrine)

The small surviving office building, which served as Jackson’s makeshift hospital, is the perfect place to start looking at the death of Jackson. Today the building is quiet, clean and well maintained.  The grounds are meager when compared with 1863. The office building still stands along, and is now joined on site by a modern parking area and restrooms.

In 1863 the grounds were actually a sprawling 744 acre plantation owned by Thomas Coleman Chandler. Numerous structures dotted the landscape, including the main house, stables, tobacco barns, a goat barn and of course the office building (today known as the Shrine).

Naturally the site would originally have been dominated by the hustle and bustle of daily plantation life. The office itself would have been used for storage and would have been in a disorganized state when Jackson’s staff arrived a few hours ahead of the general. According to twelve-year-old Lucy Chandler, the building had been recently whitewashed in the months before the battle of Chancellorsville. Notwithstanding the neater outer appearance, the office itself would have been organized chaos by the time the patient arrived to stay at the plantation.

Though it was a hodgepodge of furniture and rooms, the office was a safe haven for Jackson during his stay at Fairfield, the Chandler Plantation. The office provided a haven from the responsibilities of a corps commander and from the plantation mistress Mrs. Mary Chandler. Mrs. Chandler had a reputation well-known to the staff of Jackson’s Second Corps as a woman who had to be in the know. For a short time during the Fredericksburg Campaign of 1862, Jackson’s staff camped on the front lawn of Fairfield, and Mrs. Chandler seized every opportunity to pry into Jackson’s business, often dropping by headquarters or sending messages inviting him to dinner. At one point she succeeded and held Jackson captive at a dinner for nearly four hours.

So instead of staying in the main house under Mrs. Chandler’s watchful eye, Jackson’s men sought refuge for the general and themselves in the office. The staff was able to justify using the office because of the wounded men being housed in the Chandler home as well as an outbreak of a disease inside the home.

Though the office was something of an escape from the hectic activity of the main house, it certainly wasn’t peaceful. Jackson was housed there along with much of his staff, and men and women were in and out of the building frequently. Though it was not the same hustle and bustle of headquarters on the battlefield, nevertheless it was no place to get much rest.

If you visit the structure the first thing you may notice when you enter is the deafening silence…until you take a step or two. Everything echoes in the building. The noises of footsteps, moving furniture, and conversations all reverberate throughout the structure; one hears everything in the small building. Ironically, when Mrs. Chandler entered the building, she noticed how quiet it was—due to the fact that few wanted her around and they didn’t want to tip her off to anything that could turn into camp gossip. Because it was so quiet, Mrs. Chandler actually brought the only clock that the Chandlers owned into Jackson’s room. This was done for two reasons. The clock both provided Mrs. Chandler with access to the room and was meant to give the room some sound due to its loud ticking noise.

The noise of an army camp would have also pervaded the walls and windows of the shrine. Guinea was a major supply depot for the Confederacy, and it was an evacuation point for wounded and prisoners alike.  Therefore, with thousands of soldiers outside and the windows open on the building, it may have been hard to very hard to get any rest.

Room where Jackson died. The bed, the blanket on the foot of the bed, and the clock are original. The red chair is from a home close to Richmond. According to one source, Jackson fell asleep in the chair during the Peninsula Campaign.

The Illness

Jackson’s illness also brings about many misconceptions. By most accounts his last few moments were peaceful enough. He relived previous battles in his mind and quietly uttered his last words. Unfortunately the pneumonia that claimed Jackson’s life took a great toll on the man mentally and physically, as did the “cure.”

Shortly after Jackson’s wounding on May 2, he was placed on a stretcher to be evacuated to a field hospital. As the stretcher bearers attempted to take Jackson from the field they dropped the man twice from about five feet (his wounding will be examined in a later post).  He was heard to groan loudly when hitting the ground. Still, during his examinations his doctor, Hunter Holmes McGuire, stated that he did not find any broken ribs. We have no reason to doubt that McGuire was a very reliable source; he was an accomplished doctor, a founding member of the American Medical Association, and was what we would consider today a thoracic specialist.

Jackson awakened in the early morning hours of May 7 in a great deal of pain. McGuire was asleep, having been exhausted from the last few days of treating men on the battlefield and giving round the clock care to Jackson. For these reasons McGuire sought much-needed rest on the evening of May 6. Though Jackson awakened in a great deal of pain, two of Jackson’s aides were not allowed to awaken the doctor.

Jim Lewis, a hired slave, and Rev. Beverly Tucker Lacy did what they could to assist Jackson, but despite their ministrations Jackson was in great pain. He asked Lewis and Lacey to apply cold compresses to the affected area. This did little to ease the pain. After a few hours the doctor was summoned. He immediately recognized the affliction as “Pleuro-Pneumonia.” Jackson had a high fever and pain in his sides.

(As a side note, a popular myth that came from Jackson’s treatment is that the cold compresses brought on the illness. According to McGuire. this was not so. “The disease came on too soon after this application to admit of the supposition,” he said. McGuire was also unaware that during the Chancellorsville Campaign Jackson was showing signs of what we would call the flu. He had a fever, chills and was seen vomiting even before his wounding on May 2.)

The treatment for the ailment was worse than one would imagine today. McGuire called in some pneumonia specialists from Richmond. In all, Jackson had five doctors tending to him, including McGuire. The doctors prescribed laudanum to dull the pain, and then they started cupping Jackson. Cupping consisted of taking a glass bulb with an open end and heating it until it is red-hot and then placing the cup on the patient.  This “treatment” produced blood blisters or boils that were then lanced to bleed the patient.

Bleeding was still common at the time. Unfortunately for Jackson, bleeding would have very negative consequences. The man had lost approximately half of his blood during the wounding and subsequent amputation, and now he was losing more blood and being weakened severely.

Next the doctors treated him with both antimony and mercury. These two drugs were meant to purge Jackson’s system. The two combined forced vomiting and diarrhea. Therefore any sort of food or fluids that went into Jackson to help give him strength were immediately expelled, and the drugs nullified the beneficial effects of food and fluids. To put it gently, Jackson would have soiled many sheets in his time at the office. Rest would again would have been hard to find.

The bed that Jackson died in. The blanket on the foot of the bed was one of many that covered the general.

Delirium:

Much has been made of Jackson reliving the past in his last few days and hours. Why would he be so delirious at some times and so lucid at others? Simply, the treatment was weakening Jackson, and mercury was poisoning his system. He had lost a great amount of blood due to the wounding, surgery and cupping.  Laudanum was dulling his senses, and he was become malnourished and dehydrated. On top of it all he had a high fever. A combination of many factors contributed to Jackson’s delirium.

Why a “clean” death?

Jackson’s death on May 10, 1863 is described by the witnesses and those close to him as a clean and peaceful death. The foundation for this can be based around two major points. First and foremost, many of the key participants lost a husband, father, friend and mentor. To cope with Jackson’s death on a personal level, those closest to him wanted to remember those last few days not as much as a man in agony, but as a man who was going peacefully to his creator. This coping method is understandable as many of us cope with loss the same way.

The second reason was the “Lost Cause” literature that pervaded the writings of many of Jackson’s staff officers and even his wife in the postwar years. This is not the Lost Cause questioning what would have happened if Jackson had lived—it is the Lost Cause surrounding the memory of the man/soldier and the struggle to define the real Stonewall Jackson. Was he the leader who was the embodiment of the Christian soldier or was he the blood-lusting combatant that pushed his men to the brink, favored the Stonewall Brigade, and hanged all deserters from the highest tree?

In the days following Jackson’s death, many in both the north and the south saw his death as a great loss for the Confederate cause. Some dissenting voices were heard then, as there were many others in the south who were not that keen on Jackson, but hindsight and the loss of the war brought many around to a new view on the man, for better or worse. Those views were at least partially influenced by his wife Mary Anna Jackson and the staff officers of the Second Corps.

In the years following Jackson’s death, Mary Anna wrote The Memoirs of Stonewall Jackson.  She would have had a personal insight to the man that only a handful of people would have had, and she had others who knew Jackson well to help in the writing and research of the book. Yet Mary Anna naturally painted a glorified picture of her husband.

Mary Anna also embraced the role of the “Widow of the South.”  In the postwar years, she went from veterans group to veterans group accepting gifts of money and material while parading Julia around as the “Child of the Lost Cause.” This never sat well with Julia, and a large rift grew between them through Julia’s teenage years.  According to Julia’s writing, she felt that her mother was taking advantage of the kindness of these veterans. Much of the money that Mary Anna accepted was meant to build memorials for Jackson—memorials that never saw the light of day.

Mary Anna and Julia Jackson.

It seemed to Julia that she was taken to events to draw more money from donors. In her later teenage years, Julia refused to be part of these events. The rift between mother and daughter grew so large that once Julia married, she and her husband William Christian moved across the country to San Diego, California to start a new life.

Following Julia’s death in 1889, Mary Anna penned Memoir of Julia Jackson Christian: Daughter of Stonewall Jackson. This volume paints a softer light on the relationship between her and her daughter. It does not show Mary Anna as the dominating force that she was over her daughter and son in law at times. In the short volume, Mary Anna drew many comparisons between Thomas and his daughter. One must wonder if this is her way of coping with the past, connecting two loved ones lost or was it a calculated way to keep up the image of the “Widow of the South”? That is a question to be answered in a more in-depth post.

Conclusion

Jackson's last words on his monument at Chancellorsville.

In the end, Jackson passed away and into history even as the war ended and the battle for how to remember the war and its cast began.  Yet even to this day, few know the gruesome details of how one of the most famous generals of the American Civil War died. One can never fault those who cared for Jackson as a husband, friend and mentor for not wanting to re-tell in such vivid detail the death of a loved one. Luckily for us, there were a few who did put pen to paper and tell us the true story of Jackson’s final days on earth.  McGuire himself revisited the past time and again, writing letters and papers and presenting speeches on those final days.

Jackson should be thought of as a great leader of men, a solid tactician and a tenacious adversary, but in the end it should also be remembered that he was human. At no point in the war is he more human than in those last few days. © 2011 Emerging Civil War

Authored by Kristopher D. White, co-author of the Last Days of Stonewall Jackson.