“Here’s Your Mule,” Part Seven – Grant Me This

April 9, 2015June 4, 2023 ~ Blue Cereal

Grant was perhaps the single most bearded example of nothing working quite the way it should have during the American Civil War. He’d have never ended up a war hero, let alone future President, in a more ordered universe. I’m not sure he’d have existed at all.

He did, however – and oh the shenanigans.

Born “Hiram Ulysses Grant,” he became “Ulysses S. Grant” through a paperwork error when admitted to West Point at age 17 (never let it be said the federal government places a priority on accuracy). This would later come in handy as he entered national consciousness for his accomplishments on the battlefield, as the new moniker lent itself to such natural wordplay: “U.S.” Grant, “Uncle Sam” Grant, and eventually “Unconditional Surrender” Grant… but I’m getting ahead of myself.

He didn’t initially care much for the militant life, and his grades reflected such. Still, he did well in the subjects he liked. He was strong in math, excelled in horsemanship, and he… um… painted. Not, like, battle scenes or modern art or something – “pretty” stuff. It was the ‘Romantic Era’, after all.

A reasonable universe would never send this boy to war. Instead, he’d be running the Artistic Equestrian Ranch or some other utopian-ish community where people get in touch with their inner alcoholic and work the steps through painting and pony-play.

Oh – because that was the other thing. Grant was often accused of being quite the drinker.

To be thought of as having a ‘drinking problem’ by the standards of the day required an insane amount of imbibery. Americans were serious drinkers by ANY definition. Imagine calling out a teenager today for having a ‘social media and reality TV’ problem compared to his or her peers. My god – how bad would it have to be…?

Then again, maybe it wasn’t true. Grant didn’t like most people and didn’t make much effort to be popular. This probably didn’t help when it came to his reputation or his business dealings, both during and after the Mexican-American War. He served quite effectively, but resigned while stationed waaaayyyyyyyy over in California – most likely under pressure over the drinking thing. And, being himself, he lacked the funds to get back to St. Louis.

Fortunately, a good friend serving with him, one Simon Bolivar Buckner, proffered a personal loan so that Grant could return to his hearth and kin.

After several years of failed businesses and rocky times, opportunity struck when the Civil War erupted. He helped recruit and train volunteers in Illinois, but what he really wanted was a position in the “real” army. McClellan turned him down due to his reputation for drinking, which will prove ironic a few years later when Lincoln suggests someone find out WHAT Grant was drinking – and send it to the rest of his generals so they’d fight like he did.

Lincoln was a bit of a card that way.

Eventually Grant ends up in the Western Theater of the war (which at the time meant the vicinity of the Mississippi River). He was beginning to be noticed, particularly for his willingness to fight. Others (most notably McClellan in the East) would equivocate, fight only when unavoidable, and withdraw too easily – after wins OR losses. It could be frustrating for those who hoped the war would maybe, like, END someday, or that maybe we’d even WIN at some point.

Grant, though, was a bulldog – he didn’t seek war, but if we’re gonna war, let’s WAR.

He ended up leading a little campaign to take Ft. Henry along the Tennessee River, which connected to the Mississippi and ran near or through about 43 different states in play during the war. It became a fun little experiment in geography, strategy, and the pre-cell phone zaniness of coordinating land forces and ‘ironclads’ – experimental watercraft made of wood but clad in, well – iron.

The thing with boats was, you could make them float, or you could make them strong – but doing both at the same time was tricky. It must have been comical watching them in action, trying to maneuver, and fire at stuff from the water – if it weren’t for all the sinking and loudness and dying, I mean.

In any case, through an impressive combination of strategy and grit, he forced the fort’s surrender.

As Henry falls, Grant does something unusual for a Union General at the time but which it never would have occurred to him NOT to do – he rushes 12 miles east with his army and takes Ft. Donelson as well.

Of course. Because… war.

It’s at Ft. Donelson that U.S. Grant first makes the history books. After various military maneuvering of the sort some people seem to enjoy reading about in great detail, Grant had the Confederates in a world of hurt.

Early morning, February 16th, the leader of Secesh forces there sent a very civil note to Grant requesting a meeting to discuss terms of surrender. War was SO polite back then, with social graces and compliments and people getting to keep their fancy guns and such. This particular leader was confident Grant would be gracious, both as a matter of course, and because the last time they’d been face to face, he’d loaned him bus fare back to St. Louis.

The guy fighting for the wrong side at Ft. Donelson was Simon Bolivar Buckner.

Grant’s response has become legendary:

Sir: Yours of this date proposing Armistice, and appointment of Commissioners, to settle terms of Capitulation is just received. No terms except unconditional and immediate surrender can be accepted.
I propose to move immediately upon your works.
I am, sir, very respectfully, your obedient servant,
U.S. GRANT,
Brigadier-General, Commanding.

It wasn’t personal – they were in rebellion against the very nation Grant was sworn to serve. Buckner had little choice but to comply.

SIR:—The distribution of the forces under my command, incident to an unexpected change of commanders, and the overwhelming force under your command, compel me, notwithstanding the brilliant success of the Confederate arms yesterday, to accept the ungenerous and unchivalrous terms which you propose.
I am, sir, your very obedient servant,
S. B. BUCKNER,
Brigadier. General, C. S. Army.

Did you notice he left out the ‘respectfully’ part of the froo-froo sig? And you gotta love Buckner’s defense of his Confederate peeps even as he becomes the first Confederate General to surrender anything important during this war – “unless my superiors show up unexpectedly, and keeping in mind that we beat you in EVERY STAT EXCEPT SCORING, I guess I have to accept your terms, despite you being a bit of a dillweed about it.”

Once that bit of unpleasantness was concluded, Grant was thoroughly gracious to Buckner and his staff. He offered him funds to help tie him over while he was a prisoner of war, and suggesting Buckner could grab a few personal items if he wished before they confiscated all of their equipment and such.

Buckner declined.

Northern newspapers reported both the military success and the exchange of notes with unrestrained glee. Hiram Ulysses was thereafter “Unconditional Surrender” Grant and the North finally had a win, and a hero with a catchy nickname to go with it. Had West Point gotten his name right to begin with, they’d have had only the initials ‘H.U.G’ to work with, and that would have just been awkward.

“I propose to move immediately upon your works” became a catchphrase throughout the North for almost any situation. Those of you who endured the decades of “Where’s the Beef?” or “Whatchu talking’ bout, Willis?” know how these things can go. Then again, this one grew organically – not as a result of marketing or even intent – so perhaps bringing up Different Strokes is a bit too harsh.

Besides, because people back home were by definition not AT war, it was most often used in other contexts – the best of which were completely inappropriate.

“Oh, Robert, you do know how to flatter and fluster a girl.” *fan* *fan* *fan* *fan* “It’s growing late, Robert… I should be getting back before they realize I’m not- Robert! Whatever are you-?”
“Louise, I propose to move immediately upon your works.”

I don’t actually know how successful this line proved as a general rule, but it amuses me to no end. It could be used much more harshly or far more humorously, but as a “just the right amount of naughty” come-on, it’s golden.

There’s probably a pretty strong case to be made that equating of military violence with sexual conquest has a negative side to it as well, but that’s for another day and another blog. As a straight white male whose sense of humor is stuck in middle school, it’s right up there with a good Canterbury fart joke or Ben Franklin arguing the merits of seducing older women.

Clearly the best, undiscovered sobriquet for our favorite general has to be “Usurpingly Sexy” Grant. He can move on my works any time.

“Here’s Your Mule,” Part Six – Soiled Armor

April 1, 2015June 4, 2023 ~ Blue Cereal

Your standard American History textbook will tell you that after First Bull Run, the Union realized the War was going to be a bit trickier than they’d thought, and began preparing more substantially. The South, on the other hand, felt validated in their assessment of the Yanks and suffered from overconfidence.

Both are partly true, but the pragmatic oversimplification necessary in any high school history course creates false clarities. Nothing’s ever as straightforward as we teach it, or as unequivocal as the teenage mind demands. History involves too many people and groups thereof, and people are messy and weird.

In an effort to spotlight some of that complication, I supplement the basics of Bull Run with two short video clips involving a very different military situation. I’m going to argue that First Bull Run, its unfolding, and its results, shaped the Civil War more dramatically and for far longer than its strategic importance or body count suggested.

Clip the First:

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OK, quiz time. In this excerpt, who does the Black Knight represent?

*tick*

*BUUZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ* Time’s up!

The answer is… ‘The South’.

The vanity and honor culture of the South was pretty much unbearable long before First Bull Run, but their routing of the North after such build-up and so many supposed disadvantages reinforced the conviction of many Secesh that they simply could not, would not, should not lose – ever ever ever ever.

Ever.

They didn’t quit when behind. They didn’t quit when outnumbered. They didn’t quit when outgunned, outspent, outsupplied, or outlasted. Because THEY BELIEVED.

There’s something to be said for that sort of conviction. Lesson #1 in talking to a member of the opposite sex (or, you know… whoever you happen to be into) for the first time is “be confident.” You don’t need to be cocky, but if you approach them worried you’re going to look like an idiot, or say the wrong thing, or otherwise tank… guess what?

How many books would never have been written, temples never have been built, or blogs never posted if their creators let doubt win the day? (I, for one, am simply brimming with insecurity and self-loathing. Surely you’ve wondered about the constant overcompensating?) You can’t let uncertainty shape ALL of your choices.

But some refuse to let doubt shape ANY of their choices. You know those folks who try out for American Idol or other talent-based exploitations, who suck horribly but audition over and over and over and over and over, passionately proclaiming without irony that the world MUST HEAR THEIR SONG?

They believe.

As they’re dragged away in handcuffs, proclaiming they ARE the next American Idol, they still believe.

Those motivational posters about noteworthy peeps in history who failed a half-zillion times before doing something memorable? They believed.

Those momma monkeys who keep fighting the tiger even after they’re clearly losing so much blood they can’t possibly –

Well, you get the idea.

Here’s the problem with that kind of enemy: they don’t give up. I mean, I’m a big fan of all that ‘hold on tight to your dreams’ stuff, but there’s a time to make like Elsa and let it go.

But not the South.

There’s a parallel of this in the 20th century – Japan in World War II. We’d fire-bombed Tokyo, killing something like 100,000 men, women, and children, and with such intensity that ‘fire tornados’ became a thing, incinerating thousands more. Their rivers were clogged with charred corpses, but leadership still believed. Defeat was not an option, even when defeated.

Germany took a pretty severe beating before Hitler’s suicide opened the door to surrender, leaving Japan alone in the fight – but they couldn’t let themselves accept the inevitable. WE DROPPED AN ATOMIC BOMB ON THEM, and they were still, like “I dunno – seems to me we can still make this work.”

In order to end the war, Japan had to be destroyed in ways previously unconceived – ways still debated three-quarters of a century later.

Like the Black Knight, the South couldn’t be “defeated”. They had to be absolutely ruined, crippled, maimed by the North – played here by Arthur, King of the Britains.

THAT shaped the course of the Civil War. THAT shaped a large part of the country for a century AFTER the war. In case you haven’t followed the news lately, there are some still fighting parts of this war – albeit with rhetoric and political maneuvering in the name of tradition and faith.

“It’s only a flesh wound.”

Clip the Second:

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Here’s Quiz Number Two. Ready?

In this clip, who does King Arthur represent?

*tick*

*BUUZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ* Time’s up!

The answer is… ‘The North’.

(Seriously, I like, JUST said that. Why would it change? If you missed that despite my having just said it, congratulations – you’re my students.)

If Bull Run left the South feeling confirmed in their invulnerability, it left the North soiling their armor at rabbits. Yes, the President and co. dug in for a real war, but the psychological impact of blowing a ‘sure thing’ – so much so that they skulked back to Washington in terror and shame – didn’t fade quickly. Add to this the grand delusions of General George B. McClellan, who led Union troops through much of the first part of the war – and we have a problem.

McClellan was so very good at so many things, but initiative was not one of them. When forced to fight, he would – apparently pretty well. When left up to him, however, the North was never quite ready.

This is ironic, because that was one of the things McClellan was best at – training, organizing, preparing. Heck, he couldn’t get enough of it. But when he had 100,000 men he was sure the enemy had 150,000 (when in reality it was more like 70,000). When he had positioning, surprise, and the technological edge, he was sure they had managed something to thwart him before he’d even begun.

You’d think this would mean less bloodshed, but in reality it protracted the conflict unnecessarily for months – maybe years. It drove Lincoln crazy, despite his calm veneer – at one point he wrote to McClellan asking if perhaps he could borrow the army for a time, seeing as how he wasn’t using it for anything.

Good times.

McClellan was eventually replaced by less capable but more willing men, who did horrible things bravely but badly. Better McClellan had taken the initiative so at least horrible things could have been done well, and quickly.

The name we’ll eventually remember as saving the Union was not McClellan, but Grant – Ulysses S., to be precise. We’ll skip over to him next time.

“Here’s Your Mule,” Part Five – Bull Run Goes South

March 25, 2015June 4, 2023 ~ Blue Cereal

By early afternoon on July 21st, 1861, the thrill of battle was wearing thin. Although troops on both sides had fought surprisingly well (given their ‘green’ status), few involved had really fathomed this ‘war’ thing prior to engagement. It was turning out to be far less entertaining than advertised.

After a long morning of roughly equal give and take, Union troops were beginning to push back the Confederates. Several critical lines were weakening. The handful of Northern generals with actual experience could feel the momentum shifting, and urged their boys on with renewed vigor.

And then it all turned. Dammit.

First, Confederate reinforcements arrived by train.

Through the smoke and haze of battle, the boys who would later be in blue could tell fresh troops were falling into place across the way. Those looking behind for their own reinforcements were… disappointed.

Sorry boys – we’re already all in. You’re it.

And… BY TRAIN?! It’s one thing to be whipped by Secesh, but having your butt kicked by irony is just cruel. Clearly the folks running this thing weren’t reading the same history books as my 9th graders, or they’d know the NORTH had the supposed advantage when it came to technology and transportation.

Follow the rules, people.

Second, Thomas Jackson was weird.

OK, he was already weird before the battle. A brilliant strategist, Jackson was nonetheless an unlikely leader of men. He was socially awkward, and his classes at Virginia Military Institute were notorious for their tedium.

He memorized each 90 minute lecture, and delivered it straight, without interruption. Students foolish enough to ask questions provoked only a pause before he’d begin again at the beginning – sometimes repeating the entire session the next class period if necessary. It wasn’t any more exciting the second time.

On the plus side, he received very few questions after those first few weeks. He must have been REALLY good.

Jackson was a Calvinist, and as such was no fun at all. Still suffering from the recent death of his daughter, he believed that overt mourning – like smiling – was a sign both of one’s own lack of self-control and an insult to an omnipotent God.

He knew in the core of his being that his fate had been written millennia before his birth. Nothing he or anyone else did could shake this. In battle, this meant that he moved without fear among his troops, even in the hottest melees. If this were his day to die, he would die – horseback or not, hidden or no. If it were not, nothing the enemy could do would hurt him. So… he did his duty, and thanked his god while so doing.

Always.

Jackson often held his left arm up, palm to the sky. Whether this was a spiritual gesture or an effort to balance his body’s fluids or magnetism (both common medical concerns of the day), it must have been quite a sight. Add to this his penchant for sucking on lemons (um… they’re GOOD for you) and the picture is complete – austere Thomas Jackson, riding into the storm, left arm raised and bright yellow rind showing just behind his pursed lips as he speaks voicelessly to himself or the Almighty.

It was THIS figure who confronted the men who’d begun to fall back in the face of superior firepower. Jackson didn’t yell, so his voice would have been raised only in order to be heard above the din. He told them to form a line and hold it.

This was not a revolutionary strategy. I don’t wish to get all technical, but “don’t run away” is often key to winning these sorts of things. Then again, so is “don’t get killed” – which is probably the one more on the minds of the men he’d encountered.

I don’t know if he dropped the lemon. History leaves us with so many unanswerables.

But Jackson – loveable or not – had presence. Gravitas. And the power of that confidence, that conviction, stirred up all that was noble and testosterony in men. They formed a line, and held it.

General Bee, who was not particularly weird OR inspiring, saw this from across the way and recognized its power. Knowing he couldn’t pull it off personally, he instead pointed it out to his men: “Look! There’s Jackson, standing like a stone wall! Rally behind the Virginians!”

And a great nickname was born. SO much better than ‘Lemon Face’ Jackson.

It’s possible, of course, that Bee was cursing Jackson. At least one account suggests something closer to “Holy $%#& – there’s Jackson just… STANDING there like a stone wall! *sigh* Alright boys, go rally behind the Virginians.”

Either way, we’ll never know, as dear General Bee was shot in the head moments later. Like I said, unanswerables.

Third, the rebel yell and misplaced balls.

First Bull Run was the first time Union troops would experience one of the more bone-chilling elements of the Civil War. This was possibly Jackson’s doing as well. (Hey, once you’ve got a cool nickname, anything is possible.)

As Sherlock Holmes famously intoned, when all other options have been eliminated, whatever’s left – however unlikely – must be the answer. In wartime this means when you can’t hold and you can’t retreat, you take the only choice left – full speed ahead.

Imagine you can’t see the enemy through the smoke drifting across the battlefield. Their fire has slowed, then sputtered out. At first you wonder if they’ve finally pulled back, but no – you hear distant voices, orders relayed up and down the line. Is that clanking? They wouldn’t be – surely not…

Then you hear it. A thousand angry banshees, crying out for your – OMGWHATTHEF%$#@?!?

Bursting through the smoke comes an onrushing wave of madmen, bayonets forward, screaming and charging and HOLY MOTHER OF – RUN RUN RUN RUN RUN!!!

It was apparently quite effective. People ran away from them lots when they did this.

The Union lines broke, and they began to retreat – not quite in panic, but certainly not in ideal military order. As they began to reach the main road back to Washington, they ran into civilians, with their carriages, picnic baskets, servants, and other folderol. They’d come to watch the festivities, along with reporters and others curious about the event.

Now they were all converging on the same road at the same time with the same confused urgency. It had the makings of a bad situation.

And yet, things remained relatively calm. Disorderly, to be sure – frustrating, and volatile. But there was no panic – at first.

Then a stray cannonball, fired from god-knows-where, somehow cleared the hill shielding them from the main part of the battlefield. It made no sense that it would be there, just then, but – well, that’s how things were going, weren’t they?

The ball struck a wagon or carriage of some sort and the pieces flew. Aaaannnnnnd… that did it. NOW there was panic.

All the way to Washington, where scattered troops and civilians hours later began dragging in exhausted, delusional, and terrified, proclaiming the end of civilization as the Rebel Menace was certainly hot on their heels, eagerly devouring the handful of survivors.

Your standard American History textbook will tell you the Union realized the War was going to be a bit trickier than they’d thought, and begin preparing more substantially. The South, on the other hand, felt validated in their assessment of the Yanks and suffered from overconfidence.

These are both partly true, which is the curse of simplifying history for curricular consumption – a necessary and pragmatic evil. I’d like to supplement this interpretation next time with two clips I use in class to complicate matters.

One even has a bunny.

“Here’s Your Mule,” Part Four – On To Richmond!

March 23, 2015June 4, 2023 ~ Blue Cereal

Firing on Ft. Sumter officially started the Civil War, but Bull Run was the first time two armies clashed on purpose, each side with a (sort-of) plan. If Sumter was a preview of the unpredictability of this burgeoning kerfuffle, First Bull Run set the tone and attitude of the war – at least for a while.

It seemed simple enough, except to the people actually expected to make it happen.

After Sumter, the Union called for soldiers from the loyal states, some of whom actually sent them. Generals were often elected by their men or appointed for their political connections, so knowing what you were doing wasn’t really top priority at this stage. Men signed up eagerly for the good times to come – war was a mostly theoretical adventure, and defeating the silly South would be good times.

Plus, chicks dig soldiers. It may sound shallow – even sexist – but I know women 150 years later who still order stuff they don’t want from TV just so some buck in brown shorts will come to their door and ring their little bell.

Boys signed up because they believed women loved a man in uniform.

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Different war, same hormones.

The uniforms in question weren’t standardized at this point – the war had barely started, and whatever militias existed were still local and small. Ladies’ auxiliaries would sew outfits for their fine lads, or existing stocks were raided for garb. When the noble volunteers had input, a surprising number demonstrated an affinity for flash and bling. Unlike today, city boys used to be shallow and prone to peacocking a bit.

The motley crew gathered in Washington, D.C., looked like a circus drug trip gone wrong – some were in red coats, some were in blue, others in whatever they had at home. A few regiments with pride in their Scottish heritage wore kilts and poofy hats, and at least one – the Zouaves – wore bright red M.C. Hammer pants. Can you imagine their marching song?

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The plan was simple – march down to Richmond and stop the bad guys. Capture the capital of the so-called ‘Confederacy’, and we win! It’s like chess, or capture the flag. Maybe even laser tag.

President Lincoln appointed Irvin McDowell to make this happen, but McDowell was skeptical about the supposed ease of such a mission. He’d done real war before, and was concerned about trying to send men into battle based on the harassment of impatient politicians and newspapers. He was famously reassured by President Lincoln, “You are green, it is true, but they are green also; you are all green alike.”

‘Green’, in this case, meant ‘inexperienced’ – new, not yet ripe. Like a banana.

Lincoln was technically correct, although his reasoning was questionable (“maybe if EVERYONE is confused the SAME, it will go really well”). He probably knew this, and made the decision pragmatically rather than idealistically. McDowell was under no obligation to join him in that mindset.

But when the President tells you to go have a war, you go have a war.

So, in mid-July 1861, some 35,000 men gathered outside the White House ready to go. They had weapons, a few rations, and in some cases even a little bit of training. Forward….!

Finally! Here we – wait, hang on. Why are we stopped? Excuse me, sir – why are we-

Wow, that fella on the horse yells loud! And if my momma heard that language… Hey, I’m thirsty, do you have any…? Yeah, me too. I wonder if there’s a –

Oh! Here we go! March! March! March! Mar- STOP! What now?

I’m sorry, does ANYONE know why we keep – hey, berries! You ever seen berries like this, Bo? Let’s eat ‘em; we aint’ getting’ nowhere anyhow. The we gotta find some water – I’m parched.

Bo, my stomach – oh Bo I gotta go, something about them berries…

Any teacher who’s ever attempted to lead a class from their room to the school Media Center only a few turns and one staircase away knows the chaos of such travel. It takes forever, it’s loud and disorganized, and you inexplicably lose people along the way.

Imagine marching them a hundred miles, fully equipped and armed, outside on a hot day – when they’ve never been asked to do anything like this before and aren’t particularly adept at taking orders.

What a mess.

The South had spies in Washington and probably in the military as well, but they were hardly necessary for this one. Between the sound, the dust, the chaos, and the media, Barnum & Bailey would have had better luck sneaking up on Richmond.

McDowell, having set aside his concerns, had a plan. He was going to fake to the right, attack hard on the left, flank the enemy, take Richmond, war over – here come the ladies and the glory.

Unfortunately P.G.T. Beauregard, our friend from the attack on Ft. Sumter, was waiting for him just outside of Richmond. He had a plan as well, once the Yankee oppressors arrived – fake to the right, attack hard on the left, flank the enemy. Once between the army and the capital, they’d have no choice but to surrender. War over – here comes the honor and the glory (and let’s use some discretion regarding the ladies).

That ‘green’ issue prevented such complex execution, otherwise the first major battle of the Civil War might have ended up going in circles, like a giant revolving door as each side rotated around the other indefinitely.

As it turned out, the men on both sides did well, all things considered. They mostly followed orders, mostly stayed and fought, mostly fired their guns before reloading them, etc. After two days of marching – or, in the South’s case, waiting – the battle so long-anticipated was an extended hell few had conceived.

Good thing they had ‘grit’.

People were getting SHOT! IN THE BODY! Cannonballs were tearing off limbs, and bullets were splattering the brains of friends. Many bowels and bladders were emptied in those opening hours, and shame quickly gave way to survival instinct for some as this glorious adventure turned out to suck majorly. This was NOT GLORIOUS AND WHAT THE HELL THEY’RE TRYING TO KILL US ALL!

But most fought anyway. That’s the glorious part, or the unforgiveable part – depending on your perspective.

I’ve never been in real battle, but surviving accounts suggest time can work at all different speeds during such conflagrations. It will race by blurrily while events within remain crisp, in fully textured slow motion. Hours pass in seconds, seconds take hours – you get the idea.

By early afternoon of that eternal flash of a day, both sides were exhausted, running out of everything, and confusion was beginning to give way to the sudden irrational concern this might go on forever, locked in eternal half-hell.

What no one could have anticipated was that very shortly, three things were going to happen to tilt this battle in favor of the Confederate Secesh. Two of them were completely unexpected, and none of the three were particularly ‘normal’ by any common definition.

But then, that’s how this war was going so far.

Intermission: Mary Boykin Chesnut’s Diary, Part Two

March 17, 2015June 4, 2023 ~ Blue Cereal

Mrs. Chesnut has been recording for posterity the events surrounding the so-called “Battle of Fort Sumter.” Except she’s mostly not.

Louisa Hamilton came here now. This is a sort of news center. Jack Hamilton, her handsome young husband, has all the credit of a famous battery, which is made of railroad iron. Mr. Petigru calls it the ‘boomerang,’ because it throws the balls back the way they came; so Lou Hamilton tells us.

The ‘boomerang’ bit is a brag by Mrs. Hamilton on her husband‘s artillery unit – they not only hold their ground when taking incoming fire, they gather the cannonballs fired at them and send them back. Boo-yah!

How much you wanna bet Mrs. H. works that into conversation one way or the other about every three minutes?

During her first marriage, she had no children; hence the value of this lately achieved baby.

Historical documents of a personal nature can be difficult – especially for students – because tone is everything. Miss a little flirting, or sarcasm, or other emoticon-deficient vibe, and you can misread a source completely.

Mrs. Chesnut is kind enough to write on both levels simultaneously – the obvious, smiling appreciation for a friend’s long-awaited offspring, and – unless I’m projecting – a little wry commentary on Louisa’s mothering as well.

It might even be cruel.

To divert Louisa from the glories of “the Battery,” of which she raves, we asked if the baby could talk yet. “No, not exactly, but he imitates the big gun when he hears that. He claps his hands and cries ‘Boom, boom.'”
Her mind is distinctly occupied by three things: Lieutenant Hamilton, whom she calls “Randolph,” the baby, and the big gun, and it refuses to hold more…

*snort*

I do not wonder at Louisa Hamilton’s baby; we hear nothing, can listen to nothing; boom, boom goes the cannon all the time. The nervous strain is awful, alone in this darkened room. “Richmond and Washington ablaze,” say the papers – blazing with excitement. Why not? To us these last days’ events seem frightfully great.

That Chesnut always returns to the sincere – the experience – anchors her prose in a way mere observation or fiction could not. Her ability to grab descriptive slices of people and events and weave them in so transparently makes this something more alive than most find mere history to be.

But that’s what makes this real history.

The war, the guns, the actions, the results – facts mattered, and always will. But people, having experiences, and making choices, and feeling feels… in the end, that‘s usually what produces the wars and drives the actions. Like Anne Frank in her attic or Bridget Jones navigating high society in London*, that rare opportunity to zoom in and inhabit the past through the eyes and experiences of another – that’s why we love history.

It gets even better.

April 13th. – Nobody has been hurt after all. How gay we were last night…

Yes, half of my students are 14-year old boys. This line is always a thing.

Fort Sumter has been on fire. Anderson has not yet silenced any of our guns. So the aides, still with swords and red sashes by way of uniform, tell us. But the sound of those guns makes regular meals impossible. None of us go to table. Tea-trays pervade the corridors going everywhere. Some of the anxious hearts lie on their beds and moan in solitary misery. Mrs. Wigfall and I solace ourselves with tea in my room. These women have all a satisfying faith. “God is on our side,” they say. When we are shut in Mrs. Wigfall and I ask “Why?” “Of course, He hates the Yankees, we are told. You’ll think that well of Him.”

“A satisfying faith” – once again, understated layers of meaning. Chesnut doesn’t directly comment, she portrays – with precision. I think she’s aware of us, all these years later, reading her through this… ‘documentation’ of events. Do you feel her Mona Lisa smirk on us?

Not by one word or look can we detect any change in the demeanor of these negro servants. Lawrence sits at our door, sleepy and respectful, and profoundly indifferent. So are they all, but they carry it too far. You could not tell that they even heard the awful roar going on in the bay, though it has been dinning in their ears night and day. People talk before them as if they were chairs and tables. They make no sign. Are they stolidly stupid? or wiser than we are; silent and strong, biding their time?

Southern nobility lived with themselves as slave-owners largely by learning not to ‘see’ those they enslaved. Perhaps overseers or smaller property owners were all too aware of what they were doing to real live people, but the elite seem to have largely trained themselves to give wide berth to troubling thoughts.

Chesnut’s diary resonates, however, not only from her poignant word choices, but her willingness to watch, and listen, in the first place. She is fully present, and not afraid to see what she sees. We should do so well.

Anyone could have made this observation – it’s glaring, once noted. People have an amazing capacity, though, to see what we wish to see and discard the rest. Whether slaves, dust, quiet students, personal faults, or moonwalking bears, our filters are really something else. We know this, but usually do a pretty good job ignoring this about ourselves as well. Ironic, right?

So tea and toast came; also came Colonel Manning, red sash and sword, to announce that he had been under fire, and didn’t mind it. He said gaily: “It is one of those things a fellow never knows how he will come out until he has been tried. Now I know I am a worthy descendant of my old Irish hero of an ancestor, who held the British officer before him as a shield in the Revolution, and backed out of danger gracefully.” We talked of St. Valentine’s eve, or the maid of Perth, and the drop of the white doe’s blood that sometimes spoiled all…

The standard American History book will tell you the South was overconfident after First Bull Run, etc. I’d argue Colonel Manning and his ilk were way ahead of the crowd on this one.

It’s still all a play, a fantastic story, to those involved at this stage. This is not something you’ll hear from men a year or two later in this war. Some will look back and shake their heads with a dark chuckle that they’d ever thought such things.

Fort Sumter surrendered, and the war was officially begun. The next major action will be a bit better planned – although not by much. At First Bull Run, young men will actually be injured. Many will die. But not yet.

April 20, 1861. – Home again at Mulberry. In those last days of my stay in Charleston I did not find time to write a word… I have been sitting idly to-day looking out upon this beautiful lawn, wondering if this can be the same world I was in a few days ago. After the smoke and the din of the battle, a calm.

Indeed.

* Just seeing if you were paying attention.