“I Would Strengthen the Left”

Leaves fell from the trees, fluttering to the ground as they did every autumn in northern Georgia. But this was a violent season, the warm air filled with the constant crack of muskets and low boom of unseen cannon. Limbs and shards of bark spun into the thick underbrush as Minie balls whined through the heavy smoke that obscured everything. Men heard the shouts of their comrades, but they were the disembodied cries of ghosts. Horses, wounded or driven crazy by the rapid descent into Hell, screamed pitifully, crashing through the underbrush in a frantic bid to escape the devil. Union and Confederate generals fought to return order to their troops.

Union General George Thomas had what men he could gather of his XIV Corps, Brannan’s and Baird’s divisions, but they were only half of Pap Thomas’ command. This was not a set-piece battle. This was a desperate battle in the thick Georgia underbrush that broke regiments into companies and companies into scattered bands using whatever cover they could. When men charged they only managed to stagger forward, blindly making their way through the thickets until blundering into the enemy line.

An army was in danger of being destroyed here, between the lazy Chickamauga Creek and Missionary Ridge. It was Major General William S. Rosecrans Union Army of the Cumberland, and it stood to be defeated by the unlikeliest of generals, Braxton Bragg. Rosecrans had chased Bragg and his Confederate Army of Tennessee from its namesake state into Georgia, where a se ries of events placed the Union army in jeopardy, not the least of which was the western terrain. There just weren’t enough decent roads on which to move an army so Rosecrans had been forced to divide his army. Now the Yankees, spread out over a 40 mile-front with no chance of quickly coming together to defend themselves, had chased the Rebels onto bad ground.

When the Confederates attacked on September 18, 1863, they swung blindly at the Rosecrans army, finding nothing to strike at but a few pickets. The Federals, responding (and planning an attack of their own), drew first blood. The next day was different. Thomas Brannan moved his Union division against the Confederates (Bragg had managed to get about three-quarters of his army across Chickamauga Creek and into some semblance of a line), and quickly realized he was in over his head. There were a lot more Confederates here than he expected, he sent to Thomas, and he could use some help. Thomas sent in Baird and requested reinforcements from Rosecrans.

If Bragg was no sort of general, he had a respectable galaxy of stars at his disposal. Pat Cleburne, James Longstreet (who came up later), and John Bell Hood, with Nathan Bedford Forrest guarding the right flank, were as competent a lot of soldiers as anyone could find. But Bragg’s star was never fully developed and at Chickamauga, Confederate General D.H. Hill commented, Bragg’s performance was comparable to “the sparing of the amateur boxer,” rather than what was needed: “the crushing blows of the trained pugilist.”

As desperate and uncoordinated as the fighting was on the 19th, and as lackluster as Bragg’s performance proved, the opportunity for victory gleamed brightly for the commander of the Army of Tennessee on the 20th of September. It had nothing to do with skill, determination, or bravery (although such things should never be discounted), but presented itself on a silver platter to the remarkably inept Confederate general because of a Federal miscommunication. Such does Mars tamper with warrior’s destinies.

Still, battles, even defeats, require heroes. Enter Pap Thomas, stage left.

George Henry Thomas was born in Southampton County, Virginia on July 31, 1816. His family, slave owning, was relatively well to do until the death of Thomas’ father when the boy was just twelve. A few years later Southampton County was the scene of Nat Turner’s rebellion, which undoubtedly had some influence on Thomas’s family but how it impacted the future general is not known. Thomas was reluctant to reveal his feelings and later, when pressed to write his memoirs he countered, “All that I did for my government are matters of history, but my private life is my own and I will not have it hawked about in print for the amusement of the curious.” By “my government,” of course, Thomas meant the United States. When he chose not to align himself with Virginia at the outbreak of w ar, his sister Judith wrote, “General Thomas had many friends, a comfortable home and a native state, until he deserted him.”

In 1836 Congressman John Y. Mason recommended George Thomas for an appointment to West Point. The army, to many young Southern gentlemen, presented an opportunity for genteel service, honor, and glory. The subject of pay was best left unmentioned.

Thomas’s tenure at the Military Academy was uneventful for the quiet young man. He received his usual share of demerits, although most of those could be for what was considered social activities. Apparently he enjoyed visiting and being visited, and was even placed under arrest for gambling. He may have, during his years at West Point, developed or refined his philosophy of battle; he who keeps his head, keeps the victory. Upon graduation Thomas was ordered to report to Company H of the Third Regiment of Artillery.

Young Thomas saw service against the Seminole Indians (mostly garrison duty), and during the Mexican War. In was in the latter that Thomas displayed his calm under fire. At the Battle of Buena Vista, Thomas’s two-gun battery (fighting side-by-side Captain J. P. J. O’Brien’s two cannons), managed to hold off Mexican forces until American re-enforcements could be sent up. O’Brien and Thomas fell back with the recoil of their guns, grudgingly giving up ground and time. George Thomas had proved himself. Nearly a decade later, Thomas was promoted major and ordered to report to the Second United States Cavalry. The Second muster roll was a who’s-who of future Confederates. Commanded by Albert Sidney Johnston, its officers included Robert E. Lee, Earl Van Dorn, E. Kirby Smith, John Bell Hood, Kenner Garnett, Fitzhugh Lee, and Richard W. Johnson. While with the Second Thomas was wounded by a Comanche arrow during a skirmish. It pierced his cheek and lodged in his chest. He removed the arrow himself before seeking medical attention. Thomas carried the scar with him to Georgia, and the desperate battle just west of Chickamauga Creek.

It had been a day of unyielding carnage. Confederate charges were repulsed, Union thrusts broken, and all of it in one vast entanglement that prevented either side from achieving a clear advantage.  The battle did not end when night came. The lines kept up a constant fire as General Rosecrans called a council of war in the Glenn house on the Dry Valley Road. Each general spoke in turn, but it was obvious to all that they were outnumbered by the Confederate forces and tomorrow could bring disaster. General Phil Sheridan summed it up when he said, “We are in a bad strait unquestionably.” Pap Thomas, gray-bearded, seemingly imperturbable in battle, roused himself from a fitful slumber to announce, “I would strengthen the left.”  Years before Thomas issued a report to the Adjunct General, in which he noted, “My experience teaches me that soldiers usually shape their conduct according to the characteristics20of their officers…” True, and well-stated, but such words tend to melt away under the heat of battle with officers being only human and all. But not always.

The 20th of September was a day of destiny for Confederates and Federals, among them Union Brigadier General Thomas J. Wood. About mid-morning on the 20th, Wood, who commanded a division on the Union right, was ordered to move his men to address a supposed gap in the line. There was no gap, that is, there was no gap until Wood moved his division out of line. A few minutes before noon, just as the Federals were trying to sort things out; Pete Longstreet struck. It was a thunderbolt — 23,000 Rebels, three divisions, hit the ruptured Federal line. It was a Union catastrophe and the gray wave swept over a collapsing Yankee line, slowing but never stopping.  The federals were running, seeking the safety of McFarland Gap, or Rossville, or Missionary Ridge. Officers tried to stop the route but as Union Lieutenant Colonel Gates Thurston remembered, “All became confusion.” Rosecrans, trying to rescue what remained of his army, rushed to Chattanooga to prepare a defense.

The effort to save what was left of the Army of the Cumberland centered on Snodgrass Hill with Pap Thomas, and some very determined men. If Thomas could hold the hill, the survivors of the defeat could make their way to safety — that, in fact, was his entire strategy. His men had thrown up hastily constructed b arricades and poured a heavy fire into the attacking Rebels. Thomas, uncertain where the rest of the army was, called for reinforcements and ammunition. He rode back and forth along the line, a remarkable target, coolly encouraging his men. About mid-afternoon he was told that relief might be coming from the rear but these were Longstreet’s men, launching another attack. They were repulsed, but other Rebels charged Snodgrass Hill, trying to overwhelm Thomas’ force. The Yankees held because Pap Thomas asked them to but they were in danger of being surrounded and annihilated. Thomas needed a miracle on a day when God wore gray.

There was a dust cloud to the north, an officer reported to Thomas, and the general commanding, his nerves stretched almost to the breaking point, found himself shaking too much to properly focus his field glasses. He called for a younger officer to take the glasses and in a moment he had his answer; it was Major General Gordon Granger with Steedman’s division. They fell in alongside Thomas’ men, bringing ammunition, plugging the line, throwing back Confederate charge after charge. By all estimate the Rebels launched nearly unsuccessful 30 assaults against the Union line, but Thomas and his men managed to hold. Part of their defense was based on cold reality — to attempt to withdrawal en mass would bring the Confederates down on them like a plague of old, and all would be lost. Thomas knew this, and he was certain that the Rebels realized it as well.  The only way to fallback was piecemeal; by division. It was Buena Vista again.

He got his men back, most of them, slipping through McFarland’s Gap and rejoining the Army of the Cumberland. It was a defeat for the Yankees; it could have been a disaster. The Union army could have been destroyed, would have been destroyed if not for George Thomas.

Battles are complicated events and Chickamauga was no different. If someone other than Bragg had commanded the Rebels, the attacks might have been coordinated rather than casual. If Rosecrans had a bit more luck he would have found the Rebels after his command was assembled.

But those speculations can be laid aside and replaced with this certainty — Pap Thomas gathered his men around him and denied the enemy Snodgrass Hill. He gave the Army of the Cumberland time and a pathway to salvation. Some generals remarked that Thomas was slow, and cautious. They were wrong. He was deliberate, and determined, and once he decided what had to be done, he did it. George Thomas became known as the Rock of Chickamauga. It was a convenient title, something that newspapers find dramatic in a cheap way. The men he saved or who served with him during the battle might agree with the description; at Chickamauga when wave after wave of Confederates crashed against the Union position, Thomas was unyielding.

Iron Ships, Part 2

It was an unprecedented victory and an unmitigated disaster. C.S.S. Virginia had sailed into Hampton Roads, relatively unharmed by the hammer blows of the Union cannonballs balls that had bounced off her iron side. The confederate ship tore into the blockading Union ships with impunity and exacted a terrible payment for their presence. The Cumberland sunk after being rammed by Virginia and pierced the confederate vessels cannon fire. Now all that remained of that proud Union vessel were the tops of her skeletal masts, jutting like pitiful tombstones from the cold waters of the Roads.

Virginia then turned on U.S.S. Congress who tried to lose her opponent in the shallow waters off Newport News. She ran aground instead, a motionless target for the guns of Virginia. But the confederate vessel could not come alongside Congress, as she had Cumberland, and drive point-blank fire into her wooden hull. The rebel vessel drew over twenty feet of water and was in real danger of running aground if she followed her quarry too closely. She stayed nearly five hundred feet from Congress and began systematically tearing her to pieces. The Union ship could bring few guns to bear on Virginia and even if she could, they would have been ineffective; the iron plating and stout timber frame of Virginia made her virtually impervious to enemy fire. Any shell that struck the confederate vessel’s sloped sides simply ricocheted into the twilight.

U.S.S. Minnesota, Roanoke and St. Lawrence rushed to help their sister but ran aground. Four of the five rebel gunboats that had accompanied Virginia, danced around the dying Congress, her wooden timbers and rigging ablaze, pouring rounds into the Union ship. For nearly an hour Congress endured the fusillade until it became apparent that her fight was over. Virginia turned on Minnesota, intent on adding one more mark to the tally but there was less than two hours of daylight left and there was a real chance that the formidable but ponderous C.S.S. Virginia would run aground as well. Minnesota was saved, at least for the moment, when the confederate vessel broke off the action after an hour.
Near dark, in the light of the roaring flames that consumed Congress, a low, strange, unappealing craft steamed calmly into Hampton Roads. The somber light of that fire illuminated the destruction caused by an iron vessel of a new age of warfare at sea, and revealed the Union’s answer to the Virginia. This was a new age, a new type of war, and a new day for the navies of the world. And U.S.S. Monitor was a new ship.

Her creation had been as stormy as Virginia’s had been resolute. Where the Confederate Secretary of Navy Stephen Mallory had clearly seen the need for a radical vessel, the United States naval officers of the commission created to select a Union response to the confederate ironclad, were unlikely to consider John Ericsson’s innovative design. Firstly, it didn’t look like a ship. Take it home and worship it, one member said of the model of the odd looking, little craft. Secondly, the brittle Ericsson was a difficult man to get along with; he was absolutely convinced of his own genius. Thirdly, it was a gun of Ericsson’s design that blew up aboard the U.S.S. Princeton nearly two decades before killing, among others, several high ranking members of the federal government. In disgust, Ericsson concentrated on civilian affairs, leaving the military to care for itself.

When the Union called for ironclads, Ericsson’s design made its way into the competition. It is reported that after viewing the model of Ericsson’s ironclad, President Lincoln (himself an inventor of sorts and the only president to hold a United States Patent), commented: “All I can say is what the little girl exclaimed when she put her foot into her stocking—‘It strikes me there’s something in it.’” The statement may have been apocryphal—much of Lincoln’s life is; but there was something of interest in Ericsson’s design. It’s revolving turret, although not the first such considered, gave the ship’s two guns a wide-arc. The day of massive broadsides from virtually stationary guns, was over. There was some concern that the cannon’s thunderous firing so close to the deck would concuss the men, or damage the boilers—at least to the nervous chief of the navy’s Dock’s Bureau. She couldn’t fire directly over the bow; that was true enough—the four and one-half foot pilot house projected out of the deck. And the elevation astern had to be no less than 50 degrees, so that the discharge of the guns did not damage the boiler. But Ericsson assured the navy that despite its limitations, his invention was capable of it taking on anything that the Confederates could muster. Its low free-board made it difficult for enemy ships to strike, even if it also made it extremely unseaworthy. Finally, Monitor drew about half as much water than its adversary.

Union officials knew all about the Virginia and her potential threat (Secretary of War Edwin Stanton was convinced the horrible machine would steam up the Potomac River and destroy Washington—he need not have worried; Virginia in the shallow Potomac River would have been more of a danger to herself than the Yankees); and rushed to complete Monitor. She was to cost $275,000, Ericsson was told, and she must be completed in 100 days. She was completed under-budget and just twenty-days over the time allotted and her twin 11-inch guns, at least according to Admiral David Dixon Porter, made her “the strongest fighting vessel in the world.” And just to make sure some shellbacks understood the Monitor’s potential, he threw in: “she can whip anything afloat.” She had only to whip Virginia, and as Monitor sailed into Hampton Roads in the darkness, she could see the results of the Confederate vessel’s handiwork by the bright fires of her victims.

The Union vessel, whose name was given to the coastal-class vessels mounting huge guns, was commanded by John L. Worden, a career naval officer who had been captured early in the war and released. He shared the cramped pilot house of the Monitor with a helmsman and pilot, peering through 5/8 th inch slits. Ericsson had intended to place the pilot house on the turret but there hadn’t been time. The Monitor anchored in the Roads and the ship’s officers heard what had happened that day. It was certain, everyone agreed, that C.S.S. Virginia would come down the next morning at high tide, and finish the job.

The fires from Congress were largely out, but there was a thin veil of smoke hanging in the air above her when Virginia came down to the Roads. Her venture the day before had taken quite a bit from her; her bow still leaked where the ram had been, her engines objected to anything more than dead slow, her steering was sluggish, and the draft for her furnaces was compromised by the smoke stack perforated by Union shot and shell. Her captain on Sunday, March 9, 1862 was Lieutenant Catesby A.P. Jones, who was called upon to replace Commodore John Buchanan who had been wounded the day before. Jones saw the Monitor entering the Roads the night before and considered it Virginia’s true adversary.

It was time for the main event. Virginia closed with Minnesota who lay aground, and out from the shadow of the wooden vessel came Monitor, steaming resolutely toward Virginia. The confederate ship fired her 7-inch rifled bow-chaser at Monitor but missed. The only target of consequence on the Union ship was the turret which housed two 11-inch Dahlgren cannons under the command of Lieutenant S. Dana Greene. As the Monitor moved in she fired two 170-pound projectiles that struck the sloped side of the Virginia and bounced high into the air. Had the shells been wrought iron instead of cast, and had the charges been the full thirty pounds instead of fifteen, and had the guns been depressed a bit more, there is a good chance that the damage to Virginia would have been considerable. Instead, Virginia quickly shook off the hits. Now it was her turn to bring her broadside to bear at point-blank range.
Her guns erupted with a roar and a cloud of smoke that erased any chance of visibility, even though the two ships were nearly touching. The Monitor’s turret received several blows but the damage anticipated by Ericsson’s critics never materialized. Luckily for her, Virginia possessed no solid shot; firing that ammunition at point-blank range she might have changed Monitor’s sobriquet to “Swiss cheese box on a raft.” Neither Monitor nor Virginia could gain the upper hand; both ships were powerful, powerfully armed, although Monitor was much quicker than the Confederate ship (Virginia was probably not capable of anything more than five knots), and both ironclads were superbly commanded. The truth is that they simply exchanged blow for blow, their cannon’s roaring through the spring air while men watched from shore and surrounding vessels.

Just after eleven Monitor’s pilothouse was struck by a shell. The explosion drove powder, smoke and debris through the steering slits and into Worden’s face and eyes. When Greene rushed forward from the turret, he found Worden staggering out of the pilothouse, blood covering his face. Worden, severely wounded (he would recover completely and receive the thanks of Congress and a grateful nation), was led to his cabin, and Greene assumed command. By this time the ship had drifted into shallow waters and Virginia would not follow her. What happened for the next hour or so was some long-range sniping by both vessels until Virginia withdrew, content that Monitor, defeated, had abandoned the battle.

Both ships had suffered some damage but nothing that would have required either to give up the fight. The Confederate ship’s engines had probably given all that was expected of them and the troublesome leak continued at the ram. Monitor’s guns were low on ammunition; getting shell and powder through the second deck required lining the turret opening perfectly with the shell scuttle. And the gun port stoppers had proved heavy and cumbersome. They were primitive vessels in some aspects but mostly they were deadly adversaries that circumstances had combined to keep afloat, even after their momentous battle.

Virginia steamed back to Norfolk while Monitor hung close to the fleet. The commanders of both vessels declared victory and if ever a battle could have two fathers, it was this one. The Virginia survived her encounter with Monitor, although she did not sink any Union vessels. The Monitor had prevented additional damage to the Union fleet, although she had not destroyed Virginia. Both famous ships would later on end their days without ever again going to war. Virginia would be blown up to prevent her from falling into Union hands. Monitor’s low-free board would finally do her in; she sank off Cape Hatteras, North Carolina but not before siring dozens of ironclad ships with revolving turrets. John Ericsson had been vindicated.

The Mythology of Abraham Lincoln

During one of Abraham Lincoln’s many political confrontations his opponent condemned him for being dishonest–being “two-faced.” Lincoln is said to have replied, “I ask you ladies and gentlemen, if I had two faces, would I have worn this one?”

Lincoln considered himself ugly and his gaunt features were fertile ground for the cartoonists of the day. Since his death and martyrdom, the 16th president’s features have been used to sell cars, watches, orange juice, movies, bookends, or any of the ten thousand products that have graced the shelves of American retailers since Lincoln’s death. But more than Lincoln’s physical features remain to remind us of this remarkable man. In fact Lincoln is not immune from the historical perception that distorts our view of all events or people in the past. His place in American history teeters on the spindly legs of idolatry, Deity, and mythology. Too bad, he seemed like such a nice guy.

In developing the exhibit “Lincoln in Memory: The 16th President in Personal and Cultural Recollection,” I had the opportunity to search through the remarkable collection of Lincoln images at the Abraham Lincoln Library and Museum at Lincoln Memorial University. Since I’m an employee of the museum, you’d expect me to be biased. I am, but let’s put that aside for now.

What amazes me is how each generation co-ops Lincoln’s image and his words for their need. War, particularly, brings out the need to quote Lincoln. It is not difficult to find an appropriate Lincoln phrase. “This nation cannot exits, half slave and half free,” “we highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain,” or “the last full measure,” are succinct and compelling, whether applied to the threatening specter of Communism, or to avenge those who died at Pearl Harbor.  Lincoln’s words have lost none of their power nor their ability to convey exactly what Lincoln intended. They may be plucked out of context and used as propaganda, but this is done because the words, as is the force of Lincoln’s personality has not lost its power.

Hollywood recognized Lincoln’s impact as morality play, and his place in American heritage almost immediately. His role in Birth of A Nation (1915 D.W. Griffith) may be one of first celluloid ventures in which Honest Abe, the Rail Splitter, or Old Abe appeared. He has been portrayed by Gregory Peck, Walter Huston, Henry Fonda, Raymond Massey, Sam Elliot, and a number of lessor-know actors. Counter cards, movie posters, publicity photographs, and ad books generally present “Abraham Lincoln” in a compassionate or thoughtful pose so as to maintain the traditional view of Lincoln. Hollywood knows how to market America’s heroes.  

When we developed the exhibit (much of work was done by students or volunteers) we included quotations from Lincoln’s contemporaries. Mary Todd Lincoln, William Herndon, Leonard Swett, David Davis, and others comment the 16th president. These words provide a very down-to-earth view of Lincoln. He was human, not universally loved or respected, and could be distracted–his mind absorbed in the intricacies of problem solving.

To be trite, a picture is really worth a thousand words, but only if you take the time to examine the picture in the context of its creation and subject. Lincoln has a common face, and he would be the first to celebrate that notion. There was nothing common about the mind hidden behind that visage, but too often it is taken (if you will allow me) at face value.

Will the real Abraham Lincoln please stand up?

Iron Ships, Part 1

There are moments in military history, which define the ending of one thing, and the beginning of another. At Midway, it was the eight minutes that saw the destruction of three Japanese aircraft carriers. In Dallas, it was the time that it took to chamber three rounds. Off the coast of Ireland it was the moment that RMS Lusitania filled the periscope of a German U-boat and changed the course of the war. For the navies of the world in the early afternoon of March 8, 1862, it was the sight of cannon balls bouncing off the ironsides of C.S.S. Virginia.

The Union fleet standing off Fort Monroe and Hampton Roads in early March 1862 was impressive. It included the U.S.S. Congress and U.S.S. Cumberland between the Middle Ground of the Roads and Newport News, and the U.S.S. St. Lawrence, U.S.S. Roanoke, and U.S.S. Vanderbilt close to the protective guns of Fort Monroe. Between the two forces was the U.S.S. Minnesota, a sailing frigate. Moored next to these Union vessels in Hampton Roads, unseen by the sailors who hung their laundry under a clear, warm sky was disaster. The C.S.S. Virginia, once the U.S.S. Merrimac, was coming down the James River.

The U.S.S. Merrimac, a steam frigate, had been waiting idly at the naval yard at Gosport, Virginia for desperately, needed engines, when she was fired and abandoned by retreating federals. The Union commander apparently panicked and, after destroying several ships that the United States Navy would sorely miss, abandoned nearly 1,200 cannon to the confederates. The Merrimac never had a chance to fire a shot at her attackers. Not as the Merrimac. And not as a steam frigate.

She was not the first ironclad to go to war, or even the first ironclad. The French La Gloire and English Warrior were both constructed in 1858 by countries, which felt that iron had a place on the high seas. In appearance they were little different than steam frigates of the period but iron plating was a critical part of their construction. Warrior was all-over iron with the greatest concentration amidships to protect her engines and magazines. La Gloire was iron on wood; an arrangement that led to the need for continuous repair because the two substances did not get on well together, a condition that would be more than apparent just a few years later. The U.S Navy’s first encounter with ironclads was the U.S.S. New Ironsides. Crude and ungainly looking, this ship was to see action in the Civil War but unlike her famous namesake, she would achieve recognition as nothing more than a gun platform. So the precedent was there, big ships, big guns, and sea-shaking broadsides.

But for now, smoldering in the debris covered waters of the naval base that should have been her sanctuary, her magazines intact and her hull relatively untouched was opportunity, and her name was Merrimac. What remained of the U.S.S. Merrimac was raised and plans began immediately to turn her into an ironclad. “I regard the possession of an iron-armored ship as the first necessity,” Stephen Mallory, secretary of the Confederate Navy, said. He expected such a ship to range up and down the coast, destroying blockading vessels with impunity. Merrimac’s blackened skeleton was cut away down to her berth deck and that deck then became her gun deck. A casement approximately 160-feet long was built over her 275-foot hull, and 4 inches iron plating was mounted atop this 2-foot thick pine and oak frame. The result was a huge interior of guns and machinery with the only natural light coming from the grating overhead or through the gun ports. The heat and smoke generated during battle must have turned this cavern into the lowest reaches of hell. But as primitive as the Merrimac, now rechristened the C.S.S. Virginia may appear today, she was a most threatening weapon in the hands of some very determined men.

The manufacturing resources available to the South were just a fraction of those possessed by the North so it required some very innovative thinking to even the odds. The result was the Virginia with her four-foot cast-iron ram and her spar torpedo-essentially low pole with an explosive charge on it, extending from the bow. The ram was a very romantic concept and its appearance on Virginia influenced naval architecture to some time but as a practical weapon, it was not very successful.

Virginia’s success lay in her iron skin, stout wooden timbers, and ten massive cannon, and the fact that she could steam in close to the wooden walls of conventional vessels and destroy them. This was brute strength; there was no finesse about it.

A quartermaster aboard the Union Congress the morning of March 8, 1862, noted smoke far up the James River and commented to an officer: “I believe that thing is coming down at last, sir.” The construction of C.S.S. Merrimac was not a well-kept secret, nor was the Union’s response in the U.S.S. Monitor. What was not known is how would “that thing,” do in battle. No one, especially the men encased in her iron body, knew. Her unreliable engines, the thing that had taken her to Gosport before the war, were now even more so-they were not likely to function smoothly for more than six hours at a time. And the iron sheathing that made her a formidable weapon placed even more demands on the engines. She moved through the war at an inevitable pace but someone walking along the riverbank could easily keep pace with her progress. It took her 35 minutes to turn, she had a 22-foot draft, and none of her guns had been fired. She was slow, cumbersome, unreliable, and the question that plagued the mixed crew of soldiers, sailors, and landsmen was; could she fight?

She moved toward Hampton Roads accompanied by a tiny flotilla of hangers-on; the Yorktown, Jamestown, Beaufort, Raleigh, and Teaser. They were there to lend assistance in a fight but it’s also likely that they went along if the temperamental Virginia decided that she had no desire to fight that day and simply shut down.

A Union gunboat spotted her first, got off a 32-pound shot, and retired in haste to the Roads. That thing was, indeed, coming down. She approached U.S.S. Cumberland, who fired on this huge barn roof with a chimney (the description of one observer), followed by the U.S.S. Congress and assorted shore batteries. For the men inside the Virginia it must have been like working in a smoke-filled bell suspended over a raging fire. The solid shot and shells crashed against the iron sides in an unending barrage that robbed the men of their hearing. The timbers cracked like gunshots and tortured wood against wood squealed in pain as every gun that could be brought to bear, pummeled the C.S.S. Virginia.

For more than an hour the Confederate warship steamed unharmed through the continuous bombardment of Union guns, a thunderstorm of explosives that would have reduced a wooden-hulled vessel to kindling. Finally, Virginia was satisfied to answer. The port shutter was raised on her bow and the 7-inch pivot gun run out. After sighting on a target it fired, the shell striking the after-pivot gun on U.S.S. Cumberland and killing or wounding most of the gun crew. She sailed blithely past Congress who continued to pour round after round into her with no effect, and chose Cumberland as her first victim. Congress had not escaped Death’s scythe, she had simply been put on notice. “Our clean and handsome deck,” one shocked Union officer recalled of Congress’s first, brief encounter with Virginia, “was in an instant changed into a slaughter-pen, with lopped-off legs and arms, and bleeding, blackened bodies scattered about by the shells, whilst blood and brains actually dripped from the beams.”

It was just before three that Virginia, impervious to the constant fire of the sloop Cumberland, sunk her cast-iron ram into the wooden ship’s side. Cumberland heeled over, mortally wounded, while the men inside Virginia felt no more than a coarse shudder. The Confederate ship reversed her engines and withdrew from Cumberland’s body, leaving the ram behind. The loss of the ram created leaks in Virginia’s bow but did not prevent her from backing off and pounding her hapless victim with point-blank fire for almost thirty minutes. U.S.S. Cumberland finally succumbed to the bombardment, slowly sinking into the waters of the Road, which did her the service of washing the blood and carnage of battle from her decks, and hiding her wounds.

The men aboard U.S.S. Congress watched with stunned horror as Cumberland died, and Virginia turned on them, black smoke billowing from its funnel riddled by gunfire, its blank gun-port eyes fixed resolutely on the next to die.

Talk, Talk, Talk

I make it a habit to never discuss politics or religion becausepeople sometimes become excited when either of those two complex subjects are brought up. In other words, they lose all sense of time, place, purpose, and the sense of humor that God in his wisdom gave us.

We, and when I say we I mean the American public, had been exposed over the past year and more to pundits, politicians, prognosticators, men-of-God , entertainers, and plain old home-grown nuts, talking. Toward what purpose? To convince us that they have the answer and they deserve our support. And yet in this whirlwind of hyperbole, does anyone stop to ask us what we need, instead of telling us what we need? Of course there are polls. There are news polls, and political pools, citizen’s polls, and polls created by organizations that band together in hopes that we will listen to them. God help the United States of America.

Since everyone appears to be offering their opinion, I thought one more couldn’t possibly hurt. Or as my motorcycle-riding, gray-haired old mother says (no kidding–she used to ride Indians), “another country heard from.”

The advantage of history, other than as a career you can make as much as a Beverly Hills plastic surgeon, is it is replete with lesson. I think one lesson this country should heed, and which both candidates and the American media seem to have ignored is that volume does not make it so.

There is such a clamor from both candidates and their supporter, as well as their detractors, that it is impossible to determine if either of these men are leaders. What has happened to this nation that the presidency has become a prize without purpose? Let us not be naive. Politics sullies even the best intentioned individuals. The best American politician in the 19th Century was Lincoln. The cagiest politician in the 20th Century was FDR. And after passing they have achieved a lofty position in American history. During their pursuit of the White House they practiced politics, and were subjected to a barrage of criticism from their opponents or their opponents minions.  

For God’s sake, give it a rest! It’s not that other elections haven’t fallen prey to minutia and morality. Lipstick or Troopergate have nothing on The Forgotten Handshake, and Rachel Jackson. But the avalanche of mudslinging and catcalls obliterates the real issues facing the American citizen; an ailing economy, porous borders, jobs leaking from this country faster than they can be created, and a clumsy foreign policy.

I have yet to be moved by anything said by either candidate. I have yet to be comforted by their visions for America. I am completely disgusted by the media, on both sides of the fence for their continuing, contentious yammering. And to both candidates may I mention that I have never been drawn to a candidate’s standard by how well he denounces his opponent. 

I’m afraid that I offer no solution. The subject is far too complex for an easy fix. Or a sound bite. What I do offer is an observation, free of cost, open to debate, and honestly committed to this site.  Our nation has fallen under the spell of the of the open microphone and the open mouth, and neither one have served her well.

The Practical Use of History

Those who ignore history are doomed to repeat it. Perhaps. It might be better said that those that ignore history are missing a good bet.

 

History is not the universal template, nor does it provide a window into the future. At its very best history is like the Oracle at Delphi—alluding to what one may expect to happen, clouding its predictions in a heavy mist of uncertainty, and leaving just enough unsaid to confuse those who inquire what will become of them. When history (through the study of shared experiences and related events), predicts a great nation shall fall, it doesn’t say which one, or when, or how.

 

When I teach history I begin my first class by challenging students to keep three words in mind. Those words are perspective, relationship, and context. If the snoring isn’t too loud, I explain why in the study of history, these three words are important. Let me begin in the middle for no other reason than it’s my blog and I’ll do what I want to.

 

History is not a straight line, or a looping curve, or anything else than what a ball of twine looks like after a cat has played with it. History is a complex bundle of threads that often appear to have no other purpose than to confuse the average freshmen. History, or that ball of twine spun over the living room floor, is a series of related events. But not just common, similar events, but those that appear to have no bearing on one another. Nothing is more fascinating than to begin at one end and unravel the mystery of history in its intricate form and discover that Lincoln’s Young Man’s Lyceum Speech in 1838 correctly foretold the coming of the Civil War.  By the same token, examine the British military failure during the American Revolution for a clear understanding of some of the same unsuccessful tactics and strategies in America’s war in Viet Nam—as practiced. I did not say that America was doomed in Viet Nam; I suggest her strategy as implemented could not win the war.

 

Buy one of my novels (notice how subtle that was) but read only one chapter. Taking that chapter out of context, plucking that single element out of its associative position gives you awareness but not understanding. Every society, culture, civilization, and person is a product of its immediate environment. I abhor slavery. It’s a vile practice that must be eradicated, and those that benefit from it ought to be shot. Period. But many people in the south upheld the peculiar institution in the 19^th Century because it was what they knew, what guided their life, and provided for their families.

 

Finally there is perspective. Every society bears the burden of generational arrogance. In my day we never did it that way. Why I had to walk twelve miles to school everyday over flaming lava fields with vultures pecking at my eyes. Suppose we take the time examine how we view history, or events, or circumstances, before forming an opinion. There is never one perspective, nor even one that is constant, but if we take the time to analyze our perspective as we examine history, we may discover we have a clearer vision of the past.

 

Something else.  History is drama.  It is filled with failure, courage, triumph, horror, destruction, and pathos.  To lift from Shakespeare, it has been for me, the Undiscovered Country.