Many of you have probably never heard about the episode of the Civil War I will describe here, and it has been one that has long held a special fascination for me. It took place in what was called the “Trans-Mississippi” theater of the war, which was the term applied to anything west of the Mississippi River. During the first year of the Civil War, as large opposing armies struggled in the initial battles and campaigns east of the Mississippi, this smaller drama was being played out in the American West along the Rio Grande River. There, a brigade composed mostly of Texan volunteers, under the command of an enigmatic former U.S. Army officer, would undertake a campaign into the desolate New Mexico Territory in an attempt to expand the Confederacy westward, all the way to California. However, what would seem at the outset to be a glorious and even imperialistic quest, a sort of Southern “manifest destiny,” would turn into a mismanaged military failure with a retreat that would rank among the most agonizing in American military history.

The brigade was known as Sibley’s Brigade, named for its commander, General Henry Hopkins Sibley, and, later, as the Army of New Mexico. It would number a mere 3,000 men, most of whom came from eastern Texas counties with strong secessionist sentiments. They would enlist to fight for their state and the Confederate cause with idealism and even a sense of impending adventure. Just like many other volunteers on both sides of the conflict, they would eventually learn how hard war can be. Further, as with many young soldiers in all wars, they would experience the frustrations and discomfort that came with life in an army camp, the loneliness that comes from being far from home and loved ones, and they would see firsthand the inhumanity, terror, and horrible loss that comes with war. However, the extreme hardships they would endure in New Mexico would lead many of the soldiers in this army to question the campaign’s objectives as well as the competence and even the humanity of their commander.

While the official objectives for the Confederate campaign into New Mexico are somewhat uncertain, it can be stated with confidence that the campaign’s genesis resulted from the efforts of one man, Henry Hopkins Sibley. Further, no examination of the Confederate Army of New Mexico would be complete without some discussion of Sibley himself.

Henry Sibley was a career Army officer from Louisiana who served in the Florida campaigns against the Seminoles, fought in Mexico, and then spent the balance of his Army career in the West. In fact, his last assignment prior to his joining the Confederate cause was as a Captain in New Mexico. Sibley has been described as the “most curious of soldiers.” He was a terribly complex man, seen as intelligent but vain, good natured and kind, demanding and uncompromising, condescending but obstinate, a schemer and dreamer but, at times, convincing and professional. He was not a dedicated secessionist as much as he was an opportunist, and it is likely that he saw service to the Confederacy as a means to achieve the career successes he was denied in the U.S. Army.

While Sibley gained some small success in the Army through his development of equipment such as the Sibley Tent and Sibley Portable Stove, his Army career was punctuated by a series of incidents all related to his reputation as a heavy drinker. Sibley’s drinking, which may have been caused by attempts to relieve pain resulting from renal colic, led to numerous official reprimands, a near court martial in Mexico, and actual courts martial while serving in both Utah and Louisiana. Sibley also has been described as an officer who was “loved by those who knew him best, but often hated by those he led in battle.” Again, this may have been related to his drinking, which seemed to plague him worst in times of crisis and led some serving under him to believe him heartless and even a coward.

Upon leaving Federal service, Sibley traveled directly to Richmond, where he sought and received an audience with President Jefferson Davis. Unfortunately, there is no official written record of his conversation with President Davis and any detailed instructions Sibley received were, apparently, verbal. Shortly after the meeting, Sibley was commissioned a brigadier general and on July 8, 1861, he received official orders, which stated:

SIR: In view of your recent service in New Mexico and knowledge of that country and the people, the President has intrusted [sic] you with the important duty of driving the Federal troops from that department, at the same time securing all the arms, supplies, and materials of war. You are authorized to take into the Confederate States service all disaffected officers and soldiers on the original commissions of the former and enlistments of the latter.

Additionally, the orders directed Sibley to proceed to Texas and raise two regiments of cavalry and a battery of artillery. Once in New Mexico, the orders stated that he was to create a military government, the details of which he was to forward to Richmond as soon as possible. Beyond that, Sibley was given broad latitude and was directed to “be guided by circumstances and your own good judgment.” Therefore, as far as can be seen, Sibley was told to do no more than seize the Territory of New Mexico and create a Confederate military administration to govern it.

However, Sibley would tell a different story. Months later, in a conversation described after the war by Major Trevanion T. Teel, Sibley painted a grandiose picture of an imperialistic campaign aimed at a total conquest of the American West. The general told Teel that he informed President Davis of conditions in New Mexico, which, in Sibley’s mind, apparently included a general population ready to support the Confederate cause, Federal army units filled with potential defectors, and Army storehouses brimming with supplies to sustain Sibley’s invading army. According to Sibley, Davis then authorized him to form three regiments, arm them with what was available in Texas, and, later, sustain them with whatever could be captured from Federal forces in New Mexico.

Sibley went on to say that he was directed to recruit additional men from the supposedly pro-secessionist population in New Mexico, California, Arizona, and Colorado to form a larger army. From that point, Sibley stated the campaign would move forward to its greater goals: “The objective aim and design of the campaign was the conquest of California, and as soon as the Confederate army should occupy the Territory of New Mexico, an army of advance would be organized and ‘On to San Francisco’ would be the watchword; California had to be conquered so that there would be an outlet for slavery.”

Whether Sibley actually received these instructions from Davis or whether they are an example of his nature as an imaginative schemer cannot be stated with absolute certainty. However, it would seem he should have known better given his previous service in New Mexico. First, while the Hispanic population of New Mexico was, in general, apathetic about the war, they hated and feared the Texans. Therefore, they were unlikely to support a Confederate force originating from that state. In fact, while he was in San Antonio forming the brigade, Sibley received correspondence from Colonel John Baylor confirming that very situation. Baylor, who seized Fort Bliss in El Paso and then Fort Fillmore near Mesilla with his 300-man force in July 1861, sent Sibley a series of dispatches in September and October describing the situation. In one of those letters, he told the general, “The Mexican population are decidedly Northern in sentiment, and will avail themselves of the first opportunity to rob us or join the enemy.”

Further, Sibley’s belief that Union forces still contained potential defectors who would join the Confederate cause and hand over their supplies was, at best, an erroneous concept based on dated information and, at worst, a totally reckless assumption. Finally, the idea of almost total reliance on captured Federal supplies was especially risky since Sibley must have realized how difficult it would be for his forces to live off the land in the harsh terrain of New Mexico should those supplies not be there for the taking.

As ordered, Sibley proceeded to San Antonio in early August 1861 and set about organizing his brigade. Upon his arrival, he discovered that the local press not only was trumpeting his impending arrival from Richmond, it was also publicizing his goal of organizing a brigade, calling upon volunteer companies to come to San Antonio “armed and fully equipped for a Winter campaign.” Despite this, the task of garnering the required manpower turned out to be far from easy. Sibley found his efforts frustrated by an inefficient state military organization and competition with the need for units east of the Mississippi. Sibley finally gave up relying on the state’s military system, and “resorted direct to the people themselves.” The result was additional publicity that finally began to achieve the desired results. Theophilius Noel, who would serve as a private in Company A of the 4th Texas Regiment of Mounted Volunteers, recalled hearing of Sibley’s recruiting campaign, saying that, “Through the medium of our patriotic press, the public was quickly acquainted with his designs and intentions as well as his authority and his wants.” As a result, between late August and October 1861, Sibley managed to put together three regiments in San Antonio, the 4th, 5th, and 7th Texas Regiments of Mounted Volunteers, totaling some 2,700 men.

Not surprisingly, these regiments, as well as those in Baylor’s force, reflected the strong secessionist sentiments found in Texas at that time. Forty-four of the companies that served under his command consisted of men from 32 Texas counties, with three of Baylor’s companies having been recruited in New Mexico’s Mesilla Valley. Of those 44 Texan companies, all but four came from counties that voted in favor of secession in the statewide referendum held on February 23, 1861. Further, 21 companies, almost half of those from Texas, contained men recruited from fifteen counties where the vote for secession was a staggering 90 percent or more. Further, an additional four companies came from counties where the vote to secede exceeded 80 percent.

In terms of the dominant culture or origin of the local population, this strong secessionist sentiment is again evident. Twenty-six companies were recruited in counties where the dominant culture was from the lower southern states, where secessionist sentiments were strongest in the United States. Interestingly, only three companies came from counties with a dominant culture from the upper south, where there was generally less support for secession, and two of the counties represented by those three companies actually voted against secession.

The men who led their companies came from a variety of occupations, but several were more prevalent than others. For instance, of the 48 men who served in these command positions, 19 were farmers and 15 were lawyers. But, there were also four sheriffs, three physicians, and three clerks. The remainder consisted of a merchant, a minister, a blacksmith, and one professional soldier. But perhaps most interesting is the fact that 21 of these commanders were Freemasons and members of the Masonic Order.

As evidenced by those who recorded their life in the army, the experiences and attitudes displayed by men of the Army of New Mexico were similar in many ways to Civil War soldiers on both sides. First, they were proud of themselves and their comrades as they reported for service, with Theophilius Noel referring to the men of this mostly Texan army as “the best that ever threw leg over a horse or that had ever sworn allegiance to any cause.” He also remembered that there was also a sense of adventure in volunteering to join with Sibley, saying that the “Sibley’s Brigade California Deal” was considered a choice assignment by most military age gentleman of the region.

These young men also displayed intense, almost romantic idealism for the cause they were volunteering to defend. As he left for San Antonio to be mustered into service, William R. Howell, a young private in Company C of the 5th Texas, wrote in his journal that while a soldier goes to battle knowing he may “die on the battlefield unhonored [sic] and perhaps mangled and crippled,” a Confederate soldier was different. Howell wrote on that “the Confederate soldier goes to battle with the belief that our cause is just and right and that if he lives or dies the God of battles will not suffer him to pass unnoticed or unattended in his dying moments.”

As the companies arrived in San Antonio, all of them went through the same enlistment and mustering process. The men would be formed on the Main Plaza in front of Plaza House and then sworn into the service of the Confederacy, the officers going first, followed by the enlisted men. As each soldier was mustered in, his horse and equipment were appraised. These values were officially recorded on the company muster-in roll and became a part of his official military service record. For instance, one soldier from Columbus, Texas, John Henry David, was mustered-in to Company A of the 5th Texas on August 29 for a period of “the war.” His muster-in roll indicates that his horse was appraised at a very valuable $150, while his other equipment, which probably included his personal weapons, was listed as being worth only $20. Howell wrote tongue-in-cheek that, “We have this day ‘sold ourselves for a mess of pottage’ and consequently receive our forage and provisions from our gov’t [sic], the Confederate States of America, long may they flourish.”

Then, as the companies were moved to their respective training camps outside of San Antonio along Salado Creek, these young soldiers entered a world that any other Civil War soldier would have recognized. Noel later referred to himself and his fellow novice soldiers as “Saplings” that “by reason of their zeal were easily ‘bended’.” Young Private Noel also expressed the complaints typical of any soldier living in an army camp for the first time. He noted the constant bugle calls as an irritant but, more so, he criticized the food. He wrote that, while full rations were always available, “we nevertheless had some grumbling on the quality of the beef as well as the quantity of Coffee, all of which we got most gloriously over in the course of time.”

As they entered training, these Texans were also full of swagger and confidence. On his very first day in camp, Howell would boast in a letter to his family that he was “ready to meet Mr. Lincoln and any of his vandals.” But, at the same time, Private Howell would also write of experiences in camp that indicated his regiment was not quite ready for war. Early in his stay at the encampment near San Antonio, Howell recorded a tragically humorous incident in which a soldier standing guard fell asleep, a common enough occurrence in any Civil War training camp. Unfortunately, in this case, the soldier fell asleep while holding a loaded rifle which discharged upon dropping from his hand, with the round traveling through a series of tents until it hit one soldier in the arm and then went on to wound another in the hip.

Theophilius Noel would also humorously recall the practice of standing a rigorous guard routine while only encamped for training, safely away from any enemy, and, in the process, recorded his disdain for those commissioned as officers.

The strictest guard that we ever had around camp was while we were camped on the Salado, a thousand miles or more from a foe. We had a camp guard, a picket guard, and everything was so guarded that one had to be on guard when he spoke, lest he might offend the “rank” which as we have long since learned, means only those who wear “stars and bars.”

As with many units operating in the early days of the war, the men of Sibley’s army were permitted to elect their company officers and noncommissioned officers. However, this process could be far from pristine, as demonstrated in the journal of Alfred B. Peticolas, a young lawyer and fifth sergeant in Company C of the 4th Texas. In this particular company election, Peticolas was nominated for the 3rd Lieutenancy position and was slated to run against two other soldiers for the position. The first ballot did not achieve a majority for anyone, but the third candidate was eliminated. In the resulting runoff election, Peticolas lost by only two votes. However, to his chagrin, he later learned that his opponent bought one of the winning votes by promising a to help a soldier get a better horse if elected.

There were also companies in Sibley’s army that had a far different enlistment experience from those in San Antonio. One of these was the Arizona Guards, which was enlisted from a small mining camp at Pinos Altos, New Mexico. Hank Smith, a 37-year old miner, remembered receiving the news that John Baylor and his command had arrived in Mesilla and that they were recruiting local volunteers. A heated debate ensued in the camp and those miners who were Southern sympathizers packed up for Mesilla. When they arrived there, Smith recalled that they were subjected to a series of patriotic speeches, with one given by Colonel Baylor himself. Apparently the speeches were not very effective, so Baylor tried a different tactic to gain his needed enlistments. That night, the miners were plied with liberal amounts of free liquor and provided with the companionship of some local ladies as an inducement to fight for the Confederacy. This proved to be very effective, as all of the miners enlisted the next day.

While Sibley got his recruits, he still faced the thorny problem of equipping them. Here, he was further frustrated by administrative problems with the state military establishment. Sibley was finally forced to direct the purchase of the materiel he needed on credit, but there was little to purchase. As a result, when the brigade headed west, it had two batteries of four twelve-pound mountain howitzers from the former Federal arsenal in San Antonio, but little in the way of rifles or side arms. Therefore, most of the men left San Antonio armed with what they had brought with them, an odd collection of “squirrel-guns, bear guns, sportman’s-guns, shot-guns, both single and double barrels.” In fact, things were so desperate that Sibley outfitted two companies of the 5th Texas as lancers who were armed with nothing more than nine-foot long poles, hung with crimson pennants and tipped with 12-inch steel blades.

On October 22, 1861, the brigade began its move west, with the 4th Texas leading the way, and on November 18, General Sibley and his staff departed San Antonio. The regiments were carefully spaced, departing several days apart, which would allow the few water holes along the way to recharge between regiments. They would follow a trail that led, first, southwest to San Felipe Springs on the Rio Grande, then west to Fort Stockton, Fort Davis, and, finally, Fort Bliss, a distance of nearly 700 miles. In addition, Sibley decided to march westward with a minimum of supplies. He still believed that there would be plenty to be found in New Mexico and, he was receiving reports from Confederate agents in El Paso that seemed to confirm his views. One of those agents wrote Sibley, “Be easy about your supplies; we shall get all we want from Sonora--what this valley cannot furnish--until such time as you may be in full possession of New Mexico, and can avail of its resources or such part as the hungry Federals may leave for your command.”

Unencumbered by supply wagons, Sibley and his staff moved quickly, passing the regiments on the road, and arrived at Fort Bliss in early December. On December 14, 1861, he issued General Order Number 10 in which he assumed command of all troops in the region, which now included Baylor’s small force, and declared his brigade was hereafter to be known and designated as the “Army of New Mexico.”

As Sibley made his proclamations at Fort Bliss, his small army continued its difficult trek westward. Rations were limited to dried beef and wormy crackers, water was in short supply, and, often, there was not enough wood available in the arid terrain to make a fire on the increasingly cold winter nights. As the march dragged on, one soldier was heard to comment, “When I go to another war, I’m goin’ to it a way I can get to it quicker that I can this ‘ere one.” In addition, there were numerous disciplinary problems, which is not surprising given the short time these young men had been in the army. Several of the journals and memoirs describe courts martial being held while on the march to Fort Bliss, with striking a superior officer being the most common charge. However, the most bizarre incident, involved a senior officer, and indicates that there was a little of the “untamed West” in the character of these Texans.

While in Mesilla, Colonel Baylor was accused of cowardice in a newspaper article written by Mr. Kelly, the editor of the Mesilla Times. Baylor wrote a letter to Kelly in which he requested the editor retract the charge and formally apologize in print. Mr. Kelly refused and Colonel Baylor became incensed. Hank Smith witnessed the results of this dispute first-hand. Smith recalled that Baylor was with him in the adjutant’s office when the colonel observed Kelly coming down the street. Baylor asked Smith to hand him a nearby pistol. Then, gun in hand, Baylor approached Kelly as the newspaperman passed the door of the office, and again demanded Kelly retract the charge of cowardice. When Kelly refused, Baylor calmly raised the pistol and shot him as he stood in the office doorway. Baylor subsequently surrendered himself and a court of inquiry was immediately convened, which declared the killing of Mr. Kelly completely justified.

By mid-January 1862, all of Sibley’s forces had arrived at Fort Bliss. Despite the worn condition of his troops and their mounts, Sibley decided to immediately begin his move up the Rio Grande into New Mexico. Perhaps he might have delayed had he been aware that his small army was showing the initial signs of what would eventually become a severe moral problem.

First, some of the men were now experiencing natural longings for home and family, with some even questioning their decision to join the army. One officer, Captain John Shropshire, commander of Company A of the 5th Texas, was already forgetting the excitement of joyously joining the Confederate cause. Shropshire, a wealthy attorney, was a tall, vigorous man who recruited the young men of Colorado County to his company with promises of adventure and glory. On the day the company was formed, he paraded the men throughout the town of Columbus and made certain he went around and around his sister’s house so she could see the grand and glorious spectacle. However, as the army’s journey toward war stretched on and the separation from home and family became longer, his attitude changed. The soldier who proudly paraded his men in August wrote to his wife in December, saying, “From the present prospects, I fear it will be a long time before I see you again. I fear I will be tempted to desert yet, or do something else desperate.” Then, in January, as the 5th Texas moved north into New Mexico, he wrote to her again, saying, “I am no soldier and am longing for a release. My home with my wife and little one are more to me than all the flags and pomp and circumstance of the military.”

Perhaps more severe, however, was a growing disenchantment with the goals of the campaign, particularly the lack of value the men placed on land they were to seize for the Confederacy. As early as late December, before they even reached southern New Mexico, John Shropshire wrote to his wife of his disdain for the desolate land they were traveling through. He referred to the area as “a wilderness where a scarcity of everything essential to comfort prevails.” Shropshire went on to state, “I candidly confess I never would have come this way had I imagined the country was so mean. If I had the Yankees at my disposal, I would give them this country and force them to live in it.”

Private Howell also displayed a deep resentment that questioned fighting to capture a place for which the Texans could see no value. Commenting on the death of a friend, he wrote, “Hard indeed to die and be buried in such a country.” Even years later, Theophilius Noel would ungraciously refer to New Mexico in his memoirs as “that cold and barren land.” The feeling that Howell and Noel expressed was one that seemed to take hold almost as soon as Sibley’s army began to move into New Mexico. Soon, however, the combination of combat and growing physical hardships would increase the men’s disillusionment. Worse, it would eventually spill over into opinions about their officers, and grow into genuine anger over the handling of the campaign, with much of that anger directed towards General Sibley.

While Sibley was busy organizing his forces and making the march to Fort Bliss, the Federal opposition was actively preparing as well. In early November, the Department of New Mexico was re-established and placed under the command of Colonel Edward R. S. Canby, who had been serving as the commander of the U.S. Military Department of New Mexico since June. Canby was a steady but somewhat cautious career soldier who served in Utah and New Mexico with Henry Sibley. In fact, he was the best man at Sibley’s wedding and was married to a cousin of Sibley’s wife. Now, however, he found himself trying to develop a defensive strategy and organize the limited forces he had under his command to counter an impending offensive led by his former comrade-in-arms.

Canby quickly began to recruit and reorganize the local militia to meet the threat from Sibley. Within weeks, he assembled a force that included some 3,800 men from elements of the 1st and 3rd U.S. Cavalry, and 5th, 7th and 10th U.S. Infantry Regiments, plus troops from Colorado and New Mexico volunteer regiments. While he was unsure how Sibley would make his approach, he finally decided that an axis of attack up the Rio Grande was the most likely. Therefore, he elected to place the bulk of his forces at the only remaining Federal outpost along the river, Fort Craig, and set about strengthening the garrison with earthworks. By the time Sibley began to move up the river towards him, Canby’s preparations were complete.

Sibley moved cautiously northward and his forces reached the vicinity of Fort Craig on February 16, 1862. Upon observing Canby’s strong position and fully realizing he did not have the heavy artillery needed to successfully lay siege to the fort, Sibley decided to bait Canby into coming out to fight. His plan was to seize the river ford at Valverde, north of Fort Craig, thus cutting Canby off from his route of supply and reinforcement, forcing him to fight.

Early on the morning of February 21, Sibley began moving his forces northward behind the cover of a large mesa that dominated the terrain east of Fort Craig on the far side of the Rio Grande. By 7:30 a.m., Sibley’s lead elements reached the ford but ran into a considerable force of Federals guarding the river crossing. Canby had wisely sent scouts out to observe Sibley and they detected the Texans moving towards Valverde. Canby realized what Sibley was trying to do and quickly dispatched a force of 850 men with a battery of artillery to the river crossing. As soon as the Texans approached the river, they were engaged by the Federals. Sibley’s men quickly fell back to the cover of a dry riverbed a few hundred yards east of the crossing and the Battle of Valverde began.

By early afternoon, most of their forces from both sides were in place and a series of bloody charges and counterattacks ensued. However, as fighting increased in intensity, General Sibley became less and less of a factor in commanding the Texans. Reportedly in pain from his chronic illness and under great stress, he began to drink. By 1:00 p.m., he was so intoxicated he could no longer stand up much less stay in the saddle. At that time, he relinquished command to Colonel Tom Green, a much-respected veteran of the Mexican War who was commander of the 5th Texas. While Colonel Green would perform admirably, the rumors of Sibley’s intoxicated state would quickly spread throughout the command and permanently damage his reputation with the men.

As the fighting reached its peak in late afternoon, Canby attacked the Confederate left and, in doing so, exposed the center of his own line, which included almost all his artillery. Green exploited this mistake, ordering 750 men from the 4th and 5thTexas to charge the guns on foot. They quickly overran the battery and the New Mexico volunteers defending it panicked, running across the Rio Grande to the rear. Within minutes, the Federal center collapsed. Seeing his line giving way, Canby elected to withdraw to Fort Craig and the battle was over. Sibley, now sober enough to exercise some authority again, did not order any pursuit and elected instead to allow Canby to remain safely inside the fort. While Sibley won the field, he failed to capture Fort Craig and its vital supplies, a mistake that would have a lasting and decisive impact on the campaign’s outcome.

As for Sibley’s men, their first taste of combat at Valverde had a profound impact. Just prior to the battle, some soldiers also displayed increasingly harsh attitudes toward their enemy. Some of the Texans derisively referred to the New Mexico volunteers as “greasers.” Others, using a more curious expression, referred to Union soldiers as “Abs,” a shortened and probably insulting version of “Abolitionist.” This term, which may have been unique to Sibley’s army, can be found in the journals of both Alfred Peticolas and William Howell, as well as in a letter written by Private Elias Boles. However, after the first fight at Valverde, attitudes about the war seemed to change and even their feelings toward the enemy may have softened somewhat.

Private Peticolas’ entries in the days following Valverde are a chronicle of men telling tall tales of their exploits, and then slipping into intense sadness when told of the death of a comrade. In addition, the sight of so many wounded men was deeply effecting to Peticolas, who wrote, “It was a sad sight to see these young men, so lately in all the strength and vigor of manhood, now lying pale and weak around these fires, suffering.” In addition, Howell exhibited a respect and affinity for his enemy the day after Valverde when he wrote, “Judging from the firing at Craig they too are burying many a poor soldier far from his relatives and the home of his youth.”

After pausing a few days, Sibley resumed the march north up the Rio Grande. With the supplies from Fort Craig still in Federal hands, Sibley’s meager provisions were almost exhausted. The commissary had nothing to feed the troops but coarse beef. However, there were reportedly plentiful supplies some 50 miles ahead in the Federal warehouses in Albuquerque. But, when Sibley’s men reached Albuquerque on March 2, they found the Federals had removed all the munitions and burned whatever food and other supplies the local population had not stolen. While the Texans were able to find some supplies in a small Federal warehouse west of Albuquerque, their situation was still desperate.

As the soldiers marched north to Albuquerque, they began to record even more candid feelings regarding the campaign. Four days after Valverde, Private Abe Hanna, an 18-year in Company C of the 4th Texas, wrote, that the severity of the climate combined with the lack of wood, water, or grass, made the march “worse than all the horrors that is witnessed on the battlefield.” Three days later, Alfred Peticolas wrote a telling and bitter passage in his journal that provides evidence of a growing disenchantment:

But to trudge along day after day with nothing to eat save beans, with no teams fit to transport our baggage, and no forage, and then to see our officers, every one of them with great sacks of flour and sides of bacon, living high while the men are really suffering for something to eat—to go from early breakfast till late supper, and feel the weakness and gnawing of hunger—hunger for the staff of life—is a feature of soldiering without any redeeming trait.

Passages such as these became more common in these soldiers’ journals as the campaign went on. To be sure, throughout the journals there is the usual complaining one would expect from troops in the field, such as referring to headquarters personnel as a “gang of pits and nincompoops.” In addition, there are also expressions of admiration for some senior officers. For example, Colonel Tom Green was affectionately referred to as “Daddy” by the men in his regiment, while Peticolas wrote that Colonel Scurry was the “best officer, most polished gentleman, most sociable gentlemen, and the most popular Col. in the outfit.” However, when the men wrote of the officers in a more anonymous sense or in referring to campaign’s conduct, the tone changed. Shortly after Valverde, Private Howell wrote on the occasion of an evening meal on the march that the “officers get some butter this evening, but privates continue to live hard as usual.”

However, the strongest criticism was clearly aimed at General Sibley. As the campaign progressed, the early descriptions of Sibley as “a perfect gentleman” and “a fine drill officer” changed dramatically. There is little doubt the stories of Sibley’s drunken state at Valverde affected the loyalty of the troops and their confidence in him. It seems to have been commonly stated that the general’s “love for liquor exceeded that for home, country, or God.” The soldiers began to view Sibley as a poor soldier and, worse, an inhumane commander.

After a two-week stay in the snow-covered foothills outside Albuquerque, Sibley decided to move ahead towards Santa Fe and, eventually, to the Federal stronghold at Fort Union. Again, when his men reached Santa Fe, they found all the supplies there had been destroyed. Since there was no means of sustenance in the city, Sibley, who remained behind in Albuquerque and was reportedly on another drinking binge, ordered the 5th Texas to move immediately east along the old Santa Fe Trail towards Fort Union. However, unknown to Sibley, as the Texans moved forward, a Union force of just over 1,300 men was coming west from Fort Union along the same trail.

These Federals were from the newly arrived 1st Regiment of Colorado Volunteers, a regiment composed primarily of tough miners known as “Pike’s Peakers.” They marched quickly from Denver to Fort Union when news of the Confederate threat to the region was received. On March 22, they left Fort Union, accompanied by a few hundred Regulars and under the command of the 1st Colorado’s Colonel John Slough, pushing west at a rapid pace in hopes of reaching Santa Fe at night and surprising the Texans.

On the morning of March 26, the advance elements of the 1st Colorado and 5th Texas unexpectedly ran into one another in Apache  Canyon, a narrow mountain pass about halfway between Fort Union and Santa Fe. The two sides exchanged fire and the outnumbered Texans fell back. The two sides skirmished for about an hour before Federal cavalry charged the Confederate positions. The Texan line fell apart and they fled down the canyon towards Santa Fe. In a fight that lasted only 90 minutes, Sibley’s men experienced their first defeat.

Immediately following the fight in Apache Canyon, both sides retired to nearby ranches to regroup and await reinforcements. By the morning of March 28, each army had been reinforced, and Colonel Scurry assumed command of the Texans. At approximately 4:00 a.m., Slough ordered 430 Federals to take a mountainous trail to the ridges overlooking the Confederate camp. While these men were moving into position, Slough advanced with another 900 men down the main trail through Glorieta Pass towards the Texans. If Scurry moved out to meet him, Slough planned to attack the Texans from the front and rear, catching them in a deadly pincer.

Meanwhile, as Slough moved forward, Scurry and his Texans were edging carefully up the trail towards the main Federal column. At about 8:30 a.m., the Confederates encountered the Federal force near an old hostelry known as Pigeon’s Ranch. A series of advances ensued, with each side forcing the other to give ground. At least once, the lines merged and there was vicious hand-to-hand fighting. The battle would go on until dusk and, finally, the exhausted Union force would retreat, leaving the field to the Texans. But, Scurry soon discovered that, while he might hold the ground, he had lost the battle.

While the main battle was occurring, the other part of Slough’s command completed their march to the ridge overlooking the Texan camp. There, they discovered the Texan’s entire supply train of some 80 wagons, including mules, horses, ammunition, provisions, tents, blankets, and medical supplies. The Federals swept down upon the small detachment guarding the train and set about destroying Scurry’s precious supplies. All the wagons were methodically turned over and then set afire. With the wagons now burning, the Federals next performed the grizzly task of killing all the horses and mules, approximately 500 to 600 animals, by bayoneting them.

When Scurry found out what happened to his supplies, all thoughts of completing his victory with a march towards Fort Union  disappeared. Instead, with no supplies and the loss of most of his mounts, Scurry was forced to retreat to Santa Fe. When Sibley heard of the battle’s results, he wrote an urgent message to Richmond in which he reported the loss of Scurry’s supplies, saying, “I must have reinforcements. The future operations of this army will be duly reported. Send me reinforcements.”

Scurry and Green’s forces, who had remained in Santa Fe during the battle at Glorieta Pass, returned to Albuquerque on April 9 only to learn that Canby had departed Fort Craig and was now moving north to join Slough. As a result, Sibley was faced with the prospect of being trapped between two enemy forces whose combined strength was greater than his own. That fact, combined with his lack of ammunition and supplies, led him to order not only retreat, but also an evacuation of New Mexico. Sibley addressed another report to Richmond, stating, “In our straightened circumstances the question now arose in my mind whether to evacuate the country or take the desperate chances of fighting the enemy in his stronghold (Fort Union), for scant rations at the best. The course adopted was deemed the wisest.”

On April 12, Sibley’s now demoralized army began a retreat from Albuquerque to Fort Bliss. Just below Albuquerque, they crossed to the west bank of the Rio Grande and made their way south. With the exception of a brief skirmish with Canby’s forces near the river crossing at Peralta, there would be no more fighting. For his part, the always cautious Canby had no further interest in a fight with the Texans and was content to move north, re-securing Albuquerque and Santa Fe.

The retreat of Sibley’s army to Fort Bliss would be an agonizing one. The sandy roads made moving wagons and artillery almost impossible. Further, there was no forage for the draft animals and, as Sibley stated, “the abandonment of one or the other became inevitable.” As they approached Fort Craig once more, Sibley elected to give Fort Craig a wide berth in order to avoid another engagement. His plan called for a circuitous route through the desolate mountains west of Fort Craig, which turned out to be even more difficult than the arduous march had been thus far. Many of the few remaining draft animals died, forcing Sibley’s men to abandon most of their wagons. The column would eventually stretch out for 10 miles, as men were unable to keep up the pace. The army had only a seven-day supply of meager rations when they began the 100-mile detour, and it would take 10 days to make the march around Fort Craig and reach the Rio Grande River south of the Federal garrison.

The day Sibley decided to leave Fort Craig unmolested in his rear, Private Howell wrote that this seemed odd to him, but he would “leave this subject to older and wiser heads to discuss.” Later, however, as the army staggered back to Fort Bliss, Howell was less circumspect regarding Sibley’s strategy, writing, “Gen’l [sic] Sibley’s idea of cutting off the enemy’s supplies was a bright one indeed. We only had about three days rations and the enemy I expect has at least six months rations in the fort.” Later, Howell would be more direct in his criticism, writing of a cold desert night on the march when it had been some 36 hours since they had any food or blankets. On that occasion, Howell laid the blame at Sibley’s feet, citing what he described as “Another instance of our General’s disregard for welfare and comfort.”

About the same time Howell was writing about Sibley’s lack of skill as a strategist, Alfred Peticolas was even harsher, stating that, “Sibley is heartily despised by every man in the brigade for his want of feeling, poor generalship, and cowardice.” Even Noel, who later felt Sibley was wronged by many, said most of his comrades believed the campaign was conceived in “wicked foolishness” and the leaders, especially Sibley, were “deserving of the highest possible censure and condemnation.”

On April 30, Sibley moved his headquarters back to Fort Bliss, placing the army in camp in the Mesilla Valley. On May 14, he issued a proclamation to be read to the troops, telling them that their evacuation would “be duly chronicled, and form one of the brightest pages in the history of the Second American Revolution.” However, despite his somewhat weak attempt to stir his men with this congratulatory address, Sibley realized that he could not sustain his army any longer. On May 20, he ordered Baylor’s command to begin a return march to San Antonio, and, on May 27^, he reported to General Bee, the commander of the Western District of Texas, that he was ordering his entire army to evacuate.

The remainder of Sibley’s force straggled out of Fort Bliss and the Mesilla Valley in small groups over the next three weeks. There would be no formal line of march and it was every man for himself. The trip from Fort Bliss to San Antonio was more tortuous than that around Fort Craig. Unlike the cold they endured in New Mexico, the early summer heat of western Texas was now the enemy. The soldiers soon found that many of the already limited water holes were unusable, having been sabotaged by Indians, most likely the Lipan Apache. One of the water holes, Van Horn’s Wells, was even filled with dirt and animal carcasses. The heat and lack of water took a terrible toll, and, soon, the weary soldiers could be seen strung out for miles. Theophilius Noel later wrote that some men simply fell by the roadside to die, their “tongues so swollen that they could not articulate a word, more crazed than rational, they looked like frantic mad men.” He also reported seeing one man so thirsty, that he shot a steer and cut its throat so he could drink the blood.

Stage passengers traveling from El Paso to San Antonio saw many of Sibley’s men and one recalled that they were in wretched condition, “many of them were sick, many ragged, and all hungry.” As a result, news of the plight of Sibley’s Brigade reached San Antonio and soon spread throughout the state. Within days, the soldiers’ families began to descend upon the city, where they filled wagons with water and provisions, and then headed west down the trail to El Paso, anxiously looking for their loved ones. Some would find them and rescue them, while for many others, this would be where they learned that a son, husband, or brother had been lost in the campaign.

In the weeks from early July until late August, the remnants of Sibley’s once proud Army of New Mexico staggered into San Antonio. Of the approximately 3,300 men who made up the army in October 1861, only about 2,000 returned. Approximately half of the command finally reported in and the rest were never seen again, as men simply went directly to their homes. As each unit arrived, it was furloughed and dismissed for purposes of rest and refitting. However, many of the companies were never recalled. Sibley’s New Mexico campaign had ended; much of his army had disappeared; and with it had gone the South’s dream of its own Manifest Destiny.

While the Confederate Army of New Mexico and its men shared many similarities with other units on both sides of the Civil War, it still stands as unique. Few instances can be found where men endured such a harsh environment and were forced to fight both extreme hunger as well as an enemy army. In addition, these travails seem magnified given that the endeavor they were part of was founded upon false assumptions, conducted with poor planning, and led by perhaps the worst man possible for the job. Given that, it is not surprising that the men who recorded their experiences seemed, in the end, to believe the campaign to have been foolhardy and their commanding general an incompetent and even cruel officer. It is little wonder then that, of those who survived, so many went home, never to return for service again.

As a postscript, I will add that in 1987 a work crew excavating the foundation for a new house in Glorieta Pass found a mass grave containing 31 sets of human remains. Archeologists and historians were called in and they determined from the remaining clothing and artifacts that these were Texan casualties from the battle at Glorieta Pass. Only three of the men would be successfully identified. One soldier was identified from an inscription inside his wedding ring, while another was identified because the skeleton showed wounds consistent with those Peticolas described in his diary as having been inflicted upon his good friend, Abe Hanna.

Finally, one other soldier, an officer, was identified because he was so tall and from the fact that he wore a particular set of spurs. Unlike the others, this soldier’s descendants came forward and claimed his body. He was taken back to his birthplace in Valley Forge, Kentucky, and was buried with full military honors in the family cemetery next to his beloved wife and son. John Shropshire had finally come home.

Over 140 years have passed since the Confederate armies under Lee and Johnston surrendered to Grant and Sherman. Still, however, the Civil War remains one of the most studied periods of American history, and its historiography is one of the most published in the world. One of the areas which receives the most focus is that of strategy. Even professional soldiers today study the Civil War closely because it resulted in a paradigm shift in strategic thinking that would influence war for more than a century.

One of the oddities of the Civil War was that the professional soldiers who made up the command structure of both sides had a common background of military education and practical experience. Therefore, when the war began, they all proceeded from a common basis in terms of both their tactical and strategic thinking. Further, that thinking involved both tactical and strategic principles that were the products of an earlier era. As the war continued, tactics employed by both sides would only change marginally, while, on one side of the conflict, strategy would undergo a revolutionary change that would determine the war’s eventual outcome. Thus, tactically, it was a war of stagnation, which cost many lives. Strategically, however, the war became one of transition from the era of Napoleon to the modern era of total war.

The strategic tents of the times were those of Baron Jomini, a former member of Napoleon’s staff who wrote extensively about the “science” of strategy. Officers of both sides studied condensed versions of his work at West Point and his ideas were accepted as strategic gospel. Jomini believed that strategy was the key to warfare. More so, he believed that strategy was ruled by a set of immutable scientific principles and that only the application of these principles would bring victory.

Most of Jomini’s ideas were basically sound. He believed that one must use strategic maneuver to bring the weight of one’s forces against decisive areas of the theater of war, while menacing your enemy’s communications and protecting your own. He also believed in using maneuver to bring the masses of your forces against the weak points of the enemy. Once on the battlefield, he said a commander must use the mass of his own forces against the decisive area of the field. He further believed in rapid movement, maintaining the initiative, and concentrating one’s forces. All of these ideas have as solid a military basis today as they did in 1861. But, while Jomini approved the idea of attempting to destroy the enemy’s army, he did not believe it a practical concept. Rather, he preferred the strategy of capturing and holding territory, thereby either gaining a political or diplomatic advantage, or denying the enemy his logistical bases and sources of supply.

Because of his profound influence, it can be said that almost all the war’s commanders were practitioners of Jomini’s ideas. The venerable historian T. Harry Williams saw Lee as the South’s most prominent Joiminian and many officers would later thank Jomini in their post-war writings. Even Grant, who claimed to have never read Jomini, clearly used Jominian doctrine in terms of maneuver, keeping the initiative, utilizing interior lines, employing mass, and always seeking the enemy’s weak points.

Armed with these strategic principles, the commanders of both sides, along with their political leadership, devised their own strategies. The South utilized what Jefferson Davis termed a defensive-offensive strategy. Under this concept, they utilized a cordon defense (of which Jomini would not have approved) and attempted to concentrate wherever the threat from Northern armies materialized. As the North penetrated the South, they would fight defensively and use raiding to slow the Northern rate of advance. At the same time, they would also selectively use the strategic offensive against the North. This would make the Northern forces pull out of captured areas, relieve pressure on Southern forces, permit the gathering of supplies, and, hopefully, allow a decisive victory on enemy territory that would weaken the North’s political will to fight.

The North, meanwhile, was very much the practitioner of Jomini’s ideas in the early stages of the war. They attempted to concentrate their forces and move offensively to seize key cities, waterways, and geographic points, while blockading the Southern coastline. This strategy called for them to occupy territory and either strangle the South’s ability to supply their armies or seize a key political center, such as Richmond. The theory was that, if they could merely occupy major parts of the South’s territory or a critical city such as their capitol, the South would see the hopelessness of the struggle.

Unfortunately for both sides, these strategies had significant weaknesses. The South soon discovered that the North had the resources to concentrate at more points than they could ever adequately defend. Further, the strategic offensive, while applied sparingly and selectively, proved to be costly both militarily and politically. Lee’s invasion of Maryland in 1862 seemed perfectly timed. The North was reeling from defeats in the Peninsula Campaign and at Second Manassas, and Lee had the initiative. If he could defeat the Army of the Potomac in Maryland, the North might see the futility of the war or, at the very least, the South would gain formal recognition in Europe and, perhaps, even gain concrete support. However, just the opposite occurred. Lee was forced into a bloody draw at Antietam and his army’s retreat back into Virginia was interpreted everywhere outside the South as a Union victory. It allowed Lincoln to issue the Emancipation Proclamation and probably ended any Confederate hopes of European recognition. His efforts the following year in Pennsylvania turned out even worse with a stunning defeat at Gettysburg and another limping retreat across the Potomac.

The North, for its part, found that they could not control the territory they occupied and there would never be enough men to do so. Faced by a hostile populace and effective Confederate raiding, it was taking thousands of troops to patrol rail lines, guard depots, and protect bridges. Further, it seemed that no matter how much ground they took, the South still found a way to supply its armies in the field. The South was effectively trading ground for time and hoping attrition might weary the Northern people of the war.

The South never changed its strategy, but the North eventually did, and it did so in a revolutionary way. The rise of Ulysses S. Grant to command of all the Federal forces and his approach to the war changed everything. Exactly how Grant’s approach should be characterized has been argued about by historians like Archer Jones and T. Harry Williams. Jones sees Grant’s strategy as being “logistical” in nature and, therefore, very Jominian, while Williams counters that Grant favored annihilation and, as a result was anything but a Jominian. In actuality, what Grant planned and executed was both and, yet, still much more. To say that the changes Grant wrought were revolutionary in historical terms is accurate, but he did not develop his concepts overnight. Grant developed his revolutionary concepts in an evolutionary manner. His experience in the West, with its vast expanse of Southern territory, its unrepentant population, and the resilient armies of the Confederacy, made him understand that the North’s war was with an entire people, their society, and their armies. Victory would only be achieved by making war on every one of those elements. However, to Grant, what would be a complex strategy had a very simple, common sense basis. As he once told a staff officer, “The art of war is simple enough. Find out where your enemy is. Get at him as soon as you can. Strike him as hard as you can, and keep moving on.”

Using what he would call the idea of a “hard war,” Grant ushered in the first use of a philosophy of total war. He saw war as a brutal and unpleasant business that should be brought to a quick and speedy conclusion. The best way to do that was to simultaneously assault all elements of the Southern war effort with massive and unrelenting force. First, through strategic raiding, he would destroy what remained of the Southern industrial, agricultural, and economic infrastructure, primarily via Sherman’s army in Georgia. At the same time, he would also use Sherman’s march through Georgia to the Atlantic to send a powerful psychological message to the Southern people that the North was simply too powerful to resist. Further, while all this was happening, he would engage the South’s armies, particularly Lee’s, in unrelenting combat.  This would permit him to either annihilate Lee’s forces, if the opportunity presented itself, or through continuous fighting to bleed Lee of men and resources he could not replace.

Strategically, the Civil War proved to be one of historic transition. Grant’s use of what was, within the confines of nineteenth century technology and culture, a total war strategy, altered the outcome of the war. His coordinated efforts demoralized the South economically, politically, psychologically, and militarily. He put intense pressure not only on their military but their people as well. He leveraged every resource in the Northern arsenal and brought the combined strengths to bear directly upon every weak point in Southern society and the entire Southern war effort. In doing so, he was the first to effectively apply both annihilation and attrition, along with economic and psychological warfare, in a devastating and decisive manner. His actions assured Union victory and portended the use of massive resources applied against all elements of an enemy’s infrastructure that became a hallmark of American military strategy in the wars of the twentieth century.

The Civil War raged for four years, as massive armies led by great generals moved across the Eastern and Western theaters of war, engaging in famous battles. The outcome of these battles often seemed to have great weight, both political and military, and, just as often, the armies and the battles left thousands of casualties and physical destruction in their wake. At least, that is how most of us see the war in our minds, that is the focus of most Civil War historiography, and perhaps that is rightfully so. However, any war has margins, places where the great armies do not go, where no great battles are fought, and where no great outcomes are determined. Yet, these places still see fighting, and the lives of those that live there are forever altered. Here, the casualties and the damage may be smaller in scale, but, that makes them more individual, more personal and the pain of loss somehow greater because it is not lost in the enormity of the event itself.

In the case of the Civil War, there were hundreds of battles fought “on the margins.” They escape our notice and, yet, men died in these engagements fighting for the very same reasons as those who fought in the great battles. If one examines some of these battles, you find the same dynamics of command and leadership, success and failure, that determined the outcomes of Shiloh or Gettysburg. Plus, for me, the tragedy and the human loss is somehow greater in these battles because they did not have an impact on the war—there was carnage and death but nothing was gained. In the Civil War, West Virginia was one of those places that was on the margins of the war.

On June 20, 1863, the 39 northwestern counties of Virginia were admitted to the Union as the new state of West Virginia. Created by the furor over Virginia’s secession from the Union in 1861, West Virginia was a direct byproduct of the Civil War. Yet, despite this fact, this staunchly Unionist region was largely a backwater of the war in terms of military activity. While the major battles and campaigns of the war raged on in the two theaters of operation on either side of the Appalachians, West Virginia was, at best, a mere sideshow. Here, in this rugged, mountainous terrain, amid a scattered population of mostly poor subsistence farmers, with its few cities linked by a rough, patchwork system of roads, military operations consisted primarily of isolated skirmishes between small units, ambushes by guerillas and “bushwhackers,” and the occasional cavalry raid.

Yet, West Virginia did have some military significance because the new state was sandwiched firmly between two critical rail links: the Union’s Baltimore and Ohio and the Confederacy’s Virginia and Tennessee. Each of these rail lines served as irreplaceable lines of communication between both Union and Confederate sources of men and materiel located on the east coast and their respective armies waging war in the Western Theater. Therefore, the disruption of the opposing railway was also of great importance to each side. But, as the fall of 1863 approached, the Federal need to cut the Virginia and Tennessee became especially urgent. As a result, beginning in late October 1863, Union forces in West Virginia would undertake what became a series of small campaigns and raids all designed to disrupt that key Confederate railway.

The first of these campaigns would climax in a somewhat obscure engagement known as the Battle of Droop Mountain. Conventional historical wisdom has long described this fight as the battle which finally determined control of West Virginia. But, did the battle really have this grand impact or was it really just another meaningless skirmish fought in an isolated backwater of the war? Droop Mountain might have been the key engagement in severing the Virginia and Tennessee Railroad, and might have, indeed, determined the fate of the new state—it might have been a small battle that actually meant something in the larger war. Sadly, however, in reality, the battle would accomplish little in any broader strategic sense, not because it was battle fought on the margins, but because of a failure of command. Droop Mountain was a success made meaningless due the actions of one officer who lacked the will to see it through. In this instance, that lack of will, combined with the total absence of the necessary moral courage required follow orders and achieve their objectives, would belong to General William W. Averell, commander of the Union army’s 4th Separate Brigade. Further, in a larger sense for Averell, it would also be one of the first signs of a character flaw which would eventual end what might have been a promising military career.

As the early fall of 1863 began, control of West Virginia and the rail lines it sat astride was weighing heavily on the mind of the Union General-in-Chief, Major General Henry Halleck. September had been a disastrous month for Union forces in the West with Rosecrans’ defeat at Chickamauga in September and Braxton Bragg’s subsequent siege of Chattanooga, where Rosecrans and his men were now bottled up. With Rosecrans’ army pinned down, Confederate forces began a series of ominous moves to threaten Federal control of Eastern Tennessee. Beyond their strategic value, the control of the counties in this region had strong political and emotional value as the local population was overwhelmingly Unionist in sentiment. Their “liberation” had long been a goal of President Lincoln and, now that had been accomplished, the prospect of surrendering the region back to Confederate forces was simply unacceptable.

As a part of the initial stages of this new Confederate campaign, General Sam Jones, who commanded the Confederate Department of Western Virginia and East Tennessee, was ordered to move a large part of his forces into Eastern Tennessee and, within weeks, Bragg would order General James Longstreet to move his corps north from the siege lines surrounding Chattanooga to make a major push at seizing Knoxville. Knoxville, which had been held by Union forces under General Ambrose Burnside since September 3, was considered the key point to the entire region by both sides, and Halleck felt that Union forces must cut the Virginia and Tennessee Railroad to prevent the re-supply and reinforcement of Confederate forces bent on its capture.

To that end, in October, Halleck sent a message to General Benjamin F. Kelley, commander of the Department of West Virginia, indicating that Kelley’s forces should conduct operations designed to cut the Virginia and Tennessee. On October 26, Kelley issued orders to Averell, commander of the 4th Separate Brigade in Beverly, West Virginia, to move on Lewisburg in Greenbrier County with most of his command and drive Confederate forces from the area. He would be assisted in this effort by forces under General Alfred Duffie, who would move in parallel with Averell from Duffie’s base at Charlestown, and link up with Averell in the vicinity of Lewisburg on November 7.

However, the critical part of Kelley’s orders involved the Virginia and Tennessee Railroad. Once Lewisburg was secured, Kelley instructed Averell to leave any infantry behind and advance with the combined mounted forces from his own brigade and Duffie’s command “to Union, in Monroe County, and thence to the bridge on the Virginia and Tennessee Railroad across New River, and destroy the same.”

Unfortunately, using a phrase that was to plague many a Union and Confederate general during the war, Kelley chose to caveat those orders by stating that this should be done if Averell deemed it “practicable” based upon any information he might receive once his forces reached Lewisburg. This license to exercise military judgment would end up costing the Union forces a chance to strike a potentially meaningful blow against the Confederate strategy in Eastern Tennessee.

In Kelley’s defense, on the surface, Averell appeared a good choice in whom to place such trust. A 29-year old veteran, Averell seemed a most capable cavalry officer. After graduating from West Point in 1855, Averell had served with distinction in the West, where he was badly wounded battling Navajos in the New Mexico Territory. When the war broke out, he was on the army’s disabled list, but he was soon appointed Colonel of the 3rd Pennsylvania Cavalry and quickly rose to command the 2nd Division of the Cavalry Corps in the Army of the Potomac. However, he eventually ran afoul of Major General Joseph Hooker, who was looking for scapegoats in the wake of the disastrous Battle of Chancellorsville. Hooker blamed Averell for his leading role in General George Stoneman's failed raid against Confederate communications prior to that battle, and he relieved Averell of command, exiling him to West Virginia, where he was given command of the then newly formed 4th Separate Brigade.

When Averell arrived in West Virginia in the early summer of 1863, he found his new command a somewhat motley mix of cavalry, light artillery, and infantry. Worse, Averell’s orders directing him to assume command included instructions to turn his infantry into cavalry as quickly as possible. This would be a complicated task under the best of circumstances but Averell’s problem was compounded by a lack of proper saddles, bridles, and other essential materials needed to train and equip a mounted force. Luckily, however, most of the regiments being converted consisted of West Virginia farm boys who at least understood how to mount and ride a horse. That fact, combined with Averell’s considerable talents as an organizer and trainer resulted in the rapid transformation of three complete regiments of infantry into “mounted infantry.” These men quickly proved to not only be adept at rapid movement on horseback, they also possessed the ability to fight either mounted or dismounted. Described by one visiting Union general as a truly fierce looking group of solders, the 4th Separate Brigade had been successful thus far, but, prior to Droop Mountain, their effectiveness had only been demonstrated in minor raids and skirmishes. Therefore, the coming campaign to cut the Virginia and Tennessee would be their first true test. 

The plan developed by Kelly and Averell was complicated, involving two geographically separated columns linking up in the face of enemy opposition—a difficult prospect given the communications of the time and one made worse by the rugged country and poor roads of West Virginia. However, despite that fact, the initial phases of the campaign went off like clockwork, with Averell’s 4,500 troops departing Beverly on November 1 and Duffie’s 1,000 stepping off from Charlestown two days later. Both columns made good progress and Averell encountered the first Confederate opposition at Mill Point on November 5, some 34 miles from Lewisburg. Duffie, meanwhile managed to move undetected until November 6 when his men encountered Southern pickets in the vicinity of Meadow Bluff, a mere 15 miles from Lewisburg. Averell’s men quickly pushed aside the small Confederate force at Mill Point, as the Southern commander, Colonel William Jackson, sent word to General Echols that a Union column he estimated to number 3,500 men was moving south towards Lewisburg.

Jackson retreated seven miles south to Droop Mountain, where the road to Lewisburg climbed from an open valley below to the mountain’s densely wooded crest. Averell followed, but never closed to less than 200 yards from Jackson’s rearguard. As the evening approached, Jackson’s men began to dig in atop the mountain and place their artillery. Jackson aligned his men to block the road and cover the few open approaches to the hilltop, where the land had been cleared and cultivated. The terrain was such that Averell’s men would have to cross a series of rolling hills and ravines covering a distance of over two miles to assault the Confederate position. Jackson’s position was further strengthened when reinforcements under General Echols began to arrive in the evening hours. Being senior to Jackson, Echols assumed command of a combined force of over 2,000 men, which he believed was sufficient to hold Averell’s brigade given the strength of their commanding position. To augment the natural strength of their line, Echols’ had his troops construct breastworks of logs, stone, and earth, all designed to blunt Averell’s anticipated assault.

On the morning of November 6, Averell examined and studied the terrain as well as what he could see of Echols’ defensive line. At first light, he ordered three companies of infantry to advance as skirmishers and confirm the precise nature of Echols’ defenses. They returned to report exactly what Averell expected to find: a strong defensive position designed to disrupt a frontal assault along the axis of the main road. Whatever leadership skills William Averell may have lacked, his abilities as a tactician were excellent and he developed a solid plan for assaulting Echols’ formidable defensive position. Averell intended to attack the Southern line from multiple points, with the key element being an attack through difficult terrain against Echols’ left flank and rear, where the Confederates would least expect it.

The details of Averell’s plan called for dismounted troopers of the 14th Pennsylvania Cavalry, supported by a battery of artillery to pressure the Confederate right, while the 2nd, 3rd, and 8th West Virginia Mounted Infantry demonstrated in Echols’ front. Meanwhile, the veteran Colonel August Moor would lead the flanking force, consisting of the 28th Ohio Infantry and 10th West Virginia Mounted Infantry, plus one company of the 14th Pennsylvania, in a march around the Confederate left. Once in position, Moor would attack the exposed Confederate flank, which would hopefully confuse the enemy and cause them to draw forces from their center. When that happened, Averell would assault the center of the Confederate line with his mounted infantry and, hopefully, overwhelm it.

  At 9:00 a.m., Moor began the arduous task of moving his flanking force through the rugged forest and undergrowth, all the while trying to maintain some measure of surprise. His troops marched four miles to the northwest, zigzagging along ditches and fences, then turned back to the south, eventually covering over nine miles before reaching a position opposite the Confederate flank just before 2:00 p.m. Moor could hear firing from his left where Averell’s demonstration was taking place at the center and right of the Southern line. He moved his skirmishers forward and they quickly made contact with Echols’ pickets, who were rapidly driven back. Moor ordered the 28th Ohio forward at a double quick and they were met with a burst of rifle fire from Confederate infantry deployed behind the hedge-like defensive structures they had built during the night. The Ohioans lay down and began to return fire by file as Moor ordered the 10th West Virginia to now move forward and join on the left of the 28th. Together, the two regiments rose up and charged the Confederate line, sweeping to the hilltop, over the defensive embankments, and into the enemy’s rear.

Moor remembered the scene as a wild one, with his “men pouring a deadly fire into the moving rebels, killing and wounding artillery horses; rebel officers urging to make another stand, others cutting loose fallen horses, driving and pushing on cannon and caissons through their infantry.” Confederate opposition quickly melted away and their attempts to reinforce their left by drawing from the center were fruitless as the left collapsed too quickly to be supported.

Hearing the firing from Moor’s men and seeing what he described a “disturbed appearance in front,” Averell now ordered the remainder of his forces to press their attacks all along the Confederate line. The West Virginians attacking the center struggled up the steep slope but received no opposing rifle fire until they were only ten to fifteen yards from the Confederate positions. As a result, they quickly overran the breastworks Echols’ men had labored all night to build and the Confederate collapse was complete. As the defenders ran, throwing away arms and ammunition in the process, some Federal units stopped, exhausted from their climb, while others continued a disorganized pursuit of an even more disorganized foe.

Averell quickly gathered his forces but, rather than press a vigorous pursuit, he elected to encamp for the night and continue towards Lewisburg on the morning of November 7, where he expected to link up with General Duffie’s force and dispatch any remaining Confederate resistance. However, this final fight with Echols’ forces was not to be. The Southern commander, hearing of Duffie’s presence nearby, had his men retreat beyond Lewisburg and over the Greenbrier River, leaving large quantities of supplies behind for the Federals. General Duffie arrived in Lewisburg on the morning of November 7 and Averell’s triumphant brigade joined him a few hours later.

The first part of General Kelly’s plan had been accomplished. Both Union columns had reached Lewisburg on-time and had defeated a Confederate force in the process. Now, they could drive forward, easily push aside Echols’ demoralized units, and destroy the Virginia and Tennessee rail bridge at New River. But, this seemingly assured outcome did not materialize. After destroying all the Confederate supplies they found in Lewisburg, Averell ordered Duffie to begin the movement onward on the morning of November 8, but, contrary to his orders from General Kelley, he sent Duffie tentatively forward with only a small unit of cavalry.

The next morning, General Duffie and his cavalry troopers set out as ordered. After only a few miles march, however, his men encountered obstacles placed in the roadway by Echols’ retreating force, which were cleared as quickly as possible. Then, when they were only eight miles from Union, Duffie’s men ran into Confederate pickets and a brief skirmish ensued in which several Southern prisoners were taken. These men indicated to Duffie that Echols was still in full retreat and was heading all the way to New River, Averell’s final objective. The prisoners also told Duffie that Echols was being reinforced. Averell apparently heard similar stories in Lewisburg, as he stated in his after action report that he had heard “General Lee had promised Brigadier-General Echols ample re-enforcements at or near that point.” In actual fact, while General Jones was desperately trying to organize some form of reinforcement to Echols, there is no evidence any such forces ever materialized. All that can be found in the record of dispatches are a series of panicked requests for assistance from Jones and Echols, with a single response from Jefferson Davis stating that, “Unless local-defense men and militia can be had, there is no re-enforcement possible.”

This unsubstantiated rumor of reinforcement, along with a report from Duffie complaining of his men being “foot-sore” and short of supplies, led Averell to abandon the key and essential part of his mission, which was the destruction of the bridge at New River. From his report, one gets a sense that Averell was satisfied with a small victory at Droop Mountain, along with some destruction of enemy materiel, and decided to go home without accomplishing more of substance. But, even more so, Averell seems to be trying to find a reason to turn back and, as a result, some elements of his report do not ring true. For example, if Duffie was short of supplies, one wonders why he and Averell were so keen to destroy the Confederate stores they found in Lewisburg. Further, Averell had a combined force of nearly 5,000 men, which was certainly superior to anything Echols and Jones could rapidly muster at New River to oppose him. It would appear therefore, that Averell was choosing to deem the move to New River as not being “practicable” so as to capture what little success had been achieved at Droop Mountain and avoid any potential for further risk, even if it meant sacrificing the entire objective of the campaign.

So, on November 9, the two Union columns headed back to their own garrisons and, in the days that followed, Confederate forces quickly moved forward to regain their lost ground, even returning to their entrenchments on Droop Mountain. Confederate reports of Averell and Duffie’s departure seem almost incredulous. General Jones’ dispatch refers to the Unions forces having left “in haste” and adds that Union wounded taken prisoner in Lewisburg informed him that “the reason for their retreat [was] the want of subsistence, and for their haste that they had information that our troops were advancing upon them with large re-enforcements.” He adds that the wounded Union soldiers “complained of their losses and the fruitlessness of the expedition.”

It is, therefore, ironic that, in the aftermath, Droop Mountain would be heralded as the battle that saved West Virginia for the Union and ended organized Confederate operations in the state. This simply was not the case. The truth of the matter is that, in the coming months, the emphasis of operations in the region would simply shift into the Shenandoah Valley as the larger war moved toward a new and climactic stage. Therefore, the operational tempo in the state would also decline. As for the Virginia and Tennessee Railroad, Averell’s failure to decisively move to destroy the bridge at New River would require that his men make other attempts to cut the rail line. Within a few weeks, they would make an arduous and dangerous trek through the mountains in winter conditions in an attempt to destroy the Virginia and Tennessee rail facilities at Salem, Virginia. Again, the men would bravely accomplish all they were asked, but the results would be far less than conclusive. Averell could once more extol the success of his actions, but, despite his men’s sacrifice, the rail line would only be briefly disrupted and, thus, the raid would be of no military significance.

In the coming months, as operations shifted eastward across the mountains and were drawn into the war’s mainstream, Averell and his small brigade would move as well. His able mounted infantry became full fledged cavalry regiments, and both they and their commander would be assigned to fight under the legendary Phil Sheridan in his 1864 Shenandoah Valley campaign. While Averell’s cavalry would go on to be known as some of the toughest and finest fighters in the Union army, his lack of aggression and inability to follow through would be his eventual undoing. In September 1864, at Fisher’s Hill, Sheridan would order Averell to pursue the retreating enemy in an attempt to destroy the remnants of Jubal Early’s defeated army. Instead, as at Droop Mountain, Averell would interpret his orders in a casual manner, and, rather than executing a full fledged pursuit, he would hesitate, pause, and then stop to encamp, while the battered enemy escaped. This time, however, he had failed to follow the orders of one of the most demanding and mercurial officers in the Union army. Averell was relieved of command by Sheridan and, devastated by this action, he resigned from the army in May 1865. He would spend the next twenty years of his life fighting to restore his honor and position. Had he possessed the moral courage, conviction, and professionalism required to effectively lead, he would not have needed to do so. And, had he possessed the strength to command, he would not have wasted his men’s courage and sacrifice at Droop Mountain, resigning it to be just another small battle fought on the margins of the war.

The “turning point” of the war is one of the more common subjects found in the volumes lining the bookshelves of the Civil War history section of any library or book store. Some historians simply love to define “turning points” and those that study the Civil War are no different. They seek to define the single moment or the one pivotal event which made the eventual outcome of the war inevitable. At first glance, some readers may think that, in the case of the Civil War, that is obvious because they learned in high school history class that Gettysburg was the turning point of the war. Although that has long been the popular pedigree of that monumental engagement, in actuality, that is far from true.

In fact, I would argue that identifying a single event which determined fate, and made the outcome of the war an absolute, is an almost impossible exercise. War is just too complex and is composed of far too many variables. I would, however, be willing to agree that, in most cases, the closer the supposed turning point is to the end of the war, the more likely it is to be credible. Of course, typically, these turning point hypotheses involve choosing events further and further from the eventual conclusion, which seems to be seen as somehow making the chosen event even more dramatic. To be sure, drama and controversy sell books and get the writer invited to speak at various symposia, so I doubt we will see the trend of selecting earlier and earlier events in the war as turning points change anytime soon. Now, let’s examine a few of the noteworthy events sometimes defined as turning points.

Since it is mentioned so often in popular media as the turning point of the war, Gettysburg certainly deserves some discussion. First, let’s look at what it was, and then what it was not. Gettysburg was a major defeat for Robert E. Lee and it, perhaps, forever tarnished the Army of Northern Virginia’s reputation as “invincible.” It blunted Lee’s invasion of the North and dashed his hopes for a major, decisive defeat of the Army of the Potomac on their own home soil. However, it did not result in the destruction of Lee’s army and, even though Lee would offer his resignation to Jefferson Davis, it did not even lead to a change in command of that army. Furthermore, the war would last for 21 more bloody months, during which the war’s destruction and carnage would reach new and even more unthinkable levels. During that time, there would be several more events upon which the course of the war would not so much turn as evolve, with the outcome still very much in question. Therefore, Gettysburg was clearly not the turning point.

Vicksburg is also often mentioned as the turning point in the Civil War, especially when considered from the point of view that the strategic city fell to Grant only one day after the culmination of the battle at Gettysburg. Advocates of this turning point usually refer to the Confederacy having been split in two by the loss of control over the great Mississippi River. However, this is a rather specious argument because there was little in the way of men and material flowing between the Trans-Mississippi region and the major theaters of operation east of the river. Had that region been a major source of manpower and supplies for the Southern armies fighting in the eastern half of the country or had the major focus of the war been west of the river, that contention might hold some merit. However, that was not the case.

To be certain, Vicksburg was a major Union victory. It was the result of a masterful campaign by Grant and it took an army of 30,000 Confederate soldiers out of the war. Plus, its fall, when combined with the defeat at Gettysburg, could not help but be symbolic of a reverse in fortune for the Confederacy. From that point forward, there would be few significant, outright victories in the field for any Confederate army. However, again, the path to the end of the war was still very lengthy and there would be many more opportunities for the outcome of the war to change.

Another popular tuning point is Antietam. Here, in a battle James McPherson calls the “crossroads of freedom,” there is more evidence supporting its case as a true turning point in the war. The evidence lays no so much in the battle itself as in its aftermath. The battle was, essentially, a horrifically bloody draw, and a lost opportunity for the North. Had he chosen to do so, George McClellan might very well have destroyed the Army of Northern Virginia. But, he chose not to do so. Instead, he held back a corps in reserve, A.P. Hill arrived in time to blunt Burnside’s flank attack, and Lee escaped safely across the Potomac. However, the fact that Lee left the field to McClellan and abandoned his incursion into Maryland was enough for the Union to declare a victory. More importantly, that victory allowed Lincoln to issue the Emancipation Proclamation.

The impact of the Emancipation Proclamation was far reaching. It altered the very foundation of the Union cause. A war that began purely as an effort to restore the Union now had a deeper meaning. To be sure, that new meaning caused a backlash in the North and even within the army itself. However, the effects of that backlash were somewhat muted when McClellan was dismissed as commander of the Army of the Potomac. The strongest and most ironic impact of the proclamation, meanwhile, was made across the Atlantic. It was ironic because one of Lee’s purposes in invading Maryland was to garner formal recognition and support from Great Britain following a defeat of the Army of the Potomac. As it turned out, the exact opposite would occur. Union forces denied him victory and the Emancipation Proclamation would prevent the British government from coming to Confederacy’s aid, as it would have been political suicide to support the South once Lincoln formally made freedom and the eradication of slavery a national war aim. Without that foreign support, it would be more difficult for the South to win the war—more difficult but not impossible. Hence, Antietam did not make the outcome of the war inevitable, and, therefore, it cannot truly be called the single turning point of the war.

However, at the same time, there are also some other overlooked aspects of Antietam that are worth noting to support the claim that it was the turning point. First, the Emancipation Proclamation also was the first step to a point of no return in the war. McClellan and others in both the army and the Congress had hoped to win a few minor victories and draw the South back into the Union, which required that slavery be preserved. Lincoln had now begun a process that would make that impossible. As a result, only a complete and total military victory over the Confederacy would end the war, and the only way to do that, as Lincoln now began to see, was to utterly defeat the South’s armies. That, in turn, meant that the conflict must be fought using what was then called a strategy of “hard war,” one of uncompromising ferocity and brutality. All Lincoln had to do was find someone who could successfully execute such a strategy.

That’s why Grant’s appointment as General-in-Chief is sometimes cited as the turning point. From that point forward, the war would be fought with an almost continuous fury, as Grant assaulted the South militarily, economically, and psychologically. His strategy would make use of the North’s vast advantage in resources and, simultaneously, take advantage of the Confederacy’s lack of manpower and materiel. Further, the unrelenting pressure he placed on all the South’s armies prevented them from using their interior lines of communication to support one another, as they had in the past. While this strategy would, indeed, doom the South, it did not entirely seal their fate.

Grant’s inability to bring Lee’s army out into the open where he could destroy it, combined with high Federal casualties increased a feeling of war weariness that was rapidly spreading across the Northern states. As the 1864 presidential election approached, Grant was stationary, staring Lee’s army down across entrenchments outside Petersburg, and Jubal Early’s army was safely encamped near Winchester in the Shenandoah Valley, having threatened Washington DC itself in July. Lincoln was not confidant of his ability to defeat his old nemesis, George McClellan, in the November election. In fact, he began to discuss the transition process to a new administration with his staff, and, worse, developed plans for concluding a peace with the Confederacy following his electoral defeat. That defeat truly would have been the turning point of the war.

Then, in the space of a few weeks, everything changed. On September 2, the city of Atlanta fell to General Sherman. With that, not only had a key Southern city and industrial center fallen into Union hands, the door to the Deep South was now open to invasion. The North rejoiced at this news and, while Lincoln’s reelection was not assured, his chances looked much better. Next, within three weeks, Phil Sheridan smashed Jubal Early’s army at Winchester and then again at Fisher’s Hill. A month later, he would finish Early for good in a dramatic “snatched from the jaws of defeat” victory at Cedar Creek.

Now, as the election neared, Lee was pinned down in the trenches at Petersburg, unable to support Confederate forces in Georgia, who were just as unable to come to his aid. Further, he could not disengage from Grant and maneuver as he might have liked, because to do so would ensure the fall of Richmond. The army he had sent into the Shenandoah Valley in an effort to relieve pressure on his own had been driven from that valley and, with that, he had also lost his best source of food for his almost starving army. For the North and for Lincoln, the picture was bright and Lincoln was reelected. So, could we say that the fall of Atlanta was the turning point or, perhaps, even Sheridan’s victories in the Shenandoah? Maybe we could or, maybe, we can say that Lincoln’s reelection finally was the single event that sealed the Confederacy’s fate. That might be closer to the truth.

War is a complex undertaking and attempts to identify the single seminal event that made the outcome inevitable are fraught with risk. Further, attempts to designate one event that occurred months or even years before the conflict’s eventual outcome as a single turning point are foolhardy and, in my opinion, have little merit. One might examine a phase of the war or a series of events that were crucial, but picking a single moment, a single day, or even a single week is not a worthwhile endeavor. Besides, isn’t the real challenge to be found in examining the people, the personalities, the decisions, both large and seemingly small, upon which events turned and how those events all merged with others to produce the eventual outcome? And, after all, isn’t that where we learn the real lessons of this war and of history itself? I think it is and that is why it can be such a fascinating and rewarding endeavor.

In recent days, Texas Governor Rick Perry mentioned the possibility of secession to a partisan crowd at an anti-tax rally in Austin. Upon hearing that, I could not help but recall my graduate research into another Texas governor and another time when Texas’ secession was being discussed. To listen to Governor Perry, one would think we were truly entering a dark and dangerous period in our history. The fallacious creation of a sense of crisis is often the tactic of a desperate politician who seeks attention. They love to tell the public that we face forbidding challenges, untold problems, and that the future is very uncertain. In this case, Perry suggests that the radical move of secession might be the answer.

Of course, the times are not as dark as he suggests. Perry is just another politician who cannot rise beyond his own personal ambitions. He is the sort of man for whom personal success and electoral victory are the sole guiding beacons, not principle, not what is moral, nor even simply right. Unfortunately, we have far too many of his ilk.

However, on occasion in our history, the times have truly been dark and there have been leaders who were willing not merely to stand for what they viewed as right, but who would risk everything its defense. This kind of political and moral courage is, perhaps, all too rare in our recent history, but certain examples from our collective past stand out and deserve to be studied and remembered. One of the most incredible of these examples, and certainly one the most dramatic, was, ironically for Rick Perry, the stand of Sam Houston against the secession of his beloved Texas.

Before I tell you the story of Houston and his fight against secession, I have to insert a personal note. Before I began my research into Houston, I had what was probably a stereotypical view of this famous Texan, assuming him to have been a vain, ambitious, and somewhat unsophisticated populist leader. However, I would find something entirely different. The library I employed for my research had volumes of Houston’s personal papers, including letters, speeches, and various memoranda. These revealed a man who not only had an astute political and legal mind, but who was extremely literate, passionate, and wise. He also possessed a keen insight into the people that, unlike many politicians of his day, extended far beyond Texas. As a result, he foresaw impending disaster, and he did his utmost to warn his countrymen of what was coming should they follow the path of secession. Now, let me tell you Houston’s story.

Texas fight for independence from Mexico was legendary in its own right, and  Houston played a key role in that conflict. Later, in 1845, as president of the young Republic of Texas, he would guide her into union with the United States. Texans were naturally proud their accomplishments, and of their statehood. Not surprisingly, Unionist sentiments were strong in Texas during the 1850s and the process required to mute those feelings and allow secession from the Union in 1861, what Houston referred to as “stilling the voice of reason,” was a painful one, marked by violence and political upheaval.

In late 1860, as the secession crisis began to cast its growing shadow across the United States, Texas stood out as a distinctive and somewhat unlikely member of the new Confederate nation. Its recent history as an independent republic along with its climate, economy, population, and internal politics, all set it apart from the rest of the South. Unlike much of the Lower South, which would lead the secession process, Texas was a land of tremendous diversity, with a vast, isolated, and uncivilized frontier region. To be certain, Texas had seen remarkable changes in the years since its revolution against Mexico in 1836. Cities had sprung up where there was once nothing more than isolated villages, plantations and farms had overtaken empty prairie land, and even railroads had begun to appear. However, it was also still a rugged and untamed place that one young diarist would later call “the dark corner of the Confederacy.”

At the same time, however, Texas had become increasingly tied to the Lower South and to the cotton-based economy driven by black slavery. Cotton, those who emigrated from the Lower South to grow it, and the black slaves who harvested it, became an increasingly powerful part of the Texas economic and political landscape in the decade prior to the Civil War. But, despite the growing power and influence of cotton and the Lower South, and, again, unlike much of the South, Texas politics remained diverse and contentious, with a strong two-party character. As the secession crisis approached, the political distinctions among Texans centered primarily on the Union and Texas’ place in it.

Texas had grown rapidly since joining the Union, with a huge influx of immigrants from the Lower South, the Upper South, and a few Northern states, as well as from Europe. In fact, by 1860 10 percent of the population would be of foreign birth, with the majority of those from Germany. These various immigrant groups began to cluster in certain areas and, as a result, the state could be divided into different regions, where each reflected a dominant immigrant group as well as clear economic, cultural, and political distinctions. North Texas and West Texas consisted a band of counties that bordered the Red River, next to the Indian Territory that would become Oklahoma, and then stretched south into the Hill Country region. These areas of the state were inhabited primarily by immigrants from the Upper South, with some large concentrations of German communities. In this region, the farms were small, grew mostly wheat and corn, and slaves were almost nonexistent. These farms were also primarily subsistence in nature since there were no nearby markets and no adequate transportation system to get crops to the distant cities of the state.

The isolated settlements and farms of North and West Texas were constantly under the threat of attack from marauding Comanche, who controlled virtually all the land west of the Pecos and Concho Rivers, as well as the Kiowa and Lipan-Apaches. As a result, the United States government, in the form of the U.S. Army, played an important role in the lives of these Texans. Thus, the U.S. Army, which symbolized the Union to these Texans, became a crucial part of survival, and, therefore, the Union was not simply an abstract concept to the people of these regions.

South Texas, meanwhile, was even more isolated than the North and West Texas regions. Here, ranches with livestock were more prevalent than farms and, with the exception of the city of San Antonio, the area was a made up of isolated villages inhabited primarily by Mexican Texans, referred to as Tejanos. Most residents were very poor and illiterate, and the counties were often politically dominated by a single Tejano family. Thus, here, there was little sense of attachment to the Union, and less interest in the emerging sectional issues of the time.

It was the eastern region of Texas, however, that had become the economic powerhouse of the state. Here, the area was dominated by those from the Lower South and it was here that the plantation economy had taken root. The vision of economic prowess this region generated was so powerful that those who were not from the Lower South still wanted to emulate its success. In fact, even those Texans who did not live in East Texas came to see the future of the state in terms of East Texas’ economic success.

Still, despite economic growth in East Texas, as the secession crisis approached, only one Texas family in four owned slaves. However, those who did dominated the Texas economic, political, and social structures. These families owned 73 percent of the state’s real property, 71 percent of all improved acreage, and over 60 percent of all livestock. Yet, the real power of these slaveholders was felt in politics—some 70 percent of the state’s political leadership in 1860 were slaveholders.

Perhaps the most important way in which Texas differed from the rest of the South, especially the Lower South, was in its politics. During the 1850s, the Democratic Party was virtually the only political party in most of the Southern states. Nevertheless, in Texas, there had been a viable two-party system ever since the state had entered the Union. One of those parties was always the Democratic Party, but the competing party’s identity changed during the 1850s. At first, the Whig Party was the opponent to the Democrats and it was moderately successful. Its platform of stability, economic growth, and adherence to traditional American and Protestant values was popular with prosperous planters, merchants, and the growing professional class. However, by 1854, it was rapidly dying in Texas because it had opposed the Mexican War and Texan border claims in New Mexico. However, its biggest failing in the eyes of Texan voters was its perceived identification on the national level with abolitionism.

With the death of the Whig Party, there still was a persistent ideological vacuum to be filled in Texas, and that vacuum was over the issue of nationalism, of support for the Union. As the 1850s progressed, many Texans came to see the Democratic Party as increasingly radical on the issue of secession. Former Whigs and Democrats who were Unionists needed another party and Sam Houston would rise to fill that void.

Throughout the 1850s and, indeed, through the entire secession crisis to follow, Texas politics revolved around a single constant figure—Sam Houston. Houston was described by one historian as “hard, brave, stubborn, proud, and canny…an intensely ethical and honorable man.” Even the Democratic Party in Texas, which was described as being more a party of personalities than issues, revolved around pro-Houston and anti-Houston factions. Houston truly was a giant of the times, and a man of deeply felt principles. In 1854, he outraged Democrats while serving in the U.S. Senate by voting against the Kansas-Nebraska Act, for which he was openly described as a traitor to the South. Houston believed strongly in the principle of the Union, and the destiny of the American nation. He believed the Kansas-Nebraska Act was a product of Southern sectionalists and would demand a Northern response. He argued the eventual result would be bloodshed in Kansas and the possibility of secession and sectional violence. When the bill passed, Houston stood on the Senate floor and said, “Mark me, the day that produces a dissolution of this Confederacy will be written in the blood of humanity. All that is horror in war will characterize the future of the people. Preserve the Union and you preserve liberty. They are one and the same, indivisible and perfect.”

Houston’s vote on the Kansas-Nebraska Act and his fervent fight against sectionalism resulted in a major effort to purge him from the Democratic Party in Texas. The Democrats, who had previously been somewhat unorganized in Texas, instituted a strong central state organization during 1856, complete with a convention system. Using the newfound power of this organization, the Democratic Party ousted Houston from its ranks and had him removed from his Senate seat in 1857. But, these moves backfired on the Democrats and resulted in the creation of yet another opposition party.

Many Texas Democrats were angered by the new organized convention system employed by the party, viewing it as confining and believing it was putting too much power to determine candidates for office in the hands of a few. However, more importantly, many Democrats were even more disturbed by the party’s increasingly shrill position on national issues, specifically their position on maintaining the Union. Ardent Texas Unionists wanted a new party and a new leader-Sam Houston gave them both. Backed by powerful, influential former Whigs and Democrats, Houston formed a new opposition party, styled as the Union Democrats. They created a slate of candidates for statewide and local offices and opposed the Democrats with ferocity in 1859’s state elections.

Houston, now 66 years old, waged a campaign that would become famous in the annals of state politics. He attacked the incumbent governor, Democrat Hardin Runnels, on his failed frontier defense policies, the Democrats’ convention system, and their support for reopening the slave trade. Houston staged a highly personal campaign, aptly termed as “rip-roaring” by Texas historian, T.R. Fehrenbach: “He traveled the state in a buggy, wore an old duster, orated on hot days without a shirt, slept in great plantation houses and farmer’s dog-run shacks. Everywhere he went, he raised cheers, cheers for Houston the hero, Houston the man.” The approach worked and Texans rallied to their former president and his emotional pleas for the maintenance of the national union. In a stunning and brilliant victory in the elections of August 1859, Houston was elected as governor and a fellow Union Democrat, Andrew Jackson Hamilton, was elected to one of the state’s two congressional seats.

Houston’s inaugural address would have a telling passage on sectionalism and the Union. He reminded the audience that, when Texas became a state, “she entered, not into the North, nor into the South, but into the Union. When our rights are aggressed upon, let us be behind none in repelling the attacks; but let us be careful to distinguish between the acts of individuals and those of a people—between the wild ravings of fanatics and the public sentiment which truly represents the masses of a State.”

The acts Houston referred to were those of John Brown in Harpers Ferry, Virginia, and, closer to home, Juan Cortina in Brownsville, Texas. Brown’s raid and the subsequent statements of support by Northern abolitionists had outraged Texans, making them fearful of slave insurrection. Cortina, meanwhile, was a Mexican bandit with a grudge against local officials in Brownsville. In September 1859, he rode into the city with his men, shot four citizens down in the streets, opened the city jails, and raised the Mexican flag over the city. He held the city for two months and it finally took a concerted effort by Texas Rangers and U.S. Army troops to drive him back into Mexico. While the raid by Cortina was totally unrelated to Brown’s acts, the militant secessionists in the state began to say that his acts were also inspired by abolitionists. These incidents were accompanied by a sudden increase in the intensity of Indian raids along the frontier and, as the crucial year of 1860 began, there was an atmosphere of fear and uncertainty in the state.

With the stage set, the last half of 1860 and the first months of 1861 would see momentous and tragic events that would move Texas toward eventual secession. But, the process of secession did not occur easily nor did it ever occur completely in the minds of some Texans. While there was a small minority of ardent, passionate secessionists, most Texans perceived the value of the Union, and only came to endorse secession only after Lincoln’s election. In fact, some would never abandon the Union. But, just as important, none of these groups truly believed secession would lead to war. One of Houston’s most ardent supporters and a man of loyalty to both his state and the Union, James W. Throckmorton, said after the Civil War, “There were few people who felt that they were going to war because of oppressing wrong, or outrage. There was not one in a thousand who felt that sufficient cause existed demanding of him his life, his all.”

Throughout the months of the crisis, Sam Houston was a dominant and central force—strong, unwavering, and stubbornly loyal to both the Union and his state. He would always maintain that, even after Lincoln’s election, there was no reason for Texas to leave the Union, urging Texans to ignore the radicals and let the constitutional system redress any wrongs that might be done. In the weeks before Lincoln’s election, he was already pushing the people to wait to see if injustice would truly be done by a Republican administration and, even then, to let the system work. In August 1860, he wrote to a political acquaintance in Alabama:

“For every wrong which the South complains, there is to be found in the Magna Carta of our rights a constitutional remedy…With proper regard to these administrations can the conservative masses of the Country be expected to follow in the lead of demagogues, who, unmindful of the teachings of the past, and deaf to the pleading appeals of the future, would fire the mind of disunion, and immolate upon the alter of a worse than maddened fanaticism the very spirit of liberty.”

However, Houston would discover that, given the tense atmosphere in Texas, the spark that fanaticism needed could spring from unlikely sources, even the weather. In July 1860, as the presidential campaigns began, the temperatures in North Texas soared to over 100 degrees and there had been no rain for months. As a result, wooden buildings became dangerously dry timber boxes and a series of serious fires broke out in several North Texas towns. Regardless of reality, what should have been a tragic event caused by nature was portrayed as an abolitionist conspiracy that became known as the Texas Troubles. The state’s secessionist press built these fires into stories of slave uprisings, murder, rape, poisoned wells, and attempted assassinations. Despite the fact that there were few slaves in the region, hysteria still spread rapidly. Vigilante committees were formed in Dallas, Denton, and other North Texas cities; arrests of suspects, both black and white, were made without basis in fact; and over 50 people were lynched. While the violence was confined to North Texas, the secessionist press made sure that fear was spread throughout the state.

Realizing how this hysteria might effect the coming presidential elections, Houston responded by, first, creating a political movement designed to place men from Texas in the electoral college who would vote for any candidate that might beat Lincoln. Second, he initiated a campaign that urged patience and reason. On September 22, 1860, at a mass meeting sponsored by the Union Club of Austin, Houston gave an impassioned address that laid the basis for that campaign. In perhaps the most eloquent oration of his political career, Houston delivered what was essentially his valedictory address.

Houston’s speech and his anti-secession platform centered around five critical themes. First, he reminded the audience of the blessings of the Union, and that the Founding Fathers had created a Union and Constitution intended to “strengthen all, to bind all together, yet leave all free.” He asked his listeners to show him the evidence that this was in vain, and pointed out that the nation had grown strong, had become an empire in its own right, and, still, the rights of the individual had been maintained. Next, Houston urged a sense of nationalism over sectionalism. He told the crowd he did not come “…to speak in behalf of a united South against Lincoln. I appeal to the nation. I ask not the defeat of sectionalism by sectionalism, but by nationality.” Because the secessionist forces argued that secession could take place peacefully, without threat of war, he pointed out that a united South would create a united North, and that anyone who believed there would be no strife or violence was foolhardy. He said that, “Strife begets strife, threat begets threat, and taunt begets taunt, and these disunionists know it.”

Then, Houston urged a faith and belief in the Constitution as a protective shield, as a guarantor of their rights. He told them that, should Lincoln be elected, it was no cause to abandon the Union. “The Union is worth more than Mr. Lincoln, and if a battle is to be fought for the Constitution, let us fight it in the Union and for the sake of the Union,” he argued. “If Mr. Lincoln administers the Government in accordance with the Constitution, our rights must be respected. If he does not, the Constitution has provided a remedy.” The other distinction Houston drew between his position on constitutionalism and his opponents’ was that, while secessionists professed to be defending the Constitution, they were doing quite the opposite. He said, “Here is a constitutional party that intends to violate the Constitution because a man is constitutionally elected President. Here is a constitutional party that proclaims it treasonable for a man to uphold the constitution.”

Houston then went further in his characterization of the secessionists by proclaiming them a dangerously corrupt group, who would make themselves the aristocratic and dictatorial rulers of the state. Houston reached back to his populist, Jacksonian roots, warning the people of these anti-republican designs.

“I warn the people to look well to the future. Among the unsatisfied and corrupt politicians of the day, are many who long for title and power. There are wealthy knaves who are tired of our simple republican manners; and they have pliant tools to work upon the forum and with the pen. So, long as the Union lasts, the masses need not fear them—when it falls, aristocracy will rear its head.”

In the end, however, Houston’s strategy would fail. Texans voted overwhelmingly for John Breckinridge and, across the nation, the Democrats split, resulting in Lincoln’s election. Houston called for calm following the election and, in late November, he sent a joint resolution of the Texas Legislature to all Southern governors calling for them to all sit down as statesmen and resolve their differences amicably. However, his calls went unheeded and, as South Carolina seceded in December, the voices asking for similar action in Texas became stronger and louder, calling for a convention to formally consider the issue of secession.

Houston responded stating that, as governor, it was his duty to uphold the Constitution and, therefore, he could not convene the legislature for the purpose of starting a revolution. Several members of the legislature then petitioned Houston to convene the legislature but, when he did not respond, they called for a convention independent of the governor. This idea for an undoubtedly illegal convention matched the vigilante thinking the times seemed to be creating. Hoping to stave off more such lawless behavior, Houston finally relented and called for a special session of the legislature to meet on January 21, 1861. Its purpose would be to consider Texas’ relationship to the Federal government. However, in his proclamation, Houston stipulated that this special session should have only that purpose and that any action affecting Texas status in the Union must be put to the people for their vote via a popular referendum.

As the legislative session and convention dates approached, Houston became more agitated and concerned. He feared a mob mentality would result from the convention and, on the eve of the legislative session, he wrote General Twiggs, commander of the U.S. Army’s Department of Texas, warning him to be on guard lest secessionist forces try to seize the forts in the state as well as the arsenal in San Antonio. He dispatched his militia commander, General Smith, to see Twiggs and assure him that the state would help defend any threatened Federal property. In addition, Houston began to become more fatalistic and his view of the future became darkly prophetic. In the days before the legislative session, secessionists dispatched an old Houston comrade, John Reagan, to visit with Houston and try to secure his cooperation with the upcoming convention. Reagan called upon the governor but Houston was adamant in his opposition. Then, he looked Reagan in the eye and told him, “The people are going to war on the question of slavery, and the firing of the first gun will sound the death knell of slavery.” When Reagan countered that the mercantile interests of the North would insure no such war would occur, Houston told him pointedly that the passions against slavery and disunion in the North would overwhelm any such financial interests.

On January 21, the legislature convened as scheduled, quickly endorsed the Secession Convention, and offered the House chambers for its use. However, they also agreed with Houston on the issue of a popular referendum and stated so in the joint resolution. Houston would eventually approve the resolution, but specified that the convention could assume no powers beyond that delegated by the people and the legislature—it could only vote on the issue of secession and nothing more.

The Secession Convention met the following week and its sessions would be characterized by high drama. By the end of the second day, a draft ordinance of secession was hammered out which accused the Federal Government of failing to defend the frontier, and of being a threat to the property and interests of Texans, rather than a shield against such aggressions. It dissolved the ordinance by which Texas became a state and declared it to, once again, be a sovereign nation. The ordinance further stated that a referendum on secession would be placed before the people on February 23, 1861 and that, if approved, it would take effect on March 2, 1861—the 25^th anniversary of Texas independence from Mexico and Sam Houston’s birthday. The convention delegates chose to put the ordinance to a vote of the delegates on February 1, 1861.

At midday on the day of the vote, the House galleries were full and, after Houston took his seat to observe the voting, the delegates were seated and the polling began. The final vote was in favor of the ordinance by a staggering 166-8. Of the eight men who voted to remain in the Union, seven were from North Texas and six were slaveholders. As the convention erupted in wild applause at the final outcome, Houston quietly left the chambers and the eight men who voted “no” slipped outside. They would pose standing together to have their photograph taken. It would be 66 years before the photograph would be printed or publicly displayed in Texas. For his part, Houston would issue a letter to the convention stating that “when the voice of the people of Texas has been declared through the ballot box, no citizen will be more ready to yield obedience to its will, or to risk his all in its defense, than myself. Their fate is my fate, their fortune is my fortune, their destiny is my destiny, be it prosperity or gloom, as of old, I am with my country.”

The convention then began to finish its business but, in doing so, it set the stage for further controversy. First, it was proposed that delegates be dispatched to the convention being held in Montgomery, Alabama, for the purpose of forming a Southern Confederacy. The debate over this proposal raged for two days with some delegates arguing that such appointments were outside the scope of their authority and that; further, it would be inappropriate to send these representatives prior to the popular referendum. In the end, however, those who favored the proposal were victorious.

The convention also decided to authorize its self-appointed Committee on Public Safety to remain in operation. The committee was instructed to provide for the defense of the state, which some delegates and Governor Houston saw as another usurpation of power. Despite the fact that the referendum was still weeks away, the committee decided on its own to begin seizing Federal property in the state. They sent a three-member commission to see General Twiggs in San Antonio and negotiate a peaceful surrender. Twiggs, who was a Georgian and a state rights sympathizer, had been asking Washington for instructions but had yet to receive any. Now confronted with this request, he agreed to surrender all supplies and property in exchange for an honorable withdrawal of his troops, but only after the secession ordinance had been ratified by the referendum. While negotiations continued, the commission decided to act and, on February 16, Ben McCullogh, a famed Texas Ranger and Mexican War hero, arrived in San Antonio with 1,000 men and seized all Federal property in the city. Twiggs felt he had no choice but to surrender his forces and order the transfer of all U.S. Army supplies and property in Texas to the representatives of the committee.

Despite Houston’s calls to the people to be prudent, reasonable, and conservative, it was too little and too late to stem the tide. When the votes were counted on February 23, the secession ordinance won, gaining over 62 percent of the popular vote. Only 18 counties voted against the ordinance and in only eleven others was there a vote of over 40 percent against secession. Not surprisingly, the only counties opposing secession were clustered along the Red River in North Texas and in the Hill Country of West Texas. Unionism in Texas had been mortally wounded, injured by fears of slave uprisings, Black Republicanism, and a loss of faith in the value of the Union as a protective force against instability.

The Secession Convention reconvened to canvas the vote, and, once the count was complete, Governor Houston issued a proclamation that, as of March 2, 1861, Texas was once again “a Sovereign and independent State.” Houston was as good as his word—the people had chosen the path of secession and he would go with them. However, in Houston’s mind, Texas would now simply reclaim its position as an independent republic and return to the status it had held from 1836 to 1845. Up to this point, with the exception of the seizing of Federal property, there had been a remarkable and calm adherence to proper procedure and the rule of law. However, as soon as the referendum was complete, this rapidly changed.

The Secession Convention now took matters into its own hand and exceeded the authority given it by the legislature and stipulated to by Houston when he approved the legislature’s joint resolution. Rather than concluding its business following Houston’s proclamation, the convention remained in session and, on March 5; it adopted an ordinance uniting Texas with the Confederate States of America by a vote of 109 to 2. Houston promptly informed the convention that this was beyond their jurisdiction, that their vote was not binding, and that they were to adjourn immediately. He told them he would refer the matter of joining the Southern Confederacy to the legislature, which would reconvene on March 18. The convention delegates responded by refusing to adjourn and voting unanimously that they had the power to do whatever was necessary to defend the state and complete its union with the Confederate States of America. To that end, on March 14, they adopted an ordinance requiring all state officers to take an oath of allegiance to the new Confederate constitution before Monday, March 18, 1861.

Houston was outraged. He stated that the convention was not only acting beyond its charter, but was also making Texas “subject to a Government which her people had had no share in making, and a Constitution which few of them had ever seen.” The situation was made all the worse when Houston received a dispatch from the newly appointed Confederate Secretary of War, Leroy Pope Walker, informing Houston that the Confederate government “assumes control of all Military Operations in This State.” Houston responded, telling Walker to inform President Davis that Houston did not recognize his authority or the actions of the Secession Convention. Further, he would only uphold those actions agreed to by the people of Texas, and that he would pursue no course “annexing them to a new Government without their knowledge or consent.”

Despite his strong legal and moral position, Houston could not stop the convention from continuing to take Texas into the Southern Confederacy. On March 15, the members of the convention and all the state officers, except Houston and his Secretary of State, E. W. Cave, took the new oath of allegiance. On the evening of March 15, the convention dispatched George Chilton of the Committee of Public Safety to see Governor Houston. Houston received Chilton at the governor’s mansion, and listened politely and calmly to the convention’s message. They decreed that Houston was to appear before the convention the next day at noon and take the oath of allegiance.

Chilton left and Houston said good night to his wife and their children. Throughout the long night, they could hear him pacing the floors outside their bedrooms. He remained awake all night, praying, looking for an answer. In the end, he simply could not bend to consensus and abandoned his principles. He sat at his desk, wrote a letter to the people of Texas and then, as the morning arrived, he told his wife, Margaret, “I can never do it.”

He walked to the Capitol building where a large crowd had gathered to see what Houston would do. Houston went up the stairs to his office, set the letter he had written on his desk, and sat down to whittle on a block of wood. Downstairs in the House chamber, the convention members reconvened and at precisely noon, the secretary called out Houston’s name three times. However, Sam Houston did not come down from his office to take the oath. The convention immediately passed an ordinance declaring the governor’s office vacant and appointing Lieutenant Governor Edward Clark to the position.

Houston’s friends suggested to him that there were men willing to use armed force to keep him in office, but the governor declined. In addition, President Lincoln offered twice in March 1861 to use Federal troops to keep Houston in office. The first offer was delivered by Colonel Frederick West Lander, who reported that Houston refused any such assistance. Next, Lincoln sent another agent to see Houston with a letter that proposed sending 70,000 troops to Texas and, reportedly, offered to give Houston a generalship. Houston called Throckmorton and three other close friends to the library of the governor’s mansion to discuss Lincoln’s latest offer. Only one of the group voted in favor of it. Houston concurred with the majority, but said that, had he been 20 years younger, he would have indeed fought to keep Texas in the Union. On March 30, 1861, Houston left the governor’s mansion and returned to his home in East Texas.

While returning home from Austin, Sam Houston would give the final public speech of his political career. Urged by old friends to say a few words to an, at times, angry crowd in Brenham, Texas, Houston told his audience, “The die has been cast by your secession leaders, whom you have permitted to sow and broadcast the seeds of secession, and you must ere long reap the fearful harvest of conspiracy and revolution.” Of all Houston’s prophetic forecasts, this one would be the truest of all. In his mind, the interests of the Confederate States of America and Texas were not one in the same. He could see the bloody war that was coming and he feared for his state and its people.

Sam Houston’s leadership is a bright light in this dark period of America’s history. In a time of great peril, he displayed boundless courage, dedication to the Union, strength of conviction, and, above all, a remarkable sense of personal integrity. Despite his love for the Union, when the people of Texas spoke their mind via a popular referendum, he was prepared to lead them out of that Union. Had Texas elected to remain an independent state, he would surely have remained at its head so long as he was able to do so. Nevertheless, when the Succession Convention turned the state towards the Confederacy without the consent of the people or their constitutionally elected legislature, Houston could not follow. He would sacrifice almost everything to remain true to his believes. In July 1863, Sam Houston died at his mansion in Huntsville, and would never see his beloved Texas once again in the Union.

This week’s events in Austin are an insult to the legacy of a truly great American and legendary Texan. Rick Perry should be ashamed.

Who was Robert E. Lee? Of all the questions arising from a study of the Civil War, this is, perhaps, one of the most intriguing to historians. One of the reasons students of the war continue to ponder this question is the wide and varying views of Lee presented in Civil War historiography. Therefore, to a great extent, Lee remains something of an enigma. From the late nineteenth century until the middle of the twentieth, Lee was primarily presented in varying shades of perfection. The early writings of former Confederates depicted him as a Christ-like figure–noble, suffering, and symbolic of the Lost Cause. Even Douglas Southall Freeman's monumental 1934 Pulitzer Prize-winning work, “R. E. Lee: A Biography,” painted a picture of him as the saintly, perfect model of a military commander. Freeman’s epic was long considered the definitive work on Lee, and it would dominate historiography for over thirty years. Of course, any serious modern-day student of the war can tell you that these simplistic, one-dimensional portraits offered of Lee are largely a product of the carefully crafted and manufactured campaign orchestrated following the war by Jubal Early and the other leaders of the Lost Cause movement. That movement, in and of itself, will be discussed in a future essay, so I won’t spend any time on it here.

In recent decades, however, there has been renewed interest in examining Lee from a more contemporary viewpoint, which has produced many revisionist studies. Of course, I realize that the word “revisionist” can conjure up visions of “politically correct” but historically inaccurate character assassination, and, at times, that image of revisionist history has been all too appropriate. However, in Lee’s case, a little aggressive revisionism was probably required because we truly knew and understood so little about him.

This recent revisionist work has run the gamut from Emory Thomas’ even-handed study, “Robert E. Lee: A Biography,” to Thomas Connelly's works, most notably “The Marble Man: Robert E. Lee and His Image in American Society,” Alan Nolan's more radical work, “Lee Considered: General Robert E. Lee and Civil War History,” and Roy Blount's psychological biography, “Robert E. Lee.” While the specific characterizations of Lee expressed in these works have differed in tone and hue, all have shared the common thread that Lee was far more fallible and "human" than depicted in earlier studies. All of these modern analysts take a much more detailed look at Lee and closely examine heretofore unexplored aspects of his life such as the impact of his childhood and adolescent experiences, as well as the resulting motivations that drove him and influenced his performance as a leader and commander.

If one reads both the early and modern biographies of Lee, the differences are overwhelming. In the early biographies, Lee seems to have sprung virtually from the womb as a perfect, noble, and honorable man, as well as a brilliant soldier. On the personal level, his childhood is either depicted as carefree or escapes almost any discussion whatsoever; his opposition to slavery is described as heartfelt and intense; and his marriage to Mary Custis is portrayed as virtually idyllic. Professionally, his relationship with his wartime staff is viewed as harmonious, and his military judgment not just sound, but utterly and infallibly brilliant–if there was defeat, it was only because others on his staff caused it or because he was overwhelmed by forces beyond his control. Simply put, he was perfection manifested in a human form.

Clearly, this is utter nonsense. Actually, Robert E. Lee was very human, imperfect, and, frankly, a far more interesting man than Freeman and his predecessors realized. Like all of us, Lee was a product of his environment, especially his childhood, family relationships, and the society around him. In Lee’s case, many of these influences were very negative. Lee's father, "Light Horse" Harry Lee, was a hero of the Revolutionary War, a dashing, dynamic, and audacious soldier, and one who Lee probably tried to emulate in some ways as a commander. But, the elder Lee went bankrupt when was Robert was a child, fled to the West Indies to escape his creditors, and left his wife and children in desperate straights. He would die when Robert was only eleven, leaving nothing behind but heartbreak and shame, which stained the Lee reputation as one of the first families of Virginia.

As a result, young Robert was forced to grow up with this stigma and the charge given by his mother to restore the family name. His adolescent years were spent acting not only as his mother's nurse, but also as her closest confidant and what virtually amounts to a role as a surrogate parent. Using a contemporary understanding of human psychology, we can see Lee as a man who grew up in an atmosphere marked by insecurity and shame, and who, under his mother's influence, became excessively self-controlled and prone to accept discomfort to a point where any sense of joy or pleasure was perceived as improper. Lee's childhood also contributed to an intense desire as an adult to avoid any type of personal confrontation, a trait that would later adversely influence his ability to manage his wartime staff.

Then, there is the subject of his marriage to Mary Custis, the great-granddaughter of Martha Washington. Lee’s relationship with his wife is remarkable in many ways because of what it was not: passionate. Robert E. Lee was, in his own way, a humorous and engaging man who enjoyed the company of women and seems to have been “passionate,” albeit in an utterly honorable and nonsexual way, about every woman he ever knew, except his wife. Robert and Mary’s union was a strategic marriage, one designed to bring wealth, property, and position back to the Lee name, restoring them in Virginia society. There was no passion and no romance involved. In fact, Mary Custis was dowdy, nagging, frail, spoiled, habitual complainer who made a poor choice as the wife of a professional soldier. While it would seem Lee genuinely missed his children when apart from his family, there is every indication that he still seemed happiest when away from his wife.

One of the other myths about Lee that permeates conventional histories is his supposed opposition to slavery and, tied to it, his reasons for forsaking his oath as an officer in taking up arms against the United States. Often, we hear it said that this noble man fought to preserve slavery, which he despised, only because he so loved his native state. As one might expect, the actual picture is not so simple. Lee’s position on slavery was, for the most part, that common with some Virginians and other Southerners in that, while he believed the institution was essentially evil, blacks were still better off as slaves. Lee considered the relationship of master and slave as being enlightened and humane, and the best that could be hoped for at that point in history. He saw immediate emancipation as being impractical and once wrote his son, "wherever you find the Negro, everything is going down around him" and admonishing him, "You will never prosper with the blacks."

To Lee, slavery while evil, was an institution of God's willing, and one whose future course should only be determined by Southern slave owners. While he would write his wife a letter stating that slavery was a moral and political evil, he would go on to say that the slaves' current state was "necessary for their instruction as a race." Interestingly, while Lee did free many of the Custis family slaves, he also had no problem renting them out to other men and reaping a profit from this supposed evil. Essentially, Lee's entire disapproval of slavery seems derived from viewing slavery as a management issue, not a moral one. In other words, while Lee might disapprove of slavery in the abstract, in the theoretical, he approved of slavery as both necessary and benevolent in practice, decrying the impractical management issues involved in any idea of emancipation.

As for Lee’s resignation from the U.S. Army, this was a question that always held a fascination for me. Lee was an outstanding soldier during his army career, and the sort of man who would not easily turn his back on the oath he swore at West Point. The traditional legend tells us that, as I indicated earlier, his decision was based on his intense love for his home state. As with most legends, there is a kernel of truth involved, and there is little doubt that Lee was a loyal Virginian. However, for Lee, there was more to it than simple loyalty. First, as Emory Thomas describes in his biography, Mary Custis Lee was an ardent Confederate who supported Virginia’s secession long before it became popular to do so. To have remained in the service of the United States would have led to a confrontation with his wife that Lee could not and would not undertake. Second, however, and most importantly, the opportunity to serve Virginia in the Confederacy offered a chance to seal the Lee name forever in the pantheon of Virginia’s leading families. As a man obsessed since childhood with restoring the family name, what other course could he take, especially when fighting against Virginia would surely have had the opposite effect?

As for Lee the general and strategist, that subject could fill a book and I will not try to address it in detail here. Suffice to say, Lee was audacious and bold, always seeking to seize the initiative and keep his opponent off balance. Whereas Grant was the master of the calculated risk, Lee might be characterized as the master of the uncalculated risk. Lee almost certainly saw an aggressive strategy as the only way to counter the North’s resources. Bloody the Union forces badly enough, often enough, and the people of the North might grow weary of war. At times, however, his brinksmanship went almost too far, especially when he divided his already outnumbered forces, as he did both times the Army of Northern Virginia ventured north of the Potomac. In one case, at Antietam, only good fortune and a few minutes saved his battered army from almost certain destruction. Even then, after he had retreated to the Virginia side of the river, he still had his cavalry probing for locations where the army could re-cross the river into Maryland and continue the campaign. Only the urgent pleas of his commanders made him see that the army was in too bad a condition to survive another fight.

That example points out one of Lee’s other issues as a commander: his total believe in the capabilities of his army. Lee believed his men were capable of almost anything and, frankly, they often gave him good reason. With fewer provisions and often without even proper boots, his army could move faster, farther, and fight harder than any Union counterpart. Under Lee’s charismatic leadership, his men would go anywhere he told them to go and try to do anything he asked. But, in the end, they were only human and, often, Lee expected too much. At Gettysburg, he refused to move around the Army of the Potomac and decided to fight a superior force in strong defensive positions on ground of their choosing. Then, he attempted to execute complex, timed attacks across a wide front, which ultimately could not be adequately coordinated. Finally, in perhaps the best example of his faith in his soldiers, he attempted a brute force, frontal assault against the Federal center on Cemetery Ridge, which had little chance of success.

Finally, there is the interesting subject of Lee as a “grand strategist.” This is one of the more puzzling aspects of Lee’s military performance. Given his education and experience, Lee should have been a valuable asset to Jefferson Davis in developing and executing a viable strategy for the defense of the Confederacy. However, whenever Davis would ask for his views regarding military matters west of the Appalachians, Lee’s advice was not only less than cogent, it often demonstrated true ignorance of the military situation and even the military geography. Further, his counsel often appeared designed to shift the Confederate president’s focus away from the Western Theater and back to matters in Virginia.

Many historians have actually theorized that this was a product of Lee’s obsession with Virginia. Did he see defense of his home state as the only thing that mattered? If not, his actions effectively made that a fact, even if it was not his intention. Therefore, while the South was losing the war in the Western Theater, Lee was ensuring that Confederate strategy and resources were firmly focused on the front in Virginia. The result was a stalemate for most of the war on one side of the Appalachian Mountains and utter disaster on the other-a disaster that almost certainly sealed the Confederacy’s eventual fate.

On a personal level, my feelings about Lee crystallized during a visit to Appomattox a few years ago. On the day of my visit, there were few people wandering the site, and it gave me a chance to really gain a feeling for the place and the momentous event that occurred there. I stood alone in the parlor of Wilmer McLean’s house, where Lee and Grant met to conclude the surrender of the Army of Northern Virginia, and looked back and forth at the tables where the two generals sat across the room from one another. I imagined the conversation I have read about so many times and, after a while, I walked out the front door and onto the porch, just as Lee had that April day. As I paused there, I suddenly asked myself to imagine what he felt as he stood there, this proud, honorable soldier. All I could think of was, “I have failed–failed my country, failed my family, failed my army.” The pain of that moment must have been incredible. That he would go forward from that moment to promote peace and urge his fellow Southerners to be good citizens says much about the man.

The early Lee historians often told their readers that they loved Lee and were greatly influenced  by him. But, for them, that love was one felt for a Lee who was possessed of a saintly perfection and an almost divine nature. Their view seems to be that it is Lee's perfection we must admire and be inspired by, no matter how unattainable for mere mortal beings such as us. This may be a view that is simply a product of their era. On the other hand, more recent histories show us a Lee who was possessed by his own personal demons, as are all of us. Further, and, again, as with all of us, these demons defined him and probably determined to a great extent who he became as a man. But, this Lee survived his demons, he overcame them to some degree, as we all hope to do, and led a great army, holding it together through terrible adversity as perhaps no other man could. In the final analysis, the modern Lee is human, flawed, and, perhaps, far more admirable for being so.

The last of my essays on moral courage and the role it played in the Union victory at Gettysburg concerns on of the most famous engagements during the battle—the defense of Little Round Top and the Union left flank by Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain.  This action has been made famous to modern-day Americans by Michael Shaara’s book, “The Killer Angels,” Ken Burn’s PBS documentary on the Civil War, and, lastly, the film “Gettysburg,” which was based on Shaara’s novel. Chamberlain has become something of a larger-than-life figure and his resolute defense of his position has become legendary, as well it should. Now, however, let me tell the story and demonstrate how it is, perhaps, one of the truly great examples of moral courage.

About the same time Hancock was dealing with the crisis on the left center of the Federal line, an equally crucial fight was occurring on the far left at Little Round Top. The fighting there developed as Longstreet’s men continued moving to their right, probing for the far left of the Union line in attempt to flank the Army of the Potomac. As the Confederates drove Sickles back from the Emmitsburg Road, Meade dispatched General Warren to evaluate the situation in the hilly terrain just south of Sickles embattled lines. Riding to the crest of Little Round Top, Warren could clearly see that Longstreet’s assault was extending its line and it would soon envelop Sickles’ position. He also discovered that the hill on which he stood, which was defended by nothing more than a few Signal Corps officers, was the key to the defense of the whole left flank of the army.

Confusion ensued as Warren sent for help. Meade had dispatched the 5^th Corps under General Sykes to move to the left towards Little Round Top, but he feared it would not arrive in time. Therefore, he diverted General Humphreys’ division from 3^rd Corps to the left but, upon hearing that Sykes was closer than anticipated, he countermanded his order to Humphreys and sent 5^th Corps instead. But still no one arrived on the stony hill at the south end of the Union line. Warren sought out Sykes and found him calmly surveying the area behind the Wheat Field. Warren explained the situation and Sykes immediately sent a dispatch to General Barnes ordering him to move a brigade from his division to Little Round Top as rapidly as possible.

The rider sped off but, before he could find General Barnes, he met Colonel Strong Vincent at the head of his brigade. Vincent stopped the dispatch rider who told the colonel he was carrying orders for General Barnes. Vincent asked what the orders were and was told that one of Barnes’ brigades was needed at the top of “that hill yonder.” Vincent responded that he would take the responsibility and move his brigade of four regiments to Little Round Top.

Vincent then led his brigade in a mad dash across Plum Run and up the back side of the hill. Vincent chose a spur about two-thirds of the way up the southwest side Little Round Top to deploy his men. The 16^th Michigan Infantry anchored the right and maintained a tenuous connection with the 4^th Maine in the valley below, while the 44^th New York and 83^rd Pennsylvania Infantry took the center positions in Vincent’s line. On the far left, Vincent placed the 20^th Maine, telling its newly appointed commander, Colonel Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain, that his position was critical.

Passing to the southern slope of Little Round Top, Colonel Vincent indicated to me the ground my regiment was to occupy, informing me that this was the extreme left of our general line, and that a desperate attack was expected in order to turn that position, concluding by telling me I was to" hold that ground at all hazards." This was the last word I heard from him.

In some ways, Vincent could not have made a worse selection for this vital position than the 20^th Maine. Unlike the 1^st Minnesota, the 20^th Maine was not a veteran, experienced regiment. Mustered for duty in Portland, Maine, on August 29, 1862, the regiment had seen less than a year in service. In that time, it had been in the rear during much of the Battle of Antietam, had seen some action at Fredericksburg, and had missed the fighting at Chancellorsville entirely because the regiment was quarantined for smallpox vaccinations. However, at the same time, losses to desertion, sickness, and battle casualties had still managed to thin its ranks. In fact, as Chamberlain deployed his regiment, he had only 386 men on-hand to hold the left of the Army of the Potomac.

As for Chamberlain himself, one could not find a man more the opposite of Hancock and Buford in terms of background and experience. Like so many others in the Army of the Potomac, Chamberlain was a volunteer. A college professor of religion, languages, and rhetoric at Bowdoin College who had been trained and educated to be a minister, Chamberlain had mustered in with the 20^th Maine and been appointed its Lieutenant Colonel. At that time, the regiment was placed in the command of a Regular Army officer, Colonel Adelbert Ames. Under his tutelage, Chamberlain had worked hard to learn the ways of war. He soon discovered that he had a talent for tactics and, most importantly, an aptitude for command. Following Chancellorsville, Ames was promoted and Chamberlain became the commander of the 20^th Maine. As a result, when he was called upon to defend the left at Little Round Top, he had been in command for only six weeks.

Chamberlain deployed his men in a line from the right, maintaining a firm connection to the 83^rd Pennsylvania, “giving such direction to the line as should best secure the advantage of the rough, rocky, and stragglingly wooded ground.” As his regiment prepared to find cover behind the rocks and timber strewn about the hillside, Chamberlain sent 50 men from Company B, under the command of Captain Morrill, out to the left of his line to act as skirmishers and “to guard against surprise on that unprotected flank.” While Chamberlain was positioning his men, Confederate artillery fire continued a nearly constant barrage on the hillside. The 20^th Maine had barely taken its position when the artillery fire stopped and was replaced by the first of several infantry assaults.

The first attack was made by Robertson’s brigade and initially hit the Federal units to Chamberlain’s right. But the attack quickly spread to the left and the right of Chamberlain’s regiment soon found itself “hotly engaged.” Within minutes, however, the center and left of the regiment were threatened by an even stronger attack. While Robertson’s brigade attacked the center of the Little Round Top defenses, a portion of Law’s brigade, consisting of the 47^th and 15^th Alabama Infantry Regiments, had moved to the right around the base of Little Round Top and up the sides of Big Round Top to the south. From here, they moved down into the hollow between the hills and then began wheeling up the sides of Little Round Top to strike the exposed Federal left.

As the 47^th Alabama struck Chamberlain’s center, one of Chamberlain’s officers thought he saw movement to their left and informed his commander. Upon hearing this, Chamberlain mounted a high rock from where he could see the 15^th Alabama “moving rapidly but stealthily toward our left, with the intention, as I judged, of gaining our rear unperceived.” Since his regiment was already engaged to its front, Chamberlain could not alter his front to meet the new attack that was coming toward his completely exposed left flank. Rather, he elected to stretch the intervals of the right side of his regiment, extending them all along the front, then “refused” the left half of the regiment, bending it back at a right angle. This complicated maneuver was accomplished while under fire and left the 20^th Maine in a position that resembled a horseshoe.

  No sooner had the regiment performed this maneuver than it was struck by the 15^th Alabama. That regiment’s commander, Colonel William Oates, had seen the 20^th Maine’s movements but apparently thought the Federals were about to flee the hillside. Therefore, he pressed his attack forward with a vigorous charge. But, instead of attacking a front vacated by retreating troops, he was struck by a “most galling fire.” Oates’ men fell back but reformed and went up the hill again, as did the 47^th Alabama on their left. This time, they pressed to within a few yards of Chamberlain’s position before the heavy and effective fire from the Maine men drove them back. Soon, however, they came on again and Chamberlain remembered the fighting as “a fierce struggle and bloody beyond any that I have witnessed.”

The two lines of men met and then broke, then met again with the fighting “literally hand to hand.”

At times, I saw around me more of the enemy than of my own men, The edge of the conflict swayed to and fro—now one and now the other party holding the contested ground. Three times our line was forced back, but only to rally and repulse the enemy. As often as the enemy’s line was broken and routed, a new line was unmasked, which advanced with fresh vigor.

Soon, the attack began to take a heavy toll. Not only had Chamberlain lost nearly 130 men, but the 60 rounds of ammunition each soldier in the regiment had been carrying when they climbed Little Round Top were nearly gone. Those who could still fight were taking rounds from the wounded, from abandoned cartridge boxes, and even from the dead enemy soldiers lying around them. Some of the Maine men picked up Confederate rifles and fought with those rather than their own Enfields. Chamberlain noted the enemy reassembling for another attack and reformed his shattered lines as best he could. Nearly out of ammunition and with much of his small regiment out of action, the situation was indeed grim.

It did not seem possible to withstand another shock like this now coming on. Our loss had been severe. One-half of my left wing had fallen, and a third of my regiment lay just behind us, dead or badly wounded. At this moment my anxiety was increased by a great roar of musketry in my rear, on the farther or northerly slope of Little Round Top, apparently on the flank of the regular brigade, which was in support of Hazlett's battery on the crest behind us. The bullets from this attack struck into my left rear, and I feared that the enemy might have nearly surrounded the Little Round Top, and only a desperate chance was left for us. My ammunition was soon exhausted. My men were firing their last shot and getting ready to "club" their muskets.

As his officers reported their status and his men turned to him, wondering what he would call upon them to do, Chamberlain would later say, “My thought was running deep.” He could fall back and hope another unit was waiting in reserve, but he knew better—behind him there was no one. His men could stay where they were, but they had no ammunition left to stop the advancing enemy. A lesser man, a lesser officer, would have fallen back and let this become someone else’s problem—but Chamberlain was made of better stuff than that. He later reported that “Officers were coming to me, shouting that we were ‘annihilated,’ and men were beginning to face to the rear. I saw that the defensive could be maintained not an instant longer.”

In Chamberlain’s mind, abandoning his position was not an option. His incredible solution was to fix bayonets and go on the offensive. Captain H. S. Melcher later recalled that “Colonel Chamberlain gave the order to ‘fix bayonets’ and almost before he could say ‘charge!’ the regiment leaped down the hill and closed in with the foe, whom we found behind every rock and tree.” The attack caught the exhausted Alabamans, who were about to retreat on Oates’ order, completely off guard. In addition, Chamberlains men charged down the hill in a wave from left to right, swinging like a large gate. This confused Oates completely and he thought another regiment had flanked him. About this time, Captain Morrill’s company, along with some U.S. Sharpshooters who had joined them, reappeared from behind an old stone wall and opened fire on the rear of Oates’ surprised men. This was too much for the Alabamans. They broke and ran “like a herd of wild cattle” as Chamberlain’s men swept down on them with fixed bayonets.

The Confederate attack was completely broken. In their desperate counterattack, Chamberlain and his small band took over 390 prisoners and the Federal left was secured. Had the Confederates taken his position, perhaps they would have been too tired and their numbers too thin to have exploited the breakthrough. However, the ebb and flow of battles can rest on small things, especially when men are tired and emotions are strained to the limit. Had Chamberlain allowed the loss of his position and the Confederates appeared on the exposed rear and flank of the remainder of Vincent’s brigade, their mere presence might have been enough to cause the entire Union defense to collapse. With that, Lee would have possessed the high ground dominating the rear and flank of the Army of the Potomac. Meade might have had to fall back, surrendering the hard fought for ground around Gettysburg.

In the years that would follow, Chamberlain would receive the Medal of Honor and his decision to charge when out of ammunition would be the subject of many discussions. But, perhaps what was most noteworthy was his decision to stay and fight at all and the example he set as a leader. Under incredible pressure, he held his regiment together, executed difficult maneuvers under fire, and highlighted forever how important small unit tactics can be to the outcome of a great battle. In fact, more than 120 years later, the U.S. Army Leadership Manual, FM22-100, would devote its first 12 pages to Chamberlain’s defense of the Union left at Little Round Top as a case study in leadership and unit cohesion under fire. In other words, over a century later, every young Second Lieutenant would learn how to lead under fire from the record of a college professor who became a great soldier. Perhaps, there is no better tribute than that.

In deciding to fight his delaying action west of Gettysburg, John Buford exercised his finely honed professional judgment and chose a difficult and courageous path. In doing so, he also determined where and how George Meade would fight his battle against Lee. As it turned out, his choice gave the Union forces control of good terrain for a defensive fight against the Army of Northern Virginia, and, thus, presented them with a strong tactical advantage. Had he not made the choice he selected, the entire nature of the battle might have changed.

Winfield Scott Hancock, on the other hand, also had to exercise his professional judgment, but one of a more terrible nature, and one commanders must sometimes face. He had to quickly decide how to buy five precious minutes and, when the only option seemed to require the sacrifice of a regiment, he took that choice. Had he not done so, the Federal center would have been broken, possibly resulting in the collapse of the entire line. The Army of the Potomac might have been forced off the vital ground they occupied and might even have been sent reeling from the battlefield.

Unlike Buford or Hancock, Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain was the amateur, but a gifted one to be sure. Here was a professor-turned-soldier faced not only a difficult tactical situation, which he managed magnificently, but also a difficult decision. Told he must hold his position at all costs, he had lost over a third of his men and did not have sufficient ammunition to hold the coming enemy assault. In this situation, he could have abandoned his position and no one would have probably questioned it. But he knew the dangers to the army if he did so and felt it his responsibility as a commander to hold the extreme left of the Army of the Potomac, no matter the price. His solution, to go on the tactical offensive and charge the enemy with fixed bayonets, was brilliance born of desperation, while his decision to stay and fight was the product of a moral courage few men possess.

Three men made three decisions and demonstrated that the course of a great event often turns upon small things. There were hundreds, if not thousands, of decisions made in the days that encompassed the Gettysburg campaign. But the three decisions discussed here clearly show that some decisions mean more than others. In addition, they demonstrate how the abilities and courage of one man, even if he is not at the top of the chain of command, can alter the course of history.

Following Buford’s stand at McPherson’s Ridge, the infantry of I Corps continued the defense of the terrain west of Gettysburg. However, within a few hours, the rapidly growing strength of the converging Confederate forces forced them to retreat through Gettysburg to the hills southeast of the town. Earlier, shortly after the arrival of I Corps, General Reynolds was killed by enemy fire and, as the day wore on, the command situation for the Union forces became desperate. While General Doubleday took over command of I Corps and General Howard was soon on the scene with his XI Corps, neither man had the confidence of Meade nor, apparently, that of John Buford, who sent the following dispatch to General Pleasanton:

I am satisfied that Longstreet and Hill have made a junction. A tremendous battle has been raging since- 9.30 a.m., with varying success. At the present moment the battle is raging on the road to Cashtown, and within short cannon-range of this town. The enemy's line is a semicircle on the height, from north to west. General Reynolds was killed early this morning. In my opinion, there seems to be no directing person.

P. S.--We need help now.

However, Meade was thinking along the same lines as Buford and he took action over two hours before receiving the cavalryman’s dispatch. Upon hearing of Reynolds’ death, he directed Major General Winfield Scott Hancock to proceed immediately to Gettysburg and to assume command of all forces on the scene, despite the fact that General Howard was the more senior officer. When he arrived on Cemetery Hill, the energetic Hancock immediately saw the value of the ground Buford had fought so hard to maintain. Conferring quickly with Howard, Hancock commented that the ground was “the strongest position by nature upon which to fight a battle that I ever saw” and promptly stated that he was selecting it as the battlefield.

This was the kind of solid judgment Meade knew he could expect from Hancock. More than that, he probably knew Hancock’s arrival would have a positive effect on the men preparing to fight Lee’s army. Indeed, once Hancock arrived on Cemetery Hill, there was noticeable difference in the troops’ morale. Having seen Hancock that day, a soldier from the 5^th Maine Artillery said he would never forget the “inspiration of his commanding presence, nor the fresh courage he imparted.” That was how it had always been with this Pennsylvania-born West Pointer. Hancock was not just a consummate tactician; he was also a fighter and a battlefield leader who inspired all around him when under fire. General Schurz commented that Hancock’s “mere presence was a reinforcement, and everybody on the field felt stronger for his being there.” Both his leadership and his tactical abilities would be called for at Gettysburg, particularly on the second day of battle.

With the end of the first day’s fighting and Meade’s arrival on the field, Hancock reassumed command of II Corps. When the fighting resumed on the afternoon of July 2, his men were positioned along Cemetery Ridge at the left-center of the Union line. Next to the II Corps was III Corps, commanded by the brave, mercurial, and somewhat incompetent General Daniel Sickles. While the Union lines were supposed to extend down the crest of Cemetery Ridge to the lower ground that lay between the ridge and Little Round Top to the south, Sickles decided to move his corps forward to slightly higher ground along the Emmitsburg Road. In doing so, he placed his men outside the line of battle Meade had organized and beyond the immediate support of the rest of the army. Worse, it created a large gap between the II and III Corps.

Hancock, observing the advance of Sickles men, could see the error immediately and predicted it would be disastrous. His adjutant, Colonel Francis Walker, recalled that Hancock turned to his staff and commented that the advance was “splendid” but added wryly, “those troops will be coming back again very soon.” Upon seeing what Sickles had done, Meade tried to order him back to the correct position, but before he could do so, Longstreet’s corps began a massive attack on the Union left. Sickles’ corps was soon engaged in vicious fighting in the Peach Orchard and Devil’s Den. They were quickly pressed back and Sickles himself was badly wounded.

Upon hearing that Sickles was out of action, Meade again turned to Hancock. He ordered Hancock to take command of the entire left wing of the Army of the Potomac. Hancock galloped down the line to assess the situation and found things headed rapidly towards disaster. Sickles men were streaming towards the rear with Longstreet in close pursuit. Hancock quickly ordered Willard’s brigade from II Corps to move into position and counter the Confederate advance. Willard’s men held but there were still serious gaps in the line. Hancock had requested reinforcements from the Union reserves, many of which were just arriving on the field, but they were still not in sight. Then, to his dismay, Hancock saw one of the gaps in the line was about to be exploited by the rapidly advancing Alabamans of Wilcox’s Brigade. If successful, they would split the Union center and break the entire Federal defense.

Hancock later said that he knew he needed to buy five minutes so that the reinforcements could come up — five vitally precious minutes. He anxiously looked about him and, he spotted a Union regiment in a nearby swale, advancing in column by fours. Perhaps this was his answer. He galloped up to the colonel leading the regiment and asked, “What regiment is this?” The colonel, William Colvill, replied, “1st Minnesota.”

The 1^st Minnesota Infantry Regiment was a veteran unit, having been mustered in on April 29, 1861. The regiment, which had fought at First Manassas, Fair Oaks, Malvern Hill, Antietam, and Chancellorsville, arrived at Gettysburg late in the evening of July 1. On the morning of July 2, the men were aroused at daybreak, and formed on the east side of Cemetery Ridge where they could not see any of the fighting. Rather, they listened intently to the sounds of artillery and rifle fire throughout the day. Late in the afternoon, however, they were ordered forward and a short distance to their left, which placed them on higher ground. From this vantage point, they had a full view of the fighting in the Peach Orchard, which one member of the regiment described as a “terrible, magnificent scene,” and the sight of Federal troops scrambling in retreat.

When Hancock rode up to them that afternoon, this group of veterans totaled only 262 men. At first, Hancock was shocked the regiment was so small. He exclaimed aloud, “My God! Are these all the men we have here?” Then, however, he seemingly regained his composure and made a quick, fateful decision: These men alone would have to buy him his precious five minutes. Hancock knew what it would cost. He later stated that he “would have ordered that regiment in if I had known that every man would be killed”-the Army of the Potomac had to have those five minutes. After requesting the name of the regiment and hearing Colonel Colvill’s response, Hancock simply pointed at Wilcox’s advancing brigade and told Colvill “Charge those lines!”

Private William Lochren later recalled that, upon hearing Hancock’s order, “Every man realized in an instant what that order meant, - death or wounds to us all; the sacrifice of the regiment to gain a few minutes time and save the position and probably the battlefield.” Within moments, the tiny regiment was sweeping down the hill, first at a double-quick, then at full speed with bayonets leveled. Wilcox’s Alabamans saw the charge coming and opened a murderous fire, but the Minnesotans kept coming at them. Their assault was so ferocious, Wilcox thought he was being attacked by a much larger body and immediately requested more support, stating that the contest was “unequal.”

As the Minnesotans approached, man after man went down to the withering fire, but they kept running at full speed and, as one soldier would write home, “no one took a second look at his fallen companion.” Then, as they closed on the Confederates, the first line of Wilcox’s men broke for the rear, stampeding into the second line and bringing the entire Confederate attack to a halt. The men of the 1^st Minnesota quickly took what cover was available and fired a volley into the staggered and surprised Confederates. They exchanged fire for some minutes and Wilcox actually ordered his men to fall back. Upon seeing the Confederates retreat, the Minnesotans fell back as Hancock’s reinforcements filled the gap in the Union line.

Of the 262 men from the regiment who had gone down the hill, only 47 were not listed as casualties. Nearly every officer had gone down, including Colonel Colvill, who was badly wounded. The regiment suffered a casualty rate of 82 percent in the assault—the highest any Union unit would suffer in the entire war. However, the regiment had bought Hancock his five minutes, with ten more to spare.

In discussing this critical part of the second day at Gettysburg, historians have naturally focused on the bravery and sacrifice of the 1^st Minnesota, as well they should. However, at the same time, Hancock’s quick thinking and grim determination in ordering the attack also deserves praise. He made what he apparently knew was a necessary but terrible order, and never flinched. In his professional judgment, the situation was grave and a desperate order was required in order to buy those five minutes. It might be argued that no five minutes at Gettysburg could have been more important. III Corps was shattered and retreating, and Union forces were desperately fighting to hold Little Round Top. In essence, the entire Federal left was being assailed and the pressure on that sector of the line was tremendous. Had the 1^st Minnesota not been ordered forward to counter the Confederate thrust, Wilcox probably would have penetrated the Union center, split the Army of the Potomac, and rolled up its flanks. The result would have been disastrous. Hancock saw this danger but, unlike John Buford, he had no time to contemplate, to plan, or to weigh the cost of his decision. As with Buford, however, there was also an easier decision. He could have simply kept the 1^st Minnesota in-place and tried to hurry the reinforcements up to the line. It would have been the easy course, but Hancock knew it would fail. Instead, he asked men to pay a high price, but one he knew might determine victory or defeat.

Analyses of what ingredients, what key qualities, make a great commander fill the study of military history. These analyses typically cite a wide variety of traits such as audacity, vision, common sense, aggressiveness, prudence, recklessness, physical courage, and discretion. However, one element that is perhaps the most important in good leadership and effective command, and the one that seems to have escaped notice for the most part, is a single, rare attribute, and one that has been a virtual constant in effective command throughout history-moral courage. Further, moral courage is unique in that both its absence and presence creates an impact at all levels of command. A battle and history itself can turn upon this one vital ingredient.

Over the course of time, the American Civil War has become a sort of historical laboratory for the study of strategy, command, and leadership, and, as such, it offers one of the best sources for examining the importance of moral courage in command. Ulysses S. Grant, the man who was arguably the war’s greatest commander and who clearly possessed this exceptional quality, discussed moral courage at length, describing it as a willingness to take responsibility and to make decisions. Taking Grant’s description one step further, renowned Civil War historian James McPherson says that moral courage “embraces a readiness to take risks and to accept the possibility of failure, for without the risk of failure there is little chance of success.” As a result, moral courage can often come into play when a commander faces a decision that is not merely difficult, but is also a decision with absolutely no middle ground. This absence of middle ground means that the choice is simple: one can either shrink from it, take the easy way out, and let it become someone else’s problem, or you can take the hard choice, the one that may require great sacrifice, the one that could result in disaster, but also the one that is probably the only chance for success.

The Civil War is filled with examples of army commanders who both possessed moral courage and those that did not. Those who possessed it, men like Grant, Sherman, and Lee, led their armies to victories, while those who did not, men such as McClellan and Bragg, were rendered entirely ineffective by its absence. However, what about those times when a commander at a lower echelon was called upon to draw on his own moral courage? These can be moments when that quality is the most critical because moral courage often manifests itself in only the direst circumstances, when a commander faces a decision that must be made either quickly or when alone, without the aid of advice or direction from others in the chain of command. The Civil War is filled with thousands of examples where corps, brigade, or even regimental commanders failed to demonstrate moral courage. These were moments when they did not follow orders, retreated without authority, or simply broke and ran with their men. However, despite this, there are not only good examples of the presence of moral courage at the lower echelons of command, some of these demonstrate how important a quality it can be, even when the man who possesses it is not leading an entire army.

The best illustrations of just how critical moral courage can be in lower echelon tactical decisions come from Gettysburg, an engagement noted for its numerous crucial strategic and tactical decisions. However, three of the tactical decisions stand out among all the rest. The first was made by Brigadier General John Buford, commander of the First Division of the Army of the Potomac’s Cavalry Corps. As the Gettysburg campaign unfolded, Buford’s division was assigned to cover the army’s left flank, both screening its movements and searching for signs of Lee’s army. On June 29, 1863, General Pleasanton, commander of the Cavalry Corps, ordered two brigades of Buford’s division, along with a battery of artillery, to proceed to Gettysburg and directed they arrive by the evening of June 30. Pleasanton could not have given what would turn out to be a most important assignment to a better officer. John Buford was a Kentucky-born West Point graduate, Class of 1848, who, with the exception of a brief staff assignment in Washington early in the war, had served in the cavalry throughout his career. As a junior officer serving in the western frontier, Buford had been a solid, if not occasionally brilliant, young cavalryman. In the war years between 1861 and 1863, Buford had proven to be a steady, capable field commander. Colonel Theodore Lyman would later describe the tough and somewhat colorful Buford as follows:

He is one of the best officers of that arm and is a singular-looking party. Figurez-vous a compactly built man of middle height, with a tawny moustache and a little, triangular gray eye, whose expression is determined, not to say sinister. His ancient corduroys are tucked into a pair of ordinary cowhide boots, and his blue blouse is ornamented with holes; from one pocket thereof peeps a huge pipe, while the other is fat with a tobacco pouch. Notwithstanding this get-up he is a very soldierly looking man. He is of a good-natured disposition, but not to be trifled with. Caught a notorious spy last winter and hung him to the next tree, with this inscription: “This man to hang three days: he who cuts him down before shall hang the remaining time.”

Wounded twice in the first years of the war, by the summer of 1863, Buford’s reputation as a cavalryman and leader was well known among his fellow officers. One of them, Colonel Charles Wainwright, noted that Buford was “never looking after his own comfort, untiring on the march and in the supervision of his command, quiet and unassuming in his manners.” In fact, his comrades warmly referred to him as “Old Steadfast.” When the shooting began at Gettysburg, they would find out that name was truly appropriate.

Upon receiving Pleasanton’s orders, Buford moved quickly, pushing his force of some 3,000 men hard, arriving in Gettysburg at 11:00 A.M. on June 30, well ahead of schedule. Buford immediately sent patrols north and west of the town, searching for signs of the enemy. One patrol actually ran into and exchanged fire with Confederate troops, a lead element of a brigade from Heth’s division of A.P Hill’s corps on the road coming west from Cashtown. Heth’s men were on their way to Gettysburg looking for supplies, but, in light of the resistance they received from Buford’s patrol, they elected to withdraw. From this activity and other reports, Buford was able to put together a picture of his tactical situation, which he reported to General Reynolds, commanding I Corps and the left wing of the Army of the Potomac.

I am satisfied that A. P. Hill's corps is massed just back of Cashtown, about 9 miles from this place. Pender's division of this (Hill's) corps came up, to-day--of which I advised you, saying, "The enemy in my front is increased." The enemy's pickets (infantry and artillery) are within 4 miles of this place, on the Cashtown road...Near Heidlersburg today, one of my parties captured a courier of Lee's...He says Ewell's corps is crossing the mountains from Carlisle, Rodes' division being at Petersburg in advance. Longstreet, from all I can learn, is still behind Hill.

Buford clearly could see that Lee’s army was now concentrating in the direction of Gettysburg, and he later wrote that he “had gained positive information of the enemy's position and movements, and my arrangements were made for entertaining him until General Reynolds could reach the scene.” Buford had decided to make a stand and apparently elected to do so based on his professional judgment of the value of the terrain near Gettysburg. While historians have differed in their views as to whether Buford or John Reynolds picked the battlefield at Gettysburg, it is logical to assume that Buford, as first man on the scene, made his determination to fight based on the terrain he observed. From his actions, it appears logical that Buford carefully examined the ground and the road networks, and he could see that the high terrain southeast of the town offered a good, defensible position for the Army of the Potomac. Therefore, he coolly determined that his role would be to defend that ground and ensure it would be available to the army, once it arrived on the scene. Given that he could be outnumbered by as much as 15 to 1, it was a risky and somewhat remarkable decision.

Now, however, the problem for Buford would be exactly how to do deny the enemy the high ground south of Gettysburg given the numerical superiority and power of the enemy infantry, which he knew was quickly approaching. It had taken moral courage to make the decision to stand and fight, but now it would take even more to execute that decision, along with Buford’s considerable military skills. As he put his defensive plans together on the evening of June 30, Buford remarked to Colonel Devin that “the battle would be fought at that point” and that “he was afraid it would be commenced in the morning before the infantry would get up.” Therefore, Buford decided to make use of the terrain west of Gettysburg and attempt to execute one of the most difficult of all military tactics—a defense in depth against a vastly superior force. His goal would be to delay Lee’s army until Union infantry could arrive on the scene, initially support his delaying tactics, and, then, occupy the key ground southeast of Gettysburg. Once again, Buford analyzed the terrain and could see that the landscape west of the town offered him some advantages.

The terrain west of Gettysburg undulates in a series of wooded ridges, punctuated by rocky creeks, all of which run north to south, perpendicular to the road from Chambersburg and Cashtown. Buford decided to deploy one brigade on the ridges west of Gettysburg, where he anticipated the greatest threat, and place the other north of the town to watch for the approach of Ewell’s corps from Carlisle. His main line of defense would be McPherson’s Ridge, some two miles outside Gettysburg, but he would deploy videttes, intended to act as a sort of early warning system, in an arc seven miles long extending four to six miles from the center of Gettysburg. These videttes would watch for the enemy, make contact, fire warning shots, then delay as long as possible, and fall back to the next defensive position-the idea was to buy time.

At 6:00 A.M. on the morning of July 1, Buford’s plan went into action when a vidette manned by men from the 8^th Illinois Cavalry Regiment spotted Confederates troops approaching on the Chambersburg Pike. They fired a shot off in the general direction of the enemy and the Battle of Gettysburg began. The response from Confederate general Henry Heth was to deploy skirmishers and form his division into a line of battle, which delayed the Southern advance by nearly two hours. Heth was, at this point, still entirely uncertain of exactly what size force he was facing, and he was taking no chances. This was exactly the reaction Buford hoped for and, thus far, his plan was succeeding.

Heth finally pushed forward and the fighting began in earnest. Throughout what would become a desperate engagement, Buford presented a cool, determined front. Daniel Skelly, a local boy who saw Buford that morning, later wrote of Buford’s “calm demeanor and soldierly appearance.” At another point in the thick of the fighting, young Lieutenant Calef, who commanded Buford’s lone artillery battery, suddenly found Buford at his side calmly telling him, “Our boys are in a pretty hot pocket, but, my boy, we must hold this position until the infantry comes up. Then you withdraw your guns in each section by piece, fill up your limber chests from the caissons, and await my orders.”

As soon as the enemy approached McPherson’s Ridge, Buford fired off a dispatch to General George Meade, the newly appointed commander of the Army of the Potomac, telling him:

The enemy's force (A. P. Hill's) are advancing on me at this point, and driving my pickets and skirmishers very rapidly. There is also a large force at Heidlersburg that is driving my pickets at that point from that direction. General Reynolds is advancing, and is within 3 miles of this point with his leading division. I am positive that the whole of A. P. Hill’s force is advancing.

Buford’s men continued to hold for what was now approaching four hours. Soon, however, their ammunition began to run short and the weight of Heth’s assault started to bend their flanks. Then, just as the situation became grave, General Reynolds arrived followed closely by the infantry of the I Corps’ Iron Brigade. Buford was now able to pull his men out of the line and fall back to defensive positions on I Corps’ flank.

While John Buford’s men had fought with great bravery, and his tactical skill in planning and executing a seemingly impossible defense in depth are noteworthy, Buford’s decision to stand and fight west of Gettysburg was crucial to the eventual outcome. His steadfastness allowed Union forces access to and eventual control of the high ground southeast of Gettysburg, without which the entire complexion of the battle would have changed.

However, perhaps more importantly, Buford’s decision demonstrates the inner strength, the moral courage, great commanders must possess at crucial moments. Buford could have taken the safest path, electing instead to simply observe the Confederate movements, report information to Reynolds and Meade, and then fall back out of harm’s way in the face of a vastly superior force. Instead, he looked at his options, and chose to pursue the riskiest and most difficult course of action, as well as the one his professional judgment told him was required.

Without question, Ulysses S. Grant is one of the dominant figures of the Civil War. His role in leading the Union armies in the West and, eventually, commanding all the Union armies as General-in-Chief was a critical factor in the war’s outcome. However, it has been my experience that Grant is, at best, a misunderstood figure in the eyes of the average modern-day American.

Ask anyone who has been through the typical high school or college American history course about Grant and the response may include any or all aspects of the following characterization: An unsophisticated, ignorant drunk, whose lack of integrity led to a disastrous presidency, and a brutal butcher, whose success on the battlefield occurred only because he had overwhelming manpower, which he willingly slaughtered to achieve success. If any of that sounds familiar, welcome to the club. That description pretty much sums up what I learned about Grant in high school and as a college undergraduate history student. And, as I would learn, it is dead wrong.

First, like any of us, Grant was a far more complex man than the sum total of all the labels applied in that characterization. At the same time, however, he was, in many ways, remarkably simple. In his narration of Ken Burn’s PBS documentary, “The Civil War,” David McCollough can be heard describing Grant as “a failure in everything except war and marriage.” That is actually a concise and reasonably fair assessment of Grant and his life. He was unsuccessful as a peacetime garrison soldier, a farmer, a clerk, and a politician and, in each occupation, he failed because it just did not fit him and his temperament. However, as a wartime general and as a husband, he was quite remarkable and, in both cases, he left an enduring legacy.

My impressions of Grant began to alter from the moment I began my graduate studies in Civil War history. From the first course to the last, Grant’s considerable influence on the war was obvious, and I began to see him differently. However, once I read his memoirs, my opinions were forever transformed. If you have never read Grant’s memoirs, please make a note to do so—they are unlike the memoirs of any other major figure from the war and will take you on a most insightful journey. First, most memoirs authored by Civil War commanders contain the flowery prose of the times, which is typically employed to obfuscate their failures, enhance their victories, and, in general, defend their military records. Plus, they also come across as products of convenient memory, and, as a result, their accounts of the war seem, for the most part, more than a little disingenuous. However, in total contrast, Grant’s memoirs provide clear, crisp recollections, marvelous anecdotes, and an almost disarming penchant for honesty. While there are places where he, perhaps, takes less blame than he should for a mistake and, while he also compliments a few rivals in an attempt to mend fences, for the majority of the book, he tells things exactly as he saw them. Further, his writing style is tight, concise, and clear, much like the battlefield orders he wrote, which many military historians consider remarkable for their clarity and directness.

Grant was, undoubtedly, a failure on several occasions in his adult life. His first major failure came while serving as a peacetime officer in a lonely western garrison. He missed his wife and family terribly, and the dull routine of garrison life provided no distractions from the ache and longing that he felt. So, he turned to drink and developed a somewhat undeserved reputation that would always follow him. His other truly noteworthy failure was as President of the United States. This failure, although it has been somewhat exaggerated over time, was caused by scandal and corruption during his administration, which was a direct result of Grant’s inconsistent ability to accurately gauge who was trustworthy, reliable, capable, and even honorable.

This limitation was primarily due to Grant’s tendency to not only quickly form opinions of people, but also to seldom change his mind, no matter how much evidence there was to the contrary. For example, he unfairly pegged General George Thomas as so slow and cautious that he was unreliable as a field commander. In fact, history would prove Thomas was a courageous soldier and tenacious fighter who simply was more deliberate than the always aggressive Grant. A more telling example of the problems in Grant’s judgment of ability, however, is that of General George Meade. In Meade’s case, we can see how Grant often allowed his judgment of others to be affected by his natural empathy towards those who, like him, had been judged harshly by the world. Grant seems to have felt a keen sense of kinship with officers who had received sharp criticism from the press, the Congress, or the public at large. As a result, when he encountered men like Ambrose Burnside, who had been justifiably criticized for the debacle at Fredericksburg, he would go out of his way to treat them with deference and courtesy, even when the results were not militarily expedient.

It was this very empathy and desire to see the good in these sorts of men that would influence his decision to retain George Meade as commander of the Army of the Potomac and keep him there despite all evidence and advice to the contrary. Meade had been vigorously attacked by members of the Lincoln the administration, the press, and Congress because he did not aggressively pursue Lee’s army after Gettysburg. As a result, when Grant first met with Meade after assuming command of all the Union armies, he felt a fairly strong sense of empathy for Meade. Then when Meade generously offered to step down as commander of the Army of the Potomac in favor of someone of Grant’s own choosing, Grant was so moved by this display of honesty, humility, and sincere patriotism, that he immediately decided to retain Meade in his position. Unfortunately, Meade’s plodding nature and irascible disposition made him the worst possible choice to execute Grant’s aggressive campaign against Lee and the Army of Northern Virginia. The result would be lost opportunity and, worse, lost lives.

Eventually, when this trait, combined with Grant’s generally trusting nature, was exposed to the often slimy realm of politics, it led to an administration plagued by financial and political turmoil. Simply put, Grant was ill-suited by experience, training, and disposition to live in the world of politics, and his time in the White House forever tarnished his good name and reputation.

This is not to say, however, that Grant was always wrong in his assessment of people. His trust and confidence in Sherman was proven repeatedly, and their close professional relationship was vital to winning the war. He also formed an alliance with Admiral David Porter that led to the development of the sort of joint operations so critical in seizing and controlling the Mississippi River. Further, he correctly realized that General John McClernand was a dangerous man, a meddling politician turned soldier who would sacrifice the success of the whole in order to gain personal power. Interestingly, Grant’s friendship with Sherman and, to an extent, that with Porter resulted form something else Grant learned from failure. Grant would always be unfailingly loyal to those who stood by him when things were toughest. He knew what it was like to be down, to be trodden on, and any one who would support him, help him, and be his ally at the worst of moments would forever be his friend.

The other critical skill Grant gained from failure was to always learn something from every experience. As a result, whether he might succeed or fail, Grant always looked for the lessons he might learn and then he never forgot them. Further, his ability to analyze a situation after the fact, consistently identify the correct lessons to be learned, and then apply the appropriate solutions, was quite extraordinary. For example, during Grant’s first military action of the war, he found himself full of trepidation as he and his small army approached a Confederate outpost in Missouri. However, when they arrived, he discovered that the Confederate forces had fled upon hearing of his approach. Grant later wrote that this proved to be a seminal moment for him, as he realized that his opponent "had been as much afraid of me as I had been of him." He never forgot that small but important lesson and, as a result, he never let fear rule his actions, especially the fear of failure. Further, this knowledge also led him to always gain and hold the initiative—he would never await an opponent’s next move.

The final aspect of this life skill that Grant applied so successfully was to never dwell on a failure, but, rather, to learn from it quickly and move on. Following the disastrous assault at Cold Harbor, any other commander might have been so overwhelmed with grief and regret that they would have hesitated, froze, and been unable to go forward, leading to the potential for an even more serious disaster. But that was not who Grant was. While he deeply regretted the command he had issued for the attack, with a few days, he astutely moved his army across the James River, flanking Lee, and eventually pinning the Army of Northern Virginia inside the fortifications around Petersburg. Once that happened, the end of the war was simply a matter of time.

Now, however, let me turn to Grant the general, the strategist. Here, the picture that emerges is one of a relatively humble man possessed with enormous common sense, resolute tenacity, and a most remarkable gift for the art of the calculated risk. He could quickly analyze a situation and break it down to its most basic elements. In doing so, he always demonstrated a clarity of thought and purpose that amazed those around him. He simply could see things that they could not. As a result, he was, in many ways, a man who might be characterized today as a true “out-of-the-box” thinker.

In May 1863, when he had successfully run the gauntlet of guns defending the Mississippi River at Vicksburg and moved his army to dry ground south of the city, he elected to strike east towards Jackson rather than to move immediately against Vicksburg itself. His plan in doing so was to, first, stop a Confederate army under Joseph Johnson from coming the Vicksburg garrison’s support and, then, draw that same garrison out of its fortifications and into open battle. However, moving east would allow the Vicksburg garrison to threaten Grant’s lines of communication, an unpardonable sin in conventional military thinking, and his generals, including Sherman, told him he was flirting with disaster. So, Grant simply decided that his army would move to the east rapidly, live off the land as they marched, and simply abandon their lines of communication – to his mind, the enemy could not threaten something that did not exist. The result was one of the most brilliant campaigns in the annals of military history. In fact, Grant would eventually craft an overall strategy as General-in-Chief that not only ended the war, it provided what was arguably a revolutionary change in warfare, leading to the total wars of the 20th century. But, that is a subject for another discussion.

The final impressions of Grant I wish to leave are those regarding Grant as a husband.  Ulysses Grant met Julia Dent when he was a young lieutenant serving at Jefferson Barracks near St. Louis. He quickly fell in love with her and she would truly be the love of his life, as much any person could be. They would marry upon his return from duty in Mexico and he would always be utterly devoted to her and their children. If you read the letters Grant wrote to Julia during the war, they are quite revealing. Many of letters written by other senior officers to their wives during the war exhibit little honest warmth or emotional intimacy, which is likely a reflection of that era. In fact, many of these men signed their full names in their letters home—but not Grant. Grant’s letters were always signed with the short endearment, “Ulys” and were filled with the sort of confidences and humor one would only share with their closest and most intimate friend. Finally, he almost always concluded by saying, “Kisses for you and the children.”

However, the best evidence we have of Grant’s devotion to Julia would come after the war and after his two terms in the White House. Following his presidency, Grant’s financial position was not the best and, while he probably did not worry about it too much, it became a matter of intense concern when he was diagnosed with cancer of the throat. He worried that, following his death, Julia would not have sufficient funds to live on and would be forced into an existence where she had to rely on charity. So, despite the fact that he had repeatedly refused requests from publishers for his memoirs, he decided now to write them in the hopes that they would generate some meager means of subsistence for Julia.

In a race with death, Grant wrote his memoirs with the same focus and energy he had displayed on the battlefield. He often experienced intense pain as the cancer progressed, but would refuse the opiates prescribed for him nonetheless, lest they cloud his mind and inhibit his ability to write. In the end, he would win the race, finishing his manuscript a few weeks before his death on July 23, 1885. On December 10 of that same year, Mark Twain, his publisher and the man with whom Grant had become quite close in his final years, published the first volume of Grant’s memoirs. It would become one of the best selling books of the century. Two months later, Twain presented Julia with a royalty check for $200,000, the largest royalty payment in American publishing history up to that time. In all, she would receive nearly $450,000 from her husband’s book, quite a considerable sum in the late 19th century. As a result of his steadfast and courageous fight, Grant’s beloved Julia would live comfortably the remainder of her life. It was his final and, perhaps, greatest victory.

For any modern American military officer, the position and role of the President of the United States as Commander-in-Chief is as close to an absolute as one might find in the military profession. No matter what party the president may come from, no matter any officer’s personal views, the Commander-in-Chief receives their automatic respect and they execute the policies of the president to the utmost of their ability. This concept is ingrained in every young officer from the first day they take the oath and wear the uniform. In fact, along with the concept of defending the Constitution, the role of Commander-in-Chief acts as, perhaps, the single most important element underlying the foundation of the American military profession.

Naturally, therefore, anyone serving as Commander-in-Chief is expected to play a critical part in developing and executing American military policy, especially in time of war. That they need and require ready access to the latest information on military actions, strategy, and plans is virtually a fact of life. However, it was not always this way. In 1861, as the nation moved irrevocably to civil war, the concept of the president as Commander-in-Chief was fuzzy, obscure, and, frankly, not even considered terribly relevant to the duties of the military in time of war. To be sure, the basic idea was to be found in the Constitution, but it was not clearly defined. Officers of that era would certainly have agreed that they were subordinate to the civilian authority of the government as symbolized by the president and the secretaries of the War and Navy Departments. However, beyond that, the precise role and integration of the Commander-in-Chief and the entire Executive Branch in war strategy and policy was murky at best.

Within weeks of entering office, Abraham Lincoln found himself and the nation going to war, and going to war with itself. In many ways, based simply on prior experience and education, no man could have been more ill-equipped to act as a wartime Commander-in-Chief. Lincoln’s sole experience in the military was a few weeks in the militia during the Blackhawk War, an episode he often liked to tell humorous stories about. So, how exactly would this man take on the role of Commander-in-Chief? He certainly was not going to don a uniform and lead the army as President Washington had done during the Whiskey Rebellion. He was, however, going to approach it with the same common sense and analytical style he used on hundreds of legal and political issues. He wanted to be informed, to be involved, and, most of all, to learn. As a result, he would play a critical role in developing the strategy that eventually defeated the South, evolve into the role of Commander-in-Chief and, in doing so, he would define it, forever altering the American system of command and the American military culture.

Given the magnitude of this accomplishment and its long-standing impact, it is somewhat surprising that it has received so little study and attention. The first historian to examine Lincoln as Commander-in-Chief was the venerable T. Harry Williams, a professor of history at LSU. In 1952, he authored a ground-breaking book, “Lincoln and His Generals,” which, among other things, would alter the very face of Civil War historiography. For the first time, a historian was not examining a battle, a campaign, or even a general. Rather, he was dissecting the civil-military relationship as it evolved during the Civil War, and demonstrating how much it changed under Lincoln’s leadership. While Williams may have given Lincoln too much credit as a “natural strategist,” his book laid the foundation for what should have been a major area of study related to both Lincoln and the war. However, while Civil War historians have examined this aspect of the war within the community itself, there have been few published works on this subject, and, in fact, it is only in the last two years that there has been any significant work in this area. Perhaps fueled by the approach of the Lincoln Bicentennial and renewed interest in Lincoln, there have been two noteworthy books published on this subject: Geoffrey Perret’s “Lincoln’s War: The Untold Story of America’s Greatest President as Commander-in-Chief” and James McPherson’s masterful study, “Tried By War: Abraham Lincoln as Commander-in-Chief.”

Now, let me get back on point and discuss how Lincoln evolved into the nation’s first true Commander-in-Chief. Importantly, this evolution was not one Lincoln set out to achieve. Rather, it was a natural part of his drive to obtain victory over the Confederacy and restore the Union. Therefore, the evolutionary process was certainly neither formal nor precise. In fact, it can be fairly stated that Lincoln groped, sometimes blindly, in the search for a path to victory and restoration of the Union. he studied military matters with the intensity he had always employed when learning about anything he saw as important, whether it was law, politics, or Euclidian geometry. As he learned, he anxiously sought a strategy, a winning approach that would quickly bring victory, and, perhaps more so, a commander who could execute that strategy. As a part of that process and the process of finding the right commander, he also was seeking to establish an effective command relationship with the military.

At first, this was, indeed, a difficult proposition. When the war began, Lincoln requested current military information, regular briefings, immediate access to telegraph reports from the field, and updates on plans and strategies. While we might view that as normal and expected, it was viewed by Lincoln’s military officers as entirely intrusive. To be fair to the officers and the military culture of the time, this view was largely the product of military geography, practicality, and technology. The officers who made up the U.S. Army in the early 1860s were used to conducting their operations in relative obscurity, mostly on the frontier, far from the political leadership in Washington. For them, military operations were planned and executed based upon broad policies and directives from Washington, which were received via written dispatches that often took weeks or months to arrive. Further, many of those in command had fought a war in Mexico as young officers in which their commanding generals, Winfield Scott and Zachary Taylor, conducted major military operations without regular, timely communications from Washington. They planned and developed strategies and defeated another nation’s army with little guidance and almost no direct contact with the civilian leadership of the Polk administration. Therefore, Lincoln’s requests and the relationship he was trying to create seemed entirely unreasonable.

However, unlike the Mexican War or the conflicts with Native American tribes and nations, this war was not being fought two thousand miles away, or even on the distant frontier. It was being fought within miles of Washington D.C. and within days of other American cities and towns, all of which had political officials and members of Congress who wanted to know what the military was doing. Further, the advent of the telegraph and its highly effective use by the U.S. Army, made the information that Lincoln and the political leadership desired readily available. Under these circumstances, it was inevitable that the military would have to deal with direct involvement by the civilian leadership in the conduct of the war.

As Lincoln tried to find the right commander, he was learning much about war and about being Commander-in-Chief. His most unpleasant, trying, but valuable experience came as a result of his relationship with General George B. McClellan. It is no accident that T. Harry Williams devoted six chapters of his book to Lincoln’s troubled relationship with the general called “Little Mac” by the soldiers of the Army of the Potomac. McClellan exemplified the worst of the American military culture of the times. He was arrogant, effete, and patrician. Like others, he saw war as the exclusive domain of the military, to include its politics.

McClellan refused to share plans or communicate intentions to the President unless directly confronted, but, at the same time, he saw fit to lecture the Commander-in-Chief on the political goals he should be pursuing. On more than one occasion, he openly displayed his lack of respect for Lincoln and for his office. McClellan disliked Lincoln, despised abolitionists, and wanted to execute a polite conflict wherein the South would be brought back to the Union via a series of relative wrist slaps. Because he disagreed with the politics of the administration, he saw no reason to devise a strategy based upon them. Further, he created an atmosphere of conspiracy and distrust with the Lincoln administration in which he constantly blamed a lack of resources and support for his defeats in the field.

McClellan taught Lincoln that his commander must execute a strategy designed to the achieve the nation’s war aims and that he, as Commander-in-Chief, must clearly communicate those aims. Further, Lincoln was learning strategy himself and coming to see what it would take to win the war. He began to realize that merely seizing places would not end the war, and that the enemy’s armies must be the targets of the Union’s military forces. Only their destruction would bring victory and restore the Union. So, he had to find a general who would see that fact as well, would focus on achieving Lincoln’s war aims, and who would fight tirelessly to achieve them. Ulysses S. Grant would be that general.

A seemingly ordinary man who had previously failed in a military career, Grant would prove that he was an officer of great determination who possessed both common sense and a remarkable ability to learn from his military successes and failures. He rose to command in the West, demonstrating he was as tenacious as he was innovative. He developed joint operations tactics with the Navy that led to the fall of Forts Henry and Donelson and, later, positioned Union forces to seize the vital city of Vicksburg. Then, in the final campaign to capture that city, Grant executed one of the most brilliant campaigns in military history, moving his army quickly to cut off the city while abandoning his own lines of communication. His actions baffled his opponents and allowed him to take an army of 30,000 Southern troops out of the war.

But, it was through the hard fighting in the West that Grant also came to see that only a complete defeat of the South would bring victory and that only an uncompromising, total war against all the South’s resources would achieve that end. When Lincoln, who had been carefully watching Grant from afar, elevated Grant to the position of General-in-Chief with the rank of Lieutenant General, the process of command system and strategy would be set in place.

While Lincoln and Grant would never see eye-to-eye, they operated effectively as a team. Each appreciated the other’s talents and they strove to accommodate one another. Unlike some of his predecessors, Grant clearly saw his role as carrying out the aims of the government. He would develop and execute the military strategy, while the president provided political direction and policy--the former would seek to achieve the latter. To facilitate communications between himself and the president, Grant chose to assign the former General-in-Chief, Henry Halleck, as his Chief of Staff. In this seemingly unlikely arrangement, Grant would command from the field with the Army of the Potomac, while Halleck attended to administrative matters in Washington and, importantly, facilitated communications with Lincoln.

The system worked smoothly for the most part and Grant’s instincts were the correct ones. While Lincoln had never been pleased with Halleck’s approach to the job of General-in-Chief, he did admire his mind and Halleck was able to effectively explain military operations to the president. In turn, Halleck could offer explanations of Lincoln’s desires and his policies to Grant, which would help him understand Washington’s views. Plus, Halleck was able to relieve Grant of many administrative duties, freeing him to focus on military operations in the field. The system was groundbreaking and would establish the model for the American command systems of the future. More than that, however, Lincoln’s interaction with Grant would establish once and for all the relationship between the President of the United States and his military commander.

However, Lincoln would also move the position of Commander-in-Chief beyond those facets directly related to interaction with military commanders and strategy and into the realm of policy based upon the “war powers” inherent to the position. In Lincoln's case, he would use those powers to free millions of Americans via the Emancipation Proclamation. From the outset, Lincoln deepest desire was to end the institution of slavery in the United States. He not only considered it a mandate expressed in the Constitution by the Founding Fathers, he also saw it as clearly embodied in what he called the “ancient faith” passed down in the Declaration of Independence. Further, he had long harbored an intense and very personal abhorrence of the practice. But, when the war began and he was urged by abolitionists to simply pick up the pen on his desk and end slavery, Lincoln hesitated.

Alexis de Tocqueville stated that virtually every political question in this nation eventually becomes “a judicial question.” Clearly, as a lawyer, Lincoln was very aware of this fact. As a result, his desire to free the slaves was muted by deep legal concerns. In his first inaugural, he addressed the issue stating that he had no legal grounds to impede or interfere with the South’s peculiar institution, despite his clear and unambiguous record on the issue, which, at that very moment, was tearing the country apart. Lincoln faced a Supreme Court still led by the pro-slavery chief justice, Roger Taney, a southerner who had issued the infamous Dred Scott decision, and the man with whom Lincoln was soon engaged in a legal conflict over the suspension of Habeas Corpus. Lincoln realized that any policy he might issue with regard to emancipation must be capable of withstanding a challenge in the Taney court. However, even early in the war, Lincoln realized there was a potential avenue for emancipation based on the his ability to invoke the Law of War as Commander-in-Chief. At the time of Lincoln's presidency, there was no formal international protocol governing the conduct of warfare, and, thus, the Law of War was a hazy, undefined legal framework based upon nothing more than the concept of the generally accepted behavior of civilized nations. However, in American jurisprudence and policy, the Law of War had solid roots, planted by men like John Quincy Adams, which, on several occasions, had been successfully tested in the Supreme Court, including the court led by Chief Justice Taney. Nevertheless, the Law of War applied only to belligerents and, as the war began, few in the Lincoln administration wished to accord the Confederate States that status, as it might amount to tacit admission that the Southern Confederacy was actually a sovereign state and not a collection of rebellious states who still were legally part of the Union.

Therefore, the path to emancipation via the Law of War was initially blocked by the issue of whether the Union was pursuing a war or a countering a criminal conspiracy. In the meantime, Congress passed a series of Confiscation Acts, which allowed the seizure and use of slaves as “contraband” property. However, these laws punished slave owners more than they offered freedom to slaves. Further, Lincoln wanted to do more than merely seize or deny access to “property.” The South’s status would eventually evolve toward belligerent status simply because the practicalities of executing the war demanded it. The best example of this process was the status of Confederate prisoners of war. As soon as the first battles occurred, Union field commanders asked Lincoln and his War Department what they were to do with captive Confederate soldiers. Were they criminals to be turned over to Federal Marshals, or military prisoners of war to be treated according to strict army regulations covering that status? Practicality quickly dictated the latter course, with proactive, enterprising Union officers having already made such moves before official policy was finally issued. Before long, the official system of paroles and exchanges between the Federal authorities and the Confederate government was in place. Combined with a host of other issues, this led to the South’s treatment as a belligerent.

Therefore, with the South’s treatment as a belligerent, Lincoln moved to craft a proclamation emancipating the slaves in a legal context based on the Law of War. Lincoln would create a document that served as a weapon of war employed by the Commander-in-Chief. Lincoln’s basis was that the Constitution “invests its commander-in-chief, with the law of war in time of war,” a principle that even the Chief Justice Taney had previously recognized. As such, Lincoln could invoke all means to prosecute the war, short of those universally recognized as being cruel or inhumane. Therefore, he could emancipate the slaves held in the South, denying his enemy a valuable resource, and also allowing those now freed the opportunity to fight their oppressors, There was no emphasis on the slaves as property, but, rather, there was now a vision of them as an oppressed people for whom the war offered a chance, as Lincoln wrote, to be “forever free.” At the same time, by articulating the proclamation as both a strategic weapon of war and a national war aim, Lincoln was acting well within the boundaries of his constitutional powers as Commander-in-Chief.

It was a visionary tactic with implications that even Lincoln probably did not see, as the eventual product of the proclamation went beyond the Civil War and freedom for only Americans. Once the proclamation was in place, under the leadership of Dr Francis Lieber of Columbia College, the U.S. Army adopted General Order 100 in 1863. This order, in essence, stated it was now the codified Law of War within the U.S. Army that American military force would be used to liberate slaves and place such persons under their protection wherever they might operate. This far-reaching policy would continue as Army guidance on the Law of War well into the twentieth century. As one historian has noted, “Now freedom would follow the flag.” Therefore, Lincoln’s use of war powers as Commander-in-Chief did far more than free Americans in slavery--future tenets of American foreign policy would be built upon its foundation and freeing the oppressed would become a legitimate American policy objective.

There is, however, one more aspect of Lincoln’s performance as Commander-in-Chief  that I believe bears mentioning, and it is one that, perhaps, few of his successors have shared. One has to only look at Lincoln’s wartime portraits, at the deep lines and furrows on his face, to see that he carried the suffering caused by the war on his shoulders, and he probably felt that it was his duty as Commander-in-Chief to do so. He never shielded himself from the pain and tragedy the war produced. Lincoln felt that the nation, as symbolized in the president, owed its soldiers and their families as much as the soldier gave to his country. Therefore, he was constantly visiting the wounded, not only in the many military hospitals operating in Washington DC, but also whenever he journeyed to the field to hold discussions with his commanders. He would offer these men his humor, his quiet reassurances, and his courage. His closest advisors wished that he would spare himself the emotional weight brought on by seeing first-hand the price the war was exacting in mangled limbs and broken spirits. But, what they did not understand about Lincoln was that, first, he saw this as simply the right thing to do and a moral obligation. Second, however, they also could not foresee that, rather than weakening his resolve as Commander-in-Chief, taking on this pain and suffering actually steeled Lincoln to finish the war, and to not only achieve victory and restoration of the Union, but to also find “a new birth of freedom.”

As I embark upon this adventure in blogging, it seems appropriate to talk about how I arrived here. Why a blog and why this particular subject, the American Civil War? The answer is not a short one, so bear with me.

Like many men my age, I had a boyhood interest in the Civil War and history, in general. My father was in the Air Force and, as a result, we moved all around the country during my youth, and did so fairly often. I was in the first grade when the Civil War Centennial began in 1961, and, as it happened, we lived in South Carolina at that time.  As the first state to leave the Union, South Carolina made much of the Centennial and, as a result, you could not escape the numerous Centennial observations. While we lived there, we had the chance to visit Fort Sumter, the first of many Civil War sites I would visit. While all of this brought the war to my attention, it was an issue of National Geographic magazine that really captured my imagination. In fact, the one truly clear memory I have from that period is reading the April 1961 issue of National Geographic. I must have worn that issue out, reading it again and again. Plus, every issue that came after that always had a one-page article on a particular battle and I would grab every copy that came in the mail and go straight to that page.

We would soon leave South Carolina and, as I grew up, while my love of history never diminished, my focus on the Civil War would fade. In college, I did major in history, but I emphasized Russian and Eastern European history in preparation for my eventual career in the military. However, one day in 1987, I bought a paperback copy of “The Killer Angels,” the Pulitzer Prize winning novel by Michael Shaara. I was hooked by the time I finished his introduction, and I finished the book in a single sitting. Shaara’s powerful portrait of Gettysburg and, more so, of the men who fought, there stirred my imagination as nothing else I had ever read.

From there, I began to read Civil War nonfiction on a casual basis and, one day, I happened to purchase a copy of Jeffrey Wert’s book, “From Winchester to Cedar Creek.,” which told the story of Sheridan’s 1864 campaign in the Shenandoah Valley. What caught my attention was Wert’s description of an attack made by Union troops from West Virginia under General Crook. I had recently been reading some genealogical monograms written by a relative, and I remembered one of them referring to my great-great grandfathers, both of whom served in the 11th West Virginia Infantry Regiment and fought in Sheridan’s campaign. This inspired me to learn about them, to discover what other ancestors may have served, to research the places they fought, and to understand what I came to see as the great and terrible national catastrophe that engulfed them.

I would learn that I had a total of nine ancestors who served during the Civil War, and all fought to preserve the Union. Their experiences were varied, with one spending the war primarily in garrison duty, while the others fought in small battles on the margins of the war, as well as the great campaigns that would determine its outcome. One would lose his eye to smallpox, but, nonetheless, return to duty, fight under Sheridan, and come home when his enlistment was up. Another would fight through the Wilderness, survive the disastrous assault at Cold Harbor, be severely wounded in the Shenandoah Valley, but rejoin his regiment in time to break the Confederate line at Petersburg and pursue Lee to Appomattox.

Another, and the youngest of my ancestors to fight in the war, would enlist in 1861 at the tender age of 17. It was he who would truly capture my attention and forever fix my sights on the history of the conflict. His name was Samuel Snider my great-great-great uncle. In November of 1861, he left the family farm near the tiny community of Nobe, West Virginia to joint the 3rd West Virginia Infantry Regiment. His older brother, John, my great-great grandfather, had already left home with his best friend, George Shimer, my other great-great grandfather, to enlist with the 11th West Virginia. I always have wondered why Samuel did not go with them and, instead, left home weeks later to join a different unit. Perhaps his friends were planning to join the 3rd and, like so many other young men on both sides, he simply wanted to serve with them. Young Samuel would see his first combat in the Shenandoah Valley at McDowell in May 1862, and, eventually, he and his comrades would move on to see action at Second Manassas, in August of that same year.

Not long after learning this, I had a chance to visit Manassas during a business trip to the Washington DC area. When I stopped at the Visitor Center, I bought the set of 1:50,000 charts that documented the two days of the battle in increments of two-three hours. As I unfolded the charts and studied them, I discovered that, by pure fate, I was at Manassas on the very same day the battle had begun 130 years before, August 29. So, with these maps in hand, I began to follow the path Samuel had taken during those two days. When I walked up the steep incline where he had attacked Stonewall Jackson’s troops at the railroad cut, I found myself sweating profusely in the humid August heat and thought of Samuel. He had climbed this slope in a blue wool uniform, carrying a heavy Springfield rifle, with volleys of bullets whirling past him, watching men and boys he had grown up with being cut down all around him. It then struck me how terrified he must have been. At that moment, Samuel became very real to me, and no longer was a mere genealogical abstraction. 

Spurred on to new research by this experience, I would learn that, following the Union disaster at Second Manassas, Samuel’s regiment would return to West Virginia, and, in the summer of 1863, they would be converted to cavalry, serving under General William Averell as the 3rd West Virginia Mounted Infantry. Under Averell, they would participate in several raids and in the Battle of Droop Mountain in November 1863. Then, in December, they would undertake an arduous raid against the Virginia and Tennessee Railroad depot at Salem, Virginia. Here, they would not only face their human enemy, but also the ravages of nature, itself. While attempting to escape the rapidly closing Confederate army, they would face torrential freezing rain, snow, and swollen rivers and creeks, filled with surging water, floating debris, and even large pieces of ice. The soldiers and their mounts would be forced to wade into these waters, struggling against the current to emerge on the far side with both horse and rider coated with ice. Over and over again, they made these crossings, riding into the night as their foe closed in on them. Finally, they would reach the last river crossing at Covington, Virginia. Here, there was at least a bridge to aid their crossing. However, the bridge was defended and, while they would quickly push the Southern defenders aside, the pause in their march allowed the lead elements of the pursuing Confederate force to catch up to them. A night time battle would ensue, with Averell’s men getting the upper hand, and escaping across the river, setting the bridge ablaze as they went. Unfortunately, nearly 100 men from Averell’s rear guard would not be so lucky. Stranded on the far side, they were forced to surrender. Samuel Snider was among those captured.

He and his comrades would be shipped to the Confederate prison at Belle Isle in Richmond, where they would spend the next two months. However, in February 1864, Samuel would be moved, going far south by train to a new prison facility in Georgia—Andersonville. As most people know, Andersonville would become a literal hell on Earth, a place of absolute horror that almost defies description. By the following summer, an open air encampment intended for 3,000 men would be holding 30,000. Malnourished, without even a ready supply of fresh water, the heat of the Georgia summer would soon take its toll. With disease and starvation joining together, men died at a rate of over 100 a day. Samuel Snider, now a young man of 20, would be one of them. On August 5, 1864, he died of Scurvy and was buried namelessly in a mass grave. Following the war, Clara Barton would come to Andersonville and, aided by a secret log maintained by a courageous Union soldier working in the camp hospital, she would ensure every soldier had a marker placed where he was was buried. Samuel Snider’s is number 498.

Like many Americans in many wars, Samuel died alone, far from home, denied a future, denied a life spent among loved ones, and denied a more peaceful end, perhaps one that might have included the nearness of those he loved and the comfort they might provide. But what struck hardest me was that, in his case, Samuel died cruelly in his own country, at the hands of his own his countrymen. For me, that knowledge magnified the tragedy and served as a very personal reminder of just what a catastrophe this war was, with Samuel’s fate being repeated over 600,000 times. Virtually no town, no home was left untouched. I have never forgotten Samuel’s story and I make an effort to pause and think of him every August 5th. I also had a plaque with his name on it placed on the Wall of Remembrance at the Pamplin National Museum of the Civil War Soldier near Petersburg, Virginia. He earned the right to at least be remembered.

In 2000, I decided to research and write an article about Averell’s raid on Salem. Remarkably, America’s Civil War magazine selected it for publication, and it appeared in their November 2000 issue. That spurred me to pursue my knowledge of the war even further. I had been reading books about the war for years at this point, but I craved the knowledge that only comes from a more disciplined study of the subject, the kind that can only occur in the rigor of an academic environment. Therefore, I enrolled in a distance learning graduate degree program through American Military University, completing my Master’s Degree in 2003.

Since then, I have had another article published, and regularly write book reviews for Michigan State University's H-Net web site. I have started a book of my own, but my work on it is irregular and I may never see it finished. I would love to teach about the war, but opportunities to do so are few to be found. As a result, I find that I crave an outlet for my thoughts on the history of the war, which now answers the question, “Why a blog?”

My plan is to simply write whatever comes to mind. Some entries may be short, some may be interminably long. Those who know me will tell you that I can be a little long-winded at times, so consider yourself warned. I will also tell you that this is a subject I can become very passionate about, and some readers (if any actually find this site!) will undoubtedly disagree with my views. Some, in fact, may even be offended. If so, I offer an apology in advance, and it comes with the assurance that I do not intend to offend. Rather, I hope to stimulate some thought and maybe a little more study on the reader’s part—there is so much to learn on this subject. If you approach your study of the war with an open mind, you may find many myths will be shattered. But, I assure you that they will be replaced by even more fascinating realities.

I should also add that I have come to believe there are lessons to be learned from the Civil War, and some of those lessons can be applied to our current cultural and political environment. For me, the most important lesson is that when anger and greed make us forget that we are all Americans, and that we share a collective past and future, we lose sight of what is truly important. When shouting and accusations replace intelligent political discourse, we lose our ability to compromise, which can and will lead to tragedy. So, when I hear politicians talk about waging and winning “culture wars,” when I see media pundits pursue personal riches by feeding the fires of these so-called culture wars, I cringe in horror. At those moments, I want to take them to Shiloh, to the National Military Cemetery. There, near the path that leads from the gateway into the cemetery, I will point to the first stone, the one that marks the burial place of Henry Burke, a 12-year old Union drummer boy.  Next, I will have them look up to see a field full of stones beyond that one, each marking a personal tragedy that even the passing of decades cannot diminish. Every one marks the final resting place of a brother, a husband, a friend. And all record the loss of someone who, at one time, was simply, and joyfully, a mother’s little boy, a child she had dreams for, never imagining the awful fate he would meet at Shiloh or a hundred other places just like it. I would tell the politician and the pundit that this is the silent, cold product of our first and only culture war. God forbid we ever suffer another one.

So, let’s start this little journey and see where it takes us.