Showing posts with label Wilderness. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Wilderness. Show all posts

Wednesday, May 05, 2021

Wilderness weirdness: A president, Marines and a buried arm

An aerial view of Marines forming a profile on the Wilderness battlefield of President Harding.
Apparently not all of the Marines were pleased to be there, as these cropped enlargements
of the photo above show.  (Library of Congress)
Clad in white T-shirts, these Marines formed President Harding's "collar."

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In late September and early October 1921, 57 years after the Confederate and U.S. armies slaughtered each other in the Wilderness, U.S. Marines held maneuvers on the old Virginia battleground. The event included what you would expect when the military stages a sham battle with 5,000 "Devil Dogs": machine guns and mortars, military airplane flyovers, anti-aircraft guns, massive searchlights, a camouflaged tank, an "attack" on a hill ... and grunts forming a silhouette of their commander in chief for a photograph near the buried arm of a revered Confederate general.

At the Marine manuevers at the Wilderness battlefield
in 1921, 
President Harding (left) visits with a
Confederate veteran. (Library of Congress)
Yes, sometimes history can get a little weird.

Exuding a "man of the people" demeanor, President Warren Harding attended the event, staying overnight with the First Lady on the battlefield in the same military encampment as the troops. The Hardings ate a breakfast of ham and eggs in the officers' mess, but they didn't exactly rough it in the wilderness. Their large tent, the "canvas White House," included three rooms, hardwood floors, electric lights and a sunken tub with hot running water "electrically heated." Two Black servants of Fredericksburg families tended to the Hardings' needs. 

The president chatted with the few Civil War vets who attended the event, sang hymns with the Marines, reviewed troops, somehow endured the Marine Corps Band playing "There'll Be a Hot Time in the Old Town Tonight" and enthusiastically watched the war games.

"His neat, brown suit was dusty, he was ruddy faced, and down his cheeks trickled small streams of perspiration," a wire service reporter described the president's battlefield appearance. 

Florence Harding, who witnessed part of the battle, told the commanding general she thought there ought to be "a little more noise." But the Marines apparently were short on ammo and they didn't sing well, prompting one of them to say: "We ain't no Y.M.C.A. soldiers."

The event, however, did not disappoint the president. Harding loved his Marines, and they loved their commander in chief back.

"I shall not exaggerate a single word when I tell you that from my boyhood to the present hour, I have always had a profound regard for the United States marines and I am leaving camp today with my regard strengthened and a geniune affection added," he told them in a speech.

The Marines — who had marched to the battlefield from their base in Quantico, Va., roughly 40 miles — cheered loudly. (Or was the roar because their feet were sore?)

"The unaffected, human fashion in which [Harding] displayed interest in all the affairs of the camp bridged the gap of officialdom between the President of the United States and a buck private in the Marine Corps," the New York Times reported. "Each was well satisfied with the other."

President Harding and the First Lady pose with some of the few Civil War vets who attended.
(Library of Congress)

But back to that revered general's buried arm ... 

Near the end of their stay, the Hardings examined markers in the Lacy family graveyard behind Ellwood Manor, HQ for U.S. Army General Gouveneur Warren during the Battle of the Wilderness on May 5-7, 1864. Among them was a stone marking the burial site for the left arm of Stonewall Jackson, who lost the limb to amputation after his friendly fire wounding at Chancellorsville on May 2, 1863. 

Before the visit, Florence Harding admitted to "sort of a creepy feeling" knowing the arm was buried there. To put the cemetery "in a condition in honor of Jackson," Marines days earlier cleared weeds, added a white fence and repaired and decorated the monument atop the general's buried arm. (Who knows if the limb is still there?)

Marker for Stonewall Jackson's amputated left arm
at the Lacy Family Cemetery, near Ellwood Manor.
Before the Hardings departed for their three-hour drive back to the White House, hundreds of Marines quickly formed the profile likeness of the president in a field near Jackson's buried arm. Roughly a dozen Devil Dogs clad in white T-shirts became the "collar" of the president's shirt, undoubtedly a plum assignment. 

A photographer in a high platform shot images of the stunt, which brass hoped would be a surprise for the president. But word leaked. (Hey, who's that stray dude at upper left of the image?) Judging from their faces and body language (see cropped enlargements of photo above), some Marines preferred a good ass-chewing from their sergeant instead. 

Unsurprisingly, the "colossal living picture of himself" impressed Harding.

"He was extremely interested in this accomplishment," the Times wrote, "and watched the making of the picture with close attention." 

In this cropped enlargement, we spot the "stray dude." 

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SOURCES 
  • Alexandria Gazette, Oct. 4, 1921
  • New York Times, Oct. 3, 1921
  • New York Tribune, Oct. 3, 1921
  • The News Leader, Staunton, Va., Oct. 2, 1921
  • The Pittsburgh Press, Oct. 2, 1921

Saturday, May 04, 2019

A 16-year-old in Wilderness: Brains, blood, 'scores of wounded'

"Powder smoke hung high above the trees in thin clouds," Frank Wilkeson wrote about the Wilderness.
(Alfred Waud | Library of Congress)
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Think about what many 16-year-olds do today. Learn to drive a car. Sneak a beer in the woods behind their parents' house. Date. Play video games. Shoot hoops in a high school gym.

Frank Wilkeson
At 16, Frank Wilkeson, a private in the 11th New York Light Artillery,  watched soldiers shoot to kill in godforsaken thickets and woods in Virginia. The teen, who joined in on the bloodletting himself, witnessed up close the gruesome results of warfare.

"A dead sergeant lay at my feet, with a hole in his forehead just above his left eye," Wilkeson wrote about his experience at the Battle of the Wilderness on May 5, 1864. "Out of this wound bits of brain oozed and slid on a bloody trail into his eye and thence over his cheek to the ground. I leaned over the body to feel of it. It was still warm. He couldn't have been dead for over five minutes."

A son of a well-known journalist, Wilkeson enlisted in 1864 after running away from home. On July 1, 1863, his older brother Bayard, a lieutenant in the 4th United States Regular Artillery, suffered a mortal wound at Gettysburg.

After the war, Wilkeson became a journalist, and in 1886, a book of his war-time experiences was published. Recollections of a Private Soldier in the Army of the Potomac is an eloquent, and unvarnished, look at war. Wilkeson's Chapter 11, "How Men Die in Battle," is like a gut-punch to the soul, Saving Private Ryan without the images.

At the Wilderness, Wilkeson eagerly joined the battle, although the 11th New York Light Artillery had no fighting role at the time. Here's his remarkable Wilderness battle account from his book, excerpted and published in U.S. newspapers in the summer of 1886:


The night before the Battle of the Wilderness, Frank Wilkeson slept near the Chancellor house, shown here
 in a circa-1900 view. (Image courtesy Pat Sullivan | Spotsylvania Memory Blog)

On the night of May 4. 1864, I slept under a caisson that stood in park close to the Chancellorsville House, in Virginia. I was awakened by a bugle call to find the battery I belonged to almost ready to march. I hurriedly toasted a bit of pork and ate it, and quickly chewed down a couple of hard tack and drank deeply from my canteen, and was ready to march when the battery moved.

It was a delightful morning. Almost all the infantry which had been camped around us the previous evening had disappeared. We struck into the road, passed the Chancellorsville House, turned to the right and marched up a broad turnpike toward the Wilderness forest. After marching on this road for a short distance we turned to the left on an old dirt road, which led obliquely into the woods. The picket firing had increased in volume since the previous evening, and there was no longer any doubt that we were to fight in the Wilderness.

The firing was a pretty brisk rattle, and steadily increasing in volume. About 10 o'clock in the morning the soft, spring air resounded with a fierce yell, the sound of which was instantly drowned by a roar of musketry, and we knew that the battle of the Wilderness had opened. The battery rolled heavily up the road into the woods for a short distance, when we were met by a staff officer, who ordered us out, saying:

 "The battle has opened in dense timber. Artillery cannot be used. Go into park in the field just outside the woods."

We turned the guns and marched back and went into the park. Battery after battery joined us, some coming out of the woods and others up the road from the Chancellorsville House, until some 100 guns or more were parked in the field. We were then the reserve artillery.

Union VI Corps fights unseen enemy in the woods at the Wilderness. (Edwin Forbes | Library of Congress)
Ambulances and wagons loaded with medical supplies galloped onto the field, and a hospital was established behind our guns. Soon men, singly and in pairs or in groups of four or live, came limping slowly or walking briskly, with arms across their breasts and their hands clutched into their blouses, out of the woods. Some carried their rifles. Others had thrown them away. All of them were bloody. They slowly filtered through the immense artillery camp, and asked with bloodless lips to be directed to a hospital.

Powder smoke hung high above the trees in thin clouds. The noise in the woods was terrific. The musketry was a steady roll, and high above it sounded the inspiring charging cheers and yells of the now thoroughly excited combatants.  At intervals we could hear the loud report of Napoleon guns, and we thought that Battery K of the Fourth United States Artillery was in action.

By 11 o clock the wounded men were coming out of the woods in streams, and they had various tales to tell. Bloody men from the battle line of the Fifth Corps trooped through our park supporting more severely wounded comrades. The battle, these men said, did not incline in our favor. They insisted that the Confederates were in force, and that they, having the advantage of position and knowledge of the region, had massed their soldiers for the attack and outnumbered us at the points of conflict. They described the Confederate fire as wonderfully accurate. One man who had a ghastly flesh wound across his forehead said: "The Johnnies are shooting to kill this time, few of their balls strike the trees higher than ten feet from the ground. Small trees are already falling, having been cut down by rifle balls. There is hardly a Union battery in action," he added, after an instant's pause.

Union soldiers carry wounded from the battlefield. (Alfred Waud | Library of Congress)
By noon I was quite wild with curiosity, and, confident that the artillery would remain in the park, I decided to go to the battle line and see what was going on. I neglected to ask my captain for permission to leave the battery, because I feared he would not grant my request, and I did not want to disobey orders by going after he had refused me. 1 walked out of camp and up the road. The wounded men were becoming more and more numerous. 1 saw men, faint from loss of blood, sitting in the shade cast by trees. Other men were lying down. All were pale, and their faces expressed great physical suffering.

As l walked I saw a dead man lying under a tree which stood by the roadside. He had been shot through the chest, and had struggled to the rear; then, becoming exhausted or choked with blood, he had lain down on a carpet of leaves and died. His pockets were turned inside out. A little further on I met a sentinel standing by the roadside. Other sentinels paced to and fro in the woods on each side of tho road, or stood leaning against trees, looking in the direction of the battle line, which was far ahead of them in the woods. I stopped to talk to the guard posted on the road. He eyed me inquiringly, and answered my question as to what he was doing there, saying: "Sending stragglers back to the front." Then he added, in an explanatory tone: "No enlisted men can go past me to the rear unless be can show blood.''

He turned to a private who was hastening down the road, and cried:

 "Halt!"

The soldier who was going to the rear paid no attention to the command. Instantly the sentinel's rifle was cocked, and it rose to his shoulder. He coolly covered the soldier, and sternly demanded that he show blood. The man had none to show. The cowardly soldier was ordered to return to his regiment, and, greatly disappointed, he turned back. Wounded men passed the guard without being halted. These guards seemed to be posted in the rear of the battle lines for the express purpose of intercepting the flight of cowards. At the time it struck me as a quaint idea to picket the rear of an army which was fighting a desperate battle.

I explained to the sentinel that I was a light artilleryman, and that I wanted to see the fight.

"Can I go past you?" I inquired.

"Yes," he replied, "you may go up. But you had better not go," he added. "You have no distinctive mark or badge on your dress to indicate the arm you belong to. If you go up you may not be allowed to return, and then, he added, as he shrugged his shoulders indifferently, "You may get killed. But suit yourself."

 So I went on.

Union V Corps soldiers receive ammunition while under enemy fire.  (Alfred Waud | Library of Congress)
There was a very heavy firing to the left of the road in a chapparal of brush and scrubby pines and oaks. There the musketry was a steady roar, and the cheers and yells of the fighters incessant. I left the road and walked through the woods towards the battle grounds, and met many wounded men who were coming out. They were bound for the rear and the hospitals. Then I came on a body of troops lying in reserve, a second line of battle, I suppose. I heard the hum of bullets as they passed over the low trees. Then I noticed that small limbs of trees were falling in a feeble shower in advance of me. It was as though an army of squirrels were at work cutting off nut and pine cone-laden branches preparatory to laying in their winter's store of food. Then, partially obscured by a cloud of powder smoke, I saw a straggling line of men clad in blue. They were not standing as if on parade, but they were taking advantage of the cover afforded by the trees, and they were tiring rapidly. Their line officers were standing behind them or in line with them. The smoke drifted to and fro, and there were many rifts in it. I saw scores of wounded men. I saw many dead soldiers lying on the ground, and I saw men constantly falling on the battle line.

I could not see the Confederates, and, as I had gone to the front expressly to see a battle, I pushed on, picking my way from protective tree to protective tree, until I was about forty yards from the battle line. The uproar was deafening. The bullets flew through the air thickly. Now our line would move forward a few yards, now fall back.

I stood behind a large oak tree and peeped around its trunk. I heard bullets "spat" into this tree, and I suddenly realized that I was under fire. My heart thumped wildly for a minute. Then my throat and mouth felt dry and queer. A dead sergeant lay at my feet, with a hole in his forehead just above his left eye. Out of this wound bits of brain oozed and slid on a bloody trail into his eye and thence over his check to the ground. I leaned over the body to feel of it. It was still warm. He couldn't have been dead for over five minutes. As I stopped over the dead man bullets swept past me, and I became angry at the danger I had foolishly gotten into.

Wounded soldier uses a pitchfork to hobble along in the Wilderness. (Edwin Forbes | Library of Congress)
I unbuckled the dead man's cartridge belt and strapped it around me, and then I picked up his rifle. I remember standing behind the large oak tree and dropping the ramrod into the rifle to see if it was loaded. It was not. So I loaded it, and before I fairly understood what had taken place I was in the rank of the battle line, which had surged back on the crest of a battle billow, bareheaded, and greatly excited, and blazing away at an indistinct, smoke and tree-obscured line of men clad in gray and slouch hatted.

As I cooled off in the heat of the battle fire, I found that I was on the Fifth Corps line, instead of on the Second Corps' line, where I wanted to be. I spoke to the men on either side of me, and they stared at me, a stranger, and briefly said that the regiment, the distinctive number of which I have long since forgotten, was near the left of the Fifth Corps, and that they had been fighting pretty steadily since about 10 o'clock in the morning, but with poor success, as the Confederates had driven them back a little.

The fire was rather hot and the men were falling pretty fast. Still, it was not anywhere near as bloody as I had expected a battle to be. As a grand, inspiring spectacle it was highly unsatisfactory, owing to the powder smoke obscuring the vision. At times we could not see the Confederate line, but that made no difference, we kept on firing just as though they were in full view. We gained ground at times, and then dead Confederates lay on the ground as thickly as dead Union soldiers had behind us. Then we would fall back, fighting stubbornly, but steadily giving ground, until the dead were all clad in blue.

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Thursday, January 10, 2019

The Wilderness: Snapshots of death from a 'most lonely place'

Cropped enlargement of 1865 image of remains of soldiers in the Wilderness, near Cemetery No. 2.
(Library of Congress)

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Faint from loss of blood, a grievously wounded young soldier lay alone near scores of Confederate dead in the Wilderness. Unable to stand, the "poor fellow," a Union soldier observed, slowly crawled across the blood-soaked ground gathering violets. He had already made a beautiful bouquet.

3rd Vermont Captain Erastus Buck, wounded on 
May 5, died in Washington on May 22, 1864. 
A thousand people attended a service for him in 
East Charleston, Vt., according to an obituary
in the Orleans Independent Standard.
"I saw him taken up tenderly and borne away wearing a brave, sweet, touching smile," the witness recalled.

The fate of the boy, like so many other wounded who suffered in the dense, wooded undergrowth of Virginia in early May 1864, is lost to history. Perhaps he survived despite his serious wound. More likely he died -- one of hundreds who perished from wounds suffered in the battle.

Then came the funerals. Scores of services were held in the North and South. Sometimes with a body of the deceased, often without. Here are snapshots of what Vermont lost in the Wilderness -- the "most lonely place I ever saw," according to a sharpshooter from the state. In the spring and summer of 1864, the Green Mountain State's newspapers were filled with death and despair.



The corpse of 2nd Vermont Lieutenant Colonel John Steele Tyler, a "mere boy of only 21 years," arrived at the train depot in Brattleboro, Vt., about 10:30 a.m. on May 24. The remains were received by officers from the 8th Vermont, who were en route to New Orleans, and a "company of invalids from the garrison" near town. Tyler's body was escorted to the town hall, where his nearly 90-year-old grandmother was among the mourners.

Wounded in the thigh at the Wilderness, Lt. Col. John Steele Tyler
died in a hotel in New York.  (John Gibson collection)
From a prominent family, Tyler, the son of a reverend, had been promoted only days before the Battle of the Wilderness. Shortly after he was shot, John realized his wound, which sliced his femoral artery, was mortal. Still, he lingered for nearly three weeks, dying in the Metropolitan Hotel in New York on May 23. A civilian doctor who examined him there believed the wound was caused by buckshot, not a bullet.

"Death, in a sudden and mysterious manner, has removed him," Vermont's governor wrote to Tyler's uncle, a judge, "and we are left to mourn the loss of a brave and worthy officer." Tyler received a posthumous promotion to colonel from the governor.

Throughout the day in Brattleboro, citizens paid their respects to Tyler, many of them placing flowers atop his coffin.

"Appropriate verses were also stuck on the bayonets of the stacks of arms at the head and foot of the coffin," a newspaper reported. One of them caught the eye of a reporter:

"How beautiful is death when earned by virtue! Who would not be that youth? What pity is it that we can die but once to save our country! Why sit this sadness on your brows, my friends? I should have blushed if Cato's house had stood Secure, and flourished in a civil war."

At 6 p.m., Tyler's remains were escorted to the Episcopal church by two fire companies, a company of the 17th Vermont, local cadets and a company of "invalids," who were stationed at a nearby military camp.  After the church service, a band played a dirge as the casket was escorted to a nearby cemetery. During the graveside service, mourners were drenched during a brief thunder shower and startled by "one very vivid stroke of lightning."

Muffled drums rolled. The casket was lowered into the ground. Three farewell shots were fired over the grave.

"Seldom have the people of Brattleboro been called on to witness a more solemn and impressive pageant," the Vermont Record reported.

             PANORAMA: Vermont Brigade monument in the woods near the intersection 
        of Brock and Orange Plank roads. (Click at upper right for full-screen experience.)

Captain George Randall of the 6th Vermont was shot through both legs above the knee on May 5, the first day of the fighting, and lived until about 4 p.m. that day

"He was decently interred and the enemy never rifled his pockets or polluted his person," an officer recalled in an account published in a Vermont newspaper. "Even to the last, he would never give up, but remarked that he was not wounded very severely. He bled to death, and I doubt if medical aid had been near at first whether he would have survived."

The 21-year-old soldier's remains rest in an unknown grave in Virginia.



22-year-old William W. Wilson, a private in the 1st U.S, Sharpshooters, died in a hospital. 
He had been in 27 battles, according to his obituary in The Burlington (Vt.) Free Press on June 15, 1864.


In Calais, Vt., on June 5, a large congregation assembled to "testify to their respect to the memory" of 25-year-old William Stowe. A private in the 2nd Vermont, he was killed near the intersection of Brock and Orange Plank roads. Stowe was part of the Vermont Brigade -- five regiments of soldiers from the Green Mountain State -- which suffered 1,234 casualties making a desperate stand on May 5-6, 1864.

"Was the result commensurate to the sacrifice?" Lewis Grant, the brigade's commander, wrote weeks after the battle. "Whether it was or not, the battle once commenced had to be fought. There was safety only in success."

Stowe's death was "peculiarly distressing," according to a local newspaper. "He was the first in town to respond to his country's call for three years' men and enlisted into the Second Vermont Regiment, of which he continued a brave and honored member, beloved and respected by all his comrades."

"His term of service having nearly expired, he was fondly anticipating a speedy return home, and a happy sojourn with affectionate friends," it added. "But instead of his welcome presence came the sad intelligence that he was shot in battle in the afternoon of the first day's fighting."



Lucius Ingalls, the only son of Azel and Leafy Ingalls, died in a hospital in Washington from wounds
suffered at the Wilderness, according to a brief account in the Vermont Journal on July 9, 1864.
His right arm had been amputated. Ingalls was buried in Arlington National Cemetery.



After conducting the funeral in early June for George Whitfield, a private in the 17th Vermont, a preacher made a proposal.  "And I move that when this war shall have ended, and when this town shall have purchased land for its contemplated cemetery," he said, "that a separate lot be preserved expressly for our fallen brave of this war."

"And then upon our festive days, our national anniversaries and the like," he added, "let the good ole 'Stars and Stripes' be unfurled there, that their drifting shadows float above the honored dust of those who laid down their lives in their defense."


 Newton Stone was killed on May 5, 1864. A lawyer as a civilian, he had "two brothers fighting
 for the cause for which he gave his life," the St. Johnsbury (Vt.) Caledonian noted
on May 27, 1864. He was buried in Readsboro, Vt.


In early August in Cabot, Vt., a service was held for a pair of brothers, Edwin and Abel Morrill. A captain in the 11th Vermont, Edwin was mortally wounded in the bowels trying to escape after he was captured at the Battle of Weldon Railroad in Virginia. Abel, acting adjutant in the 3rd Vermont, was killed at the Wilderness. Shortly after the war, Edwin's remains were recovered and re-buried in his native state. Abel's body was never found.

"Resolutions of condolence and sympathy were adopted," the local newspaper reported about the brothers. "The exercises were largely attended by sympathizing friends from Cabot and adjoining towns."



Corporal Lucian Bingham of Morristown, Vt., died in a Washington hospital from wounds suffered
at the Wilderness. The 23-year-old was a "worthy brother" and a "brave soldier," according to this account
in the Lamoille Newsdealer on July 27, 1864. He's buried in Arlington National Cemetery.


On June 25, 1864, The Burlington (Vt.) Times reprinted a poem by George Baker, recalling the seriously wounded young man picking flowers in the Wilderness. It's a fitting tribute, perhaps, to all the soldiers who suffered there.

IN THE WILDERNESS

Mangled, uncared for, suffering thro’ the night
With heavenly patience the poor boy had lain;
Under the dreary shadows, left and right,
Groaned on the wounded, stiffened out the slain.
What faith sustained his lone,
Brave heart to make no moan,
To send no cry from that blood-sprinkled sod,
Is a close mystery with him and God.

But when the light came, and the morning dew
Glittered around him, like a golden lake,
And every dripping flower with deepened hue
Looked through its tears for very pity’s sake,
He moved his aching head
Upon his rugged bed,
And smiled as a blue violet, virgin-meek,
Laid her pure kiss upon his withered cheek.

At once there circled in his waking heart
A thousand memories of distant home;
Of how those same blue violets would start
Along his native fields, and some would roam
Down his dear humming brooks,
To hide in secret nooks,
And, shyly met, in nodding circles swing,
Like gossips murmuring at belated Spring.

And then he thought of the beloved hands
That with his own had plucked the modest flower.
The blue-eyed maiden, crowned with golden bands,
Who ruled as sovereign of that sunny hour.
She at whose soft command
He joined the mustering band,
She for whose sake he lay so firm and still,
Despite his pangs, not questioned then her will.

So, lost in thought, scarce conscious of the deed,
Culling the violets, here and there he crept
Slowly—ah! slowly,—for his wound would bleed;
And the sweet flowers themselves half smiled, half wept,
To be thus gathered in
By hands so pale and thin,
By fingers trembling as they neatly laid
Stem upon stem, and bound them in a braid.

The strangest posy ever fashioned yet
Was clasped against the bosom of the lad,
As we, the seekers for the wounded, set
His form upon our shoulders bowed and sad;
Though he but seemed to think
How violets nod and wink;
And as we cheered him, for the path was wild,
He only looked upon his flowers and smiled.


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SOURCES

-- Lamoille Newsdealer, Hyde Park, Vt., July 27, 1864
-- Orleans Independent Standard, Irasburgh, Vt., June 3, 1864.
-- St. Albans (Vt.) Daily Messenger, May 16, 1864.
-- St. John's (Vt.) Caledonian, May 27, 1864.
-- The Burlington (Vt.) Weekly Sentinel, June 10, 1864.
-- The Burlington (Vt.) Daily Times, June 25, 1864.
-- Vermont Journal, July 9, 1864.
-- Vermont Record, Brandon, Vt., June 3, 1864, June 24, 1864.
-- Vermont Watchman and State Journal, Aug. 19, 1864.

Saturday, June 23, 2018

'Their eyeless skulls seemed to stare steadily at us'

Unburied remains of soldiers in Federal lines near Orange Plank Road in the Wilderness. 
 (Library of Congress | CLICK ON IMAGES TO ENLARGE.)
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More than 150 years after two Union soldiers died at Second Manassas, their skeletal remains were unearthed from a limb pit near the infamous Deep Cut on the battlefield. Recently published stories about the grisly finds -- a leg bone with amputation saw marks, an Enfield bullet embedded in a severely fractured femur, Yankee buttons among bones -- fascinate many of us. Horrify some of us, too.

Which brings us to the excerpt below from the book Recollections of a Private Soldier by Union veteran Frank Wilkeson, a gifted writer and storyteller. In early May 1864, he was a 16-year-old private in the 11th New York Light Artillery. A day or two before the Battle of the Wilderness, Wilkeson and his comrades camped near the Orange Turnpike on the Chancellorsville battleground, where a year earlier, on May 2, 1863, Stonewall Jackson's flank attack there led to a crushing Union defeat. As Wilkeson and another Federal soldier walked the old battlefield, they discovered gruesome remains of that day -- leg bones, arm bones, skulls, a "grinning, bony, flesh-less face."

Later than evening, Wilkeson and his comrade were joined by "many infantrymen," perhaps, like some of us, also drawn to the horrific aftermath of battle.



'Many polished skulls lay on the ground'


"In the evening, after supper, I walked with a comrade to the spot where General [Alfred] Pleasanton had massed his guns and saved the army under [Joseph] Hooker from destruction, by checking the impetuous onslaught of Stonewall Jackson's Virginian infantry, fresh from the pleasures of the chase of the routed Eleventh Corps. We walked to and fro over the old battle-field, looking at bullet-scarred and canister-riven trees. The men who had fallen in that fierce fight had apparently been buried where they fell, and buried hastily. Many polished skulls lay on the ground. Leg bones, arm bones, and ribs could be found without trouble. Toes of shoes, and bits of faded, weather-worn uniforms, and occasionally a grinning, bony, flesh-less face peered through the low mound that had been hastily thrown over these brave warriors.

1865 image of unburied soldiers south of Plank Road in Wilderness.
(Library of Congress)
"As we wandered to and fro over the battle-ground, looking at the gleaming skulls and whitish bones, and examining the exposed clothing of the dead to see if they had been Union or Confederate soldiers, many infantrymen joined us. It grew dark, and we built afire at which to light our pipes close to where we thought Jackson's men had formed for the charge, as the graves were thickest there, and then we talked of the battle of the preceding year. We sat on long, low mounds. The dead were all around us. Their eyeless skulls seemed to stare steadily at us.

"The smoke drifted to and fro among us. The trees swayed and sighed gently in the soft wind. One veteran told the story of the burning of some of the Union soldiers who were wounded during Hooker's fight around the Wilderness, as they lay helpless in the woods. It was a ghastly and awe-inspiring tale as he vividly told it to us as we sat among the dead. This man finished his story by saying shudderingly: 'This region,' indicating the woods beyond us with a wave of his arm, 'is an awful place to fight in. The utmost extent of vision is about one hundred yards. Artillery cannot be used effectively. The wounded are liable to be burned to death. I am willing to take my chances of getting killed, but I dread to have a leg broken and then to be burned slowly; and these woods will surely be burned if we fight here. I hope we will get through this chapparal without fighting,' and he took off his cap and meditatively rubbed the dust off  of the red clover leaf which indicated the division and corps he belonged to.

"As we sat silently smoking and listening to the story, an infantry soldier who had, unobserved by us, been prying into the shallow grave he sat on with his bayonet, suddenly rolled a skull on the ground before us, and said in a deep, low voice: 'That is what you are all coming to, and some of you will start toward it to-morrow.' "

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Thursday, June 14, 2018

'Dreadfully distorted visages': How soldiers die in battle

A fallen Confederate at Petersburg in 1864. (Thomas C. Roche | Library of Congress)
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After the publication in 1886 of his eloquent, unvarnished account of service in the Army of the Potomac, Frank Wilkeson received reviews any author would crave.

"No book about the war for the Union can compare either style or in readableness ...," the Philadelphia Times wrote about Recollections of a Private Soldier in the Army of the Potomac. "Mr. Wilkeson's style is as crisp as a new treasury note. It is as clear as a trumpet-call. It is as deliciously breezy as a morning in May. It is impossible to take up his book and put it down without reading it."

Frank Wilkeson
Noted the Baltimore Sun: "Mr. Wilkeson occupies a rank as a writer which entitles his opinions to be weighed as those of a man of recognized ability, and his fearlessness in publishing them, when he knew they will be unpalatable to most of his readers and probably expose him to much obloquy, serves respect."

"Everyone," another newspaper wrote, "will gain a prize by possession of this book."

A son of a well-known journalist, Wilkeson enlisted at 16 in 1864 after running away from home. On July 1, 1863, his older brother, Bayard, a lieutenant in the 4th United States Regular Artillery, suffered a  mortal wound at Gettysburg. As a private in the 11th New York Light Artillery, Frank witnessed some of the worst fighting of the war — at the Wilderness, Spotsylvania Courthouse, North Anna River, Cold Harbor and Petersburg. He somehow finagled his way onto the battlefield and fought as infantry at the Wilderness.

Wilkeson — who became a well-known journalist in his own right in the 1880s — wrote compelling  chapters on the major Overland Campaign battles in Recollections. But it's an 11-page chapter entitled "How Men Die in Battle," as raw and ugly as a large, open wound, that captivates — and horrifies — me most. Here's the excerpt from Wilkeson's remarkable work:



Famous "Harvest of Death" photo of Union dead at Gettysburg. (Alexander Gardner | Library of Congress)
Almost every death on the battle-field is different. And the manner of the death depends on the wound and on the man, whether he is cowardly or brave, whether his vitality is large or small, whether he is a man of active imagination or is dull of intellect, whether he is of nervous or lymphatic temperament. I instance deaths and wounds that I saw in Grant's last campaign.

On the second day of the battle of the Wil­derness, where I fought as an infantry soldier, I saw more men killed and wounded than I did before or after in the same time. I knew but few of the men in the regiment in whose ranks I stood; but I learned the Christian names of some of them. The man who stood next to me on my right was called Will. He was cool, brave, and intelligent. In the morning, when the Second Corps was advancing and driving Hill's soldiers slowly back, I was flurried. He noticed it, and steadied my nerves by saying, kindly: "Don't fire so fast. This fight will last all day. Don't hurry. Cover your man before you pull your trigger. Take it easy, my boy, take it easy, and your cartridges will last the longer." This man fought effectively.

Close-up of fallen young Confederate at Antietam.
(Alexander Gardner | Library of Congress)
During the day I had learned to look up to this excellent soldier, and lean on him. Toward evening, as we were being slowly driven back to the Brock Road by Longstreet's men, we made a stand. I was behind a tree firing, with my rifle barrel resting on the stub of a limb. Will was standing by my side, but in the open. He, with a groan, doubled up and dropped on the ground at my feet. He looked up at me. His face was pale. He gasped for breath a few times, and then said, faintly: "That ends me. I am shot through the bowels." I said: "Crawl to the rear. We are not far from the intrench­ments along the Brock Road; I saw him sit up, and indistinctly saw him reach for his rifle, which had fallen from his hands as he fell. Again I spoke to him, urging him to go to the rear. He looked at me and said impatiently: "I tell you that I am as good as dead. There is no use in fooling with me. I shall stay here." Then he pitched forward dead, shot again and through the head. We fell back before Long­street's soldiers and left Will lying in a windrow of dead men.

 When we got into the Brock Road intrenchments, a man a few files to my left dropped dead, shot just above the right eye. He did not groan, or sigh, or make the slightest physical movement, except that his chest heaved a few times. The life went out of his face instantly, leaving it without a particle of expression. It was plastic, and, as the facial muscles con­tracted, it took many shapes. When this man's body became cold, and his face hard­ened, it was horribly distorted, as though he had suffered intensely. Any person, who had not seen him killed, would have said that he had endured supreme agony before death re­leased him. A few minutes after he fell, an­other man, a little farther to the left, fell with apparently a precisely similar wound. He was straightened out and lived for over an hour. He did not speak. Simply lay on his back, and his broad chest rose and fell, slowly at first, and then faster and faster, and more and more feebly, until he was dead. And his face hardened, and it was almost terrifying in its painful distortion.

I have seen dead soldiers' faces which were wreathed in smiles, and heard their comrades say that they had died happy. I do not believe that the face of a dead soldier, lying on a battle-field, ever truthfully indicates the mental or physical anguish, or peacefulness of mind, which he suffered or enjoyed before his death. The face is plastic after death, and as the facial muscles cool and contract, they draw the face into many shapes. Sometimes the dead smile, again they stare with glassy eyes, and lolling tongues, and dreadfully distorted visages at you. It goes for nothing. One death was as painless as the other.

Skulls and bones of unburied soldiers in the Wilderness in 1865. (Library of Congress)

After Longstreet's soldiers had driven the Second Corps into their intrenchments along the Brock Road, a battle-exhausted infantry­man stood behind a large oak tree. His back rested against it. He was very tired, and held his rifle loosely in his hand. The Confederates were directly in our front. This soldier was apparently in perfect safety. A solid shot from a Confederate gun struck the oak tree squarely about four feet from the ground; but it did not have sufficient force to tear through the tough wood. The soldier fell dead. There was not a scratch on him. He was killed by concussion.

While we were fighting savagely over these intrenchments the woods in our front caught fire, and I saw many of our wounded burned to death. Must they not have suffered horribly? I am not at all sure of that. The smoke rolled heavily and slowly before the fire. It enveloped the wounded, and I think that by far the larger portion of the men who were roasted were suffocated before the flames curled round them. The spectacle was courage-sapping and pitiful, and it appealed strongly to the imagination of the spectators; but I do not believe that the wounded soldiers, who were being burned, suf­fered greatly, if they suffered at all.

Wounded soldiers, it mattered not how slight the wounds, generally hastened away from the battle lines. A wound entitled a man to go to the rear and to a hospital. Of course there were many exceptions to this rule, as there would necessarily be in battles where from twenty thousand to thirty thousand men were wounded. I frequently saw slightly wounded men who were marching with their colors. I personally saw but two men wounded who continued to fight.

During the first day's fighting in the Wilderness I saw a youth of about twenty years skip and yell, stung by a bullet through the thigh. He turned to limp to the rear. After he had gone a few steps he stopped, then he kicked out his leg once or twice to see if it would work. Then he tore the clothing away from his leg so as to see the wound. He looked at it attentively for an in­stant, then kicked out his leg again, then turned and took his place in the ranks and resumed firing. There was considerable disorder in the line, and the soldiers moved to and fro-now a few feet to the right, now a few feet to the left. One of these movements brought me directly behind this wounded soldier.

Skulls and bones inside Federal lines near Orange Plank Road in the Wilderness, (Library of Congress)
I could see plainly from that position, and I pushed into the gaping line and began firing. In a minute or two the wounded soldier dropped his rifle, and, clasping his left arm, exclaimed: "I am hit again!" He sat down behind the battle ranks and tore off the sleeve of his shirt. The wound was very slight-not much more than skin deep. He tied his handkerchief around it, picked up his rifle, and took position alongside of me. I said: "You are fighting in bad luck to-day. You had better get away from here." He turned his head to answer me. His head jerked, he staggered, then fell, then regained his feet. A tiny fountain of blood and teeth and bone and bits of tongue burst out of his mouth. He had been shot through the jaws; the lower one was broken and hung down. I looked directly into his open mouth, which was ragged and bloody and tongueless. He cast his rifle furiously on the ground and staggered off.

The next day, just before Longstreet's sol­diers made their first charge on the Second Corps, I heard the peculiar cry a stricken man utters as the bullet tears through his flesh. I turned my head, as I loaded my rifle, to see who was hit. I saw a bearded Irishman pull up his shirt. He had been wounded in the left side just below the floating ribs. His face was gray with fear. The wound looked as though it were mortal. He looked at it for an instant, then poked it gently with his index finger. He flushed redly, and smiled with satisfaction. He tucked his shirt into his trousers, and was fight­ing in the ranks again before I had capped my rifle. The ball had cut a groove in his skin only. The play of this Irishman's face was so expressive, his emotions changed so quickly, that I could not keep from laughing.

Cropped enlargement of an image of a Union field hospital at Savage Station, Va. (Library of Congress)
Near Spottsylvania I saw, as my battery was moving into action, a group of wounded men lying in the shade cast by some large oak trees. All of these men's faces were gray. They si­lently looked at us as we marched past them. One wounded man, a blond giant of about forty years, was smoking a short briar-wood pipe. He had a firm grip on the pipe-stem. I asked him what he was doing. "Having my last smoke, young fellow," he replied. His dauntless blue eyes met mine, and he bravely tried to smile. I saw that he was dying fast. Another of these wounded men was trying to read a letter. He was too weak to hold it, or maybe his sight was clouded. He thrust it unread into the breast pocket of his blouse, and lay back with a moan. This group of wounded men numbered fifteen or twenty. At the time, I thought that all of them were fatally wound­ed, and that there was no use in the surgeons wasting time on them, when men who could be saved were clamoring for their skillful atten­tion.

None of these soldiers cried aloud, none called on wife, or mother, or father. They lay on the ground, pale-faced, and with set jaws, waiting for their end. They moaned and groaned as they suffered, but none of them flunked. When my battery returned from the front, five or six hours afterward, almost all of these men were dead. Long before the cam­paign was over I concluded that dying soldiers seldom called on those who were dearest to them, seldom conjured their Northern on South­ern homes, until they became delirious. Then, when their minds wandered, and fluttered at the approach of freedom, they babbled of their homes. Some were boys again, and were fish­ing in Northern trout streams. Some were gen­erals leading their men to victory. Some were with their wives and children. Some wandered over their family's homestead; but all, with rare exceptions, were delirious.

Union wounded at Fredericksburg in 1864. (Library of Congress)
At the North Anna River, my battery being in action, an infantry soldier, one of our sup­ports, who was lying face downward close be­hind the gun I served on, and in a place where he thought he was safe, was struck on the thighs by a large jagged piece of a shell. The wound made by this fragment of iron was as horrible as any I saw in the army. The flesh of both thighs was torn off, exposing the bones. The soldier bled to death in a few minutes, and be­fore he died he conjured his Northern home, and murmured of his wife and children.

In the same battle, but on the south side of the river, a man who carried a rifle was passing between the guns and caissons of the battery. A solid shot, intended for us, struck him on the side. His entire bowels were torn out and slung in ribbons and shreds on the ground. He fell dead, but his arms and legs jerked con­vulsively a few times. It was a sickening spec­tacle. During this battle I saw a Union picket knocked down, probably by a rifle-ball striking his head and glancing from it. He lay as though dead. Presently he struggled to his feet, and with blood streaming from his head, he staggered aimlessly round and round in a circle, as sheep afflicted with grubs in the brain do. Instantly the Confederate sharp-shooters opened fire on him and speedily killed him as he circled.

Wounded soldiers almost always tore their clothing away from their wounds, so as to see them and to judge of their character. Many of them would smile and their faces would bright­en as they realized that they were not hard hit, and that they could go home for a few months. Others would give a quick glance at their wounds and then shrink back as from a blow, and turn pale, as they realized the truth that they were mortally wounded. The enlisted men were exceedingly accurate judges of the probable result which would ensue from any wound they saw. They had seen hundreds of soldiers wounded, and they had noticed that certain wounds always resulted fatally. They knew when they were fatally wounded, and after the shock of discovery had passed, they generally braced themselves and died in a man­ly manner. It was seldom that an American or Irish volunteer flunked in the presence of death.


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SOURCES

-- Helena (Mont.) Weekly Herald, Dec. 30, 1886.
-- Philadelphia Times, Dec. 19, 1886.
-- The Baltimore Sun, Dec. 23, 1886.

Thursday, March 15, 2018

Video: Why you're far from solitude in the Wilderness


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Some of the most vicious fighting of the Civil War took place near the intersection of Orange Plank and Brock roads during the Battle of the Wilderness on May 5-6, 1864. But on the morning of my visit, it was difficult to contemplate the momentous events that happened here long ago. Watch to see why.

Tuesday, January 30, 2018

In black and white, Morris Schaff's Wilderness 'Wonderland'

The Wilderness, near where Confederate General Leroy Stafford was mortally wounded.
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Morris Schaff
Inspired by my friend Noel Harrison's blog post on The Battle of the Wilderness by Civil War veteran Morris Schaff, I recently purchased an original copy of the book on eBay (10 bucks!). The author -- a 23-year-old aide to V Corps commander Gouvernuer K. Warren during the battle -- took an unusual approach in his 345-page work, published in 1910.

"Schaff’s text," Harrison noted, "swerved back and forth from the conventional to the unconventional, from straightforward terrain and tactics analysis to supernatural interventions. In 1911, a reviewer for The Nation spent several column inches trying to finalize his thoughts about Schaff and concluded, 'We applaud the writer who, while framing a military treatise, can at the same time make it a new ‘Alice in Wonderland.’ ”

Decades after the fighting at the Wilderness, Schaff visited the old battleground, collecting details for his book, the first published solely about the brutal battle fought May 5-6, 1864. Paired with present-day images, here are some of Schaff's vivid, and eloquent, descriptions of that mysterious place -- a battlefield he called a "vast sea ... of dense forest."


'A CHOPPY SEA'


   PANORAMA: An undulating battlefield. (Click at upper right for full-screen experience.)

"Where the battle was fought, which is at about the heart of the Wilderness ... the surface of the ground resembles a choppy sea more than anything else. There, like waves, it will heave, sometime gradually and sometimes briskly, into ridges that all at once will drop and break in several directions. Soon recovering itself, off it will go again, smoothly ascending or descending for a while, then suddenly pile up and repeat what it did before, namely fall into narrow swales and shallow swamps where willows and alders of one kind and another congregate, all tied together irrevocably by a round, bright-green bamboo-like vine."


'LONELY PLACES'


The Higgerson Farm, one of the few clearings in the Wilderness.
"The clearings throughout the Wilderness ... are few and small. Many of them are deserted, and their old fields preempted by briars, sassafras, dwarf young pines and broom, beneath whose dun, lifeless tops the rabbits, and now and then a flock of quail, make their winter homes. There are several of these little clearings in the battlefield, but the lines so ran in reference to them that they did not allow artillery of either army to play a part. These lonely places are connected with one another and the roads by paths that are very dim and very deceitful to a stranger. Their real destination is known only to the natives, and the lank cattle that roam the woods, getting a blade here and a blade there, oftentimes up to their knees in the swales and swamps for a tuft. The lonely kling-klang-klung of their bells on a May morning is pensively sweet to hear."


SAUNDERS FIELD: 'NATURE ... OUT OF HUMOR'


Saunders Field, scene of brutal fighting on May 5, 1864.
"The field was known as the Saunders or Palmer field, and was about eight hundred yards long north and south, and four hundred yards wide. It was about the only open, sunshiny spot along the four and a half to seven or eight miles of our battle-line, if we include Hancock's entrenchments down the Brock Road. The last crop of the old field had been corn and among its stubble that day were sown the seeds of glory. The woods were thick all around the field, but the ground east and north of it, in the angle between the Pike and Flat Run Road, was very broken, its low lumpy ridges cradling a network of marshy places, the birthplace of mute lonely branches of Caton's Run, and everywhere crowded with cedars and stunted pines. In truth, I know of no place in the Wilderness where nature seemed more out of humor than right here in the making of it."


'SECRETS OF BUTCHERING HAPPENINGS'


PANORAMA: Present-day Wilderness. (Click at upper right for full-screen experience.)

" ... as I walked through the woods last May, looking for the old lines, more than once I halted with the feeling that some spectral figure, one of those thousands who fell there, would appear suddenly and ask me where he might find his regiment. As a proof of the savage and unexpected encounterings, a line of skeletons was found just after he war, half-covered in the drifting leaves, where some command, Northern or Southern, met with a volley like that of the Forty-fifth North Carolina, from an unseen foe. It is the holding of the secrets of butchering happenings like these, and its air of surprised and wild curiosity in whoever penetrates the solitude and breaks its grim, immeasurable silence, that gives the Wilderness, I think, its deep and evoking interest."


'MORE BLOOD MINGLED WITH THE LEAVES'


The steps of Ellwood, headquarters for Gouvernuer Warren and where Schaaf served as aide to the general.
"The Lacy farm is a part of a once large domain known as Elkwood [Ellwood], and has what in its day was a stately homestead. Its fields, leaning against a ridge, all face the morning sun. The two runs, Wilderness and Caton's, may well be called Warrior Runs, for at their cradles and along their voiceless banks more men lost their lives, and more blood mingled with the leaves that fall around them, than along any two runs in our country ..."

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Monday, January 01, 2018

Gordon Rhea's passions: Overland Campaign and writing

Of Gordon Rhea's five Overland Campaign books, his Cold Harbor work is the only one MIA in my library.

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At a dinner with a Civil War expert last summer, I asked him for a scouting report on Gordon Rhea, whose excellent book on the Battle of the Wilderness, first published in 1994, I had just completed. (I read slowly.) "Great guy ... extremely knowledgeable ... attorney ... terrific battlefield guide ... down to earth," he told me. He emphasized the down-to-earth description.

Gordon Rhea
During a recent road trip to Antietam and South Mountain, I caught up with Rhea on Civil War Talk Radio podcasts here and here. In the November 2017 podcast, the 72-year-old historian discussed with host Gerald Prokopowicz his fifth and final Overland Campaign book, On To Petersburg, Grant and Lee June 4-15, 1864. (If you're not counting, that's 2,506 pages by Rhea on the most crucial period of the war.)

I was impressed with the well-spoken Rhea's knowledge and especially by his passion for writing. That's no accident. 

"When I was in college," he told me via e-mail, "the professor who guided me in writing my history honors thesis insisted on a clear and interesting writing style. I have taken to heart his admonition that history must be interesting to read, or no one will read it."

In an e-mail Q&A for my blog, Rhea also writes of the battlefield spot he finds most moving, his hope the National Park Service and relic hunters can work with each other, the greatest myth about the Overland Campaign and more.



Winslow Homer's "Skirmish in the Wilderness" evokes the "dark mood of a confused battle," Rhea says.

Winslow Homer's painting "Skirmish In the Wilderness," in the collection of the New Britain (Conn.) Museum of American Art, appears on the cover of your first Overland Campaign book, The Battle of the Wilderness, May 5-6, 1864. Why was that chosen, and what reaction do you have when you see it?

Rhea: For each of my books, I have tried to select art by a painter of the Civil War generation who best captured the mood of the narrative, Winslow Homer's painting of the Wilderness fighting certainly meets that objective. It evokes the dark mood of a confused battle in a thick woodland where neither soldiers nor generals knew where the enemy might be, a battle of ghostly figures against ghostly figures.

For my book about Spotsylvania Court House, I chose Julian Scott's painting of the death of General John Sedgwick, who was killed by a Confederate sharpshooter. Like Homer, Scott served during the Civil War, and his painting evokes an authentic contemporary mood.

Finding a painting for my book about the North Anna River proved more difficult, as no artists who had experienced the Civil War chose that battle for a painting. However, a modern artist in Fredericksburg -- Donna J. Neary -- painted an excellent piece entitled "Even to Hell Itself" depicting Lieutenant Colonel Charles L. Chandler trying to rally his troops during General James H. Ledlie's ill-fated attack at Ox Ford. Ms. Neary courteously permitted me to use her fine piece for my cover.

For my Cold Harbor book, I returned to Julian Scott, this time using his painting of Theodore Lyman attempting to deliver a message across enemy lines to facilitate the removal of dead and wounded soldiers from the Cold Harbor battlefield.

As with my North Anna book, I could find no paintings of the movement across the James River and the initial assault toward Petersburg. An impressive black-and-white image is an 1897 drawing by Benjamin West Clinedinst depicting Grant watching the Army of the Potomac crossing the James. The drawing appeared in Horace Porter's Campaigning With Grant, and LSU Press used modern technology to colorize if for my cover.

From left, generals James Wadsworth, John Sedgwick and J.E.B.Stuart. Each died from battle wounds.

In your Wilderness book, I was fascinated by the story of the death of Union General James Wadsworth, who was shot in the head and died behind Confederate lines. Of the deaths of soldiers you have told in your books, which story resonates most with you?

Rhea: The story of Wadsworth's death is certainly moving, as are the circumstances of John Sedgwick's death. Perhaps the most heart-rending deathbed scene is that of Jeb Stuart, who was brought back to Richmond following his mortal wounding at Yellow Tavern and died before his wife could reach his side.

Given the access to materials online today, how is the research process different for you for your most recent book compared with the process for your first Overland Campaign book published in 1994?

Rhea: I began working on my Wilderness book in 1986. Then, of course, there were no online resources, so I spent considerable time traveling around the country visiting archives and gathering material. Bob Krick at the Fredericksburg and Spotsylvania National Military Park had done a wonderful job collecting primary sources, and I spent several days working through that treasure trove of information. I also received assistance from researchers such as Bryce Suderow, who introduced me to the world of Civil War-era newspapers. Back then, they were accessible only through microfilm or in the jurisdictions where they had been published.

The Internet has eased the difficulty of researching somewhat, although not entirely. Many Civil War-era newspapers are now online, as are older books and some letters and diaries. While many major repositories have put indexes online, to see the actual documents you generally have to visit the repositories. In short, researching the Civil War still requires lots of travel.

 Higgerson Farm, one of the few clearings in the Wilderness. "One cannot fathom the true nature
 of a battle without walking the ground," Gordon Rhea says.
                  WILDERNESS PANORAMA: Where Vermont Brigade made its stand.
                                     (Click at upper right for full-screen experience.)


You believe it's essential to walk the ground of a battlefield before writing about the fighting there. Tell us about that. 


Rhea: One cannot fathom the true nature of a battle without walking the ground. The lay of the land explains much about what happened and what did not happen. Years ago, I led a tour of the Wilderness battlefield for the U.S. Army's Training and Doctrine Command. My audience included veterans of Vietnam and of the first Gulf War. After the tour, we gathered around a table and talked about the differences and similarities between modern warfare and warfare in the 1860s. The modern-day warriors were most impressed with the difficulty of managing and maneuvering Civil War armies. Without aerial observations or electronic communications, it was impossible to know if the enemy was 50 miles away or just over the next ridge. And with battle lines stretching for miles, precious minutes -- even hours -- were consumed getting important information to headquarters and receiving instructions back from headquarters. These modern warriors were very impressed that Civil War commanders were able to get anything right with such primitive intelligence gathering and communications systems.

Post-war image looking from Bloody Angle, the battlefield spot that "always moves"
 Gordon Rhea, toward the McCoull farm.

Of the major Overland Campaign battlefields, I find Cold Harbor to be the most haunting, especially where the 2nd Connecticut Heavy Artillery fought. Is there a place on any of the battlefields you have written about that "haunts" you?

Rhea: The Bloody Angle at Spotsylvania Court House always moves me. This was the scene of the war's most vicious, prolonged, face-to-face intense combat. Several years ago, I wrote a book entitled Carrying The Flag that told the story of Charles Whilden, who carried the flag of the 1st South Carolina during the Confederate counter-offensive to retake that stretch of earthworks. I can't help thinking about Charles, an aging conscript who suffered from epilepsy, whenever I visit the site.

Rhea says relic hunters were "very useful"
 to him at 
the Wilderness. 
The old-timers who live near battlefields -- relic hunters and the like -- often are a rich source of information. Did any provide you with information that aided your storytelling and how were they helpful?

Rhea: I have found relic hunters to be very useful, particularly at the Wilderness battlefield. The only way to accurately determine the position of the various lines in much of that dense woods is to find relics from the battle. Much of the battlefield is outside National Park Service property, and I have spent many hours with relic hunters who showed me where they had determined the battle lines to have been based on the unexpended ammunition (often dropped by soldiers firing and loading as quickly as they could) and expended rounds. I wish that the Park Service could reach an accommodation with relic hunters, permitting them onto NPS lands on designated days on the condition that they share with the park the identity and location of their finds. Seems to me that both parties would benefit from such an arrangement.

What's the greatest misconception about the Overland Campaign?

Rhea: That Ulysses Grant was a butcher who never maneuvered, and that Robert E. Lee possessed the extraordinary ability to accurately predict Grant's next move. As my five books on the campaign demonstrate in detail, Grant relied on a mix of attacks and maneuvers to bring his wily adversary to bay, and Lee frequently misjudged Grant's next move, often putting his army in peril.

Ulysses Grant and
Robert E. Lee.
Excellent narrative storytelling is difficult. Describe your writing process.

Rhea: It takes a long time and is very painful. I prepare folders for each brigade involved in the battle that I am writing about, and put in each folder excerpts from the pertinent published material, such as regimental histories, memoirs, and newspaper accounts, as well as archival material, including letters, diary entries and the like. From that I can construct what happened, who attacked whom, and what it was like to be there. I write on a computer, so I am able to insert new material as I find it as I go along. Unlike some authors, I cannot get it right the first time. I do multiple drafts, and once I am finished, I print out the chapters and read them both single-spaced and double-spaced, working to get the language right. When I was in college, the professor who guided me in writing my history honors thesis insisted on a clear and interesting writing style. I have taken to heart his admonition that history must be interesting to read, or no one will read it.

Of the books you have written on the Overland Campaign, which one do you step back and say, "Dang, I really nailed that one"? And why is that?

Rhea: I have enjoyed them all. When I began writing about the Overland Campaign, I ventured into uncharted territory. There was only one modern book on the Wilderness (Ed Steers' piece) and none about Spotsylvania, the North Anna, Cold Harbor or the movement to the James River.

If you could ask Ulysses Grant or Robert E. Lee one question about the Overland Campaign, what would it be?

Rhea: I would ask each of them if, knowing what we now know, would they have fought their campaign differently. Would Lee still have tried to hold the line of the Rapidan River, or would Grant now wish he had followed the strategy that he initially advocated -- to first sever Lee's supply lines by advancing from the coast into North Carolina, then pursue Lee as he retired, most likely westward? Also, I would very much like to know Grant's candid opinion whether he would have wanted someone other than George Meade commanding the Army of the Potomac, and someone other than Benjamin Butler commanding the Army of the James.

Finally, what is the greatest void in Civil War writing today?

Rhea: While much has been written about battles, there is still much to be said about the home fronts. We have seen some excellent recent studies of the impact of the war on home life in the Confederacy, but I can't recall any modern studies about how the families of soldiers from the North fared and evolved.


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