Sline Archive

Letters to the Editor

Subj: View Our New Battlefield Preservation Opportunities

From: cwpt@civilwar.org

3 Great New Battlefield Preservation Opportunities

As the nation’s leading Civil War battlefield preservation organization we have remained busy looking for new opportunities to save our historic battlefields throughout the country.

We are excited to announce that we have, not one, but three new opportunities for you to consider:

• Save Tupelo
  
• Save Natural Bridge
  
• Save Parker’s Cross Roads

Parker’s Cross Roads, Tennessee

On December 31, 1862, Nathan Bedford Forrest, after surrounding a smaller Union force near Parker’s Cross Roads is suddenly confronted with a new threat to his rear. “General Forrest, what shall we do? “Charge ‘em both ways!”  Help us add another 4.5 acres to this historic Tennessee battlefield  $2 to $1 match on all donations

Tupelo, Mississippi

At the Tupelo, Mississippi, 14,000 marauding Yankees would face repeated assaults by Forrest’s cavalrymen and Stephen D. Lee’s infantry. With great ferocity each assault was beaten back with heavy casualties… one of them being Nathan Bedford Forrest himself.  Help us save 12 acres of the Second Day battlefield     $2 to $1 match on all donations

Natural Bridge, Florida

March 6, 1865: In a day-long engagement, the Confederates under Major General Samuel Jones repulsed three major attacks by USCT troops near the crossing at Natural Bridge and forced the Union expedition to return to its fleet. Thus, the state capital of Tallahassee was kept out of Union hands. Help us save 55 acres at this Florida Civil War battlefield   Every donated dollar is matched $170 to $1 (that’s no typo)

As always, we are grateful for every dollar you can donate in these difficult times.  More Than 25,000 Acres Save

CIVIL WAR PRESERVATION TRUST,  1331 H Street N.W., Suite 1001, Washington D.C. 2005 | phone (202) 367-1861, www.civilwar.org | Change newsletter preferences/unsubscribe

Book Review -A book review by Diane and David Clark

“We thrashed our way out of the thicket atop a promontory many rods short of the cow path.  From there, we could see a mass of our men, pushed by advancing fire to the very brow of the bluff. They hesitated there, and then, of a sudden, seemed to move as one, like a herd of beasts stampeded. Men rolled, leaped, stumbled over the edge. The drop is steep: some ninety feet of staggered scarps plunging to the river…. I crawled to the edge of the promontory and dangled from my hands before dropping hard onto a narrow ledge all covered with black walnuts.” –Mr. March’s description of Ball’s Bluff, October 21, 1861.

If you’ve read or even seen a film version of the much beloved classic American novel Little Women by Louisa May Alcott, you know that it is, among other things, the story of the impact of the Civil War on a tight-knit New England family. You may have wondered what the literary family’s high-minded father was doing when “Marmee” is unexpectedly called away to Washington DC with news of her husband’s grave illness. Well, wonder no more, Geraldine Brooks has answered that question in her brilliant novel, entitled March, the name of the father of the famous “little women”.

March is the story of a New England abolitionist, vegetarian and chaplain, who on October 21, 1861 finds himself barely surviving the horrendous defeat at Ball’s Bluff, when the Union troops are forced off the cliffs and into the cold swift currents of the Potomac by the Confederates. As Ms Brooks says, “I choose to put Mr. March in the battle of Ball’s Bluff simply because the terrain of that small but terrible engagement lies just a few miles from my Virginia home, and because many soldiers from Massachusetts first ‘saw the elephant’ there.”

The character of Mr. March is based on Louisa May Alcott’s father, the transcendentalist philosopher, A. Bronson Alcott.  As Louisa May Alcott modeled the March girls on herself (she, of course is Jo), so Geraldine Brooks employed the journals, letters and biographies of Alcott’s father Bronson as a basis for the main character in her novel. In flashbacks there are scenes from before the War, with Thoreau, Emerson and the New England Underground Railroad. The March house and Marmee are the driving force in one of the stops on the way to Canada and freedom for escaped slaves. This activity was against the law and a very dangerous game to play, with armed bounty hunters coming north to reclaim their “property.”

Bronson Alcott was a radical, even by the yardstick of nineteenth century New England, which was a hotbed of new ideas, from reappraising the nature of God to the dietary benefits of graham crackers.  Our Mr. March is a stubborn idealist and radical who often finds himself in opposition to the Union soldiers to whom he is chaplain.

One of the most striking sections of the book takes place at Oak Landing, a historical experiment in privately leased cotton plantations that employed former slaves, “contrabands”, to raise cotton in the Deep South. This portion of the book is based on Thomas W. Knox’s Camp-Fire and Cotton Field, with its tragic ending of a raid and destruction by outlaw Confederate raiders.

Well researched, March is a fascinating read and the author has used many primary sources to present a realistic and compelling novel of the Civil War. Geraldine Brooks became interested in the Civil War while exploring battlefields large and small with her husband, Tony Horowitz. Horowitz is the author of the well-known memoir Confederates in the Attic, and an extreme Civil War buff.

How Do I Pronounce this word

(Source: Civil War Spoken Here by Robert D. Quigley)

Finis -( FIE-nis ) as in Jefferson Finis Davis, President of the Confederate States of America. 

Jefferson Davis was born in Kentucky in June 1808, the tenth child of Samuel and Jane Davis. The oldest child, Joseph, was already in college when Jefferson Davis was born. Jane Davis was forty-seven years old at the time of the birth, and it was perhaps a combination of whimsy and resolve that prompted Samuel to give the child the middle name “Finis.” Finis in Latin means “the end,” “the conclusion.” Samuel chose Jefferson for the boy’s first name, in honor of Thomas Jefferson, who was then serving in the White House.

Many people upon seeing this peculiar middle name pronounce it FEE-NEE. This is probably because they’ve seen a few foreign films made in France. When a French motion picture finally concludes (quite often with the enthusiastic support of its American audience) the word “finis” appears on the screen, or at least it used to. “Finis” in French means the same thing it does in Latin, the language they borrowed it from. However, the French pronounce it their own inimitable way. Since we are much more exposed to French, a language still in wide use, than to spoken Latin (even the Catholic Church dropped it), we automatically assume the “finis” is pronounced with a silent’s.’ Had we all been exposed to motion pictures with a Latin soundtrack this problem would not exist! But even a Latin soundtrack would not help with Jefferson Davis’ middle name. In Latin the name Finis would be pronounced FEE-nis. The traditional Southern pronunciation of the name, however, makes it part of a language all its own.

Coming Attractions SDCWRT

Classified Ads

Bill Hanchett has a number of issues of Civil War Times Illustrated and other magazines….Please contact Dave Tooley if interested. 

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Daughters of Union Veterans of the Civil War, 1861-1865 – Nancy Hanks Lincoln Tent No. 5. Congressionally Chartered. Direct lineal descendent of a union veteran required. Age 8 and up. Contact Pres. Louise Jefferis at 858/274-3790, ajefferis@compuserve.com or Marilyn Steber at 619/222-6493, marilynsteber@yahoo.com.

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Sons of Union Veterans of the Civil War (SUVCW) – Sgt. William Pittenger Camp 21. Direct or collateral descent from a Union veteran. Associate members welcome. Contact David E. Allyn, 619-561-8581, email svrsuvcw@yahoo.com

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Sons of Confederate Veterans of the Civil War (SCVCW) - Father A. J. Ryan Camp 302. Direct or collateral descent from a Confederate veteran.  Contact Adjutant Stu Hoffman at 619/447-7619.

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United Daughters of the Confederacy, Stonewall Jackson Chapter #476, accepts members whose ancestors (direct or collateral) fought for the Confederate States of America and any other Ladies with Southern Sympathies. For more information, call Davenia Cray at 619-444-3878.

May Program

Union Col. Abel Streight Brevetted Brig. General Commander "Lightning Mule Brigade"

On Wednesday May 20, 2009 at 7:30 pm the SDCWRT will hold its 273rd meeting at Palisades Presbyterian Church, 6301 Birchwood St. San Diego, CA 92120.

SDCWRT member Gene Armistead will present “Equines of the Civil War. Gene will be covering all facets of the horse family and how they served in the Civil War. They bore the battle and suffered more than humans; being fed little, starved most times, and were the unsung heros of the war.

April Meeting by Travis Fuqua

Pedro Garcia’s presentation “Lee, Stuart, and the Road to Perdition” from April 15, 2009

Pedro Garcia

April’s presentation was about a somewhat controversial topic, J. E. B. “Jeb” Stuart and how his actions affected the Battle of Gettysburg. Stuart has long been a controversial figure. In the spring of 1863 General Lee told the Confederate government that the best military policy was for the Confederacy to become the aggressor and take the war to Federal soil. In order to accomplish his goal, Lee had to first march through the Virginian mountain and remain undetected long enough to position his army. Not long before Lee was due to depart, Federal cavalry caught Confederate cavalry off guard at Brandy Station in northern Virginia. General Stuart was successful in getting the Federal army to quit the field, but he won at a great cost. Not only did he lose many men, but he was humiliated for being surprised and he was constantly under attack by the Confederate press.

Pedro Garcia presenting "Lee, Stuart, and the Road to Perdition"

After his surprise at Brandy Station, Stuart was placed in charge of protecting Lee’s army from Federal forces as they crossed the Potomac River into Maryland. Stuart did well in this capacity and the Federal army lost track of Lee for nine days until he was in Pennsylvania. Lee’s orders for Stuart are a source of speculation as Lee told Stuart to guard the Confederate army and to later cross the Potomac River and then meet with General Ewell’s right flank in Federal territory. The controversy in Lee’s orders is over the route that Stuart should have taken as there seems to have been ambiguity. Since Stuart was in search of glory and rehabilitating his reputation after Brandy Creek, he decided to march east through the lines of the Federal army and then go through Maryland and meet with Confederate forces in Pennsylvania. His route to the east was contrary to what Lee had intended him to do.

Stuart and his three brigades left Salem, Virginia on June 25, 1863, but he soon met the south east part of the Federal army under General Hancock. This forced him to the east even more and Lee was without both cavalry and the ability to scout Maryland. Upon meeting and defeating Hancock at Haymarket, Stuart sent a portion of his cavalry after him, but when that detachment later came back to meet Stuart, he was gone. The detachment then assumed that Stuart had gone to the northwest across the Blue Ridge Mountains as Lee had and they left in that direction. Stuart, meanwhile, had crossed into Maryland and captured a Federal wagon train, consisting of 125 wagons laden with supplies and mule teams near Rockville. Soon after, Stuart came dangerously close to the City of Washington, but did not enter on account of his tired horses. As Stuart continued through Maryland, he added to the supplies, but the slow mule teams and the long wagon train turned into a hindrance as it halved the distance that Stuart could travel in a day and stretched out his forces. On June 30th, Stuart met Federal cavalry in Hanover, Pennsylvania and was defeated and retreated to Dover, which he reached on July 1st as the Battle of Gettysburg began. Stuart then went north to Carlisle, Pennsylvania, hoping to find Ewell there and reunite with him as per Lee’s orders, but he found out that Lee was thirty miles to the south at Gettysburg. Stuart raced southward and arrived at Gettysburg on July 2nd. At Gettysburg, Stuart was supposed to help hold Confederate lines, but he was defeated by General Custer. The wagon train that had been a hindrance to Stuart proved useful in the retreat from Gettysburg.

Stuart was used as a scapegoat for the Confederate failure at Gettysburg and he was scolded heavily by General Lee, but he was never formally disciplined. Historians have often debated about the role that Stuart may or may not have played in the Battle of Gettysburg. In the end, Stuart was killed the following year. Mr. Garcia notes that he was more like a knight of the days of old than a modern general.

Bill Cooper presenting Speakers Award to Pedro Garcia

Monthly Featured Article

LIBBY AND HOW WE GOT OUT OF IT
(Part I)
(submitted by SDCWRT member Curtis Dryer – family papers )
BY
ALBERT WILLIAM BACHELER
Dartmouth 1871, First Lieutenant, Twelfth Regiment New Hampshire
Volunteers, in the War which kept the Union whole, a
Hero at Gettysburg, and of a daring escape from
Libby Prison, Soldier, Scholar, Teacher,
Friend – - – in everything modest – - In all things brave

We were on the lines between the James and Appomattox. Had been “bottled up” there with Butler early in ’64. At the time of which I write it is hard to tell which was getting the better of it — the “Johnnies” in trying to keep us and the cork in, or Butler in trying to get us and the cork out. Disinterested parties would doubtless have voted for the “Johnnies”. However, we and the rebs were making the best of situation, and daily, on the picket-lines between the hostile earthworks, you might have seen us making the usual exchange of coffee and salt for “terbac” or swapping “New York Tribune” and “Baltimore Americans” of yesterday for the “Richmond” morning sheets damp from the press.

Not a few of us struck passable sort of friendships in our stolen interviews with the rebs, if that could be called friendship, in which the interested parties stood ready to blaze away at each other on the slightest provocation. For all that, I never could see that euchre or whist, with “Johnnies” for “pardners” those pleasant autumn months, was any the less a game. It fact, it was about all the excitement we had. There is nothing a soldier dreads more than the monotony of camp-life. We were so long about it. We were all of us complaining of the humdrum of the “bottle” when the incidents of my story occurred. All the veteran regiments, except our own, the Twelfth New Hampshire, had been withdrawn from the Port Walthall front to reinforce Grant before Petersburg, and there places supplied by the greenest of all green troops, Pennsylvania regiments high up in the two hundreds. “Johnny reb” knew of the change almost as soon as ourselves, and very soon thereafter arranged the tea party of which I write.

The night of November 17, 1864 came still and moonlit. Pickets had been relieved at dusk, and the fresh guard had just settled ourselves for another of the quiet nights we had enjoyed so long, when at ten in the evening, with a preliminary volley that seemed to wake the dead, the rebs charged on the new troops on either flank of the Twelfth boys. They were off like sheep, and the “Johnnies” closing in our rear coolly began to blaze away at us at point-blank range. The game was up, there was no dodging that, for they out-numbered us ten to one, and before we knew it forty-six of us were “gobbled” without waiting to hear any objections on our part. Over the rebel breastworks we were hustled and there disarmed; all overcoats and good hats or boot being especially contraband. By a sheltered path we reached a wood near the Richmond & Petersburg Railroad, where we were told to cut wood and start a fire if we wished. Minus the warm overcoats and blankets of “Uncle Sam”, none of us objected to the moderate exercise necessary for a night’s supply of fuel, nor to the diversion that was afforded by the labor to our somewhat unsettled thoughts. No amount of vigorous swinging of the axe nor cracking of stale jokes seemed to put a very cherry glow over the outlook, and it was amusing to notice the sickliness that pervaded every attempt at a smile. Morning came, and after a breakfast of pea soup we were crowded aboard a freight car, and in a short hour found ourselves in Richmond. A rabble of boys and hoodlums followed us on our march through the city of a mile or more. The tramp was enlivened with jeers and greetings of the crowd, and off-hand insinuations at the dejected figures we presented. I recall, at this distance, only those whose intimate relations to the subject of rations caused them to make the profoundest impression on our minds. Here is a specimen: “Say, Yank, gib yer you choice, Libby House or Carstle Thunder, both right smart hotels, I reckon, fare high, ‘ropean plan, sah;” or, “Hey Yank, beant yer hungery? Jis you waint, sah, bes uf fodder comin’, sah”. These and other kindly touches compelled us, despite our forlorn circumstances, to put on sickly grins that in their chilliness betoken no small lack of genuineness.

We soon reached our destination, a large two-story brick structure, with the ominous sign at one corner, Libby & Sons, Ship Chandlers and Grocers. In the lower room, popularly known as the “reception room” by our boys, we were left for that day and the succeeding night without food, and with only such opportunities for sleep as were afforded by the damp brick floor. Next morning we were ordered to “fall in”, strip ourselves, place our clothing on the floor before our feet, and wait our turn at being searched. Money, watches, and pocketknives were especially contraband, as being possible aids to an attempted escape through bribery of their own soldiers.

It would hardly be respectful to the gentle reader to relate the extremities to which we were put in concealing these obnoxious articles; it is enough to remind him that though Yankee ingenuity was taxed to its utmost, it was, in most cases, equal to the occasion, despite some temporary inconvenience at one or another part of the body caused by unwonted burdens. Our next move was to the second story of the building, to which we were conducted by a tall, gaunt Virginian named Pryor. This man in ante-bellum times had been a note “whip” amount the plantation slave-drivers “down ther in Henraker” and in that apprenticeship had been well trained for the duties of prison keeper.

Never shall I forget the sight that met our gaze as we entered. Several hundred haggard countenances, in every degree of emaciation, were upturned in answering stare. In the universal filth and squalor it was hard to recognize in the creatures before us comrades once as well fed and cleanly clad as ourselves. The telltale blue, that here and there appeared through the dirt, was a silent though convincing witness. Instantly we were surrounded by eager inquiries, —our regiment, how we were captured, what Grant was at over there by Petersburg, had we heard any talk about an exchange of prisoners, did we bring a spare hardtack; those and hundreds more were the questions we tried to answer. Meanwhile a drum had called us into line for breakfast. The meal was served at ten each morning and always consisted of a standard dish — the refuse of Richmond markets —bones, bits of beef, pork, and mutton, indiscriminately mixed, were first boiled in large kettles, cut into bits of three or four ounces each, and served with corn-meal bread, the regulation cut being four inches square and two inches thick. This bread was simply meal and water, without salt, and not unfrequently was sour on being served. My first piece of meat was a choice morsel of pork-rind, apparently fresh from the sty, and as I was not yet starved to such fodder, I threw it with some spite on the filth of the floor. “Never you dun mind”, said Pryor, “you’ll jes thank me fur its like, for yer out er thes yer.” The scrap was kick about and trampled for some time unobserved until a drummer boy of sixteen or so, captured by Moseby is the valley the summer before, caught sight of it, and before I could protest had devoured it will all its filth in evident relish. At four in the afternoon the drum called us to the same fare with this variation, that to the water in which the morning’s meat had been cooked, were added a few black beans, and more black bugs, and after cooking, a pint of the mixture was doled out to each prisoner. The ration of nutritious elements I this soup can best be estimated by the formula current among us Yanks for its manufacture. “Two beans and seven gallons of water if too rich add water seasoned with skippers!!”

With the soup the bread ration, like that of the morning, was served, and this without any variation constituted our supply of food. The day was cheerless enough in our crowded and filthy quarters, but the night was even worse, and would come upon us all too soon. There was small comfort in lying on the hard floor, crawling with vermin, while the searching December winds blew unchecked through the casements where once there was windows. With scanty clothing and no blankets there was nothing for it but to spend half the night in promenading the floor, or lying close packed, “spoon fashion”, to utilize what heat we might through contact with our neighbors. It is amusing; event at this late day, to recall the methods in use for relieving our stiffened muscles and aching joints. After a troubled sleep of two hours, someone, whose aches had passed the point of endurance, would sing out “Yanks, attention! Company right turn! March!” Woe to the unlucky dreamer who was tardy in his motion! Worse woe if, in the bewilderment of this first waking, he mistook the direction of his turn! No apologies were accepted, and he was at once compelled to sleep by himself until voted into the ranks again by the unanimous consent of all. So we passed the weary days, and still more wearing nights. We watched each other grow thinner, and paler, and more haggard. We saw the finer instincts of kindliness and good will die out into the universal selfishness that asserted itself under the guise of self-preservation. We saw, in not a few cases, reason dethroned. We saw some of these madmen, true to he one mastering instinct for food, gather the very vermin that had fastened on their emaciated bodies, and with these eke out their scanty fare. We saw despair with its black midnight taking possession of face after face. We saw the dead, day after day, carted off to unnamed graves. The only ray of sunshine was when the boys with the husky voices sang some of the old camp songs, and “Tenting Tonight”, or “John Brown’s Body”, or “Star Spangled Banner” rang out though the dingy halls. Once when we had reached the verse of “John Brown”, a council of war was held to settle the question of completing the song, and hanging “Jeff Davis to the sour apple tree”. It was decided to venture by a unanimous vote, and we were well on our way through the lines, when old Pryor burst into the room with an oath, and cried out, “Now jes be dun with tha’ cher, and no mo’ of it,” and at the same instant the guards would “blaze away” at the open windows with the evident design of reminding us where we were. No one was hit, however, and we were careful afterwards to omit all references to the obnoxious verse.
(to be continued next month)