Happy Independence Day, folks!
It is July 4. Two hundred and thirty-nine years ago today, a group of brave and determined men voted to approve a document, written by a young and brilliant Virginian, which declared the thirteen British colonies hugging the eastern coast of North America to be an independent nation. That day in Philadelphia is rightfully seen as our country's birthday.
Now, we spend a lot of time talking about what's wrong with our country and it is true that we have our fair share of problems. Yet on Independence Day, I think it's healthy to stop thinking about those things that trouble us about our country and consider instead what we love about it. So, here goes.
I love the Declaration of Independence, the Constitution, and the Bill of Rights. I love the Federalist Papers, the Anti-Federalist Papers, and the hundreds of beautiful letters that Thomas Jefferson and John Adams wrote to one another in retirement. I love the journals of Lewis and Clark. I love Abraham Lincoln's Gettysburg Address and Second Inaugural Address. I love the Thirteenth and Nineteenth Amendments. I love FDR's "Four Freedoms" speech, MLK's "I Have A Dream" speech, and the speech JFK gave at Rice University in which he declared that America chose to go to the Moon.
I love Mark Twain and Ernest Hemingway, F. Scott Fitzgerald and Harper Lee, Louisa May Alcott and Edgar Allan Poe. I love Ralph Waldo Emerson, Henry David Thoreau and Nathaniel Hawthorne. I love the poetry of Walt Whitman and Robert Frost. I love The Autobiography of Benjamin Franklin, Slaughterhouse-Five by Kurt Vonnegut, and On the Road by Jack Kerouac.
I love the Statue of Liberty (thanks, France!), the Liberty Bell, and Mount Rushmore. I love bald eagles and American bison. I love Mount Vernon and Monticello. I love the monuments and memorials around the National Mall in Washington D.C. I love the USS Constitution - "Old Ironsides" - launched in 1797 and still officially a commissioned warship in the United States Navy. I love the Space Needle in Seattle, the Empire State Building in New York City, and the Gateway Arch in St. Louis. I love the Art Deco architecture of Miami. I love the Golden Gate Bridge, the Brooklyn Bridge, and the thousands of small bridges one passes over while driving the back roads of our vast nation.
I love the cultural institutions of New York City: the Met Opera, the Metropolitan Museum of Art, the Museum of Modern Art, the Hayden Planetarium, and the musicals of Broadway. I love the museums of the Smithsonian in Washington D.C.: the National Air and Space Museum, the National Portrait Gallery, the National Museum of Natural History, and the National Museum of American History. I love the Boston Aquarium, the San Diego Zoo, the Houston Museum of Natural Science, and Chicago's Field Museum of Natural History. I love the Library of Congress.
I love the National Parks: Yellowstone, the Everglades, Yosemite, Acadia, Bryce Canyon, and all the rest. I love the national battlefields: Saratoga, Yorktown, Antietam, Gettysburg, and all the rest. I love Carlsbad Caverns and Mammoth Cave. I love the carefully preserved homes of historical figures and sites of historical events. I love the haunting stillness one can feel amid the ancient cliff dwellings at Mesa Verde National Park and Bandelier National Monument. I love the way the wind howls through "The Window" at Big Bend National Park.
I love NASA. I love the rovers wandering the surface of Mars, the Cassini probe in orbit around Saturn, and the plucky little New Horizons spacecraft that will fly past Pluto in just over a week. I love the two Voyager probes, still functioning decades after being launched and embarking on their lonely journey into the vastness of the Milky Way Galaxy. I love the beautiful photographs taken by the Hubble Space Telescope. I love the fact that the United States was the first nation to land human beings on the surface of another world (why aren't we sending anybody these days?).
I love Texas barbecue more than words can express. I love the breakfast tacos of Austin. I love locally brewed beer and locally distilled spirits in cities and towns all across this bountiful country. I love the overpriced hot dogs and pretzels at baseball stadiums. I love corny dogs at the Texas State Fair. I love the cabernet sauvignons of Napa and Sonoma County and the pinot noirs of Oregon and Washington. I love New York pizza and Massachusetts haddock. I love cheddar cheese from Vermont and colby cheese from Wisconsin. I love the Steak Dunigan made at the Pink Adobe restaurant in Sante Fe. I love Boston cream pie and I love s'mores around the campfire. I love those Cuban sandwiches you can order in Florida restaurants. I love Kentucky bourbon. I love the grits, catfish, fried okra, and pecan pie of the South. I love coffee, bacon, eggs, and hash browns served at dingy highway diners by sarcastic old waitresses who reek of cigarettes.
I love New Orleans jazz, Memphis blues and the indie rock of the Pacific Northwest. I love the bluegrass of the Appalachian Mountains, the Creole music of southern Louisiana, and the amazing music that comes out of my own beloved Austin. I love country stars singing patriotic music. I love the singing of James Taylor and Bing Crosby, the guitar of B.B. King and Stevie Ray Vaughn, and the trumpets of Miles Davis and Dave Brubeck. I love the beautiful voices of Ella Fitzgerald, Nina Simone, and Billie Holiday. I love the classical compositions of Aaron Copeland and John Philip Sousa. I love the haunting music that can be produced by the Native American flute.
I love silly American traditions. I love that the Le Pavillion Hotel in New Orleans serves peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with ice-cold milk in the lobby every evening at ten o'clock. I love the singing of Sweet Caroline by Red Sox fans at Fenway Park in the middle of the eighth inning every game. I love the daily duck parade between the elevator and the lobby fountain at the Peabody in Memphis. I love the different drinks and different theme songs for each of the Triple Crown horse races. I love the emergence of Punxsutawney Phil from Gobbler's Knob on Groundhog Day. I loved the Poe Toaster, wonder what happened to him, and still hope he comes back.
I love the goalkeeping of Tim Howard, the swimming of Michael Phelps, and the gymnastic grace of the Fierce Five. I love both the men's and women's national soccer teams, as well as the incredible enthusiasm of the American Outlaws that support them (I believe that we will win against Japan tomorrow!). I love the speed of American Pharoah. Whenever the Olympics rolls around, I love to see great athletes of the United States stand on the victory podium as they are presented with their medals to the sound of the Star Spangled Banner.
I love the mystique of the Golden Age of Hollywood: Clark Gable, Katherine Hepburn, Gary Cooper, Grace Kelly, John Wayne. I love old Frank Capra movies, especially Mr. Smith Goes to Washington. I love the movies Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall made together. I love Frank Sinatra. I love the script-writing of Aaron Sorkin, the documentaries of Ken Burns, the acting of Tom Hanks, and the films of Steven Spielberg. I love watching the Academy Awards.
I love liberals, conservatives, and libertarians - all equally American. I love freedom of expression, and I don't much mind that it means that people can express opinions with which I disagree and which I might even find repugnant. I love that I can stand on any street corner and denounce the governor of my state or even the president of my country and not fear arbitrary arrest, imprisonment, or execution. I love freedom of religion and the separation of church and state, which allow me to worship God as I choose, and I don't much mind that it means people can practice religions different from my own or choose not to practice any religion at all. I love that I can go into a voting booth and cast my ballot for whomever I wish.
I love the men and women who have served or are serving in the Army, the Air Force, the Navy, and Marines. I love the grizzled old veterans of the Second World War, who helped rid the world of fascism. I love SEAL Team Six, who took out Osama bin Laden on an epic night in the spring of 2011. I love the 1st Battalion, 5th United States Field Artillery, formed by Alexander Hamilton in 1776 and today the oldest continuously serving unit in the United States armed forces, with battle honors stretching from the Revolutionary War to the modern campaigns in Iraq and Afghanistan. I love the men and women of every battalion, every ship, and every squadron who put their lives on the line every day to protect everything else I've written about in this piece.
I could go on and on and on, but I think the point I'm trying to make is pretty clear.
I love America.
Saturday, July 4, 2015
Thursday, June 25, 2015
Review: Field of Lost Shoes
If I could go back in time to witness any single moment of the American Civil War, I think I would probably go to the Battle of New Market, on May 15, 1864. More specifically, I would go to the moment where Major General John C. Breckinridge, commander of the Confederate forces and one of the most remarkable figures in American history, realized that he had to commit to the fighting the two hundred or so boy cadets of the Virginia Military Institute or face defeat. "Put the boys in," he said. "And may God forgive me for the order."
Breckinridge won the battle, but he wouldn't have done it without the VMI cadets. Ten of the cadets were killed and forty-seven were wounded. These men are still honored on the field of VMI to the present day. Visiting New Market is one of the most poignant experiences of any of the American Civil War battlefield, for one can easily trace the direct route the VMI cadets charged to smash the Union line, capture the enemy artillery, and help win the battle.
When I learned that a movie was in the works that would depict the events surrounding the VMI cadets at the Battle of New Market, I was both excited and concerned. I was excited because the story is almost tailor-made for cinematic treatment, as are so many of the lesser-known stories of the American Civil War. I also that the film would bring Breckinridge, a largely forgotten figure, to the attention of more people. But I also was concerned, because past movies made from Civil War subjects have often left much to be desired. Glory was outstanding, Gettysburg was very good, and Lincoln (though I have my problems with it) was a fine film. Most other attempts, sad to say, have usually been disappointments.
Considering the budget with which they had to work, I'd say that Field of Lost Shoes is a significant achievement. Overall, I enjoyed watching it and it made for a pleasant evening's entertainment. There were a few points to which I took exception, which I will detail in a moment. On the other hand, the film also raised interesting questions which are often forgotten in this day and age.
One of the main characters is a VMI cadet named John Wise. His father, Virginia Governor Henry Wise, is spoken of as an opponent of secession and slavery, when in fact he was a fervent supporter of both. The story starts with Governor Wise taking his son to see a slave auction, apparently to show him the evils of the institution. This scene was actually very effective; it's impossible not to be affected by the despair of the black family being separated by the callous buyers. John is apparently turned into a closet abolitionist by what he sees.
And herein lies a problem for the whole movie and, indeed, for Civil War fiction in general these days: audiences apparently want 19th Century characters to adhere to 21st Century values. John Wise and the other cadets can't be seen as heroes by the audience unless they are opposed to slavery. This is a problem for the rest of the movie. A black character named Old Judge, who runs the VMI bakery, is inserted into the story in order to give the cadets a slave with whom to sympathize when he runs into trouble. A scene of a cart overturning onto a black women who requires rescue is also tossed into the mix, apparently for no other reason than to remind the audience that these VMI cadets like black people just as much as they like white people.
If we're honest with ourselves, we must admit that these are not attitudes that would have been commonly held by mid-19th Century white male Virginians. I understand why the filmmakers did this, for people are rather easily offended these days. The lightest whiff of "controversy" is looked upon with horror in the age of social media. But it robs the film of authenticity and makes the characters harder to take seriously. Better to let them be 19th Century people and take them on their own terms. Wolfgang Petersen didn't bother to try to persuade us that the sailors in Das Boot were secretly anti-Nazi, but just as men caught up in a war not of their making.
Field of Lost Shoes does, in fact, present reasons for which Confederate soldiers fought during the Civil War that are historically valid. A scene in which a cadet has just learned that his family's home has been destroyed by Union forces and that his family's whereabouts are unknown is rather poignant and one can well understand his desire for revenge. More interesting to me, though, is a conversation between two cadets, in which one reveals to the other his moral compunctions about slavery. The second cadet essentially tells the first that, whatever their feelings about slavery, it is still their duty to defend their homes and families. Moreover, he says, the Union will destroy everything else in the South while they destroy slavery. This manner of thinking might make us uncomfortable, for it is quite understandable and we can see ourselves making the same decision were we to be placed in their shoes. But that's probably the point. In drama, we can recognize Confederates as human beings, even if we cannot sympathize with the Confederate cause itself.
Setting aside these deeper philosophical questions, there are some aspects of the film that bother from a historical point of view. One of the first scenes of the movie depicts a meeting between Abraham Lincoln and Ulysses Grant, which not only seems completely irrelevant to the plot of the movie but which unfairly stigmatizes Grant with the image of being a "butcher" and a "savage". Grant actually asks Lincoln, "Do you see me as a monster?" This is patently ridiculous. The undeserved reputation of Grant as being a "butcher" came during and after the Virginia campaign of 1864-65, which had not yet happened when the scene of the movie takes place. Grant's victories in the West in the first few years of the war had been masterpieces of maneuver and won at comparatively low cost in human life. Grant, as played by Tom Skerritt (who seems to not quite understand why he is there), plays no meaningful role in the course of the movie. Indeed, there seems to be no reason for Lincoln and Grant to be in the movie at all, since it really is all about Breckinridge and the VMI cadets.
Apparently the filmmakers decided Field of Lost Shoes needed a character to provide a Union perspective during the battle. For some reason, they choose Captain Henry Du Pont. This man is indeed an interesting figure, who came from one of the country's most illustrious families and who would go on to win the Medal of Honor at the Battle of Cedar Creek. But the movie makes him out to be far more important than he was. During the Battle of New Market, du Pont was commanding a single artillery battery. Yet he is depicted as having a large staff of subordinates and seemingly giving commands to the whole of the Union army. He's also depicted in the film as being sent by Ulysses Grant to keep an eye on the incompetent commanding general, Franz Sigel. I am unaware of any evidence that this was the case. David Arquette plays Du Pont quite well, but his presence in the movie seems forced and unnecessary, rather like the scenes with Grant and Lincoln.
Breckinridge is a major character, played quite well by English actor Jason Isaacs, whom I have always liked. People who enjoy history-based films know Isaacs as the ruthless British cavalry officer William Tavington in The Patriot, but he plays a very different kind of man in this film. Breckinridge was a warm, friendly, and self-effacing man with a keen intelligence and this is exactly how he is portrayed. In most scenes, Breckinridge also has a glass of whiskey in his hands, which is also true to history. The scene in which Breckinridge sits with the cadets and asks them about their plans for the future may be a bit contrived, but it still well done and full of substance. It makes the general's climatic scene, in which Breckinridge is forced to order the cadets to plug a critical gap in the line, much more effective than it otherwise would have been.
It's customary in a movie like this to have a love story. The one that is presented is goofy, sappy, and quite silly. But so what? We're not watching Field of Lost Shoes for romance. Besides, my own relationship with my wife is goofy, sappy, and quite silly, so who am I to complain? Love is weird.
I was pleased that they pronounced the name of the town of Staunton correctly, when almost everyone in the country pronounces it incorrectly. It shows that they did the filmmakers did their homework.
All things considered, despite its flaws, Field of Lost Shoes is a good movie and I enjoyed watching it. I knew the storytelling was good when I realized that some of the boys were going to die and I cared about which ones. The scenes of combat were very well done. The characters were sufficiently fleshed out to be seen as the real people they were. A well-done film, in my opinion.
Still, it is not a masterpiece. The film that will be to the Civil War what Saving Private Ryan was to the Second World War has yet to be made.
Breckinridge won the battle, but he wouldn't have done it without the VMI cadets. Ten of the cadets were killed and forty-seven were wounded. These men are still honored on the field of VMI to the present day. Visiting New Market is one of the most poignant experiences of any of the American Civil War battlefield, for one can easily trace the direct route the VMI cadets charged to smash the Union line, capture the enemy artillery, and help win the battle.
When I learned that a movie was in the works that would depict the events surrounding the VMI cadets at the Battle of New Market, I was both excited and concerned. I was excited because the story is almost tailor-made for cinematic treatment, as are so many of the lesser-known stories of the American Civil War. I also that the film would bring Breckinridge, a largely forgotten figure, to the attention of more people. But I also was concerned, because past movies made from Civil War subjects have often left much to be desired. Glory was outstanding, Gettysburg was very good, and Lincoln (though I have my problems with it) was a fine film. Most other attempts, sad to say, have usually been disappointments.
Considering the budget with which they had to work, I'd say that Field of Lost Shoes is a significant achievement. Overall, I enjoyed watching it and it made for a pleasant evening's entertainment. There were a few points to which I took exception, which I will detail in a moment. On the other hand, the film also raised interesting questions which are often forgotten in this day and age.
One of the main characters is a VMI cadet named John Wise. His father, Virginia Governor Henry Wise, is spoken of as an opponent of secession and slavery, when in fact he was a fervent supporter of both. The story starts with Governor Wise taking his son to see a slave auction, apparently to show him the evils of the institution. This scene was actually very effective; it's impossible not to be affected by the despair of the black family being separated by the callous buyers. John is apparently turned into a closet abolitionist by what he sees.
And herein lies a problem for the whole movie and, indeed, for Civil War fiction in general these days: audiences apparently want 19th Century characters to adhere to 21st Century values. John Wise and the other cadets can't be seen as heroes by the audience unless they are opposed to slavery. This is a problem for the rest of the movie. A black character named Old Judge, who runs the VMI bakery, is inserted into the story in order to give the cadets a slave with whom to sympathize when he runs into trouble. A scene of a cart overturning onto a black women who requires rescue is also tossed into the mix, apparently for no other reason than to remind the audience that these VMI cadets like black people just as much as they like white people.
If we're honest with ourselves, we must admit that these are not attitudes that would have been commonly held by mid-19th Century white male Virginians. I understand why the filmmakers did this, for people are rather easily offended these days. The lightest whiff of "controversy" is looked upon with horror in the age of social media. But it robs the film of authenticity and makes the characters harder to take seriously. Better to let them be 19th Century people and take them on their own terms. Wolfgang Petersen didn't bother to try to persuade us that the sailors in Das Boot were secretly anti-Nazi, but just as men caught up in a war not of their making.
Field of Lost Shoes does, in fact, present reasons for which Confederate soldiers fought during the Civil War that are historically valid. A scene in which a cadet has just learned that his family's home has been destroyed by Union forces and that his family's whereabouts are unknown is rather poignant and one can well understand his desire for revenge. More interesting to me, though, is a conversation between two cadets, in which one reveals to the other his moral compunctions about slavery. The second cadet essentially tells the first that, whatever their feelings about slavery, it is still their duty to defend their homes and families. Moreover, he says, the Union will destroy everything else in the South while they destroy slavery. This manner of thinking might make us uncomfortable, for it is quite understandable and we can see ourselves making the same decision were we to be placed in their shoes. But that's probably the point. In drama, we can recognize Confederates as human beings, even if we cannot sympathize with the Confederate cause itself.
Setting aside these deeper philosophical questions, there are some aspects of the film that bother from a historical point of view. One of the first scenes of the movie depicts a meeting between Abraham Lincoln and Ulysses Grant, which not only seems completely irrelevant to the plot of the movie but which unfairly stigmatizes Grant with the image of being a "butcher" and a "savage". Grant actually asks Lincoln, "Do you see me as a monster?" This is patently ridiculous. The undeserved reputation of Grant as being a "butcher" came during and after the Virginia campaign of 1864-65, which had not yet happened when the scene of the movie takes place. Grant's victories in the West in the first few years of the war had been masterpieces of maneuver and won at comparatively low cost in human life. Grant, as played by Tom Skerritt (who seems to not quite understand why he is there), plays no meaningful role in the course of the movie. Indeed, there seems to be no reason for Lincoln and Grant to be in the movie at all, since it really is all about Breckinridge and the VMI cadets.
Apparently the filmmakers decided Field of Lost Shoes needed a character to provide a Union perspective during the battle. For some reason, they choose Captain Henry Du Pont. This man is indeed an interesting figure, who came from one of the country's most illustrious families and who would go on to win the Medal of Honor at the Battle of Cedar Creek. But the movie makes him out to be far more important than he was. During the Battle of New Market, du Pont was commanding a single artillery battery. Yet he is depicted as having a large staff of subordinates and seemingly giving commands to the whole of the Union army. He's also depicted in the film as being sent by Ulysses Grant to keep an eye on the incompetent commanding general, Franz Sigel. I am unaware of any evidence that this was the case. David Arquette plays Du Pont quite well, but his presence in the movie seems forced and unnecessary, rather like the scenes with Grant and Lincoln.
Breckinridge is a major character, played quite well by English actor Jason Isaacs, whom I have always liked. People who enjoy history-based films know Isaacs as the ruthless British cavalry officer William Tavington in The Patriot, but he plays a very different kind of man in this film. Breckinridge was a warm, friendly, and self-effacing man with a keen intelligence and this is exactly how he is portrayed. In most scenes, Breckinridge also has a glass of whiskey in his hands, which is also true to history. The scene in which Breckinridge sits with the cadets and asks them about their plans for the future may be a bit contrived, but it still well done and full of substance. It makes the general's climatic scene, in which Breckinridge is forced to order the cadets to plug a critical gap in the line, much more effective than it otherwise would have been.
It's customary in a movie like this to have a love story. The one that is presented is goofy, sappy, and quite silly. But so what? We're not watching Field of Lost Shoes for romance. Besides, my own relationship with my wife is goofy, sappy, and quite silly, so who am I to complain? Love is weird.
I was pleased that they pronounced the name of the town of Staunton correctly, when almost everyone in the country pronounces it incorrectly. It shows that they did the filmmakers did their homework.
All things considered, despite its flaws, Field of Lost Shoes is a good movie and I enjoyed watching it. I knew the storytelling was good when I realized that some of the boys were going to die and I cared about which ones. The scenes of combat were very well done. The characters were sufficiently fleshed out to be seen as the real people they were. A well-done film, in my opinion.
Still, it is not a masterpiece. The film that will be to the Civil War what Saving Private Ryan was to the Second World War has yet to be made.
Thursday, June 18, 2015
Could Napoleon Have Won the Battle of Waterloo?
The Battle of Waterloo was fought two hundred years ago today, on June 18, 1815. It is perhaps the most famous battle in all of history. After one of the most dramatic military and political careers of all time, Napoleon Bonaparte was finally defeated by the allied forces commanded by the Duke of Wellington and General Gehhard von Blucher. Taken into British custody less than a month after the battle, Napoleon spent the few remaining years of his life as a prisoner on the desolate island of St. Helena. The battle itself has become such a part of our collective historical memory that we use the term "Waterloo" as a euphemism for anyone's final downfall.
But could Napoleon have won the Battle of Waterloo?
The so-called "Hundred Days" had begun in February, when Napoleon had escaped the island of Elba, to which he had been exiled following his defeat the previous year in the War of the Sixth Coalition. The Allies had placed the Bourbon King Louis XVIII on the throne of France and had proceeded to convene the Congress of Vienna to sort out the mess Napoleon had made of Europe during his fourteen years in power. Louis XVIII had proven a dismal failure as a ruler, however, and many feared that the rights and privileges won by the French Revolution were threatened by a return to Bourbon absolutism. Consequently, the French people enthusiastically embraced Napoleon when he returned from his exile.
When news had arrived at the Congress of Vienna that Napoleon had successfully seized power in France yet again, the allies had immediately declared that they would not tolerate the return of the Emperor and had ordered their armies to prepare for war. The British dispatched the Duke of Wellington to Belgium, where he had taken command of a combined army of British, German, and Dutch troops. A Prussian army under Blucher was rapidly approaching from the east, while the Austrians and Russians mobilized their immense forces and slowly set them in motion towards France's frontier.
In order to thwart the plans of his enemies, Napoleon characteristically struck first. He reasoned that if he could strike into Belgium before the allies were ready, he might be able to defeat Wellington and Blucher in detail before having to deal with the Austrian and Russian armies. Although heavily outnumbered, Napoleon had beaten long odds before and he was confident that he could do so again.
It was not to be. Although Napoleon defeated Blucher at the Battle of Ligny on June 16, he could not do the same to Wellington two days later at Waterloo. French infantry and cavalry repeatedly hurled themselves upon the allied lines, but the British, Dutch, and German troops stood firm at such legendary places as Hougoumont and La Haye Sainte. On several occasions, the allied line was on the brink of collapse, but the French could never quite break through. After several hours of desperate and bloody fighting, the Prussian army finally arrived and shattered Napoleon's right flank, just after a final assault by Napoleon's famous Imperial Guard had failed. When Wellington ordered his men forward, the French army collapsed in a disastrous rout.
It has the air of inevitability about it, like the final act of a Greek tragedy. But nothing in history is inevitable. How might the outcome have been different?
When Napoleon embarked on the campaign in Belgium in 1815, he made some very curious decisions regarding his subordinate commanders. Marshal Louis-Nicolas Davout, the most brilliant of Napoleon's generals and a man who had never been defeated in battle, was left behind in Paris as Minister of War and did not actively participate in the campaign. Marshal Nicolas Jean-de-Dieu Soult, another of Napoleon's most effective field commanders, was given the administration position of chief-of-staff during the Waterloo campaign, a role to which his talents were obviously unsuited. As it was, Napoleon's chief field commander at Waterloo was Marshal Michel Ney, a man whose bravery was unquestioned but who tactical abilities were mediocre at best. Had either Davout or Soult been in command of an infantry corps at the Battle of Waterloo, they might have succeeded where Ney failed and torn Wellington's line apart.
There is another tantalizing possibility regarding Napoleon's choice of commanders at Waterloo. His brother-in-law, Marshal Joachim Murat, was one of the great cavalry leaders in military history, who had earned his name on countless battlefields across Europe. A grateful Napoleon had made him King of Naples, but following Napoleon's defeat at the Battle of Leipzig in 1813, Murat had betrayed his Emperor and gone over to the enemies of Napoleon in an attempt to save his throne. Realizing that the allies would stab him in the back eventually, he had rallied to Napoleon's side yet again when the Emperor had returned from Elba and had offered him his services as a cavalry commander.
Napoleon had rejected Murat's offer, which is really not that surprising. Murat had proven himself disloyal in the past, so how could Napoleon trust him to remain faithful now? The Emperor blamed his defeat in 1814 as much on traitors within his own ranks as on his Allied enemies, so it was only natural that he focused as much on ensuring faithfulness among his own people as on defeating his enemies on the battlefield. Nevertheless, the thought of Murat leading a charge of heavy cavalry against Wellington's lines at Waterloo is a fascinating one, especially if it is combined with the idea of Davout and Soult being in their proper places as infantry corps commanders.
Although the foot soldiers and cavalry troopers Napoleon led at Waterloo were as good as any he had ever led, the same cannot be said for his generals. If Napoleon had had Davout, Soult, and Murat in their proper places, he might well have achieved a decisive victory over Wellington.
The other tantalizing opportunity for a Napoleonic victory at Waterloo involves the Prussians. Historically, their perfectly timed arrival on the French right flank is what secured the victory for the allies. But what if they had arrived on the battlefield late or had failed to arrive at all?
After being beaten by Napoleon at Ligny on June 16, the most obvious route of retreat for the Prussians was eastwards towards the town of Namur, a direction which would have allowed them to cover their lines of communication and supply. However, they actually fell back to the north towards the town of Wavre, which allowed them to maintain communication with Wellington and prepare to move to his support. Had the Prussians elected to retreat towards Namur, they would have been too far away to participate in the Battle of Waterloo on June 18, which might easily have allowed the French to achieve a victory.
During the Battle of Ligny, Blucher impetuously led a cavalry charge in person and had his horse shot out from under him. The 72-year-old Prussian commander was knocked senseless by the fall and command temporarily passed to August von Gneisenau, the Prussian second-in-command. Gneisenau, unlike Blucher, saw the preservation of the Prussian army as far more important than providing help to the British and was ready to order a retreat east of the Rhine. Blucher, recovering quickly, reasserted control over the Prussian army and ordered it to Wellington's assistance, thereby ensuring the allied victory at Waterloo.
Blucher might easily have been killed when thrown from his horse, in which case Gneisenau would have had permanent command of the Prussian army. This, in turn, could have led to a Prussian retreat eastward, out of the campaign altogether. Again, without the timely arrival of the Prussians, Wellington might well have lost the Battle of Waterloo.
During the battle itself, Marshal Ney made a number of tactical mistakes. Most disastrously, he launched heavy cavalry attacks that lacked infantry support. Because of this, even if the cavalry had pierced the allied line, the French would lack the ability the ability to properly exploit the breach. If Ney had coordinated his attacks in a more professional manner, the allied line might have broken under the strain.
Another factor which played into Wellington's hands at Waterloo was the weather. It had rained heavily during June 17, leaving the ground sodden and waterlogged. Napoleon delayed the attack on the morning of June 18, in order to allow the ground to dry sufficiently for him to properly deploy his artillery. Had it not rained, Napoleon might have attacked much earlier in the day, giving him several more hours to defeat Wellington before the arrival of the Prussians tipped the balance against the French.
Napoleon could have won the Battle of Waterloo if he had had Davout and Murat with him and kept Soult in his proper place as a corps commander. He could have won if a Prussians had retreated eastward rather than northward after the Battle of Ligny or had Blucher been killed during that engagement. And he could have won had Marshal Ney not made such a thorough mess of the battlefield tactics. But what effect might a Napoleonic vicory have had on the course of European history?
Many argue that a Napoleonic victory at Waterloo would not have made much difference. After all, there were enormous Austrian and Russian armies marching towards the French frontier from the east, greatly outnumbering whatever forces Napoleon himself might have been able to assemble. Even as the troops at Waterloo were fighting to the death, the Austrians were crossing the Rhine and the Russians were close behind them. The Austrians were also pushing over the Alps into France from Italy and the Spanish were even planning on invading France from across the Pyrenees. If the Prussians had retreated east after the Battle of Ligny, they would have soon recovered their strength and been ready to fight once again. So even if Napoleon had been successful in smashing Wellington at Waterloo, he might still have been defeated by overwhelming numbers before the end of 1815.
On the other hand, Napoleon had won campaigns against long odds before, so it is not inconceivable that he might have triumphed against even such a strong coalition of enemies as he faced in 1815. Besides, between Napoleon's exile to Elba in 1814 and his return a year later, the Allies had fallen to squabbling among themselves. Great Britain, Austria, and the Bourbon rulers of France had found themselves aligned against Russia and Prussia over the status of Poland and Saxony. If Napoleon had won at Waterloo, perhaps he might have found a way to exploit the emerging differences between the members of the coalition against him. Austria, in particular, might have been willing to deal with Napoleon, as his wife Marie Louise was a member of the Habsburg family and their son, Napoleon II, might have been expected to sit on the imperial throne of France one day.
But in retrospect, it seems extremely unlikely that the coalition against Napoleon would have fallen to fighting amongst themselves. Great Britain had waged war against Napoleon virtually without a break for more than a decade, while Austrians, Prussians, and Russians were burning with a desire for vengeance against Napoleon for what he had done to their countries. Distrustful of one another they might have been, but Napoleon's enemies were almost to set aside their differences in the face of the common enemy.
It therefore seems entirely possible that a French victory at the Battle of Waterloo would not have much changed the course of history. Most likely, Napoleon would have been defeated and overthrown anyway and he certainly would not have been able to resume his efforts to secure French hegemony over Europe. Those days were in the past. It may seem strangely unfair, but sometimes the most dramatic events in history are also the most irrelevant.
But could Napoleon have won the Battle of Waterloo?
The so-called "Hundred Days" had begun in February, when Napoleon had escaped the island of Elba, to which he had been exiled following his defeat the previous year in the War of the Sixth Coalition. The Allies had placed the Bourbon King Louis XVIII on the throne of France and had proceeded to convene the Congress of Vienna to sort out the mess Napoleon had made of Europe during his fourteen years in power. Louis XVIII had proven a dismal failure as a ruler, however, and many feared that the rights and privileges won by the French Revolution were threatened by a return to Bourbon absolutism. Consequently, the French people enthusiastically embraced Napoleon when he returned from his exile.
When news had arrived at the Congress of Vienna that Napoleon had successfully seized power in France yet again, the allies had immediately declared that they would not tolerate the return of the Emperor and had ordered their armies to prepare for war. The British dispatched the Duke of Wellington to Belgium, where he had taken command of a combined army of British, German, and Dutch troops. A Prussian army under Blucher was rapidly approaching from the east, while the Austrians and Russians mobilized their immense forces and slowly set them in motion towards France's frontier.
In order to thwart the plans of his enemies, Napoleon characteristically struck first. He reasoned that if he could strike into Belgium before the allies were ready, he might be able to defeat Wellington and Blucher in detail before having to deal with the Austrian and Russian armies. Although heavily outnumbered, Napoleon had beaten long odds before and he was confident that he could do so again.
It was not to be. Although Napoleon defeated Blucher at the Battle of Ligny on June 16, he could not do the same to Wellington two days later at Waterloo. French infantry and cavalry repeatedly hurled themselves upon the allied lines, but the British, Dutch, and German troops stood firm at such legendary places as Hougoumont and La Haye Sainte. On several occasions, the allied line was on the brink of collapse, but the French could never quite break through. After several hours of desperate and bloody fighting, the Prussian army finally arrived and shattered Napoleon's right flank, just after a final assault by Napoleon's famous Imperial Guard had failed. When Wellington ordered his men forward, the French army collapsed in a disastrous rout.
It has the air of inevitability about it, like the final act of a Greek tragedy. But nothing in history is inevitable. How might the outcome have been different?
When Napoleon embarked on the campaign in Belgium in 1815, he made some very curious decisions regarding his subordinate commanders. Marshal Louis-Nicolas Davout, the most brilliant of Napoleon's generals and a man who had never been defeated in battle, was left behind in Paris as Minister of War and did not actively participate in the campaign. Marshal Nicolas Jean-de-Dieu Soult, another of Napoleon's most effective field commanders, was given the administration position of chief-of-staff during the Waterloo campaign, a role to which his talents were obviously unsuited. As it was, Napoleon's chief field commander at Waterloo was Marshal Michel Ney, a man whose bravery was unquestioned but who tactical abilities were mediocre at best. Had either Davout or Soult been in command of an infantry corps at the Battle of Waterloo, they might have succeeded where Ney failed and torn Wellington's line apart.
There is another tantalizing possibility regarding Napoleon's choice of commanders at Waterloo. His brother-in-law, Marshal Joachim Murat, was one of the great cavalry leaders in military history, who had earned his name on countless battlefields across Europe. A grateful Napoleon had made him King of Naples, but following Napoleon's defeat at the Battle of Leipzig in 1813, Murat had betrayed his Emperor and gone over to the enemies of Napoleon in an attempt to save his throne. Realizing that the allies would stab him in the back eventually, he had rallied to Napoleon's side yet again when the Emperor had returned from Elba and had offered him his services as a cavalry commander.
Napoleon had rejected Murat's offer, which is really not that surprising. Murat had proven himself disloyal in the past, so how could Napoleon trust him to remain faithful now? The Emperor blamed his defeat in 1814 as much on traitors within his own ranks as on his Allied enemies, so it was only natural that he focused as much on ensuring faithfulness among his own people as on defeating his enemies on the battlefield. Nevertheless, the thought of Murat leading a charge of heavy cavalry against Wellington's lines at Waterloo is a fascinating one, especially if it is combined with the idea of Davout and Soult being in their proper places as infantry corps commanders.
Although the foot soldiers and cavalry troopers Napoleon led at Waterloo were as good as any he had ever led, the same cannot be said for his generals. If Napoleon had had Davout, Soult, and Murat in their proper places, he might well have achieved a decisive victory over Wellington.
The other tantalizing opportunity for a Napoleonic victory at Waterloo involves the Prussians. Historically, their perfectly timed arrival on the French right flank is what secured the victory for the allies. But what if they had arrived on the battlefield late or had failed to arrive at all?
After being beaten by Napoleon at Ligny on June 16, the most obvious route of retreat for the Prussians was eastwards towards the town of Namur, a direction which would have allowed them to cover their lines of communication and supply. However, they actually fell back to the north towards the town of Wavre, which allowed them to maintain communication with Wellington and prepare to move to his support. Had the Prussians elected to retreat towards Namur, they would have been too far away to participate in the Battle of Waterloo on June 18, which might easily have allowed the French to achieve a victory.
During the Battle of Ligny, Blucher impetuously led a cavalry charge in person and had his horse shot out from under him. The 72-year-old Prussian commander was knocked senseless by the fall and command temporarily passed to August von Gneisenau, the Prussian second-in-command. Gneisenau, unlike Blucher, saw the preservation of the Prussian army as far more important than providing help to the British and was ready to order a retreat east of the Rhine. Blucher, recovering quickly, reasserted control over the Prussian army and ordered it to Wellington's assistance, thereby ensuring the allied victory at Waterloo.
Blucher might easily have been killed when thrown from his horse, in which case Gneisenau would have had permanent command of the Prussian army. This, in turn, could have led to a Prussian retreat eastward, out of the campaign altogether. Again, without the timely arrival of the Prussians, Wellington might well have lost the Battle of Waterloo.
During the battle itself, Marshal Ney made a number of tactical mistakes. Most disastrously, he launched heavy cavalry attacks that lacked infantry support. Because of this, even if the cavalry had pierced the allied line, the French would lack the ability the ability to properly exploit the breach. If Ney had coordinated his attacks in a more professional manner, the allied line might have broken under the strain.
Another factor which played into Wellington's hands at Waterloo was the weather. It had rained heavily during June 17, leaving the ground sodden and waterlogged. Napoleon delayed the attack on the morning of June 18, in order to allow the ground to dry sufficiently for him to properly deploy his artillery. Had it not rained, Napoleon might have attacked much earlier in the day, giving him several more hours to defeat Wellington before the arrival of the Prussians tipped the balance against the French.
Napoleon could have won the Battle of Waterloo if he had had Davout and Murat with him and kept Soult in his proper place as a corps commander. He could have won if a Prussians had retreated eastward rather than northward after the Battle of Ligny or had Blucher been killed during that engagement. And he could have won had Marshal Ney not made such a thorough mess of the battlefield tactics. But what effect might a Napoleonic vicory have had on the course of European history?
Many argue that a Napoleonic victory at Waterloo would not have made much difference. After all, there were enormous Austrian and Russian armies marching towards the French frontier from the east, greatly outnumbering whatever forces Napoleon himself might have been able to assemble. Even as the troops at Waterloo were fighting to the death, the Austrians were crossing the Rhine and the Russians were close behind them. The Austrians were also pushing over the Alps into France from Italy and the Spanish were even planning on invading France from across the Pyrenees. If the Prussians had retreated east after the Battle of Ligny, they would have soon recovered their strength and been ready to fight once again. So even if Napoleon had been successful in smashing Wellington at Waterloo, he might still have been defeated by overwhelming numbers before the end of 1815.
On the other hand, Napoleon had won campaigns against long odds before, so it is not inconceivable that he might have triumphed against even such a strong coalition of enemies as he faced in 1815. Besides, between Napoleon's exile to Elba in 1814 and his return a year later, the Allies had fallen to squabbling among themselves. Great Britain, Austria, and the Bourbon rulers of France had found themselves aligned against Russia and Prussia over the status of Poland and Saxony. If Napoleon had won at Waterloo, perhaps he might have found a way to exploit the emerging differences between the members of the coalition against him. Austria, in particular, might have been willing to deal with Napoleon, as his wife Marie Louise was a member of the Habsburg family and their son, Napoleon II, might have been expected to sit on the imperial throne of France one day.
But in retrospect, it seems extremely unlikely that the coalition against Napoleon would have fallen to fighting amongst themselves. Great Britain had waged war against Napoleon virtually without a break for more than a decade, while Austrians, Prussians, and Russians were burning with a desire for vengeance against Napoleon for what he had done to their countries. Distrustful of one another they might have been, but Napoleon's enemies were almost to set aside their differences in the face of the common enemy.
It therefore seems entirely possible that a French victory at the Battle of Waterloo would not have much changed the course of history. Most likely, Napoleon would have been defeated and overthrown anyway and he certainly would not have been able to resume his efforts to secure French hegemony over Europe. Those days were in the past. It may seem strangely unfair, but sometimes the most dramatic events in history are also the most irrelevant.
Monday, May 25, 2015
Thoughts on Memorial Day
It often annoys me to hear people on Memorial Day talk about veterans or the men and women currently serving in the armed forces. Why? Because it reveals that they don't understand what Memorial Day is all about. After all, we set aside Veterans Day on November 11 to honor veterans and we set aside Armed Forces Day on the last Saturday of May to honor those men and women currently serving (sadly, the latter holiday is often ignored altogether). Memorial Day, by contrast, is a day specifically set aside for those men and women who lost their lives in America's wars. Not the veterans who made it home or the people still in uniform, but those who, to use Lincoln's words, gave their last full measure of devotion.
The fact that it is so often confused with Veterans Day and Armed Forces Day is, I believe, a testament to our country's collective lack of appreciation for all of our fighting men and women, both those who came back and those who didn't. Can we not even be bothered to learn which people we are supposed to be honoring on which holiday?
Something like twenty-five thousand Americans died winning our independence in the Revolutionary War (1775-1783). Fifteen thousand died in the War of 1812 (1812-1815) and around thirteen thousand died in the Mexican War (1846-1848). During the nightmare of the Civil War (1861-1865), more than six hundred thousand men died (perhaps quite a bit more, according to recent scholarship) on both the Union and Confederate sides. Entering the age of more exact figures, we can see that 2,446 Americans died in the Spanish-American War (1898) and 4,196 Americans died in the Filipino-American War (1898-1913). 116,516 Americans died in the First World War (1917-1918) and 405,399 Americans died in the Second World War (1941-1945). 36,516 Americans died in the Korean War (1950-53) and 58,209 Americans died in the Vietnam War (1955-1975). 2,229 Americans have died in the Afghanistan War (2001-present) and 4,488 Americans died in the Iraq War (2003-2011).
These are just the numbers from the biggest and most well-known conflicts of American history. Yet there have been literally dozens of smaller conflicts over the 239 years since our country's founding which have faded from the collective memory and whose details are now generally known only to specialist scholars. 401 American soldiers died in the Seminole Wars and hundreds more in the various other Indian wars waged by the United States government. 131 Americans died suppressing the Boxer Rebellion in China. 19 Americans died in the 1983 invasion of Grenada, 40 in the 1989 invasion of Panama, and 294 in the 1991 Gulf War with Iraq.
Two American sailors or marines (I can't discover which) died in 1832 during a punitive expedition against the Chiefdom of Kuala Batee on Sumatra in what is now Indonesia. They perished in hand-to-hand fighting that took place when Commodore John Downes of the United States Navy, acting under orders from President Andrew Jackson, launched an attack on Kuala Batee as a reprisal for the massacre of the crew of an American merchant ship a year earlier. Until I sat down to write this blog entry, I had had no idea that this event had ever taken place. Yet why should these the two Americans be remembered any less than any two soldiers, sailors, airmen, or marines who have given their lives in any other conflict, from 1775 right down to the present day? Hundreds, if not thousands, of Americans died in countless now-forgotten small engagements over the course of our country's history.
Nor must we ever forget those whose deaths could never be confirmed. According to the Defense POW/MIA Account Agency, over 83,000 American service personnel are still officially unaccounted for. These men and women must bear the tragic label of "missing in action". We need to remember and honor them, too.
The idea of "American exceptionalism" has become something of a hot potato in the political rhetoric of our day, but the truth is America is a very exceptional country and has a special place in the history of the world. We're not a nation in any traditional sense, as we are not defined by any specific ethnic or linguistic or religious identity. We are a people united by a common constitution and common political ideals of representative democracy and individual liberty. There's no other country in the history of the world like the United States of America and we should rightfully feel proud of it.
However, there never would have been a United States of America had it not been for the hundreds of thousands of men and women who gave their lives in the struggles to secure and defend American liberty. Not all the wars were wise and, truth be told, not all the wars were just. That's worth remembering, but it does not change the fact that our soldiers, sailors, airmen, and marines have fought and died for love of country. They have given their lives at places as far removed in time and distance as Saratoga, Lundy's Lane, Churubusco, Gettysburg, Little Big Horn, San Juan Hill, Belleau Wood, Bastogne, Iwo Jima, Heartbreak Ridge, Ia Drang, Kandahar, Fallujah, and such insignificant places as the tiny hamlet of Kuala Batee on the Sumatran coast.
Don't forget them.
The fact that it is so often confused with Veterans Day and Armed Forces Day is, I believe, a testament to our country's collective lack of appreciation for all of our fighting men and women, both those who came back and those who didn't. Can we not even be bothered to learn which people we are supposed to be honoring on which holiday?
Something like twenty-five thousand Americans died winning our independence in the Revolutionary War (1775-1783). Fifteen thousand died in the War of 1812 (1812-1815) and around thirteen thousand died in the Mexican War (1846-1848). During the nightmare of the Civil War (1861-1865), more than six hundred thousand men died (perhaps quite a bit more, according to recent scholarship) on both the Union and Confederate sides. Entering the age of more exact figures, we can see that 2,446 Americans died in the Spanish-American War (1898) and 4,196 Americans died in the Filipino-American War (1898-1913). 116,516 Americans died in the First World War (1917-1918) and 405,399 Americans died in the Second World War (1941-1945). 36,516 Americans died in the Korean War (1950-53) and 58,209 Americans died in the Vietnam War (1955-1975). 2,229 Americans have died in the Afghanistan War (2001-present) and 4,488 Americans died in the Iraq War (2003-2011).
These are just the numbers from the biggest and most well-known conflicts of American history. Yet there have been literally dozens of smaller conflicts over the 239 years since our country's founding which have faded from the collective memory and whose details are now generally known only to specialist scholars. 401 American soldiers died in the Seminole Wars and hundreds more in the various other Indian wars waged by the United States government. 131 Americans died suppressing the Boxer Rebellion in China. 19 Americans died in the 1983 invasion of Grenada, 40 in the 1989 invasion of Panama, and 294 in the 1991 Gulf War with Iraq.
Two American sailors or marines (I can't discover which) died in 1832 during a punitive expedition against the Chiefdom of Kuala Batee on Sumatra in what is now Indonesia. They perished in hand-to-hand fighting that took place when Commodore John Downes of the United States Navy, acting under orders from President Andrew Jackson, launched an attack on Kuala Batee as a reprisal for the massacre of the crew of an American merchant ship a year earlier. Until I sat down to write this blog entry, I had had no idea that this event had ever taken place. Yet why should these the two Americans be remembered any less than any two soldiers, sailors, airmen, or marines who have given their lives in any other conflict, from 1775 right down to the present day? Hundreds, if not thousands, of Americans died in countless now-forgotten small engagements over the course of our country's history.
Nor must we ever forget those whose deaths could never be confirmed. According to the Defense POW/MIA Account Agency, over 83,000 American service personnel are still officially unaccounted for. These men and women must bear the tragic label of "missing in action". We need to remember and honor them, too.
The idea of "American exceptionalism" has become something of a hot potato in the political rhetoric of our day, but the truth is America is a very exceptional country and has a special place in the history of the world. We're not a nation in any traditional sense, as we are not defined by any specific ethnic or linguistic or religious identity. We are a people united by a common constitution and common political ideals of representative democracy and individual liberty. There's no other country in the history of the world like the United States of America and we should rightfully feel proud of it.
However, there never would have been a United States of America had it not been for the hundreds of thousands of men and women who gave their lives in the struggles to secure and defend American liberty. Not all the wars were wise and, truth be told, not all the wars were just. That's worth remembering, but it does not change the fact that our soldiers, sailors, airmen, and marines have fought and died for love of country. They have given their lives at places as far removed in time and distance as Saratoga, Lundy's Lane, Churubusco, Gettysburg, Little Big Horn, San Juan Hill, Belleau Wood, Bastogne, Iwo Jima, Heartbreak Ridge, Ia Drang, Kandahar, Fallujah, and such insignificant places as the tiny hamlet of Kuala Batee on the Sumatran coast.
Don't forget them.
Thursday, April 9, 2015
150th Anniversary of the End of the Civil War? Not Necessarily.
We know precisely when and where the American Civil War started: April 12, 1861, in the harbor of Charleston, South Carolina, at 4:30 in the morning. That was when the Confederate artillery batteries under the command of General Pierre Gustave Toutant Beauegard opened fire on Union-held Fort Sumter. It inaugurated the beginning of four years of bloody conflict that would preserve the Union, destroy slavery, and fundamentally change everything about America.
Pinning down the location and date of the end of the war, however, is a much more problematic exercise. Around the country, people are marking today as the 150th anniversary of the end of the war, because of an event that happened on April 9, 1865, at a place called Appomattox Court House, Virginia. It was there and then that the Army of Northern Virginia, commanded by General Robert E. Lee, surrendered to overwhelming Union forces under the command of General Ulysses S. Grant. If you believe the average 8th grade social studies textbook and popular interpretations such as the Ken Burns miniseries The Civil War, the loss of the Confederacy's most famous army and its most brilliant commander marked the end of the war.
Yet history is never neat and tidy. If you ask me, saying that the war ended at Appomattox is a murky proposition at best. After all, the South's other major field force, the Army of Tennessee, was still in the field with more than 20,000 men under arms. Under General Joseph Johnston (a major character in my novel Shattered Nation), it had recently given the Union army a bloody nose at the Battle of Bentonville before superior numbers had forced it to retreat.
It was not until April 26, two-and-a-half weeks after Lee's men had capitulated, that the men of the Army of Tennessee stacked their arms and accepted their paroles (incidentally, Johnston was assisted in the surrender negotiations by John C. Breckinridge, the major character of my novella Blessed are the Peacemakers and one of the major characters of my upcoming novel House of the Proud). The terms agreed upon at Bennett Place included not just Johnston's field army, but all Confederate troops in the Carolinas, Georgia, and Florida, a total of nearly 90,000 men. Much more than the surrender at Appomattox, the surrender at Bennett Place deserves to be considered the event that marked the end of the Civil War.
But there are other contenders than Appomattox or Bennett Place. General Richard Taylor, one of the South's most underrated generals, didn't surrender the troops of the Department of Alabama and Mississippi until May 8, nearly two weeks after Johnston's capitulation. General Kirby Smith didn't surrender the Department of the Trans-Mississippi until May 26. In Oklahoma, a lonely force of Confederate-allied Indians under General Stand Watie didn't throw in the towel until nearly a month after that, on June 23. Any one of these events has as much right to be considered as the end of the war as does Appomattox.
Amazingly, even though this series of surrenders marked the end of the Confederate army, there was still a little bit of the American Civil War going on in a highly unlikely place. For while Lee, Johnston and the other generals were yielding to the overwhelming might of the Union, the commerce raider CSS Shenandoah was busy destroying the United States whaling fleet in the Pacific and Arctic Oceans. As strange as it sounds, the last shot of the American Civil War was a warning shot from one of the Shenandoah's cannons on June 28, 1865, when it ordered its final prize to heave to. It's hard to think of a place more unlike the pleasant fields of Appomattox than the icy wastes of the Arctic Circle, yet that was where the last spark of gunpowder of the American Civil War was actually lit.
Now, if you really want to stretch things out, you could argue that the Civil War didn't fully come to an end until the Shenandoah sailed into the harbor of Liverpool, having sailed around the world to surrender to English authorities out of fear that the United States would treat them as pirates. Captain James Waddell, commanding officer of the Shenandoah, oversaw the last official lowering of the Confederate flag. This was on November 6, 1865, nearly seven months after Lee had surrendered at Appomattox.
For what it's worth, my opinion is that the Civil War ended on May 10, 1865, at Irwinville, Georgia. It was then and there that President Jefferson Davis, who personified the Confederacy more than any other single individual, was finally run to ground and captured by Union cavalry. Having fled Richmond on April 2, he was heading westward with the vain hope of continuing the fight against the Yankees in the Trans-Mississippi. By then, he had been deserted by all but his loyal wife and a handful of escorting cavalrymen. With the capture of Davis, the last flame flickering on behalf of Southern independence was well and truly snuffed out.
So, when the war end? April 9? May 10? November 6? Take your pick. Unlike the reigns of kings or the tenures of presidents, wars rarely have clear and definitive ending points. Then again, considering the unfinished struggle for racial equality and the continuing conflict between state and federal power, it might be a better question to ask whether the Civil War ended in 1865 at all.
Pinning down the location and date of the end of the war, however, is a much more problematic exercise. Around the country, people are marking today as the 150th anniversary of the end of the war, because of an event that happened on April 9, 1865, at a place called Appomattox Court House, Virginia. It was there and then that the Army of Northern Virginia, commanded by General Robert E. Lee, surrendered to overwhelming Union forces under the command of General Ulysses S. Grant. If you believe the average 8th grade social studies textbook and popular interpretations such as the Ken Burns miniseries The Civil War, the loss of the Confederacy's most famous army and its most brilliant commander marked the end of the war.
Yet history is never neat and tidy. If you ask me, saying that the war ended at Appomattox is a murky proposition at best. After all, the South's other major field force, the Army of Tennessee, was still in the field with more than 20,000 men under arms. Under General Joseph Johnston (a major character in my novel Shattered Nation), it had recently given the Union army a bloody nose at the Battle of Bentonville before superior numbers had forced it to retreat.
It was not until April 26, two-and-a-half weeks after Lee's men had capitulated, that the men of the Army of Tennessee stacked their arms and accepted their paroles (incidentally, Johnston was assisted in the surrender negotiations by John C. Breckinridge, the major character of my novella Blessed are the Peacemakers and one of the major characters of my upcoming novel House of the Proud). The terms agreed upon at Bennett Place included not just Johnston's field army, but all Confederate troops in the Carolinas, Georgia, and Florida, a total of nearly 90,000 men. Much more than the surrender at Appomattox, the surrender at Bennett Place deserves to be considered the event that marked the end of the Civil War.
But there are other contenders than Appomattox or Bennett Place. General Richard Taylor, one of the South's most underrated generals, didn't surrender the troops of the Department of Alabama and Mississippi until May 8, nearly two weeks after Johnston's capitulation. General Kirby Smith didn't surrender the Department of the Trans-Mississippi until May 26. In Oklahoma, a lonely force of Confederate-allied Indians under General Stand Watie didn't throw in the towel until nearly a month after that, on June 23. Any one of these events has as much right to be considered as the end of the war as does Appomattox.
Amazingly, even though this series of surrenders marked the end of the Confederate army, there was still a little bit of the American Civil War going on in a highly unlikely place. For while Lee, Johnston and the other generals were yielding to the overwhelming might of the Union, the commerce raider CSS Shenandoah was busy destroying the United States whaling fleet in the Pacific and Arctic Oceans. As strange as it sounds, the last shot of the American Civil War was a warning shot from one of the Shenandoah's cannons on June 28, 1865, when it ordered its final prize to heave to. It's hard to think of a place more unlike the pleasant fields of Appomattox than the icy wastes of the Arctic Circle, yet that was where the last spark of gunpowder of the American Civil War was actually lit.
Now, if you really want to stretch things out, you could argue that the Civil War didn't fully come to an end until the Shenandoah sailed into the harbor of Liverpool, having sailed around the world to surrender to English authorities out of fear that the United States would treat them as pirates. Captain James Waddell, commanding officer of the Shenandoah, oversaw the last official lowering of the Confederate flag. This was on November 6, 1865, nearly seven months after Lee had surrendered at Appomattox.
For what it's worth, my opinion is that the Civil War ended on May 10, 1865, at Irwinville, Georgia. It was then and there that President Jefferson Davis, who personified the Confederacy more than any other single individual, was finally run to ground and captured by Union cavalry. Having fled Richmond on April 2, he was heading westward with the vain hope of continuing the fight against the Yankees in the Trans-Mississippi. By then, he had been deserted by all but his loyal wife and a handful of escorting cavalrymen. With the capture of Davis, the last flame flickering on behalf of Southern independence was well and truly snuffed out.
So, when the war end? April 9? May 10? November 6? Take your pick. Unlike the reigns of kings or the tenures of presidents, wars rarely have clear and definitive ending points. Then again, considering the unfinished struggle for racial equality and the continuing conflict between state and federal power, it might be a better question to ask whether the Civil War ended in 1865 at all.
Monday, April 6, 2015
A Sikh Regiment for the British Army?
Sikh soldiers have a long and distinguished place in military history. During the Anglo-Sikh Wars of the 1840s, the Sikhs proved to be the most formidable opponents the British ever encountered in India. Having been incorporated into the British Empire, the Sikhs proved to be just as impressive fighting on behalf of that Empire as they had in fighting against it. They served during the Indian Mutiny of 1857, in Afghanistan and along the Northwest Frontier, in various colonial campaigns in Africa and Asia, and in all major theaters of both the First World War and the Second World War. Ten Sikh soldiers have won the Victoria Cross, Britain's highest award for gallantry. Few peoples have a military tradition as worthy of praise as that of the Sikhs.
There are today more than half a million Sikhs in the United Kingdom, a mutually beneficial legacy of the British Empire. However, fewer than two hundred Sikhs currently serve in the British military, which has often had difficulty in meeting its manpower needs in recent years. This has led to the proposal that the a dedicated Sikh unit be raised from among the Sikh population of the United Kingdom. Perhaps starting on a small scale, with a single reserve company, it could eventually expand into a genuine regiment, taking its inspiration from the glorious traditions of the Sikh regiments of the past.
This is an outstanding idea. After all, there are already regiments of Scottish, Welsh, and Irish soldiers. The British army still recruits soldiers from Nepal for its two Gurkha battalions. Why would be wrong with having a regiment raised from Britain's Sikh community? Not only would it benefit Britain's military, a strong force for good in the 21st Century world, but it would contribute to fostering a positive multicultural society while remaining true to traditional British values.
The Sikh community in Britain seems generally supportive of the proposal, opining that it will encourage Sikh enlistment and help rectify the lack of Sikh representation in the army. Baron Singh of Wimbeldon, Director of the Network of Sikh Organizations and probably the most recognized Sikh community leader in Britain, has expressed his endorsement of the plan. Some commentators have even suggested that the proposal was designed by the Conservative-led government to win support from the Sikh community with an eye to next month's general election.
The forces of political correctness, of course, have mobilized against the proposal, asserting that the creation of an all-Sikh regiment is somehow racist. The idea of a Sikh military unit also dusts off memories from Britain's imperial past and there are several people who insist that everything to do with the British Empire must be condemned and despised.
Such poo-pooers should be ignored. The idea of a Sikh Regiment for the British Army is a good one and it deserves a chance.
The forces of political correctness, of course, have mobilized against the proposal, asserting that the creation of an all-Sikh regiment is somehow racist. The idea of a Sikh military unit also dusts off memories from Britain's imperial past and there are several people who insist that everything to do with the British Empire must be condemned and despised.
Such poo-pooers should be ignored. The idea of a Sikh Regiment for the British Army is a good one and it deserves a chance.
Sunday, February 22, 2015
My Friend, Livy
The other day, I pulled out my copy of Livy's book Ab Urbe Condita Libri (Books from the Founding of the City), which I had thumbed through many times during my days as a history graduate student. In the English-speaking world, we generally call it, quite simply, "Livy's History of Rome." It was written in the late 1st Century BC and the early 1st Century AD, during the reign of Emperor Augustus. Livy attempted a monumental task; nothing less than an entire history of Rome and its people from the legendary founding of the city down to his own time. Sadly, the majority of Livy's books have been lost and only about a quarter of the history has survived down to the present day.
What's left, though, is magical. Reading it makes one feel like they are stepping into another world.
Some of the stories about which Livy writes are well-known to educated people. Aeneas and the arrival of his Trojan refugees on the shores of Italy. The rightful rulers Romulus and Remus being cast into the Tiber River by an evil uncle and rescued by a great she-wolf. The treason and agony of Coriolanus, whom Livy had immortalized sixteen centuries before Shakespeare got his hands on him.
Other stories told by Livy are not especially well-known to modern audiences, but are no less enthralling. The hero Horatius defending a critical bridge by himself against a powerful Etruscan army. The drama of the Battle of Lake Regillus. The three hundred and six members of the Fabii family (Livy can be very specific) going off by themselves to fight the enemy city-state of Veii.
It's fascinating to try to draw the line in Livy between what is real and what is purely legendary. Livy himself understood this and says many times that he is unsure if whatever anecdote he is relating can be considered factual. He states quite openly that the stories of Aeneas and Romulus are probably mythical and that he personally doubts the account of Horatius defending the bridge. On the other hand, two thousand five hundred years from now, will anyone believe the story of Washington crossing the ice-choked Delaware to surprise the Hessian garrison at Trenton? The very fact that even the most outlandish stories in Livy's great tale just might be true, or at least based in truth, gives a certain excitement to the whole thing.
Was there really a tyrannical king named Tarquinius Superbus? Was he really overthrown by a Roman hero named Lucius Junis Brutus? Was there really a reluctant dictator named Cincinnatus, who could have made himself king but decided, in an unprecedented display of civic virtue, to retire back to his farm? The tantalizing answer is: maybe.
Moreover, we know that the general course of Livy's narrative is true. There really was a series of wars between the Romans and the various enemies described in his books: Latins, Volscians, Aequi, Hernici, and others. When one reads Livy and passes through his descriptions of these battles and sieges, it as though one is being allowed to glimpse, ever so briefly, into a historical shadow land.
There's a modern phenomena of large numbers of people becoming devoted fans of fictional literary "universes". We see this with the Lord of the Rings book, Star Wars, Star Trek, and numerous others. I have occasionally felt this pull myself; my wife never lets me forget that once, when I was a foolish boy nearly two decades ago, I attended a Star Trek convention. But I confess I have never understood this obsession with fictional universes. Real ancient history, written by historians who actually lived two millennia ago, is so much deeper and more sophisticated, besides having the infinitely desirable quality of being at least largely true. I love reading Tolkien as much as anyone, but it's peanuts next to reading Livy. Or, for that matter, reading Herodotus, Thucydides, Plutarch, Sallust, Polybius, Suetonius, or Tacitus.
What's amazing is that these priceless pieces of historical literary are so easy to obtain. Many of them can be downloaded free of charge on e-book readers. Paperback versions, perhaps discarded by short-sighted graduate students, can be found for one or two dollars in most used book stores. Even brand new copies can be purchased for the price of a cheap meal. I honestly cannot think of a better way to spend money.
Next time you have a quiet evening, I urge you to pour yourself a glass of wine (an Italian red, preferably), sit down in a comfortable chair, and open up a copy of Livy. You won't regret it.
What's left, though, is magical. Reading it makes one feel like they are stepping into another world.
Some of the stories about which Livy writes are well-known to educated people. Aeneas and the arrival of his Trojan refugees on the shores of Italy. The rightful rulers Romulus and Remus being cast into the Tiber River by an evil uncle and rescued by a great she-wolf. The treason and agony of Coriolanus, whom Livy had immortalized sixteen centuries before Shakespeare got his hands on him.
Other stories told by Livy are not especially well-known to modern audiences, but are no less enthralling. The hero Horatius defending a critical bridge by himself against a powerful Etruscan army. The drama of the Battle of Lake Regillus. The three hundred and six members of the Fabii family (Livy can be very specific) going off by themselves to fight the enemy city-state of Veii.
It's fascinating to try to draw the line in Livy between what is real and what is purely legendary. Livy himself understood this and says many times that he is unsure if whatever anecdote he is relating can be considered factual. He states quite openly that the stories of Aeneas and Romulus are probably mythical and that he personally doubts the account of Horatius defending the bridge. On the other hand, two thousand five hundred years from now, will anyone believe the story of Washington crossing the ice-choked Delaware to surprise the Hessian garrison at Trenton? The very fact that even the most outlandish stories in Livy's great tale just might be true, or at least based in truth, gives a certain excitement to the whole thing.
Was there really a tyrannical king named Tarquinius Superbus? Was he really overthrown by a Roman hero named Lucius Junis Brutus? Was there really a reluctant dictator named Cincinnatus, who could have made himself king but decided, in an unprecedented display of civic virtue, to retire back to his farm? The tantalizing answer is: maybe.
Moreover, we know that the general course of Livy's narrative is true. There really was a series of wars between the Romans and the various enemies described in his books: Latins, Volscians, Aequi, Hernici, and others. When one reads Livy and passes through his descriptions of these battles and sieges, it as though one is being allowed to glimpse, ever so briefly, into a historical shadow land.
There's a modern phenomena of large numbers of people becoming devoted fans of fictional literary "universes". We see this with the Lord of the Rings book, Star Wars, Star Trek, and numerous others. I have occasionally felt this pull myself; my wife never lets me forget that once, when I was a foolish boy nearly two decades ago, I attended a Star Trek convention. But I confess I have never understood this obsession with fictional universes. Real ancient history, written by historians who actually lived two millennia ago, is so much deeper and more sophisticated, besides having the infinitely desirable quality of being at least largely true. I love reading Tolkien as much as anyone, but it's peanuts next to reading Livy. Or, for that matter, reading Herodotus, Thucydides, Plutarch, Sallust, Polybius, Suetonius, or Tacitus.
What's amazing is that these priceless pieces of historical literary are so easy to obtain. Many of them can be downloaded free of charge on e-book readers. Paperback versions, perhaps discarded by short-sighted graduate students, can be found for one or two dollars in most used book stores. Even brand new copies can be purchased for the price of a cheap meal. I honestly cannot think of a better way to spend money.
Next time you have a quiet evening, I urge you to pour yourself a glass of wine (an Italian red, preferably), sit down in a comfortable chair, and open up a copy of Livy. You won't regret it.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)