General musings

Well, we’re home. I’m exhausted, but it was a great trip. I will post specifics and photographs from this morning’s battlefield tour at Franklin tomorrow, so please be patient.

I made it through the entire winter without so much as a sniffle….until last Thursday. In another sterling example of the truth of Murphy’s Law, I woke up on Thursday realizing that I was coming down with a head cold, and by the time we reached Nashville on Friday, it was full blown, and it was a bad one, even with using Zicam. Traditionally, I never sleep well the first night of a cold, because I can’t breathe. Likewise, I almost never sleep well in beds that I’m not familiar with, such as hotel beds. This made for a deadly combination on Friday night. I’d be surprised if I got more than a couple of hours worth of sleep. I feel crappy and totally worn out as I write this. I’m going to try to get to bed early.

Friday: We dropped off the dogs at the boarding place, came home to trade cars, and off we went. We made it to Nashville in 6:15, including lunch and other stops. We got there at 4:00 local time. Dave Powell had tipped me off to look for the monument of Nathan Bedford Forrest in Brentwood, and I kept a close eye out for it as we headed south on I-65. Sure enough, there it was. The Military Order of the Stars and Bars, an organization made up of male descendants of commissioned Confederate officers, has erected a 35 foot tall monument of a mounted Forrest right alongside the freeway. This thing has to be THE worst Civil War monument ever. Forrest looks like an action figure of some cartoon character. It doesn’t even look like him. To call the thing hideous is being incredibly kind to it. It’s so ugly, in fact, that I didn’t see a reason to endanger us by stopping to try to take a photo of it. I can’t imagine why someone would have paid for this horrific thing to have been erected, but there it is….

We checked into our hotel and then headed out. We stayed in Brentwood, which is a lovely and very affluent suburb of Nashville. The hotel is apparently on the southern edge of the Nashville battlefield. We went and found Traveller’s Rest Plantation, where the conference was to be held, and then, upon a recommendation from old friend Greg Biggs, decided to head down toward Franklin to look for dinner.

It was nearly 80 degrees there when we got there, so we put the top down on the convertible, and off we went. There are absolutely immense McMansions lining the Franklin Pike. I’m told one of the largest belongs to country singer Billy Ray Cyrus of Empty Hollow Head….oops, Achy Breaky Heart….fame. We drove down to Franklin, explored a bit–we found the Carter House–and then had a superb dinner at a local restaurant called Sandy’s Downtown Grille. We headed back up to Brentwood, stopped at the local Border’s store, and then called it a night.

Saturday was conference day. We went up to Traveller’s Rest and spent the day in the conference. There were fifty-one participants in the conference, including a couple of regular readers of this blog. Myers Brown gave a good talk on Joe Wheeler, and then Brian Steel Wills gave a talk on Forrest. Brian is one of the funniest people I’ve ever met–he easily could have been a standup comic instead of a historian. Greg gave a good talk on the June 27, 1863 Battle of Shelbyville (part of Rosecrans’ Tullahoma Campaign) over lunch. Traveller’s Rest was opened for us to tour. The house served as John Bell Hood’s headquarters for two weeks prior to the Battle of Nashville, and it has lots of history. There is an autograph book there that was owned by a resident signed by every Confederate general, and it’s a special thing. This is the first time I’ve seen Bedford Forrest’s signature, as one example.

I struggled through my talk. First, I had little confidence in my presentation, as Union cavalry operations in the Western Theater are definitely not my strong point. I also had a major head full of garbage due to the bad cold, I hadn’t slept, and it was really a challenge just to get through it. I managed to make it through and did okay; I tried to inject some levity, and the crowd seemed to like the presentation. The final segment of the program was a panel discussion, I sold some books, and then we were out of there. Before leaving, Susan and I changed clothes, and I shifted into hockey fan mode, including my Blue Jackets jersey.

We had dinner at Jack’s Famous Barbeque on Broadway (great food; I highly recommend it) and then went to the game. The Preds won 2-1 in a nip and tuck battle. The arena is interesting–it’s very different (and smaller) than our arena here, Nationwide Arena. We’re required to behave ourselves. Before every game, they warn us about not using profanity, etc. This is not the case in Nashville. When the visiting players are introduced one at a time, the crowd yells “SUCKS” in unison after each player’s name is called. Then, when the visiting coach is announced, they yell, “AND HE SUCKS TOO!”. Any time a Predators player gets called for a penalty, the announcer tells who the penalty was on, what the call was, and then says, “The Blue Jackets are on the power play”, and the crowd responds with “AND THEY STILL SUCK!” I thought it was hilarious. This would never, ever fly in Columbus. The owner of the team would stroke out if something like that happened. Also, since it’s Music City in Nashville, it came as no shock when a live rock band played between periods of the game, and they were good. Best of all, they didn’t play country music, which Susan and I both despise. Surprisingly, there were a quite a few Blue Jackets’ fans there, and we were treated politely. I guess we couldn’t hope for much more than that. I just wish the CBJ had won. Ah, well. But for feeling really crappy, it was a nearly perfect day.

This morning, we visited the Franklin battlefield (again, details on this will follow tomorrow), and we headed for home at noon local time. It was 6:15 driving time again, and we got home just in time to go pick up the dogs before the boarding place closed for the night. I’m not sure who’s more tired–the dogs or me. I know that I’m absolutely exhausted. The weather was beautiful today, even if a bit cooler, and we had the top down on the Bug for about half of the day. We did get to take a picture of my all-time favorite roadside sign. Midway through Kentucky, along I-65 northbound, is a sign that says “USED COWS FOR SALE”. It cracks me up every time I see it (and I’ve now seen it four times). Susan will post it tomorrow, once the pictures have been downloaded from the digital camera. She made the comment that she’d only be interested in buying used cows if they’ve already been factory reconditioned. 🙂

Nevertheless, it was a terrific weekend, and it whet my appetite to go back and get a tour of the Nashville and Stones River battlefields. I think we’re going to try to do that this fall.

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This coming Saturday, March 10, is not only the 142nd anniversary of the Battle of Monroe’s Crossroads, it’s also the day of the Third Annual Nashville Civil War Conference. The conference, which focuses on Western Theater cavalry operations, will be held at Traveller’s Rest Plantation. I will be speaking on Union cavalry operations. Since it’s such a broad topic, I’m going to focus more on personalities and give a broad overview of the operations.

Quite coincidentally, that same night, March 10, the Columbus Blue Jackets play the Nashville Predators at the Gaylord Entertainment Center in Music Town.

So, I will get to spend the day talking about my favorite subject, and then after the conference ends, we will be heading to the hockey game. And then on Sunday, I get to do some battlefield stomping before coming home.

It’s the perfect convergence of two of my very favorite things. Life is good. 🙂

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Having grown up in the Philadelphia suburbs in the 1970’s, we were all hockey crazy. When I was 13 years old in the spring of 1974, the Flyers won their first of two consecutive Stanley Cup championships, and we were ALL hockey crazy. I’ve retained my love of hockey for my whole life, and when it was announced we were going to get our own NHL expansion team here in Columbus, I was absolutely thrilled. I share a set of season tickets with one of my former law partners, and I remain a loyal Flyers fan, too.

Our team is called the Blue Jackets, named to honor Ohio’s contributions to the Union victory in the Civil War. It’s a nice thing, but our team has more European players than anything else, and I doubt any of them have a clue what it means.

This past fall, the head coach was fired, a new coach was hired. His name is Ken Hitchcock, and he had just been fired by my beloved Flyers. I was aware that Hitchcock has a serious interest in the Civil War, so I sent copies of a couple of my books down to the team offices for him just to welcome him to town. Until today, though, I didn’t know just how deep his interest runs. The following article appeared in today’s issue of the Columbus Dispatch:

BLUE JACKETS
Civil War not ancient history to Hitchcock
Thursday, March 01, 2007
Michael Arace
THE COLUMBUS DISPATCH
Ken Hitchcock became a Blue Jacket in 1992, the year he visited Gettysburg for the first time. He took a tour and, when it was done, a few re-enactors emerged in period dress to stage a play of sorts. They used the tourists as troops in the scene. It was an epiphany.

“I don’t know if it’s preordained,” he said. “But when I was coming here to take the job I was starting to think how unique it is. The first logo I see is the one with the hat. Let me put it this way: When the team came into the league, and I was in Dallas, everyone was wondering what the heck a Blue Jacket was. But I understood it.”

I had no idea that Ken Hitchcock was a reenactor, and I had no idea that his interest runs as deep as it does. I think it’s wonderful that our team–lousy as it might be–has a coach who truly understands and appreciates the significance of the team’s name. And it allows for a convergence of two of the things I love the most–NHL hockey and the Civil War.

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I spent three years of my life in the lovely, historic town of Carlisle, Pennsylvania. Although it’s been nearly 24 years since I left there, I still love the place. I still visit every opportunity that I get.

My alma mater, Dickinson College, was founded in 1773 by Dr.Benjamin Rush, the famous Philadelphia physician and patriot (Dr. Rush signed the Declaration of Independence). The main building on campus, Old West, was burned by the British during the War of 1812. The college was visited by the Confederates in the days just before the Battle of Gettysburg, and was shelled by Jeb Stuart’s horse artillery on the night of July 1, 1863. We boast a chief justice of the Supreme Court of the United States and a President of the United States (albeit probably the worst of both–Taney and Buchanan) among our alumni. I am a member of the College’s Class of 1983, meaning that I graduated as part of the 210th graduating class (old friend and mentor Brian Pohanka was a member of the Class of 1979). Matt Pinsker, who, along with fellow blogger Brian Dirck, is one of the finest of the current generation of Lincoln scholars, and the holder of the Brian C. Pohanka Chair of Civil War History, teaches at Dickinson. We’re lucky to have him.

Next to the college’s campus is the Dickinson School of Law. Until just a few years ago, the School of Law was completely independent–it is not affiliated with the College in any fashion. However, during the 1990’s, Penn State University absorbed it, as Penn State did not have a law school of its own and craved one. By absorbing the School of Law, Penn State was able to acquire a well-respected and long-established law school, complete with its own facilities (although there has been some talk about Penn State moving it out of Carlisle and up to its main campus in State College, which would REALLY be a tragedy).

The town also has a great deal of history. It was founded in the 1750’s as a supply post for the British army. It played an important role during the French and Indian War, and is the home of the Carlisle Barracks, which is the site of the United States Army War College and the U. S. Army Military History Institute. The Barracks were an important training depot where cavalry recruits learned their trade. Fitz Lee’s troopers set the place ablaze on the night of July 1, 1863. The Barracks also housed the Carlisle Indian School, famed for Jim Thorpe, considered the world’s greatest athlete of his era.

Molly Pitcher, of Battle of Monmouth fame, is buried in the town cemetery. The town also features an excellent museum and historical society dedicated to the county’s rich historic legacy.

There were several stops on the Underground Railroad in Carlisle–my fraternity used to use one of those sites to initiate our pledges. Carlisle is the county seat of Cumberland County. The town is filled with beautiful, historic structures such as you would expect from a town founded in the mid-eighteenth century. The handsome old courthouse on the town square still proudly shows damage from one of James Breathed’s guns when the Confederate horse artillery shelled the town that awful night in July 1863.

There are a number of Pennsylvania historical markers around the town, including several dedicated to the Gettysburg Campaign, and there is also a very handsome monument to Cumberland County’s contributions to the Union victory in the Civil War on the town square, right next to the old courthouse.

Although Carlisle is a small town of only 25,000 or so, it’s one of my very favorite places, and a place I never miss visiting when I’m in the area. It’s one of those wonderful spots where you can literally feel the history as you walk through the town. In particular, it has a rich Civil War legacy, and I commend it to you. It’s well worth a visit.

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My self-imposed break of several months has about run out of steam. After several months of absolutely no motivation, I’m finally starting to feel motivated to get back to work. So, I think that the plan is to get back to work tomorrow night, after one more night of goofing off to watch the Super Bowl. Tomorrow night, I start working on my Boyd article in earnest. And there’s other stuff backed up in the queue behind it. So, I guess I’d better get back at it…..

The break was much needed. I feel much more motivated about things, and I feel much more prepared to face the pile of accumulated projects.

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While working on the Kelly’s Ford article, I re-discovered a couple of fabulous, parallel quotes that describe some of the mounted charges and countercharges that took place during the Battle of Kelly’s Ford. What’s particularly interesting about them is that one is by a Yankee trooper and one is by a Confederate trooper, but the similarity is really striking. Have a look:

“A cavalry charge is a terrible thing. Almost before you can think, the shock of horse against horse, the clash of steel against steel, crack of pistols, yells of some poor lost one, as he lost his seat and went down under those iron shod hoofs that knew no mercy, or the shriek of some horse overturned and cut to pieces by his own kind,” recalled Pvt. William Henry Ware of the 3rd Virginia Cavalry. “It is Hell while it lasts, but when man meets his fellow man, face to face, foot to foot, knee to knee, and looks him in the eye, the rich red blood flows through his veins like liquid lightning. There is blood in his eye, Hell in his heart, and he is a different man from what he is in the time of peace.”

“It was like the coming together of two mighty railroad trains at full speed. The yelling of men, the clashing of sabers, a few empty saddles, a few wounded and dying, and the charge is over. One side or the other is victorious, perhaps, only for a few minutes, and then the contest is renewed,” observed Sgt. George Reeve of the 6th Ohio Cavalry. “A charge of this kind is over almost before one has time to think of the danger he is in.”

I’ve often said that if I could turn back the hands of time and witness a single event of the Civil War, it would have been the grand, five brigade front charge by the Union cavalry that won the Third Battle of Winchester on September 19, 1864. The charging Union line was fully two miles long, and the accounts of the veterans indicate that the ground trembled like an earthquake as those 9,000 troopers came pounding down on Jubal Early’s Confederate infantry at Fort Collier. The Thur de Thulstrup illustration that you see here is a depiction of that magnificent charge.

Is it any wonder that I find cavalry operations so fascinating?

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The death of Barbaro yesterday reminded me yesterday of just how fragile horses are. For all of their size and strength, horses are delicate, fragile beasts. The truth is that they were never intended to tolerate the abuse that we humans so often subject them to. And unless properly fed, watered, and cared for, they will break down.

Capt. Charles Francis Adams served in the 1st Massachusetts Cavalry. The grandson of one U. S. President, and the great-grandson of another, Adams possessed the family’s gift for the written word. The winter of 1863 was an especially harsh one. Adams had a chance to observe the torment of his unit’s mounts as they suffered alongside their masters:

My tent is logged up, I have a good fire-place, a pretty complete outfit and am as comfortable as I have any wish to be; but I feel for my men and dare not go and look at my horses. I know just how they look, as they huddle together at the picket-ropes and turn their shivering croups to this pelting north-easter. There they stand without shelter, fetlock deep in slush and mud, without a blanket among them, and there they must stand–poor beasts–and all I can do for them is to give them all the food I can, and that little enough. Of oats there is a sufficiency and the horses have twelve quarts a day; but hay is scant, and it is only by luck that we have a few bales just now when most we need them. I have them fed four times a day–at morning, noon, night and midnight–and if they have enough to eat, they do wonderfully well, but it comes hard on them to have to sustain hunger, as well as cold and wet. It is all over, however, with any horse that begins to fail, for after a few days he either dies at the rope, or else glanders set in and he is led out and shot. I lose in this way two or three horses per week.

Charles Francis Adams to his father, January 28, 1863. Some 1.5 million horses are estimated to have died in the American Civil War.

The Battle of Monroe’s Crossroads was fought near Fayetteville, North Carolina on March 10, 1865. Pvt. William F. Sewell of the 5th Georgia Cavalry received a mortal wound in that harsh fighting. While the Battle of Bentonville raged on March 19, local blacks ventured out onto the Monroe’s Crossroads battlefield. They found Sewell’s unburied body lying on the bank of a creek where he fell and died on March 10. His large black horse, still saddled and and still carrying all of its accouterments, grazed nearby, faithfully waiting for his master to awaken and for them to get back to work. That black horse loyally stood by its dead master for nine long days.

The National Sporting Library in Middleburg, Virginia–the heart of modern Virginia horse country–commissioned a monument to the Civil War cavalry horse. Rather than portray a hale and hearty horse, the monument shows an exhausted, malnourished cavalry horse, still faithful and still serving, even though it was clearly near the end of its rope. The scabbard to his master’s saber is empty; we don’t know what happened to his master. The monument accurately depicts the condition of Civil War cavalry horses, and shows the frightful toll that endless hours of marching and picketing took on those proud beasts.

Although Barbaro was a pampered and beloved thoroughbred, he demonstrated the same fighting spirit as those faithful cavalry horses, and I admire him. He proved that the mark of a champion is not necessarily won-lost record, but rather heart and courage. In demonstrating the heart and courage of a champion, he proved himself a worthy heir to the cavalry horses who sacrificed so much in the Civil War.

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Keith Poulter of North and South magazine has been soliciting a raft of new articles for upcoming issues. Last weekend, Keith asked–and I agreed–for four articles from me. Fortunately, three of the four are things that can be adapted from different book projects. One of them will be an article on the June 30, 1863 Battle of Hanover, adapted from Plenty of Blame to Go Around: Jeb Stuart’s Controversial Ride to Gettysburg. JD’s doing the bulk of the work on that one.

Right now, I’m working on a piece on the March 17, 1863 Battle of Kelly’s Ford. This one is an adaptation of a chapter from The Union Cavalry Comes of Age: Hartwood Church to Brandy Station, 1863. The problem is this: the chapter from the book was nearly 19,000 words long, by far the most detailed treatment of this day-long slugging match ever published. It’s literally filled with great stories of the deeds/exploits of individual troopers.

Keith asked for 7000-7500 words. That means, in order to meet his target length, I have to cut nearly 60% of the text. I’ve taken two full runs at it so far and have managed to cut about 8000 words, meaning I’m presently at about 10,500 words. I still have to write several introductory paragraphs for it to put it in its proper context. I’ve cut out virtually all of the individual soldier stories and have just the battle narrative left and some analysis at the end of the article, although there’s much less of it than there was at the end of the book chapter.

I don’t see any way that I can get it down to the target of 7000-7500 words without pretty much eviscerating the thing. I might be able to cut another 500-1000 words before writing the introductory paragraphs, but that’s it. I guess I will have to leave it to Keith to either cut more out of it or to simply run with it the way that it is.

And then I get to do the same thing all over again with the two days of the Battle of Trevilian Station. That will be even more difficult….

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Over at the excellent group blog Civil Warriors, and citing my ruminations about whether to obtain an advanced degree in military history, Brooks Simpson has chimed in with a very thoughtful and well-stated analysis of the sticky question of amateur vs. professional historians.

I think that Brooks has it exactly right.  It shouldn’t be about degrees and professional designations, but rather about whether one produces quality work, based on solid research, that adds to understanding and to the body of knowledge.  I couldn’t agree with that more.  Ultimately, when push comes to shove, the work ought to be able to stand on its own and speak for itself.  I hope that when my time comes, people will be able to say that my work met those criteria.  If it has, then it doesn’t matter whether I had a Ph.D. in history or a law degree.

Brooks also points out quite correctly that there are any number of academic historians who can’t write to save their lives, and who simply don’t produce much over the course of their careers.  I have one particular friend who is an academic historian who has so much going on in his life–two teenaged daughters and trying to get tenure at his school–that getting anything from him is like pulling teeth.  I don’t resent that–in fact, I understand it and am sympathetic to it. 

The whole “publish or perish” thing that faces a lot of academic historians has to be a tough row to hoe.  I guess I’m fortunate to have the time and motivation to do this work and NOT have my professional life at stake as to whether I get something published or not.  For me, the very fact that I am not an academic historian gives me the freedom to work at my own pace and to focus only on those things that interest me, as opposed to writing for some dry, dusty academic journal because it’s what’s expected of me as part of my job requirements.

J. D. Petruzzi has also tackled this issue on his blog today.  Here’s his take: In the end, I think the distinction between “professionals” and “amateurs” in the field is important to only a very small segment.  Most folks don’t think about such a distinction, probably never heard of it, and don’t care one way or the other.  When it comes to books and articles, folks will read what interests them and ignore what doesn’t, regardless of who the author is or his/her credentials.  The reader’s level of familiarity with the subject, and reviews, will allow them to assess the writing’s value and scholarship.  I also tend to agree with this as well.

Finally, Kevin Levin has also addressed this question on his blog today.  Kevin candidly points out that he’s faced many of the same demons that have plagued me about this question, and draws precisely the same conclusion I have: Whether my friends and other acquaintances that I’ve come into contact with through publishing and conferences consider me to be an academic/amateur or professional historian doesn’t matter much to me at all.  I too hope that my published work stands or falls on the merits of the research and the quality of the argument.”  I agree. 

I will be the first to admit that my insecurity and bristling about being labeled an amateur has everything to do with my own personal foibles and very little to do with the opinions of others.  It’s important to me for my work and me to be taken seriously and to have the respect of those whom I consider to be peers, and I tend to be a little thin-skinned about this particular issue because it plays to my own insecurities. There have been some academic historians who have turned up their snoots at my work, and that has offended me to no end and has caused a great deal of the insecurity that drives this particular bogeyman for me.  I think it’s time to get over it and move on.

In the end, I think that Brooks, Kevin, and J. D. have said pretty much the same thing in different ways.  They’re right–there’s no reason to go looking for a fight when there’s not a fight to be had.  Ultimately, it’s all about the work and letting the work stand on its own merits, and I have to remind myself of that from time to time.

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In 1971, when I was ten years old, I met Muhammad Ali at a hotel in Philadelphia. We were there for some family occasion, either a wedding or a Bar Mitzvah. I honestly don’t remember which; it’s been 35 years, after all. It was just a few months after his legendary first fight with Joe Frazier, in which he took a beating and lost to Smokin’ Joe in what is often called “The Fight of the Century”. Ali took time to sit and talk to me, a Jewish kid from the suburbs, and sat me in his lap while he did. He signed a postcard for me twice–one in his normal signature, and once in what he described as his “pretty” signature. I still have that postcard. It’s in a photo album upstairs, along with the rest of my collection of sports autographs. It’s one of my prized possessions.

From that moment on, I became a boxing fan. I love watching boxing. There’s nothing like it in the world–one-on-one combat. Just two boxers in the ring with nothing but their skills and their wits, and may the better man win. Some view it as barbaric. I view it as a thing of beauty. I’ve become something of a student of the game, but with so many weight divisions and so many governing bodies with so many watered-down championships, it’s difficult to keep it all straight. Still, though, I thoroughly enjoying watching a good fight.

Last night was devoted to boxing. Columbus is a pretty good boxing town. This is Buster Douglas’ home town, and Jerry Page, 1984 Olympic gold medalist has spent his entire life here. When Buster went through the motions of training for his only title defense–a loss to Evander Holyfield–I would see him running in the neighborhood where I lived at the time. Buster could have been a great one, but he had only one great fight in his heart. He just didn’t want it badly enough to be able to muster more than that one truly magnificent fight against Mike Tyson.

A local boxing promoter had a slate of professional bouts last night, and a client of mine sponsored the event and got ringside seats for doing so. My client knows I love boxing and invited me to come along. Susan and I went and saw eight fights. We then got home and saw a bout and a half on HBO. For a boxing fan, it was a great evening.

While driving home, I started thinking about what might have happened if some of the leading protagonists of the Civil War had donned the gloves. Just for fun, I started coming up with some pairings. Here are a handful of them.

In a heavyweight match, veteran defensive specialist and counterpuncher James “Old Pete” Longstreet takes on Winfield Scott “Winnie” Hancock, the aggressive but effective slugger from Pennsylvania.

In a middleweight bout, James Ewell Brown “Beauty” Stuart, the flashy and speedy technician, meets John “Old Reliable” Buford, the steady and hard-hitting fighter who is equally proficient with both hands.

William T. “Cump” Sherman, the enigmatic and inconsistent tactician, takes on defensive specialist Joe Johnston, who specializes in the rope-a-dope, in a welterweight match-up.

George “Slow Trot” Thomas, slow-moving but hard-hitting, takes on grizzled and unpopular veteran Braxton Bragg in a contest of two journeymen.

Judson “Little Kil” Kilpatrick, small, wiry, and aggressive, and clad in only his nightshirt, takes on big, hard-hitting veteran Wade Hampton in a seemingly uneven match between different weight classes.

And, in the main event, Robert E. “Gray Fox” Lee, the crafty, unpredictable and hard-to-hit veteran southpaw takes on Ulysses S. “Butcher” Grant, the aggressive and relentless slugger from Illinois, in a twelve-round title match.

Feel free to add some match-ups of your own. It really is a lot of fun.

LET’S GET READY TO RUMBLE!!!!!

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