The battles of water, ice, and steam July 25, 2009Posted by Jenny in Civil War, history, Uncategorized.
Tags: Andrew Foote, Charles F. Smith, Civil War, Fort Donelson, Fort Henry, Gideon Pillow, Nathan Bedford Forrest, Simon Bolivar Buckner, Ulysses S. Grant
This post is one of an occasional series about Ulysses S. Grant—and about Gideon J. Pillow.
The battles of Fort Henry and Fort Donelson were fought in February 1862. The weather stayed sodden over those weeks, meandering up and down around the freezing mark, and the Tennessee and Cumberland rivers flooded their channels. Fort Henry was on the Tennessee and Fort Donelson on the Cumberland, in that peculiar place where those two large rivers flowed close to each other but resisted merging before emptying into the Ohio.
By capturing the two forts, the Federals could generally control things upstream. They could blow up railroad bridges, disrupt river traffic, and occupy towns as far up as Nashville on the Cumberland and Muscle Shoals on the Tennessee. In the narrow strip between the rivers, the forts were located on broken terrain covered with bare, bleak hardwood forest where the trees threw their long shadows under the feeble winter sun. Every stream valley was filled with deep, muddy water.
The rainclouds were imitated by the puffs of steam rising from the gunboat smokestacks. The fleet had evolved halfway from the age of wood to the age of steel—some boats were all wood and some had an exoskeleton of iron—but all of these boats lived in the age of steam. They had pressure gauges, steam intake valves, boilers that might possibly explode when struck by a shell. That would of course fill the gunboat with scalding steam, as happened for instance during the assault on Fort Henry.
There was steam and rain and snow and mud. Fort Henry had been built on low-lying land by a slow-witted engineer, and it literally filled up with water at about the same time that its earthen embankments were made porous by incoming shells from the gunboats. That surrender came easily, but Fort
Donelson might have been impossible if General Pillow hadn’t helped out his foes.
The problem for the attackers on Fort Donelson was the cold. On the eleven-mile march over from Fort Henry, a lot of the Union soldiers had jauntily tossed away their heavy overcoats and blankets because it happened to be sunny and warm that morning. But by nightfall, as they camped (no tents) around the fort, it started to rain out of the dark purple sky, and then the rain changed over to snow, and the ground changed over from brown to white. They weren’t allowed to have campfires that would make their positions visible. Some of the men said later that the cold at Fort Donelson was one of the worst things they ever had to go through in the war. You might think battle itself would be worse, but that doesn’t seem to be the way things were experienced. Brute physical discomfort outweighed danger: the clothes that got soaked all the way through to the skin, the fingers too stiff to move. Bruce Catton wrote in “Grant Moves South”: Men of the 12th Iowa recalled that they spent most of the night trotting around in circles just to keep from freezing, with regimental officers improvising strange new tactical commands: “By companies, in a circle, double-quick, march!”
The next afternoon, navy officer Andrew Foote took three ironclads and two wooden gunboats splashing and puffing upriver to Donelson and attacked the fort. Foote darted in and out of the flagship’s pilot-house with a megaphone, shouting out echoey commands. But this time the defenders got the better of them. The flagship was hit 60 times, one of the shots passing through the pilot-house, killing the pilot and wounding Foote. Another vessel had its tiller-ropes destroyed. Those two vessels, both ironclads, drifted helplessly downstream like big dead turtles. The other boats had their share of damage and retreated with them.
General Pillow lost no time in telegraphing Richmond with news of a splendid victory. But even at the time, he and General John B. Floyd and the junior but much smarter officer Nathan Bedford Forrest realized they were actually in a tight spot. The Union forces encircled the fort entirely and looked as though they might be settling in for a siege. The only way out was toward the south by the road that led through the village of Dover.
The weather that night went maliciously colder. All the ruts in the muddy roads froze solid, all the men spent another night stamping and shivering and marching in little circles to stay warm. In the morning Grant was several miles away from the lines consulting with Foote when Pillow launched his assault, sending 10,000 men out to attack the Union right, south of the fort and close to the river. Within a few hours the Federals had fallen back. As Grant returned from his visit to Foote, he heard the drumming metallic sound of musketry and rode into thick clouds of gray battle smoke. He found clusters of men standing about, demoralized and lacking ammunition. The regiments on the right had suffered at least 2,000 casualties—men in blue lay everywhere, bleeding into the snow.
But ample stores of ammunition lay nearby. The inexperienced men had been too panicky to pause and refill their cartridge boxes, and their inexperienced officers had not ordered them to do so. As Grant described it in his memoir: “I directed Colonel Webster to ride with me and call out to the men as we passed: ‘Fill your cartridge-boxes, quick, and get into line; the enemy is trying to escape and he must not be permitted to do so.’ This acted like a charm. The men only wanted some one to give them a command.”
Grant thought the Confederates must have spread themselves thin on other sides of the fort, having concentrated their forces for the assault. (So simple, this observation that turned around a dark situation. So easy for anyone to
see who isn’t surrounded by the battle’s noise and confusion.) He ordered General C. F. Smith to attack the rebel line on the west side of the fort. And so Smith did, right away, in a fierce battle up a steep icy ravine. According to Bruce Catton, Smith yelled at his men, “You volunteered to be killed for love of your country and now you can be.” And his men followed him and they got through the enemy line.
At the same time, General Pillow, having broken through to the south, ordered his men back into the fort. This decision was a wonderful and mysterious thing. General Floyd reversed Pillow’s order but, after a discussion with Pillow, reversed the reversal. It seems that Pillow’s decision must have been caused by his chronic favoring of appearance over reality. He had achieved “a brilliant and brave assault on the enemy,” and now that act of the play was over and the curtain could come down. It did not seem to be connected in his thinking with the actual necessity of getting out of the fort, or maybe he thought the Union forces would wait during the intermission until he could raise the curtain on the next act, “the valorous escape of our men in gray against overwhelming odds.”
In the small hours of the night, Floyd and Pillow held a conference with the
third in command, General Simon Bolivar Buckner. Floyd was nervous about being captured, for the straightforward reason that he had taken actions as the former War Secretary that made him subject to charges of treason. So he decided to escape, and he turned over his command to Pillow. But Pillow decided that he would prefer to escape as well, so he turned over the command to Buckner, who was a responsible man and accepted it. Floyd and Pillow slunk out of the fort at 2:00 in the morning and got away in boats across the river. Bedford Forrest escaped with his cavalry through a swamp to the south, undoubtedly cursing Pillow as he went. Before dawn Buckner sent a message to Grant proposing a cease-fire and discussion of terms of surrender.
Grant’s reply became famous.
SIR:—Yours of this date, proposing armistice and appointment of Commissioners to settle terms of capitulation, is just received. No terms except an unconditional and immediate surrender can be accepted. I propose to move immediately upon your works.
I am, sir, very respectfully,
Your ob’t servant,
U. S. Grant,
Gideon Pillow: The silly general March 27, 2009Posted by Jenny in Civil War, history.
Tags: Civil War, Gideon Pillow, Mexican-American War, Ulysses S. Grant, Zachary Taylor
I first came across the name of Gideon J. Pillow when I read Grant’s memoir. At the start of Grant’s account of the battle of Fort Donelson in February 1862, he wrote of his Confederate foe, “I had known General Pillow in Mexico, and judged that with any force, no matter how small, I could march up to within gunshot of any entrenchments he was given to hold.”
I was intrigued by this description and became still more fascinated when I studied the events of the Fort Donelson battle, in which Pillow seemed at first to have the upper hand but then made an inexplicable decision that led to an embarrassing defeat. The most competent of the Confederate officers present, Nathan Bedford Forrest, had ended up fleeing with his cavalry through a swamp in the dark of the night, undoubtedly cursing Pillow as he went.
Not only was I intrigued, but I also loved the name. Gideon Pillow, Gideon Pillow… the name sounded as plump and self-satisfied as the man himself.
General Pillow could not have been improved by any amount of invention. He comes to us already perfect out of history, a creation whose shining incompetence was set off to best advantage by his own pompous pronouncements. He first emerges from history’s shadows in the summer of 1846, when several battles of the Mexican war had already been fought and Congress had finally voted to ratify the war’s existence.
In its lengthy deliberations, Congress had authorized appointments for a large number of volunteer generals. Pillow arrived at the camp of Zachary Taylor (“Old Rough and Ready”) as one of the first contingent of generals. Taylor was said to be disconcerted by this surplus of generals, who were more numerous than he knew what to do with.
But Pillow was ready to face the trials of combat, or so he thought. He had served with the Tennessee militia during the tranquil 1830s, when his competence and nerve were tested to the limit by the fierce rigors of drills and inspections. He held the rank of brigadier general, a political post won through his association with his former law partner, James Polk.
(The series continues here)
The morning trees of Shiloh March 5, 2009Posted by Jenny in Civil War, history, military history.
Tags: Albert Sidney Johnston, Civil War, Don Carlos Buell, Shiloh, Ulysses S. Grant
add a comment
When I think about Shiloh, one thing always stands out to me among the countless assorted multicolored bits which that large event radiates out. It is the phrase, “the trees were full of music.” It comes from the writings of a youthful Union soldier named Jesse Bowman Young, describing the morning of April 6, 1862.
The robins had been chirping in the woods since dawn, and the trees were full of music, when suddenly a sound not so melodious broke in on the ears of the soldiers, an occasional shot from the picket line a mile beyond the camp…. As the firing continued…wild birds in great numbers, rabbits in commotion, and numerous squirrels came flocking toward the Union lines as though they were being driven from the woods.*
Within minutes, the music had given way to the dismembered sounds of shouts and screams—the sounds of “a terrible battle fought between great armies,” as Grant described it.
“The trees were full of music.” The poet Gerald Stern once described something like what the young soldier heard:
I would say there are two dawns,
one, if it’s late April, if it’s in the East,
it’s night still, there is a kind of thin blue
over the hills; and two, the true dawn, then
the trees are almost shaking with noise, the sun
is spread out, light is everywhere….**
Or, as Homer said in the Iliad, Dawn in her saffron robe came spreading light on all the world.
I am trying to triangulate. If I take the map of the battle, with its white and black rectangles that represent troop positions, and then I take a few words that describe a moment for one individual in the battle, I will arrive at the junction of the objective and the subjective, and I will come closer to understanding the battle.
I also add in my own private question, which I ask even though it involves something impossible in both time and circumstance. If I had been standing near Jesse Bowman Young that morning, when the massive unexpected charge of rebel soldiers came crashing through the woods, would I have stood my ground and fought, or would I have fled with the thousands of stragglers who cowered under the sheltering bluff of the Tennessee River?
Certain major historical events come with a controversy attached as a sort of bonus, and Shiloh is one of them. Shiloh is permanently linked to the question: Did Grant fail to anticipate and prepare for a rebel offensive that morning? If the question is rephrased, it has a definite answer: In hindsight, would Grant have done anything differently? Yes, he would have made his troops dig entrenchments. That would have saved many Union lives.
Grant thought the Confederate forces were too weak and demoralized to stage an offensive, and that turned out to be the worst mistake he made in the whole war. He was waiting for the arrival of reinforcements under General Don Carlos Buell before moving 20 miles south into Mississippi to attack the rebels at Corinth. That was where the Mobile & Ohio Railroad crossed the Memphis & Charleston Railroad (giving it a railroad importance of x squared). Grant’s opponent, General Albert Sidney Johnston, had 40,000 rebel troops there; Grant himself had 37,000; Buell had another 35,000, of whom 20,000 clean-faced soldiers would reach Shiloh to join their smoke-begrimed, blood-clotted comrades after the first day of fighting.
Grant knew Johnston from the Mexican war (all of these gray and blue generals knew each other), so he probably should have realized that Johnston, a proud man, was burning for a success. Johnston had recently come under criticism after his subordinates Floyd and Pillow had bungled the battle of Fort Donelson.
Johnston died bravely at Shiloh. Grant lived on to face the newspaper reports, which described “visions of horror seared upon the eyeballs and burned indelibly on the brain.” The Confederates had overrun the camp and bayoneted sleeping soldiers in their tents, the newspapers said. Grant had either been absent from the battlefield most of the day, or drunk through the whole thing, or both. He had botched his orders to his subordinates. And so on. (But none of these things were true.)
Throughout the long hours Grant had been moving incessantly among the cardinal points of the battlefield to talk with his division commanders. Those points had names that have taken on an allegorical flavor. The Peach Orchard, the Hornet’s Nest, the Sunken Road, Owl Creek. (Peach blossoms drenched in poison… the youth treads on the nest… the road sinks down and down… the owl flees the dark woods.) He had spent the night of April 6 under a tree in a drenching rainstorm. When he went to seek shelter in a small log cabin, he found that it was being used for performing amputations, and he decided he liked his rainy tree better. The next day, with Buell’s reinforcements, he and his troops once again fought desperately and finally pushed the Confederates back.
The robins chirping… the trees full of music… if only that moment could come back, but it was a cracked bird’s egg that could never be reassembled…
* Quoted in Voices of the Civil War by Richard Wheeler (Meridian, 1990). **In Bread Without Sugar (W.W. Norton, 1992).
This post is one of an occasional series about Ulysses S. Grant.