On May 4, 1864, Adam Bair began a forty-mile march into the darkest part of the Civil War with his 60th Ohio Volunteer Infantry Regiment. He would survive this journey to make another, by covered wagon, to California in the 1870s where he would establish deep family roots in the Arroyo Grande and Huasna Valleys.

That was far in the future. In the spring and summer of 1864, Bair and the boys and men of the 60^th Ohio were meant to be finishers. The regiment had begun training in Columbus in February 1864, and was sent east to Washington to prepare for this offensive, the push to end the war. In April their training had intensified at their camp near Alexandria. They were assigned to IX Corps, commanded by Ambrose Burnside, the short-lived commander of the Army of the Potomac who’d sacrificed his men in frontal attacks on Lee’s army at Fredericksburg in the winter of 1862. He had afterward gratefully accepted demotion the lesser demands of corps command.

So, under Burnside, the 60^th , on the afternoon of May 5, crossed the Rapidan River at the Germanna Ford–from a rise, they could see dust clouds raised by Lee’s army on the move—and began to march into The Wilderness, a vast tangle of forest and scrub so dense that it shut out the sun. Adam Bair, a corporal and therefore a file closer in B Company, must have been tired by then. His role was like that of a border collie, striving constantly to keep his company together and moving forward, cajoling potential stragglers, barking, like a collie, at men who’d packed too heavily when they had been warned to travel light.

The wake of the 60th would have been a Civil War treasure-collector’s dream, strewn as it would have been with all manner of equipment: rubber blankets, coffeepots, needless overcoats and extra clothing, books that would never be read. Eventually, as the sounds of battle began to become more distinct, the 60th would leave behind what many Civil War soldiers left: playing cards, dice, flasks of brandy or rum, or dirty postcards with their leering plump models. These are not the items a man would want on his person if he “fell,” to use the euphemism common to describing the indescribable violence of a Civil War soldier’s death in combat.

The Wilderness was something out of the Brothers Grimm and then, even darker, something out of the Dutch nightmare painter Hieronymus Bosch, because Union soldiers would begin to see, as they crunched through the carpet of leaves in the closeness of the woods, dead soldiers who were grinning at them in their passage. These were the skulls of the men who’d fought the year before at Hooker’s debacle, Chancellorsville, either disinterred from their shallow graves by hungry animals, perhaps by a hardscrabble Virginia farmer’s hogs, or simply lost and left where they’d fallen in the days when Lee and Jackson had played hammer and anvil with the Army of the Potomac.

The woods themselves became the enemy in this battle because the dark wasteland made a mockery of combat drill; its density cut up infantry formations into little knots of soldiers who became separated from one another as they struggled forward, whipped by branches, tripping over roots, cursing in the close humidity and heat already descending on northern Virginia. For many Union soldiers, the dark was suddenly illuminated by the muzzle flashes of Confederate infantry with their bullets amputating tree branches, vaporizing leaves, buzzing like hornets past men’s ears. Some of them, with a dull thud, a sound familiar to Civil War soldiers but now as lost as the sound of the Rebel Yell, found their targets in the bodies of young men. The flash of powder did something else: firefights sparked fires that would rage in the tangle of trees and scrub; the fires burned wounded men alive as they shrieked for help. No battle in the Civil War was more grotesque than the one fought in this forbidding place.

Adam Bair’s comrades could hear the fighting that had already been going on all day; in Grant’s army, IX Corps had come up last, and the 60^th Ohio would go into camp on the edge of the battlefield during the late afternoon of May 5. Grant ordered them to attack early the next day through the woods between the Orange Turnpike and the Orange Plank Road. They were to find a seam he believed to be there, and push their way into the rear of Confederate Gen. A.P. Hill’s corps. The tired soldiers would have been wakened at midnight to move out for an attack scheduled for 4:30 a.m. It didn’t get off until much later, a failing one diarist laid completely on Orlando Willcox, the 60^th Ohio’s divisional commander.^[2] When Willcox’s men finally moved up a country road through the woods, they would emerge in a clearing, in sunlight, where they discovered enemy artillery instead of the gap in Confederate lines they’d hoped for.

They’d run into James Longstreet’s men, heavyweight fighters, and Burnside’s IX Corps, including Willcox’s division, quickly became so bloodied that they were forced to withdraw. Adam Bair and the 60^th were brought up last and put on the firing line to cover the retreat. By the end of the day on May 6, the battle was over, and Lee had mauled Grant’s army: over 17,000 Union soldiers had been killed, wounded or were missing in two days of fighting.

Grant, in a technical sense, had lost the battle. But what mattered more than May 6 was what happened on May 7.

When McClellan, Burnside or Hooker had been dealt the kind of punishment Lee inflicted on Grant in The Wilderness, they’d crept across the river fords and back to their encampments near Washington. But when Lee’s men awoke on May 7, Grant’s men were still there. In fact, they began moving around Lee’s army. They were headed for Richmond and Lee would be forced to follow the. It was a deadly strategic dance that resembled the campaign Sherman was waging at the same time against Joseph Johnston and John Bell Hood in Georgia. It would take eleven months for Grant to worry Lee’s Army of Northern Virginia down to surrender but, like the bulldog Lincoln wanted his general-in-chief to emulate, Grant had a grip on Lee and he would not let go. Now, after The Wilderness, the two armies, a combined 150,000 men, ran a footrace to seize a crossroads at the tiny town of Spotsylvania Court House. If Grant could get there first, get in between Lee and Richmond, he could force a battle—with Lee the attacker this time–that might be decisive.

But Grant didn’t move fast enough. Part of the problem was clogged roadways leading out of The Wilderness. Monumental traffic jams developed that were exacerbated, at one point, by a veteran regiment of Union cavalry who came upon a regiment of new recruits, their brass buttons still shiny and their uniforms, even under their layer of road dust, a more vivid blue. The veterans eyed the fresh and well-fed mounts of the rookies, eyed each other, and smiled. A battle within a battle soon broke out, knots of fistfights and wrestling matches in an hour-long riot that ended with one regiment riding off with the other’s horses  The melee was one of many factors that slowed the Union advance down. Another was sheer exhaustion; some infantrymen literally fell asleep on the march toward Spotsylvania, and as they stumbled toward Laurel Hill, not far from their objective, they found, to their chagrin, Confederates behind the entrenchments that they’d just thrown up. Lee had won the race, and the two sides—both made up of soldiers so tired that their hand-to-hand combat, as they began to claw at each other, was nearly in slow motion.

Adam Bair and the 60^th Ohio came up to Spotsylvania on May 9, in the van of Gen. Willcox’s Third Division, and it was Willcox himself who ordered them to form a line of battle. A veteran of the 60^th described what happened next in a speech he delivered at a regimental reunion many years later:

…the enemy came out of the woods in front and on each flank, and opened on us, and then how the dust flew. After they had been engaged for some time, General Wilcox said: “The fools (meaning the 60th) did not know when they were whipped.” Then he ordered one of his staff officers to go at once and order up other regiments to our relief. During that fight, which did not last long, we lost in killed or wounded, more than one-half of those actually engaged.

It was in this engagement that Bair lost his first sergeant, a popular 23-year-old and “one of the finest-looking young men” of Wayne County, named Michael Silver. What made Silver’s death especially tragic was the fact that he didn’t have to be the fight that day:

On a 40-mile hike from Alexandria, Michael Silver succumbed to sun stroke and was laid up at a field hospital for several days. After hearing of an upcoming battle at Spotsylvania, Silver and several of his sick comrades left the field hospital to rejoin their regiment. On May 9th, at the Battle of Mary’s Bridge, Michael Silver lost his life when he took up the flag after several color bearers before him had been wounded. “But as he waved the colors making himself a target of attack, he quickly became the victim of a bullet, being shot by a Confederate sharp-shooter. He was mortally wounded and died on the field of battle. His comrades later buried him on the battlefield, marking the grave the best they could before having to move on.

It was a measure of the 60^th’s devotion to Silver and to each other that a year later, Company B men located Silver’s battlefield grave and brought his remains home to Wayne County. It was also a measure of the determination of men like Adam Bair that three days later, the regiment locked itself into a firefight that lasted seventeen hours; bullets from the two sides pulverized a tree twenty-two inches in diameter. At the war’s end, Sherman’s “little devils,” on their way to Washington City for the Grand Review, whittled away fragments of the shattered tree stump as souvenirs until nothing was left.

After nearly three weeks, Grant disengaged and again moved south, toward Richmond, with Lee and the Army of Northern Virginia following on parallel roads. The two armies had lost 32,000 in killed, wounded or missing men, but the losses had a grim calculus: Grant could afford grim statistics like these, given the North’s superior population, and Lee couldn’t. Now, in the late spring of 1864, it appeared that Civil War was beginning to evolve into a war of attrition. In the next battle at Cold Harbor, Grant’s tactics seemed to confirm that. In the campaign that followed Cold Harbor, one of the casualties would be Cpl. Bair.

*  *  *

Bruce Catton has brilliantly described Grant’s movements in Northern Virginia, cut from east to west by river after river, to that of a sailing ship tacking against the wind. Grant would move toward Richmond to draw Lee south. Lee would head Grant off and throw up his entrenchments. Grant would probe Lee’s position and then slip around it, usually to the east, or Lee’s right, by several miles, ford the inevitable river in his path, and then jog to the left, to the west, and slightly south, incrementally closer to Richmond, which interested Grant not at all. What Grant wanted was to interpose himself between Lee and Richmond, and then let the great man throw his forces on the northerners’ entrenchments in exactly the same way Hood would throw his against Schofield’s at Franklin, Tennessee, later in the year.

It wasn’t military genius that made Grant a battlefield master so much as it was an acute understanding of reality. This business and tacking right and then reversing course left was interrupted only by battles that were enormously costly to both sides but, because of his inferior numbers, always more costly to Lee. It was inelegant and it was necessary.

But by the late summer, Grant was running into Virginia delta—marshy and impassable—so there was no more room for tacking to the right because there was no more right on which to move 100,000 men and their baggage. He would have to confront Lee more directly, and that confrontation came at Cold Harbor in late May.

Cold Harbor was another tiny Virginia hamlet; it was neither near a body of water nor was it cold. It was instead oppressively hot, the kind of heat that makes it nearly impossible, for those not accustomed to it, to move or even to breathe. Neither was it especially attractive; Catton notes that many Union soldiers talked of someday returning to the verdant Virginia farm fields where they’d fought Lee. Nobody ever talked about coming back to visit Cold Harbor. The battle that began there at the end of May was another marathon, like Spotsylvania, which had lasted thirteen days. So would the Battle of Cold Harbor, but by the time it was over, Grant would have lost, from the beginning of May to mid-June, nearly 48,000 soldiers, killed, wounded and missing.

What Grant did at this battle was such an error in judgment that it is certain that even a young corporal like Adam Bair would have seen it; it would have produced an inward wince like a perceptive student might feel when a favorite professor misattributes a quote in an otherwise brilliant college lecture. Misattributed quotes don’t kill young men. Grant did. Grant’s stolidity is sometimes mistaken for cold-bloodedness. The man, perhaps the best horseman of all Civil War generals, could not bear cruelty to animals. When Grant once saw an army teamster beating a team of horses, he leaped from his mount, grabbed the teamster by the throat, took the man’s whip away and then ordered him tied to a tree for six hours. It was not a lesson the teamster was likely to forget; Grant was no more likely to forget Cold Harbor.

It was a simple case of overconfidence. Grant believed that Lee was nearly finished—again, if Union losses had been heavy, Lee’s were nearly as heavy and he couldn’t replace the men he’d left dead on the May battlefields. After Grant’s cavalry commander, Phil Sheridan, found a mixture of Confederate cavalry and infantry at Cold Harbor, Grant and his subordinate commander, George Meade, began feeding division after division in to support Sheridan. It was yet another battle that seemed to take on a life of its own. After four days of combat, it was Adam Bair and the 60th Ohio’s turn. On that morning, the Union army, shrouded in mist, moved across the open ground that led toward the Confederate entrenchments.

The 60^th was to assault Lee’s right. Unlike the general staff—coordination and communication throughout June 3 would be chaotic, and staff had not adequately scouted the ground to Lee’s front—private soldiers were aware of what they were up against; many wrote their names on pieces of paper and tagged them to their uniforms. The Confederates, as they’d done under John B. Gordon at Bloody Lane at Antietam, held their fire until the last possible moment, and what Bair would have seen resembled nothing so much as the terrible punishment Gordon’s men had inflicted that day before they finally had to give way. Under withering rifle and artillery fire, soldiers fell, not singly or in pairs, but in large groups. To observers raised in a more agrarian America, that day looked as if young men were being harvested like wheat. Ahead of Bair, a small group from Winfield Scott Hancock’s corps stood for the briefest of moments above the enemy’s entrenchments before they were swept away. The entire federal line—five army corps—shivered and buckled under the intensity of the fire; Grant called off the attack hours later. He’d lost perhaps as many as 7,000 men in the first forty minutes of the Battle of Cold Harbor alone, an attrition rate that wouldn’t be equaled until the British assault on German machine-gun teams at the Somme in 1916.

Grant had not properly surveyed the ground before Cold Harbor, he had tragically underestimated Lee and the strength of Lee’s troops, he had ordered a frontal attack on positions that were expertly built and virtually unbreakable, he had persisted in the assault until noon, he and his junior officers had failed to communicate clearly once it became apparent that the assault was fruitless. That night, Grant told his subordinates that he had never regretted an assault so much as the attack on June 3, 1864. After that, he rarely—if ever—spoke of Cold Harbor again.

If anything, what followed Cold Harbor was even more unspeakable.

Two weeks later, on June 17, Adam Bair was wounded—evidently, a minor wound in the arm—during an assault on Confederate trenches around Petersburg, Virginia, a rail and industrial center south of Richmond. If Lee was to hold Richmond, he had to have Petersburg as a supply base—and supplies were already problematic for his Army of Northern Virginia. While Union soldiers wrote of fresh vegetables brought down from Grant’s base at City Point, Confederates complained of eating nothing but cornbread for days on end. Meanwhile, Grant ordered is men to dig trenches, as well.

So what followed for Bair and his comrades was nine months of trench warfare, of the scuttling of rats, of infestations of lice called “graybacks,” of mud, which permeated even what soldiers ate, of disease caused by vermin and foul water, of the intense discomfort felt by soldiers who could never get completely dry in the winter and who baked in the heat and  choked in the dust of summer, and all of this amid a treeless moonscape they’d created from constant digging and constant artillery bombardments.

One of the most costly battles of the First World War, the Somme, began with the detonation of a massive mine under German lines—the crater it created remains today, looking like a massive sinkhole in the midst of a patchwork of farm fields. A mine explosion also would mark a surrealistic and shocking moment in the trenches of Petersburg. The crater that explosion left behind was, of course, The Crater, and Adam Bair and the 60^th Ohio were eyewitnesses to the tragedy that followed.

Unlike the debacle at Cold Harbor, the assault on Confederate lines in the Battle of the Crater had logic, foresight, and planning. It was the execution of the plan that verged on criminality, and it would finally cost the genial, consistently incompetent Ambrose Burnside, Bair’s IX Corps commander, his job.

In July, Union soldiers who had been Pennsylvania coal miners began digging a tunnel over 500 feet long to a point underneath trenchworks held by soldiers from South Carolina. Meanwhile, Burnside decided to use inexperienced troops, but troops that were highly motivated and would be specially trained to move through the tunnel and into the Confederate trenches once four tons of powder were detonated beneath the South Carolinians. The troops that began training for the assault were African Americans—the nine regiments of U.S. Colored Troops that made up Burnside’s Fourth Division. These were men who understood completely what would happen to them in battle—there would be no quarter for black troops, a precedent that had already been set at Fort Pillow in April, when Nathan Bedford Forrest’s cavalry had attacked and overwhelmed a detachment of black troops in Tennessee and murdered soldiers trying to surrender. The Fourth Division chose “Fort Pillow!” as its battle cry for the day they would go into the Pennsylvanians’ tunnel and emerge on the other side. In a letter to his mother two days after the Battle of the Crater, a Union soldier wrote admiringly of the black troops: “they would charge into the city [Petersburg] if they order had been given…They don’t know when to stop.”

The orders seemed clear-cut:

At 3.30 in the morning of the 30th Major-General Burnside will spring his mine and his assaulting columns will immediately move rapidly upon the breach, seize the crest in the rear, and effect a lodgment there. He will be followed by Major-General Ord, who will support him on the right, directing his movement to the crest indicated, and by Major-General Warren, who will support him on the left. Upon the explosion of the mine the artillery of all kinds in battery will open upon those points of the enemy’s works whose fire covers the ground over which our columns must move, care being taken to avoid impeding the progress of our troops. Special instructions respecting the direction of fire will be issued through the chief of artillery.^[12]

The detonation of the mine was spectacular—Adam Bair and the 60^th Ohio, held in reserve to the left of the planned assault, would have watched in awe when the explosion went off at 5 a.m. on July 30, 1864, and scores of unfortunate South Carolinians were vaporized or blown high into the sky. 85 Union artillery pieces then opened fire on the Confederate lines. It was at that moment that the Union troops charged into the tunnel to follow the shock of the explosion with the shock of a concentrated infantry assault.

The problem for Grant is that they were the wrong troops. George Gordon Meade, Grant’s subordinate and commander of the Army of the Potomac—a command he held uneasily, sharing his ill-defined role with the general-in-chief—at the last moment changed Burnside’s plans. Meade didn’t trust black troops—unlike the soldier who’d written his mother, Meade didn’t understand their motivation and drive—and he ordered Burnside to replace them, to put white troops in charge of leading the charge into the tunnel.

Burnside became petulant and had his divisional commanders draw straws for the dubious privilege of leading the attack. The winner was Brig. Gen. James H. Ledlie, who may have been drunk in his bombproof when his men went into the tunnel. Once they emerged in the crater, they stayed. The black troops had been trained to skirt around the edges of the crater and not to go into it, where they would be trapped, as Ledlie’s men were now. Subsequent attackers, including the black soldiers, ran into what essentially was a human traffic jam inside the tunnel and on the other side. The Confederates brought up reinforcements and began firing into the masses of soldiers below. When they closed with the U.S. Colored regiments, they showed no mercy: wounded soldiers were bayoneted and soldiers trying to surrender—or soldiers who had surrendered, and were being led to the rear—were shot. A Virginia officer watched, sickened, as two soldiers tormented their black prisoner, whipping him with a ramrod, shooting him in the hip and finally killing him with a second shot to the stomach.

Over 400 African American soldiers would be killed and 750 wounded in the four hours of fighting after the mine’s detonation. Generals Burnside and Ledlie were cashiered and sent home. Other soldiers, like Adam Bair, were condemned to seven more months in the trenches around Petersburg.

 

*  *  *

The war’s end came so swiftly that it’s easy to forget how long the wait had been.  Arroyo Grande veterans Joseph Brewer, Austin Abbott, Adam Bair, William Strobridge, Charles Clark, Samuel McBane, and George Purdy were all involved, directly or indirectly, in the chase to Appomattox Court House and Lee’s surrender. The Appomattox Campaign lasted a little over two weeks and it was lost because Lee could not overcome multiple enemies: the Army of the Potomac, Edward O.C. Ord’s Army of the James, Sheridan’s cavalry– all told more than 150,000 men, or triple Lee’s numbers. Grant’s numbers did not include John Schofield’s veterans of Tennessee fighting, headed east to link up with either Grant or with Sherman, as need dictated.

One more enemy, and perhaps the most telling, was hunger. By March of 1865, the proud men of the Army of Northern Virginia, hunched in their trenches, were reduced to pitiable daily rations—a pint of corn meal and an ounce or two of bacon. That meant that Lee’s strength—50,000 men—was dwindling every day, as hungry men left Petersburg and headed home, where they had fields to prepare.

In northern Virginia, spring meant mud—horses, wagons and even infantrymen could not move through Virginia mud, whose chief property was suction– so Grant’s next offensive would have to wait for dry roads. When the roads were ready, Grant would resume the dance he’d led the previous spring: this time, if he continued to stretch Lee’s line, to the Confederate right, by sliding troops to the west, the string would snap: either Lee’s dwindling army would be stretched so thin that a weak spot in the miles of trenchlines would present itself or—even better—Grant would finally force Lee to come out and fight on open ground, where the Union numbers would crush him. In fact, since Lee’s only supply line, the Weldon and Petersburg Railroad, was directly in the path of this westward shift, Lee would have to come out and make a run for it; without the railroad, he couldn’t feed his hungry men.

And coming out of the trenches would prove to be Lee’s only choice after a disappointing defeat on March 25, 1865. The last important offensive of the Army of Northern Virginia came on Lee’s far left, when the indefatigable Georgian, John B. Gordon, led an assault on Fort Stedman, inside the Union lines. Gordon had the same idea Grant had: if he could punch a hole in the Union lines at this point, then Grant’s major supply line, the railroad link to City Point, just beyond the fort, would be severed and then the Army of the Potomac would be in serious trouble. Lee gave the talented Gordon his blessing, and on the morning of March 25, he launched the assault, which had been meticulously planned, down to teams of axemen to break up the abatises—the obstacles, made of sharpened wooden spikes, that prefigured barbed wire–that so impeded infantry. It was a stunning success, at first.

Adam Bair and his 60^th Ohio regiment were part of the defenses nearby, and Hezekiah Bradds, a soldier in the 60^th’s Company C, recounted the morning of March 25 years later:

Early that morning I was the first to give alarm, “Johnnies in our works!” They (the Johnnies) had taken about all of the 14th N. Y. regiment and had gotten all there were in the videt [sic] pits. They had also entered Fort Stedman.

I had chosen a place between two flankers. I ran to place and Sergt. Bulin furnished me with cartridges- -tossed them at my feet. Not a Johnnie got north of Fort Stedman. Five hundred of their bravest men were picked to take Romer’s Battery, nearly a mile away on a hill, but they failed, for a Pennsylvanian regiment moved into the fort, and when their force came they were badly worsted and retreated.

Lee’s reinforcement did not arrive in time and the retreating force was passing back, getting over our works. Their reinforcements arrived and the situation looked desperate to me.

A General on a gray horse got over their works and came in full tilt, waving sword to stop the fleeing force. At pull of trigger and crack of gun he fell. He always bore on my mind. That pull of trigger and crack of gun saved many lives – maybe 10,000.

Their reinforcements hadn’t arrived in time. I was in plain sight of all reinforcements and of the fleeing rebels. There were many carried off the field, and my last shot was necessary there. I then went down into Fort Stedman and found two Johnnies there badly wounded and inquiring what we were going to do with them. I consoled them the best I could. Our colors and our flag were still waving over the fort.

I said, “Don’t you like our colors better than your own?”

They said, “we are not talking now.”

In the attack on Fort Stedman, Lee lost 4,000 men he could not afford to lose: no amount of audacity could compensate for the numbers game that Grant had been playing since The Wilderness, and now it was a game that he was more clearly winning.

 

City Point, Virginia, was Grant’s supply base the last year of the war. It would would have astounded the men at Gone with the Wind’s barbecue because of its acres of artillery parks, stacked cannonballs, warehouses full of shoes, Springfield rifles, boxes of hardtack—the army cracker almost durable enough to build a home, and just as indigestible—row after row of tents in a city of soldiers, even its bakery, capable of turning out 100,000 loaves of bread a day. Quartermaster wagons offloaded cargo along a river controlled by navy ironclad gunboats; the wagons traveled in a never-ending stream so busy that it might have reminded the gentlemen from Margaret Mitchell’s Georgia of worker ants, charged with energy and purposeful.

 

 

By 1865, even Lincoln’s presidential yacht, the River Queen, was anchored in the river when he visited with Grant and Sherman to sketch out the final acts of the war. Lincoln treasured these trips to see his soldiers, away from the constant assault of favor-seekers who paraded through his office. On another visit earlier in the war, to McClellan’s headquarters, Lincoln had idly picked up an ax on the deck of the Treasury Department yacht Miami, smiled, and lifted it, holding it straight out at arm’s length for several moments. None of Miami’s sailors, when they attempted it, could do the same. On April 14, 1865, John Wilkes Booth’s bullet would traverse Lincoln’s brain; logically, it should have killed him instantly, so it was only Lincoln’s will and physicality that allowed him to live for nine hours after the shot had been fired. George Monroe, another Arroyo Grande settler, would have felt the president’s loss in a very personal way: the 148^th Ohio Infantry and Pvt. Monroe had been the recipients of a thank-you, a short Lincoln speech, in August 1864.

Even though  Monroe and his comrades were short-termers—100-day men, usually relegated to guard duty on railroads, at strategic bases like City Point, or as support troops—the 148th, came close, thanks to the spectacular attempt at sabotage, to never seeing Lincoln at all. On August 9, 1864, two Confederate secret agents penetrated the picket line that surrounded the wharves simply by crawling through it on their hands and knees. The letdown in security might at in part be traced to the heat that day. City Point’s pickets may have found themselves dulled by the kind of torpor ninety-eight-degree temperatures can induce. Even the stoic Grant found it hard to deal with the heat; he emerged from his tent and was doing his paperwork in his shirtsleeves.

 

 

While Grant was at his labors, the lead Confederate agent, John Maxwell, left his companion behind and approached a barge, the J.E. Kendrick. From Maxwell’s report.

I approached cautiously the wharf, with my machine and powder covered by a small box. Finding the captain had come ashore from a barge then at the wharf, I seized the occasion to hurry forward with my box. Being halted by one of the wharf sentinels I succeeded in passing him by representing that the captain had ordered me to convey the box on board. Hailing a man from the barge I put the machine in motion and gave it in his charge. He carried it aboard.

The hapless man from the barge did not know that he’d just been handed–Maxwell’s “machine”—was a time bomb, packed with about twelve pounds of explosives. Maxwell and his accomplice did not know, since they were attempting both nonchalance and rapid flight at the same moment, that the box they’d delivered was now aboard an ammunition barge.

 

What a Union soldier heard, ten miles away, in the trenches outside Petersburg, Virginia, was like a thunderclap. What a group of officers near Grant’s headquarters heard in the middle of their poker game was a cannonball ripping through the canvas of their tent, from one side to the other, after the explosion had sent it flying. What a soldier felt was immense pain at the sight of a white horse, on which a woman had been seated at the moment of the explosion. The woman was gone, and a Whitworth bolt—a shell from an artillery rifle—had gone through her horse, now standing, shivering in shock. The soldier held the muzzle of his rifle next to the animal’s head and fired. What a woman on a riverboat nearby felt was a dull thud on the deck beside her. She noticed it was a human head. She picked it up by its hair and placed it carefully in a fire bucket full of water. The only other person as nonplussed as she was Grant, who looked with concern after some slightly wounded staff officers, gave a few orders, and returned to his paperwork.

The barge Kendrick was gone, as was much of the City Point wharf. So were unknown numbers of contrabands, former slaves who were working for pay as stevedores. Three members of Monroe’s 148th Ohio were killed, along with forty other soldiers, clerks and civilians, and over a hundred were wounded. The disaster was deemed an accident—not until after the war would it be revealed that it had been the act of John Maxwell, who escaped.

Nine days later, the wharf at City Point had been rebuilt and was as busy as it had been in the moments before Maxwell’s bomb had detonated. What happened at City Point was a tragedy, but it did nothing to stop the industrial machine that would continue to grind the Confederacy down. George Monroe and the 148th Ohio would soon be headed home; Adam Bair, the soldier who would settle in the Huasna Valley, and his 60th Ohio were three-year men, not 100-day men, and so they were headed for wherever Robert E. Lee was headed.

 

 

William Lane, who would someday raise cattle and a herd of Lane children in the Huasna Valley, was a lieutenant in the 24th Iowa’s Company C when the regiment, on May 16, 1863, confronted a large Confederate force, part of John C. Pemberton’s command. They were digging in on plantation property atop Champion Hill, whose slopes were covered with tangled scrub and cut by deep gullies. It would be difficult to take, but at 10:30, Grant arrived and ordered the division that included the 24th up the hill. Typically, the regiment shook out skirmishers—a thin line of advance troops whose assignment it was to probe the enemy’s positions—and the skirmishers were followed by dense lines of attackers, and it was the job of lieutenants, perhaps even more expendable than privates, to order the maneuvers that would transform a company from a marching column into an attack formation. It was also a lieutenant’s job one to lead from the front, to keep his men closed up, and wave his sword in an attempt to project ferocity. It might be understandable if, given his duties that day, twenty-eight-year-old William Lane was feeling as if every Confederate atop Champion Hill was aiming at him.

The men he was leading were confident, if the account left by a corporal in Company H, James Oxley, is any indication. Oxley succinctly and in his own spelling recounted what happened next:

a short hault was ordered and we was informed that in a fiew hundred yards wer the Rebs. Strongly posted they had a battery which was for us to charge and capture it…The enemy was fast massing his forces more left when the [24th] Iowa was ordered to charge a six gun battery which was only a fiew hundred yards in our front.

No sooner had the gallent sons of Iowa received the orders to charge till they went not willing that the fare fame of Iowa soldiers deminished rushed like wild and enraged tigers upon the men & batteries. Giving at the same time one of those furious yells which startled fear…dinging the Rebs and they wer driven like chaf before the wind.

The 24th was triumphant in its capture of the guns and a successful episode of Reb-dinging—they’d shot or bayoneted most of the artillery crews—when they were confronted by a counterattack; after a fifteen-minute firefight, they were driven back down the hill, the Confederates re-took their guns, and Major Edward Wright of the 24th, badly wounded, still managed to capture a burly Confederate who carried the wounded officer downhill and out of harm’s way. The tide of the battle seemed to be turning when a brigade that included Francis X. Belot and the Fourth Minnesota fell on the Confederates’ flank. The Fourth galloped up to, into, and over the other side of a ravine and captured 118 prisoners. They then confronted a sight so vividly described by Alonzo Brown, a corporal in Company B, that it must have haunted many in the regiment for the rest of their lives

When the fighting ceased we walked along the wooded, hill and examined the artillery captured from the enemy, and, unless mistaken, counted twenty-eight pieces which had been captured and which the enemy bad abandoned in the road after taking away the horses. We saw one battery upon the brow of the hill. Some of the horses had been killed, and upon one of them sat its rider, – dead. The animal lay on the side of a sharp little slope so that the right leg of the rider was under its body while the other was extended naturally, with the foot in the stirrup. He held the bridle rein in his right hand and with eyes wide open, as if looking to the front, sat upright in the saddle as naturally as if still alive. His features looked like marble, and he was apparently not over seventeen years of age.

By 4:00 p.m., Pemberton’s fight was ending, and the general was both disheartened and furious at a recalcitrant division commander who had failed to move up in time to support the defenders on Champion Hill. He ordered a general retreat toward Vicksburg. Grant now had Pemberton where he wanted him, trapped in the town on the Mississippi bluffs. Grant attempted to attack Pemberton’s fortifications there—the 4th lost twelve killed and 42 wounded in one assault a week after Champion Hill —but then decided to besiege the city and starve it into surrender. The surrender came, appropriately, on the Fourth of July, the bookend in the West to the great victory of the day before in the East, at Gettysburg. The first regiment to enter the conquered city was Francis X. Belot’s 4th Minnesota.

 

I have been thinking all day about Walt Whitman’s “Crossing Brooklyn Ferry.” And I am not a Whitman guy. I am a Dickinson guy–“a narrow fellow in the grass;” “the nerves sit ceremonious, like tombs;” “…rowing in Eden…” I have always liked her economy, and there is nothing I’ve ever written that wasn’t better when written with fewer words. Whitman’s appetite for words was vast and he savored every one of them, but he was always hungry for more.

Whitman will come over to your house, drink your imported beer, eat the meatiest ribs off the barbecue, hold the center of attention at the dinner table for four hours, this Niagara of verbiage, then leave singing sea chanties with the wicker basket full of tollhouse cookies that Emily had baked clamped firmly under one arm.

But I always loved teaching this poem–excerpts attached–and I was especially fond of the italicized parts.

Sooner or later, you realize, as you you navigate your way through his hallooing and disgusting jubilance, his ecstatic self-regard, you realize…

…He’s reading his poem with you, right over your shoulder. It is the damnedest thing. He’s smiling, too, the old coot, under those cotton-candy whiskers. It is a miraculous and timeless poem, and he knows it. He sees you, too, and the smile grows broader when he sees you looking backward to try to see him.

 

I think that’s why I loved teaching. Good teaching has a chance at timelessness, too. The results of what you teach you see in patches, but they flicker and disappear. The consequences of how you teach may come years later, may even come beyond your own lifetime. They may appear, as a small causative, in someone you’ve taught who decides to do something courageous and decent–it might even be something immensely unpopular because it’s courageous and decent.

I was thinking today, too, of Eileen Taylor’s defense of our Japanese-American neighbors when they returned to our home, to our valley, justifiably fearful (Iso Kobara heard gunshots in the night) in 1945. A grocer told Iso’s mother, Kimi, never to come in his store again.

Eileen heard about this incident. She was the president of the Arroyo Grande Women’s Club. She decided, I think, to read the membership the riot act at the next meeting–we’ll never really know, because, like Lincoln’s Cooper Union speech in 1860, nobody was taking notes. She must have spoken about their obligation, as women, as mothers, as neighbors, to open their arms and their hearts to people who needed, and who had earned, their compassion.

Kimi Kobara remembered in an interview many years later that the atmosphere improved immediately after that Women’s Club meeting. And what  Eileen Taylor did meant, many years later, that I had the great pleasure of teaching both Eileen’s great-grandchildren and Kimi Kobara’s.

So an event that happened before I was born–time avails not–became an important part of my life. The lives of Eileen and Kimi, two women I never met,  became entwined with my life.

And my teaching–how I taught my Taylors and Kobaras– was a product of people they had never met, either.  My teaching was shaped by the  good teachers I’d had, and there were many, and it was shaped by my mother and father. If you were a student of mine, and knew me, then you also know Arroyo Grande High School speech teacher Sara Steigerwalt, Cal Poly journalism teacher Jim Hayes, University of Missouri history professor Richard Bienvenu.

Most of all, you know my Mom and Dad.

That’s why I so enjoy this poem. It’s life-affirming, and lives lived 150 years ago are just as important today as they were then.

Even better, they are just as much alive. They are right beside us, like Whitman standing at the rail of the Brooklyn Ferry, these old lives that give life.

 

 

 

 

 

Infantry soldiers were noted for the sardonic saying that there was no sight rarer on a battlefield than that of  a dead cavalryman. Luckily for historians, if not for cavalrymen, there were such things and, thanks to forensic science, horse soldiers been given a voice that suggests their lives were no easier than those of foot soldiers.

In fact, for Civil War cavalrymen, the most poignant evidence for the difficulty of the lives they led comes from slightly younger contemporaries—the remains of the troopers who died with George Custer at the Little Bighorn in 1876. Recent forensic studies there indicate that spinal problems—arthritis of the neck, degeneration of the disks of the mid- to lower spine, hypereflexibility of hip and ankle joints, and even muscle markings at their attachments to the jaw, suggesting a regular clenching of teeth while on the move—had given men in their mid-twenties the aches and pains of men in their seventies; in fact, the only part of their bodies that may have hurt worse than their backs would have been their teeth, which showed poor dental care and extensive tobacco use. Arroyo Grande veteran James A. Dowell, 16th Kansas, was plagued by another ailment common to cavalrymen—hemorrhoids.

Despite letting Lee down at Gettysburg, for most of the Civil War, J.E.B. Stuart and his Confederate contemporaries, Fitzhugh Lee, Joseph Wheeler and Nathan Bedford Forrest, had the reputation for fielding cavalry who were far better—in both mounts and in troopers—than mounted northerners. This was a gap that would begin to close in the war’s last year—Custer was noted for the kind of boldness that Stuart embodied, a trait that would get both men killed—but a similar gap would never be overcome for cavalrymen like Harrison Bussell, James Dowell and another Arroyo Grande veteran, Thomas Keown, 12th Missouri Cavalry, who were primarily Indian fighters during the Civil War.

A fictional Confederate veteran, Charles Portis’s Rooster Cogburn, unwittingly points out a disadvantage that would plague these men when, in the novel True Grit, he disparages the officious Texas Ranger LaBoeuf’s little mustang by posing the question “How long have you boys been riding sheep down there?” But it was the compact Indian pony, the descendants of Andalusian horses the Spanish had brought with them to the New World, that made tribes like the Cheyenne, the Lakota Sioux and the Comanche the finest light cavalry in the world. In their best-selling biography of Sioux leader Red Cloud, historians Bob Drury and Tom Clavin make an unfavorable comparison between the cavalryman’s mount, descended from “the hulking, grain-fed steeds” of Northern Europe and the Indian pony, “easy to break and able to travel great distances without water.”

So the mobility of Plains Indians made them elusive for aggressive Union officers like Gen. Patrick Connor, who led three columns of cavalry into the Powder River Country of Montana in the summer of 1865 on an expedition that included James Dowell and Thomas Keown. Connor, whose standing order was to kill every Native American male over twelve years old, wouldn’t find all that many to kill. They would find Connor with ease—and if they’d only been as armed as well as the soldiers, they would have killed the men in Connor’s command, Dowell and Keown included.

* * *

The Powder River Country includes vast areas of the Dakotas, Wyoming and Montana, and had been among the traditional hunting grounds, confirmed by an 1851 Treaty, of tribes like the Lakota. It was the discovery of another resource—gold—in Montana in 1863 that suddenly made the area potentially valuable to whites, as well. A trail to the gold fields established by John Bozeman and John Jacobs would lead to an alarming rise in the number of whites penetrating Indian territory. In 1864-65, attacks on miners increased, so the attacks were to be ended, and the Bozeman Trail secured, by Patrick Connor and his cavalry.

Connor’s expedition moved out in July 1865, and two future neighbors, Dowell and Keown, fought together in one of Connor’s columns, under the command of Col. Nelson Cole. One of the first things the commanders did, and they did it rapidly, was to get lost. Connor sent out scouts to find Cole’s column and Cole did the same. They failed. Cole, meanwhile, had uknowingly marched his men into the midpoint between two large encampments, between two of the most inspirational leaders the Lakota would ever produce: Sitting Bull and Red Cloud. Sitting Bull’s men found Cole’s with ease, and would jump “like angry badgers” on Dowell and Keown and their comrades. At the moment of their attack, the weather—as capricious on the Great Plains as the English Channel’s weather was in the final hours before D-day—took a turn for the worse.

On September 1, 1865, the temperature dropped seventy degrees and, although the Indians disappeared, a freak blizzard attacked Cole’s detachment instead, killing many of their ill-fed and exhausted horses. Cole’s men, some of them now and by necessity infantry, continued their march up the Powder River, fighting the whole time and harassed the whole time by detachments of Sioux and Cheyenne who picked off isolated troopers and made off with even more Union Army horses. A week later, Cole’s column found themselves, accidentally and uncomfortably, near a camp whose leader was yet another man famed to the Plains Indians: Roman Nose.

On September 8, Roman Nose organized an attack on Cole’s men, who had formed their wagons into a protective square. It was then that Dowell and Keown saw what modern American historians of the West would willingly die to have seen—perhaps the most famous of all the Lakota: on a “dare ride”—both to prove his own courage, already well-established, and more to the point, to draw out the soldiers—a warrior, nearly nude except for moccasins and breechclout, with his light, slightly curly hair tied back, with a small stone behind his ear fixed in place by a leather strap, rode up and down the little stockade of wagons.

His name was Crazy Horse.

The soldiers refused to take the bait—not even when Roman Nose, imitative of Crazy Horse but more finely equipped, with an eagle-feather war bonnet, rode up to them on his white horse, which was later shot out from under him. They remained behind their barricade and responded to three attacks with breech-loading carbines and artillery canister. The weather again intervened: this time, a thunderstorm turned the area into a virtual swamp, making more Lakota attacks impractical and making the lives of troopers like Dowell and Keown miserable. Once again—after burning extraneous equipment and the corpses of dead troopers—Col. Cole continued his march. By now, many of his men were sick from scurvy, were eating their mounts, and were virtually in rags. It was at this point when they finally made contact with their commanding officer, Patrick Connor, and his column, who had been no more successful in killing any Indians, twelve years old or otherwise. Connor led his dispirited command back to Fort Laramie in October 1865.

The grandiose-sounding “Powder River Expedition” was a disaster.

 

 

 

John Rice would leave Minnesota and farm for a decade in Iowa before coming to Arroyo Grande. He and his brother, Daniel, who transformed local cattle and Indian trails into serviceable roads, would make a mark on the community that would sustain it, after the rancho days of Francis Branch had ended, during its incarnation as a center for California truck gardening.

Much less is known about another veteran with an impressive name. Harrison Marion Bussell was born in Tennessee in 1835 and died in Arroyo Grande, but in 1864 he was living in Colorado, and the notation on his gravestone:– “1st Colorado Cavalry”—refers to one of the units responsible for perhaps the greatest atrocity of the Civil War years, an attack on a Cheyenne village that would become known as the Sand Creek Massacre. Bussell’s role at Sand Creek is not completely clear, but it’s significant that his gravestone identifies him as a member of the First Colorado’s Company G.

It was Cheyenne Chief Black Kettle who said that he would find it hard to believe white men anymore, and, in 1863-64, deteriorating communications between Colorado military and civil authorities and the Cheyenne would be a key cause of what would happen in November 1864 at Sand Creek. Colorado Governor John Evans began to hear rumors of a meeting among several Plains tribes—Cheyenne, Arapaho, Sioux and Kiowa—planning a coordinated war on white settlers and soldiers. It was doubtless the Minnesota Sioux uprising the year before—with troops, including John Rice’s Tenth Minnesota, still in the field on Gen. Sibley’s punitive expedition—that would have given Evans reason to believe those rumors.

Isolated but violent raids seemed to confirm the threat of war: a band of Arapaho launched a raid on Isaac van Wormer’s ranch southwest of Denver and stole some of his cattle; a year later, another party of Indians—assumed to be Cheyenne—returned to the van Wormer ranch and killed a young couple and their two small children. The mutilated bodies of the Hungate family were disinterred and put on display in Denver. Meanwhile, raids persisted from various tribes, including Utes, Lakota Sioux and a Cheyenne warrior society, the Dog Soldiers, whose power seemed to be growing during 1863 and 1864 when leaders like Black Kettle were counseling peace with the whites.

The aggressive Dog Soldiers would get a counterpart on the other side. His name was John Chivington. A Methodist pastor who secured an officer’s commission from the Governor of Colorado, Chivington had made his reputation with Harrison Bussell’s First Colorado Cavalry in the Battle of Glorietta Pass in New Mexico, where a Confederate force was defeated in part because of the First’s daring attack—rappelling on ropes down a mountainside—on their supply train. Now, in the fall of 1864, Chivington was among the increasing chorus of Coloradans—led by newspaper editors and both military and civil leaders—calling for, as one Denver newspaper called it, “the extermination of the red devils.”

That prospect was complicated by Black Kettle and other Cheyenne leaders when they came into Camp Weld, near Denver, in September to ask for peace. They were accompanied by Maj.Edward Wynkoop, the commander of nearby Fort Lyon, whose opinion of the Indians he was to police had been steadily evolving: as he got to know Cheyenne like Black Kettle and another leader, One-Eye, he wrote that “I felt myself in the presence of superior beings, and these were the representatives of a race I had heretofore looked upon without exception as being cruel, treacherous, and bloodthirsty…” Neither Governor Evans nor Colonel Chivington was pleased with Wynkoop’s peace efforts: Evans had just raised a regiment of 100-day volunteers, the Third Colorado Cavalry, whose sole purpose was to exterminate hostiles, and Wynkoop threatened to make the Third redundant. So the Camp Weld conference ended inconclusively, without a peace agreement. Black Kettle and his people were told to come in to Fort Lyon and surrender to Wynkoop when they were ready to make peace—that is, to give up their traditional lives to become farmers. But Chivington’s opinion of Wynkoop became apparent when the young officer was relieved of his command and replaced, six weeks after the Camp Weld conference, by Maj. Scott J. Anthony.

Black Kettle, anxious about the new commander of Fort Lyon, came to the fort to meet him; the Cheyenne had heard he was not friendly toward Indians. His reception belied that: Maj. Anthony assured the Cheyenne that they were under his protection and would be safe at their winter encampment on Sand Creek. He even sent a trader, accompanied by a trooper from Harrison Bussell’s First Colorado Cavalry, out to the encampment to do some business with Black Kettle’s people. At the same time, Anthony telegraphed his superiors, informing them of the encampment at Sand Creek. The telegraph read in part: “I shall try to keep the Indians quiet until such time as I receive reinforcements.”

Anthony got his implied wish quickly: Governor Evans’s 100-day volunteers, the Third Colorado Cavalry, about 300 troopers, arrived at Fort Lyon on November 28, commanded by John Chivington. Chivington was just as quick: once he’d arrived at the fort, he informed the officers of the First Cavalry stationed there that he intended to take both regiments out to Sand Creek and attack Black Kettle. Several of the First Colorado’s officers—men who had served under Wynkoop—immediately protested, insistent on the good intentions of leaders like Black Kettle and One-Eye. Chivington overrode the protest, but one of the officers he’d failed to convince was Lt. Silas Soule; after the meeting, Soule made his position clear to his brother officers: “[I] told them,” he wrote in a later letter to Major Wynkoop, “that any man who would take part in the murders, knowing the circumstances as we did, was a low lived cowardly son of a bitch.” Despite his protests, Soule would ride out with his Company D, First Colorado Cavalry, as part of Chivington’s attack force—believing, perhaps, as Chivington had implied, that the expedition was going after hostile Dog Soldiers and not peaceful Indians. Harrison Marion Bussell was a private in Company G, commanded by Lt. Horace Baldwin, whose troopers also had responsibility for two of the four small mountain howitzers that Chivington’s command, now about 700 soldiers, would bring along with them.

To the northeast, Black Kettle’s encampment of some 650 Cheyenne and Arapaho would be awakened by barking dogs. Women beginning to prepare breakfast could feel and hear the pounding of hooves, which they at first assumed, hopefully, was a nearby herd of buffalo, but the vibration was followed almost immediately, as dawn broke, by heavy small-arms fire and the terrifying shriek of artillery shells from the mountain howitzers. What happened next will never be known definitively; apologists for Chivington argue that a substantial number of warriors was present at the encampment and quickly returned fire. The historical record, which includes testimony from two Congressional investigations, indicates something much more sinister happened on November 29, 1864. Twenty-four of Chivington’s men were killed in combat that lasted from early morning until nearly sunset—about 3 p.m., in winter—but perhaps as many as 200 Cheyenne and Arapaho died. Many of them were women and children.

Lt. Silas Soule and his Company D refused to participate; D Company held its fire. Later, Soule recorded, in his letter to  Wynkoop, horrific scenes:

 
I tell you Ned [Wynkoop] it was hard to see little children on their knees have their brains beat out by men professing to be civilized. One squaw was wounded and a fellow took a hatchet to finish her, she held her arms up to defend her, and he cut one arm off, and held the other with one hand and dashed the hatchet through her brain. One squaw with her two children, were on their knees begging for their lives of a dozen soldiers, within ten feet of them all, firing – when one succeeded in hitting the squaw in the thigh, when she took a knife and cut the throats of both children, and then killed herself. One old squaw hung herself in the lodge – there was not enough room for her to hang and she held up her knees and choked herself to death. Some tried to escape on the Prairie, but most of them were run down by horsemen. I saw two Indians hold one of another’s hands, chased until they were exhausted, when they kneeled down, and clasped each other around the neck and were both shot together.

What about Arroyo Grande’s Harrison Bussell and his Company G? While men from both the regulars of the First Cavalry and the 100-day volunteers of the Third Cavalry participated in the killing—and in the sexual mutilation of bodies afterward—a September 2013 acquisition by Colorado College’s Special Collections at least suggests the possibility of exoneration for the man who would make Arroyo Grande his home.

The acquisition is a typescript of an account by a Company G trooper, Pvt. Isaac Clarke, which suggests that Bussell and G Company acted that day much as Silas Soule’s men had. Clarke, like Major Wynkoop, had become acquainted with One-Eye and respected the Cheyenne leader immensely; according to him, One-Eye came walking toward Chivington’s soldiers  carrying a white flag. The soldiers began to shoot at their target, obligingly coming toward them. Just as a G Company trooper rode out to try to save One-Eye, a bullet finally found its mark and the Cheyenne leader fell dead; moments later, the soldiers’ comrades killed him, too, as he trotted back toward the firing line. Isaac Clarke blamed the short-term volunteers of the Third Cavalry; it would take every effort, Clarke reported, of Company G’s officers “to keep us from turning our artillery loose on every hundred day man in the bunch.”

So it’s entirely possible that Harrison Bussell did not share, or did not care to share, in the accolades Denver showered on Chivington and his men once their mission had been completed. The Rocky Mountain News proclaimed, without proof, that the murderers of the Hungate family had themselves been killed and so had Cheyenne Chief Black Kettle. He had not: Black Kettle had survived, dragging his wounded wife to safety, away from their lodge, over which the chief had flown a large American flag, hoping for its protection.

Black Kettle would live only a few years longer. In a remarkable duplication of history, George Custer’s Seventh Cavalry troopers would kill him, along with hundreds of others, in a surprise attack on a winter camp along the Washita River in 1868. Silas Soule, after testifying against Chivington in the investigations that followed, was shot dead on a Denver street, five months after Sand Creek. Chivington loyalists were suspected but no man ever stood trial for the murder. Soule had been walking with his wife of five weeks when he was gunned down. Harrison Marion Bussell would marry an Ohio girl, Mattie Imus, and move to Arroyo Grande, where Mattie died in 1896 and Harrison ten years later.

Censured by Congress, John M. Chivington would resign from the service and move away from Colorado. He returned in 1887 to visit the town named in his honor. One of the citizens of Chivington, Colorado, remembered him in a 1940 memoir:

Colonel Chivington impressed us with his frankness and sincerity. We believe he really had consideration and even affection for the Red Man. But he did his duty as a soldier. After all he forever put a stop to the Indian massacres on the plains of eastern Colorado…

We doubt if any other man has ever been the target of unjust criticism and calumny that has fallen upon the head of Col. Chivington. He denied the accusation that when asked by his troops, what do with the “woman and papooses,” that he replied “Nits make lice, kill them.”…

We believe that Col. Chivington has been much maligned and misrepresented in that he was a kindly, but dignified and courageous officer.

For the last two decades, on the anniversary of Sand Creek, runners from the Cheyenne and Arapaho people have participated in a three-day race that ends at the Colorado State Capitol. It is as much a spiritual event, dedicated to healing, as an athletic contest. After the 2015 run, the presentations were made at Riverside, Denver’s oldest cemetery. The runners, their families and friends, and tribal elders wanted to be close to the grave, and so the spirit, of a man buried there: Lt. Silas Soule, First Colorado Cavalry.

The Civil War was a brothers’ war, one that tore families apart. Culp’s Hill, near where the 17th Connecticut was redeployed on July 2, was named for the man who’d bought the property a decade before Fort Sumter, Henry Culp. Culp’s nephew, Wesley, grew up in Gettysburg, learning the same trade, harness making, that had sustained Ulysses Grant in Galena, Illinois, when his fortunes were at low ebb.

Wesley’s boss moved his business to Virginia in 1858, and Wesley moved with him, although the young man kept in touch with friends he’d grown up with, like Jack Skelly and Skelly’s sweetheart, Virginia (Ginnie) Wade. But he made new friends in Virginia, so when the war broke out, Wesley enlisted in the 2nd Virginia Infantry and fought for the Confederacy. Wesley’s brother, William, fought for the Union in the 87th Pennsylvania, and the two regiments faced off during a firefight in Stonewall Jackson’s Shenandoah campaign in 1862. Neither brother was hurt.

Another Union soldier in the 87th wasn’t so lucky. In one of the many coincidences that marks wartime, when great numbers of people are put into motion, Wesley Culp found his old friend Jack Skelly in late June 1863, badly wounded and in a Confederate field hospital. Skelly knew that he would never see Ginnie Wade again, and he asked his Gettysburg friend to find a way to deliver a last letter to her. Wesley Culp promised that he would.

Culp and the 2nd Virginia came back to his old hometown as part of Richard Ewell’s Confederate corps, and the regiment fought on his uncle’s property on July 2,  part of the sequence of attacks that included Arroyo Grande’s Erastus Fouch and the 75th Ohio on nearby Cemetery Hill. Fouch was captured. Culp survived July 2.

He died the next day, on Culp’s Hill. He was the only solider in the 12th Virginia’s B Company killed at Gettysburg.

So Jack Skelly’s letter never got to Ginnie Wade.

But Jack never knew that Ginnie had died at Gettysburg, as well, On the same day, July 3, that Wesley Culp was killed in action, Ginnie was kneading dough in her sister’s kitchen to make biscuits—her sister had just delivered a baby.

A bullet penetrated the heavy kitchen door—the bullet hole, widened by generations of tourists’ index fingers, is still there– struck her in the back, and killed her instantly. Ginnie was the only civilian killed at Gettysburg.

Nine days later, Jack Skelly died from his wounds.

Ginnie Wade was nineteen. Jack Skelly was twenty-one. Wesley Culp was twenty-four.

A descendant of the Culp family, Tim Culp, taught biology at Mission Prep in San Luis Obispo and coached the high school’s boys’ basketball team for many years. He returned to his roots in Pennsylvania, earned a doctorate in microbiology and immunology from Penn State, and now works as Principal Scientist for Merck Pharmaceuticals, at West Point, Pennsylvania.

West Point is a little more than two hours away from Gettysburg, close enough for the residents who lived there on July 3, 1863, to have heard the Confederate artillery bombardment on the last day of the battle. After it was all finally over, searchers on the Culp farm found a rifle stock with Wesley’s name carved in it. Although his 2nd Virginia friends had buried Wesley on Culp’s Hill, his body was never found.

History types like me love this week’s “New Yorker” cover. When I taught U.S. History, the kids enjoyed learning about the Twenties–I taught them how to speak “Flapper”–and they enjoyed especially learning about the Harlem Renaissance. 

I’ve always loved black history, ever since I took a class on the history of slavery at Mizzou, which had the odd effect, in learning about people “endurin’ slavery,” (they never said “durin’ slavery” in the slave narratives, precisely because they knew the difference) of making me even prouder to be an American: their lives were such an integral part of our history and so they live on in our lives, our language and our culture.

Maybe when I taught this material my love for it was a little contagious.

Anyway, I took my time on these lessons: Langston Hughes, Josh Gibson and Satchel Paige (“With which pitch would you like me to strike you out?” he’d call to a batter), Duke Ellington and “Take the A Train,”Billie Holiday and “Strange Fruit,” and excerpts, with Wynton Marsalis, who was perfect in explaining both the technical and cultural nuances of the music,  from Ken Burns’s Jazz.

I took a long time, in one lesson, to teach them Malcolm X, and I did it with primary sources taken from poetry.

The students invariably amazed me. They instinctively connected to, and adored, Louis Armstong, and the story of his life always captivated them. I think most teens, unless we extinguish the spark, have an innate sense of justice, of what’s right, and we all know how keen their Hypocrisy Detectors are. That’s one reason why I loved teaching them.

There’s one scene, in Jazz, when Armstrong captivates another teen– Bix Beiderbecke, a Davenport, Iowa, boy, who hears the sound of Armstrong’s cornet skipping across the water from the bandstand of a Mississippi riverboat. Bix was as transfixed as was Saul on the road to Tarsus. He had never heard a sound that pure, and he would spend the rest of his gifted but tragically brief life chasing after it with his own cornet.

Music is amazing, isn’t it?

The students loved, too, the anecdote about the time Bessie Smith interrupted a set to light into, and then chase, some hooded Klansmen, who ran for their lives. “Pick up them skirts, Trash!” she hollered after them.

A historian who learns a story that satisfying doesn’t need to eat much the rest of the day.

Early that morning, long and twisting columns of butternut gray moved slowly up the three pikes that cut their way toward Franklin, Tennessee. They were miles away but closing fast. Bright metal flashed from within each column, like the glistening of a snake’s scales. The locals later remembered that the thump of boots and bare feet upon the macadam rattled the windows of their houses. These were the Confederates, come to smash the Federals.

–From the novel The Widow of the South,
By Robert Hicks

This is what happened instead: the Confederates smashed themselves upon the Federals, who had gotten to Franklin first and had gone to work with picks and shovels. They’d thrown up earthworks beyond a two-mile stretch of bare field that was punctuated only by islets of scrub brush not big enough to hide a dog, let alone a man. When they marched into Franklin, the Confederates had been ordered to cross that field and carry the federals’ entrenchments. This was in part because their commander’s audacity had won him promotion after promotion in fighting the war which had whittled him half away. John Bell Hood’s reputation for bravery grew even as he’d lost a leg and the use of an arm in battles farther north; at Antietam, in 1862, he’d lost even more when he sent his Texans shrieking like Comanches into the cornfield beyond the Dunker Church. They’d gone into the cornstalks and disappeared. Hood was asked later where his division was. “Dead on the field,“ he’d replied.

Now Hood, who had to be strapped into his saddle, had been sent south to replace a general, Joe Johnston, with too much finesse and not enough deference for the taste of the Confederate commander-in-chief, President Jefferson Davis. Hood was a smasher. In truth, he had been promoted this time beyond his capabilities. But now, in the late fall and early winter of 1864, even the smasher was playing—strategically, at least—with finesse. If he could raise enough hell in Tennessee–enough, maybe, to get in between the two Union armies there and then replicate Napoleon at Austerlitz, or Hood’s breathing hero, Lee, at Chancellorsville—he could take on one army, bloody it, and then turn and knock aside the second on a fighting march north, into Kentucky.

And that feat, if Hood could accomplish it, would force Sherman to double back on the path he’d burned into Georgia. Sherman would have no choice but to come to the rescue of the wreckage John Bell Hood left for him in Tennessee.

Hood wasn’t impressed with the material he’d been given to accomplish the coup he’d designed so artfully. He was convinced his army was made up of diggers—like the Yankees two miles away, they fought only behind earthworks or stout stone walls. They didn’t have the drive or the killer instinct of the Texans Hood once commanded, and, a few days before, at Spring Hill, they had allowed one of the armies that Hood had wanted to maul a free march, screened by trees, past their encampment, so close that a few Yankees had come up to the Confederate campfires to light their pipes, where they were taken prisoner instead. That was a few Yankees. The rest of the army—the Army of the Ohio, led by Union Gen. John Schofield—had slipped away in the night as noiseless as Lee’s had at Antietam, and in the morning an enraged Hood discovered that they were gone.

Now, on November 30, he’d found Schofield’s army again, behind their entrenchments and two miles away across ground bare enough for Hood to put his entire Army of Tennessee on parade, in a grand review. And this, essentially, was what Hood intended to do. This would be an assault to remember; Hood would teach his 26,000 Confederates a lesson. They would take entrenchments, not hide behind them. He was going to put some salt into the Army of Tennessee.

What happened next was, of course, murder.

* * *

Prunes again. Otis W. Smith weighed only a little more now than he had when his Ohio regiment had arrived at Franklin in 1864, over fifty years ago. It was the diet—or the lack of a diet—at the Sawtelle National Home for Disabled Veterans in Los Angeles, California, which allowed Smith, even while confined to a wheelchair with wire wheels big enough to drive a motorcar, to remain as lean as a whippet.

He didn’t want to eat now and he didn’t want to eat then. Smith had seen dead men before—he’d enlisted in 1862, at 17—but never on the scale John Bell Hood had arranged. Smith’s regiment came up the day after Hood’s assault, so he had seen the Confederate dead strewn in driblets across the field and packed in dense clumps against the face of the Union earthworks. They were shapeless, some, torn by artillery shells, gelatinous and shiny—not men, but sacks of men. He may have helped burial details dig the long, shallow trenches into which the shapeless bodies, or fragments of bodies, were rolled by the dozen. Forty Confederates buried here, a penciled epitaph might read on a tombstone no more substantial than the lid from a crate of hardtack.

The Confederates, being dead, couldn’t complain about their lot, but neither could the living graybeards who were Smith’s friends at Sawtelle. If the “inmates,” as the papers called them, complained about the food or an attendant’s cruelty, they’d be “shown the gate.” One Sawtelle veteran taught them an object lesson about what life was like beyond the gate: he’d been burned alive in his little apartment in Santa Monica. Another had wandered off the grounds once, tumbled into a ditch and hadn’t been found for hours—he was lucky enough to go to a hospital, where the food might be marginally better and the staff’s attitude marginally softer.

Sawtelle had been investigated twice, and exonerated twice, in 1897 and in 1912, for allegations of mistreating veterans like Smith. But, in truth, there weren’t that many veterans like Smith. While, like many of those tottering around or being wheeled around the grounds of the National Home—grounds shaded by palm trees, and Smith liked a dappled spot next to a little Spanish-style fountain–he had built himself a new life in California, as a rancher in the Huasna Valley, east of Arroyo Grande. But none of the “inmates,” none of his friends in Arroyo Grande, and not even Smith’s family, knew the secret he’d hidden about the war.

In combat against John Bell Hood’s Army of Tennessee, Otis Smith had won the Medal of Honor. Here is how that happened.

---

…A month after the Battle of Franklin, outside Nashville, Gen. John Schofield was stalling. Perhaps it was the memory of what he and Otis Smith had seen at Franklin in the tangled mounds of Confederate dead. Now, in December, Schofield was in the same place [Confederate Gen. John B.] Hood had been at Franklin. The Union general was about to lead an assault on an enemy that was well dug in. There was one difference between Schofield’s situation and Hood’s. He was a subordinate officer, not in command. Maj. Gen. George Thomas was Schofield’s superior, and Thomas was ordering him, in the second day of fighting at Nashville, to attack a hillside held by entrenched Confederates. So it would be Hood’s men who would be waiting for Schofield’s this time, not the other way around, and they would be eager to return the favor of Franklin. Earlier that afternoon, December 16, three regiments of U.S. Colored Troops had attacked the Confederate right and were repulsed with forty percent of them dead or wounded—the Confederate officer commanding thetroops that had inflicted this destruction noted the African Americans’ bravery in his official report.

The state capitol steps at Nashville, protected by an artillery battery, 1864. Library of Congress.

Now, on the Confederate left, Schofield was to duplicate that costly effort and send his men up the steep slopes of Shy’s Hill. So he hesitated. He asked General Thomas for reinforcements. Thomas studied the hill for a moment and the decision was suddenly made for him: there were Union troops already attacking the entrenchments there. They were Brig. Gen. John MacArthur’s men. MacArthur, an aggressive and, on December 16, an insubordinate Scot, born in a town on the River Clyde, had grown tired of waiting. Thomas ordered Schofield to follow MacArthur’s lead and send in the rest of his men.²

Otis Smith’s 95^th Ohio Infantry was on the right of the impetuous Scot’s attack when MacArthur let it go at 3:30 p.m. The 95^th advanced silently, with fixed bayonets, and began to clamber up the hill, ironically, up hillsides so steep that they protected Smith and his comrades from the enemy entrenched unwisely on the summit, rather than below it, where they would have enjoyed a shallower and so more punishing field of fire. The men atop Shy’s Hill included a depleted Florida brigade; in fact, they could manage to field only enough troops that day to make up a regiment. Their position had been further weakened by Hood, who’d transferred troops from the hill to other points in his line. The Floridians had worked all night digging trenches, had been soaked all day by a cold rain, and so they were exhausted. Suddenly, the 95^th Ohio, after advancing without a cheer and without firing a shot, were in the Floridians’ entrenchments, Otis Smith among them, killing the Southerners with their bayonets.

The Confederate position collapsed and Hood watched, dismayed, as his army’s left dissolved. Those left behind were now surrounded by the Union brigade that included Smith. One Floridian started to tear his regimental flag into pieces to keep the victors from having it. For the 6^th Florida, it was too late: during the assault, Otis Smith had seized their regimental colors. After the capture of Shy’s Hill, the rest of Hood’s men followed their comrades who were retreating on the left. Hood later wrote that he had never seen a Confederate army retreat in such confusion.³ His army was finished. Less than a month after their rout at Nashville, Hood resigned his command, and Otis Smith would be awarded the Medal of Honor that he never talked about, perhaps because it was tarnished.

Artist Howard Pyle’s depiction of a Minnesota regiment’s assault on Shy’s hill, part of the attack in which Otis Smith played a role.

This is why. The officer commanding the Floridians on Shy’s Hill, Gen. Thomas Benton Smith, was being conducted to the rear when he was confronted by Otis Smith’s regimental commander, a peacetime physician, Lt. Col. William Linn McMillen. Words were exchanged. McMillen may have been drunk. He suddenly drew his saber and began striking the disarmed Gen. Smith on the head; one blow was so deep that Smith’s brain was exposed.⁴ McMillen’s own men intervened to disarm their enraged commander. No charges were ever brought against him. He was later promoted, grew cotton in Louisiana after the war, was a state senator, and won patronage jobs from two presidents as postmaster and then port inspector for New Orleans.

In 1886, his victim at Nashville, Thomas Benton Smith, was admitted to an insane asylum where he would spend most of the rest of his life, crippled by the depression that doctors said was a result of his injuries that day below Shy’s Hill. He was temporarily released in 1910 to attend a veterans’ reunion. Out of kindness, he was allowed to conduct close-order drill with some of his old soldiers, and the moment transformed him. An observer wrote that the old general was “as full of the animation of the old days as could be imagined” as he put his little command through its paces.⁵ Gen. Smith died on May 21, 1923, ten weeks after Medal of Honor winner Smith died at the Sawtelle Home in Los Angeles.

Okay, let’s assume you want to write a book about the Civil War. You want photographs, which is fine, because most Civil War photographs are in the public domain—with credit and attribution, they’re free.

This is my great-great grandfather, a Confederate brigadier general. I was named after him. This was taken from a photograph that’s about 156 years old—the uniform was superimposed by an artist. The subject died in 1863—153 years ago. So clearly, this is in the public domain, right?

Wrong.

I had to pay for it, which I don’t mind at all. If I hadn’t paid for it, family or not, I could’ve been sued. But here’s where it gets complicated.
Say I want to use a photo from your family: a great-great-great grandpa, for example, who fought with Sherman at the Battle of Atlanta. You (graciously) give me permission to use the photo, and I (naturally) credit you for it in the caption of the book I publish.

Then we both get sued.

Just because it’s your photo, and in your possession, doesn’t mean you’re the owner. The guy who took the photo is the owner. Rightfully so. But let’s assume, being reasonable people, that the guy who took a photo in 1860 is dead. Pssst! He is!

Then you’re home free, right?

Wrong.

Is someone PUBLISHED the photo—for example, posted it on their ancestry.com family tree, then you are doomed.

A photo taken before Jan. 1, 1923, is in the public domain. Freebie.

But a photo taken before Jan. 1, 1923 and published, say, in 2002, is under copyright until 2047—the life of the creator plus 70 years, or 2047, whichever is greater.

So, let’s say the photo you want was published on ancestry.com in 2002. You can’t use it, because you can’t establish the identity of the “creator,” nor can you assume that the person who posted that photo is the creator and entitled to the copyright. It gets even dicier if the person who published that ancestry.com photo hasn’t been active on that website since 2003, which means you can assume that he or she is dead, dead, dead.

That means that the photograph you want of a private citizen who was once a soldier serving under Sherman during the Atlanta Campaign during one of the most significant events in American history AND who farmed thirty acres in the Upper Arroyo Grande Valley, voted every election day, served on the Branch School board, left behind a brace of little Yankees, that means that the photograph of that person…

 
…is unattainable.

Which is bad for you, a writer. But, in another way, it cheats the subject of the photograph, doesn’t it? A man who would otherwise be an anonymous tombstone who MIGHT get a second look from a passerby who knows a little history (“Oh, look! That guy was in the Civil War!”)—and that’s chancy—has lost the chance to be remembered in a way that’s meaningful to him, to his family, and to our history.

And that’s a tragedy.

How long does copyright last?

Quick Copyright Overview for Genealogists

Due to complicated and ever-changing copyright laws, the duration depends on when the work was created and whether it was published. Here are simplified guidelines (though exceptions apply):

Works published before Jan. 1, 1923, are in the public domain (meaning anyone can use, adapt or copy them freely).

Works published between 1923 and 1963 were protected for 28 years—but the copyright could be renewed for 47 years, then extended for another 20. If the copyright wasn’t renewed, the work is in the public domain. About 85 percent of works published during this period aren’t protected anymore.

If a work was published between 1964 and 1977, the copyright lasts a total of 95 years.

Any published or unpublished work created on or after Jan. 1, 1978, is protected for the life of the creator plus 70 years.

A work created before Jan. 1, 1978, and published between that date and Dec. 31, 2002, is protected for the life of the author plus 70 years or until Dec. 31, 2047—whichever is greater.

Confused? You can assume that anything published within the past 75 years is protected. Once the copyright expires, a work moves into the public domain.