Civil Warriors

John Hope Franklin

I learned today of the passing of a giant in the historical profession and a wonderful man.  John Hope Franklin died this morning in North Carolina.

They say John Hope died of heart failure, but anyone who knew him knows that really couldn’t be true, because if there’s one thing he had, it was heart.  He also had courage … and intelligence … and wit.

Much will be made of John Hope Franklin as an African-American historian: much should be made simply of John Hope Franklin the historian, whose work was so important in shaping my understanding of American history, and a man whose broad smile, twinkle in his eye, and genuine warmth captivated me.

John Hope played a critical role in my career, and I still don’t know why.  In 1990, I noticed that Harlan Davidson’s “The American History Series” had no volume on the American Civil War.  I wanted badly to be a part of that series, but when you looked at the names of some of the authors, it seemed obvious that I, as a fresh PhD, had no business thinking myself worthy of writing such a book at such an early point in my career.  Andrew Davidson said that I could prepare a proposal, but (as I later knew) it would be up to the series co-editors as to what would happen.  For some reason John Hope knew who I was, and vouched for my ability.  You simply can’t buy that sort of break in the profession.  Now I’m working on a revised edition of the book, and the news of his passing saddens me in a way I can’t quite describe, although it will doubtless spur me to do as good a job as I can to ensure that he will never have cause to regret his confidence in me.

I knew John Hope as a generous man who would tell stories, offer advice, and treat me as a colleague.  It’s an honor to be associated with him in some small way.  We will miss him.

Thanks, John Hope, for everything.  Godspeed.

We are again hiring military history instructors at the Command and General Staff College. A Ph.D. in history in hand and teaching experience (especially military history) are the most important qualifications, with publications and engagement in other professional activities being helpful. The ability to cover subjects not already addressed by current faculty is of somewhat less importance, although the fact that we have everything in 19th and 20th century western military history pretty well covered (especially the American Civil War, World Wars, and Vietnam) will make expertise in other fields a definite plus.

This is a 40+ hour a week job in which the ability to teach from a centrally developed curriculum and handle the headaches that accompany work in a large bureaucratic organization–the application process will give you a good taste of the latter–are essential as well. Several members of our department will be attending the Society for Military History’s Annual Meeting in April and might be able to provide further details then if you ask nice enough.

Anyway, here is the description from H-Net Job Guide:

US Army Command and General Staff College – Three (3) Positions in the Department of Military History

Location: Kansas, United States
Institution Type: Government
Position Type: Assistant, Associate or Full Professor
Submitted: Monday, March 9th, 2009
——————————————————————————–
Main Category: Diplomatic/Military History
Secondary Categories: None

The Department of Military History at the US Army Command and General Staff College seeks applicants for three (3) positions. Successful applicants will teach three core history courses that encompass thirty two-hour lessons that examine European and American military history from 1618 to the present. The curriculum theme is military innovation and institutional adaptation to change. Unlike many academic appointments, the emphasis in this position is upon teaching, less so upon research or publication. The normal teaching load will be one preparation and four two-hour classes per week.

Applicants MUST apply online. Complete information can be found here.

I just learned that Billie Cranford has died.

I realize that probably none of you know the name, but if you know me or my work, then in a way you know Billie.  She’s was my ninth grade English teacher, though that description doesn’t begin to convey who she really was to me.  She was my first mentor and the first adult to take me seriously as a writer and historian.  Without  her I would not be the person I am today — certainly not a professional historian, probably not even a published writer.

In October 2006 I wrote a post about Billie:

The Life Changer

Yesterday I visited Westminster – Thurber [Retirement ] Community here in Columbus, to give the first of four classes in a mini-course on the History of War. The course is under the auspices of an initiative called OWLS — Older, Wiser, Lifelong Scholars. This is its eleventh year in operation.

At the outset of the class, I noticed that the fellow introducing me had in his hands a copy of my first book, The Hard Hand of War. I assumed he intended merely to waggle it at the fifty audience members by way of confirming that I was indeed a bona fide military historian.

After a very generous summary of my career to date, he held up the book. “There’s something very special about this book, this copy,” he said. “It is inscribed on the title page, ‘For Billie, with gratitude.’ Billie Cranford happens to live in Thurber Towers — the same Billie. The book is dedicated to her and two other of his former teachers, and all this makes a very special kind of connectedness that we are enjoying this afternoon. And I would just like to read a couple of lines from the acknowledgments.

“‘As my ninth grade English teacher, Billie Cranford supported both my writing and historical interests, encouraged me to think in terms of publication, and even excused me from regular assignments to undertake an independent writing project that formed my first attempt to grapple with the sweep of the Civil War.’ And there’s a bit more.”

He turned to me and said, “Did we surprise you?”

It had just hit me that Billie Cranford must be in the room. I looked and, sure enough, she was.

“Yeah,” was all I could say. The room erupted into laughter and then applause. I walked over to Billie and hugged her for a long time. “Ah, that’s a wonderful surprise,” I said. “Thanks. Thanks for everything,” I said.

Her eyes were gleaming with tears. “Thank you,” she said.

The fellow who introduced me completed his remarks by talking briefly about the origins of the History of War course, then turned over the floor to me.

I made sure my microphone was on, then began, “Well, I just — I’m very pleased to be here, and I was very flattered to be invited. But to have Billie here is just a really unexpected pleasure and so much more than that; I think I’m gonna cry. There are probably three people in the world without whose help I would be doing something very, very different. I don’t know what it would be, but I know that it’s the kind of thing that I wouldn’t have enjoyed as much, I wouldn’t have had as fulfilling a life, and so forth. I think as many of you know, in life there are a few people who are really in your corner and supportive, and then there are a lot of people who tell you, That dream you’ve got? Forget about it. Grow up. Childhood must end, and you need to think in terms of something practical.

“My father loved me dearly, but when I decided to major in history, he said, ‘Son, major in what you want, but minor in computer science –” the audience laughed — “which was his little way of telling me that, you know, you’re going to wind up in business no matter what you think you’re gonna be doing. And people like that are very well intentioned. They think that they’re doing you a big favor.

“But the folks who really matter, people who are just life-changing people, are the ones who have a sense of your dream, and share it with you, and encourage you to go for it. And people like that are just as rare as rubies. And I just could not be more grateful to them and to you, Billie, because you were the first.”

The audience applauded again. I got down to the business of teaching the class. Two hours later, with the first lecture behind me, I made sure to have my photo taken with Billie. Later I went up to her apartment and we chatted for a couple of hours.

Billie — “Mrs. Wilson” to me back then (Wilson because she had not yet gotten divorced) — was thirty-seven when I entered her ninth grade English class in September 1973. She has just recently turned seventy, though to my eyes, at least, she doesn’t look it. About four years ago she was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s Disease. She lives more or less independently within the retirement community, but only because her friends and family carefully look out for her.

Like many people with Alzheimer’s, she can remember things from long ago, but what happened yesterday is often a blur. She has been living in the retirement community for nearly two years. Years before that, she resided for an extended period in Prague. She said several times in the course of our talk that she had just recently returned from Prague.

We talked about Blendon Junior High School, where she taught and I endured the Lord of the Flies atmosphere of early adolescence. We talked about how she had taught me to diagram sentences — a really tedious exercise but one that gave me an unshakable life-long grasp of proper sentence structure. We talked about her conclusion that the regular curriculum was not challenging me and her decision to have me embark on an independent writing project, which turned out to be a book on the Antietam Campaign, complete with footnotes. (My parents were initially appalled when she did this. To them it seemed a complete abdication of her responsibilities as a teacher.) I never got more than four chapters into the book, but over the years have published a number of articles that, one way or another, hearken back to it.

About an hour into our conversation, she said she had forgotten my name — the way it sometimes happens when you’ve met a new acquaintance and have been talking a while, but have just realized you didn’t really catch their name.

“Mark Grimsley,” I said.

“I remember you,” she said, nodding.

And I will never forget you, Billie.

Billie’s obituary appears in this morning’s Columbus Dispatch.

Billie Irene Cranford

CRANFORD Billie Irene Cranford, age 72, of Columbus, died Wednesday, March 18, 2009 at Westminster Thurber Community. Billie was born in Huntington, W.Va. on August 29, 1936, the daughter of Charlotte (Kitchen) and William Sorrell Cranford. She grew up in the small town of Proctorville, Oh. Billie graduated with a Bachelor’s Degree from Ohio University and a Master’s Degree from The Ohio State University. She spent the majority of her teaching career in the Westerville School District teaching English. After retirement Billie taught English at the Czech Agricultural University in Prague for four years. Billie is survived by her children, Julie Carpenter-Hubin and her husband, Don Hubin, Paula Wilson Render and her husband, Don Render, and Greg Wilson and his wife, Colleen Wilson; and grandchildren, Lindsay, Leslie, Max, Kate, Dan, and Dave. A funeral service will be held at 5 p.m. Saturday, March 21, 2009 at SCHOEDINGER STATE STREET CHAPEL, 229 E. State St., Columbus, where the family will receive friends 4-5 p.m. prior to the service. Rev. H. Thomas Wilson will officiate.

In lieu of flowers, the family suggests that contributions be made to Westminster Thurber Community, 645 Neil Ave., Columbus, Oh. 43215. Online condolences may be sent by visiting www.schoedinger.com.

Visit Guest Book

There’s a new Facebook application, Welcome to Gettysburg, whereby you can send friends “a special Welcome to Gettysburg memory just for you.” If you’re on Facebook you’ll sort of understand this. If you’re not, it’s no use trying to explain — especially since I don’t so much understand it as just sort of go along with it. But for what it’s worth, here are the possible memories:

To me it’s interesting to see how many of these memories I actually have — in the sense of having seen or visited the events / places involved — and equally interesting to see how many of these I don’t and most likely never will; e.g. the Land of Little Horses. (No offense intended to those among you with little horses.)

Stuck for a gift idea on Saint Patrick’s Day? Buy that lazy but lovable booze hound in your life a copy of Susannah Ural Bruce:  The Harp and the Eagle: Irish-American Volunteers in the Union Army, 1861-1865. It’s about Irish-American volunteers in the Union army who go around getting pissed, brawling among themselves, and bashing Johnny Reb, all while drinking Harp and Eagle beer.

From the University of Richmond:

The nation’s first major event commemorating the sesquicentennial of the Civil War will take place at the University of Richmond on April 29, 2009. The program attempts to set an inclusive and innovative tone as we launch a national conversation about the Civil War over the coming years.

The conference features a group of outstanding historians who will participate in four unscripted conversations that view events from the perspective of 1859: Taking Stock of the Nation in 1859, The Future of Virginia and the South, Making Sense of John Brown’s Raid, and Predictions for the Election of 1860.

Our presenters are Jean Baker (Goucher), David Blight (Yale), Christy Coleman (American Civil War Center), Daniel Crofts (College of New Jersey), Charles Dew (Williams), Eric Foner (Columbia), Gary Gallagher (University of Virginia), Walter Johnson (Harvard), Robert Kenzer (University of Richmond), Gregg Kimball (Library of Virginia), Nelson Lankford (Virginia Historical Society), Lauranett Lee (Virginia Historical Society), David Reynolds (City University of New York), Manisha Sinha (University of Massachusetts-Amherst), Elizabeth Varon (Temple), Clarence Walker (University of California Davis), and Joan Waugh (UCLA). Edward Ayers, University of Richmond, will act as moderator.

We hope you will join us in person or via our webcast. Additional details are available here.

The discussion so far has focused on who made the decision to withdraw McClellan’s army from the Peninsula. So let me address one of the other questions that Brooks raises: “Was it the right decision, or was it a blunder?”

I think it was a blunder, for pretty much the reasons B. H. Liddell Hart thought so:

[Lee's counteroffensive had not prevented [McClellan] from switching his base southwards to the James River, whereby he had not only secured his own communications but placed himself dangerously close to the enemy’s communications running southward from Richmond.

The advantage was forfeited by a change of strategy.  Halleck, placed over McClellan’s head from political motives as general-in-chief, ordered McClellan’s army to be re-embarked and withdrawn northward to unite with Pope’s army in a direct overland advance.  As so often in history, a direct doubling of strength meant not a doubling but a halving of the effect of the effect — through simplifying the enemy’s “lines of expectation.” Yet Halleck’s strategy fulfilled the obvious principle of concentration — thereby revealing the pitfalls which underlie this conventional path to the military goal.  The ineffectiveness of the strategy of direct approach which ruled throughout the second half of 1862 was appropriately sealed by the bloody repulse at Fredericksburg on the 13th of December.  And the continuance of this strategy in 1863 led, not to a closer approach to Richmond, but to a Confederate invasion of Northern territory — following the collapse of the Union army’s offensive. (Strategy, 2nd edition, p. 146)

Liddell Hart might also have mentioned that as a practical matter, the North’s sea power made it possible for Union troops to shift from tidewater to northern Virginia as fast or faster than Lee could have done it, even using the Virginia Central Railroad, so that the danger of divided forces was illusory.  The real problem was less military than political:  Given half a chance, Lee could, would and did seize the opportunity to raid northward, and this invariably had the appearance of a serious reversal to Union fortunes.  The only solution would have been for McClellan to take prompt advantage of Lee’s departure by threatening Richmond (or for that matter Petersburg).  You don’t have to be a McClellan basher to recognize that Lincoln had good reason to question whether McClellan would have done anything of the kind.

That said, Lincoln consistently recognized that Lee’s assumption of the strategic offensive created the chance to destroy his army, something McClellan nearly did at Antietam (almost despite himself) and that Meade came close to doing after Gettysburg (again almost despite himself).  Consequently the maintenance of a fortified camp at Harrison’s Landing could have been turned to advantage regardless of what Lee did.

Part 1 – Part 2

We’ve had some discussion here recently on the decision to withdraw the Army of the Potomac from the Peninsula in the summer of 1862.  Several questions have been raised: who made the decision?  who is most responsible for the decision?  was it the right decision, or was it a blunder?

My thinking on this has been shaped as much by an understanding of the personalities involved as by the abstract strategic situation.  I happen to think that if Henry W. Halleck had advised Lincoln to keep McClellan where he was, Lincoln would have listened.  The president had no sympathy with the McClellan approach, certainly not by July 1862 in the aftermath of the Seven Days, and indeed Lincoln’s prejudices in this regard thereafter complicated strategic planning in the Eastern theater.  On the other hand, one still wonders whether McClellan would have done anything other than wait.  He did have some promising ideas, and we armchair generals like to imagine what would have happened had those plans been put into operation.  However, the nagging question remains … would McClellan have implemented those plans?  I say that as someone who has serious questions about the take offered by T. Harry Williams and recently echoed by James McPherson.

Everything I see argues against Halleck’s being able to coordinate the movements of McClellan and Pope, and everything I see suggests that the McClellan-Pope relationship was problematic.  It’s also clear that McClellan and Halleck had their own set of issues, and don’t get me started on the Lincoln-McClellan relationship, for which both men were responsible.  My reading of Halleck suggests that he was even more frustrating than we have been led to believe, and he was also clearly against a water-supported approach against Richmond … at least that’s what he revealed two years later in his sniping against Grant.

I think other people view this decision in light of their evaluation of these relationships as well.  That’s because if I changed the names of the principals from McClellan to Grant and Pope to, say, Meade, we’d all agree that it was a mistake.

The Lincoln-Halleck-McClellan-Pope quadrilateral was something of a disaster for Union arms.  It was also dysfunctional in the extreme.  Next time you hear about “Team of Rivals,” you might want to bring this up.

Those are some of my thoughts.  What about yours?

Part 1 – Part 2

Last February 12, several historians chatted about aspects of Abraham Lincoln’s public life in front of an attentive audience.  I happened to be one of those four historians, along with Jennifer Weber, Bruce Levine, and Vernon Burton.  During a question and answer session, someone asked the simple question, “What was Abraham Lincoln’s biggest mistake?”  Several of the people on the panel muttered something about George McClellan.  My answer, which I have given before, was simple and direct: allowing Andrew Johnson to run as his vice presidential running mate in 1864.

In the last month since I gave that answer, two other blogs have raised this issue as well.  Brian Dirck classifies this as Lincoln’s “worst flub”; Kevin Levin raises some questions about this, offering as a counterfactual “who should Lincoln have chosen?”

It might be a good idea to keep the following considerations in mind in discussing this issue:

1.   It’s open to debate as to whether Lincoln actually chose Johnson as his running mate.  I tend to believe that Lincoln had no objection to Johnson and saw him an an acceptable option, although in the 19th century presidential nominees rarely “named” their running mates as they do today.  Nor was it all that unusual to change vice presidential nominees: for example, Ulysses S. Grant ran with two vice presidential running mates (Schuyler Colfax in 1868, Henry Wilson in 1872).  But it is plain that Lincoln expressed neither objection nor surprise, and he did nothing to retain Hannibal Hamlin.

2.  By 1864 Lincoln was well aware that his life was in danger.  Indeed, just over a month after Johnson’s nomination, Lincoln placed his life in danger at Fort Stevens.  So the president was well aware of the possibility that his vice president might become president through the act of an assassin.

3.  It would have been difficult for anyone to imagine the sort of presidency that Johnson actually conducted, but Lincoln knew Johnson, and was well aware that when it came to issues of race and slavery, Johnson did not share his views (and Lincoln had honored Johnson’s request to omit Tennessee from the Emancipation Proclamation).  Lincoln also knew that Johnson was a fierce southern Unionist (a rare commodity outside of the ranks of the military), so much so that he was not as lenient as Lincoln … or so it seemed at the time.

4.  There were alternative candidates, including Benjamin F. Butler and Daniel S. Dickinson.  I’m amused to hear from the comments in Kevin’s blog that William H. Seward was a Radical Republican … he was Johnson’s supporter during Johnson’s presidency.  Seward may have played a role in Johnson’s getting the nod.  Then again, I’m amused whenever I hear about the Radicals getting their way during Reconstruction, for it would have come as a surprise to the Radicals themselves.  I think the myths of Reconstruction are in their way more damaging than many of the myths and memories of the American Civil War.

5.  Kevin remarks that he thinks it’s proper “to ask whether another choice within the political parameters governing such a choice would have made much of a difference.”  My answer: hell, yes.  Andrew Johnson was a particularly destructive force in the White House, unless you like white supremacy enforced through terrorist violence.  As controversial as Butler might have been, blacks would have done much better under a Butler presidency.  One can, I think, argue that there was no way Lincoln could have foreseen the course of action Johnson took, but he did not exercise due diligence in the way he did, for example, with Salmon P. Chase when it came to black rights.  That Reconstruction became as “radical” as it became can be explained in part by the Republican reaction to Johnson’s policies … presidential policies which sanctioned much of which was worst in the reaction of white southerners to defeat and emancipation.

I happen to think that one can’t determine what the Civil War did and did not accomplish without considering Reconstruction as part of the process.  Not to do so is akin to assessing the Iraq War as ending in 2003.  It really is time for people who claim an interest in the American Civil War to give Reconstruction the same attention that they give to the war of 1861-65.

Crisis:  Behind a Presidential Commitment is a remarkable documentary. The film makers got JFK to agree to let himself be filmed during a crisis. It couldn’t be an international crisis so it turned out to be a domestic one: JFK’s June 1963 confrontation with George Wallace over the admission of two African American students to the University of Alabama. Four camera crews followed JFK, Attorney General RFK, Deputy Attorney General Nicholas Katzenback — and George Wallace, who when informed of the project gave it full cooperation (and comes off as surprisingly graceful). I’ve never seen anything quite like it. The DVD commentary by two of the film makers is fascinating as well.

For me the most riveting segments were those filmed by the crew that followed Wallace.  The commentary says that the day began with Wallace hosting a private breakfast with the crew in which filming was forbidden and the camera equipment actually locked away.  The first Wallace segment to appear in the documentary shows an establishing shot of the exterior of the governor’s mansion.

Then the film cuts to the interior of the mansion, with Wallace’s toddler daughter plinking on a piano while an African American maid (or perhaps nanny) chides her not to pinch her fingers.

Cut to: portrait of Jeb Stuart

Wallace appears, picks up his daughter and kisses her, shows the camera crew around.

George Wallace, pointing out a painting: “That’s William Lowndes Yancey there. I read a profound statement he made the other day that, ‘To live is not all of life and to die is not all of death.’ I’d rather live a short life of principle than lead a long life of compromise. [unclear if second sentence is Yancey or Wallace]. Of course, that may not mean much to you folks.”

Pointing out a second painting: “William C. Oates was a governor of this state. He was a real fighter. He was at Gettysburg, and he lost an arm. . . . I hope we’ll never see another war of any sort going on in the world, but I think it does us good to reflect and draw on the courage of those who do fight and stand for what they believe in. And there were brave folks on both sides of that combat. There were just a lot more of them than there were of us.”

There have been so many reports about the movement of The Papers of Ulysses S. Grant to Mississippi State University that it’s entirely understandable that there’s confusion about what’s being moved.

The largest collection of Grant’s original papers continues to reside in the Library of Congress.  What resided at Southern Illinois University, home of the Ulysses S. Grant Association and The Papers of Ulysses S. Grant,  were first and foremost the files collected by the editorial team of the Grant Papers project.  In addition, the project collected all sorts of items (including, for example, E. B. Long’s research notes for Bruce Catton’s work on Grant), and there were some Grant and Grant family papers (including those of his grandson, Ulysses S. Grant III) that were placed in the Special Collection section of Southern Illinois University’s Morris Library.

John Y. Simon allowed researchers to consult some files related to the project’s research, but one was not allowed access to the files of the volumes themselves, as Simon was clearly opposed to making the project files the equivalent of a derivative archive.  William McFeely and he exchanged words about this in 1974 in the pages of a scholarly journal.  Apparently those concerns no longer hold sway.  In two research trips to Carbondale, I reviewed most if not all the material available to researchers, and I would not say that I had access to the vast majority of the project’s holdings.

So Grant’s papers, per se, are not now in Mississippi, sloppy reporting to the contrary notwithstanding (see this list of articles put out by MSU itself, several of which make inaccurate claims that the university nevertheless showcases).  The records of the Grant papers project, along with some original material, now reside there.  That’s evident in this NPR interview, although the reporter confuses things … just as so much of this story has been confusing. 

John Brown, his left hand clutching not a Bible but a National Championship Trophy.

For the record, the Kansas Jayhawkers Jayhawks handily whipped the Missouri Tigers, 90-65.

(Hat tip to Charlie at Abu Muqawama)

Here is a video of President Barack Obama’s speech in Springfield, Illinois, at the Abraham Lincoln Association’s banquet on February 12.

The careful viewer will notice that at the beginning of the video there’s a shaved head in the foreground snapping a picture.  Guess who?

Gravestone in Carlisle Indian Industrial School cemetery, Carlisle Barracks, Pa.

NB. On Facebook I’ve created a photo essay about the Carlisle Indian Industrial School, which operated at Carlisle Barracks from 1879 to 1918. Its founder, Army Captain Richard Henry Pratt, believed Indians faced misery and ultimate extinction unless they learned how to live and work in white civilization. It was necessary, he said, to “kill the Indian to save the man.” Pratt supervised the school from 1879 through 1904. During his tenure it became an impressive complex of buildings — most of which are still in use — that gave some 10,000 Indian children a rudimentary education and training in several vocational arts.