bolstered by the celebratory gathering of civilians, a vast parade of carriages, gaily dressed sightseers of grand old Washington, picnics and parasols and brass bands.
And then, they met the enemy.
On both sides there had been an utter lack of what General Smith would call sophistication, disorder of the highest order . There was very little to make a West Pointer proud, nothing that resembled the well-ordered display of soldiers, of army . To most of the generals, the battle had been fought by two great rabbles, driving into each other like hordes of savages. When the smoke and the noise began, the amazing eruption of artillery and musket fire, a great many of those men in blue who had marched to the battle with the proud air of soldiers had done what Sherman himself had done. There had been a fight, no doubt, but there had also been a collapse into panic and desperation.
It was the sounds that came first, and the smell of smoke, the sudden bursts of fire that ripped the air around them. And then came the worst surprise of all. The men who had been oh so proud of their uniforms were suddenly washed by the horror of splashing blood, the guts and brains of a friend, screams and dismembered corpses. As the battle joined in earnest, the horrors only grew worse, and those who found the will to fight stepped through smoke and stink and pieces of men, only to find that the men in the glorious blue uniforms had been driven away by the screaming hordes of rebels.
Sherman had been in command of a brigade, hundreds of men, but he could not lead them, had succumbed to the same panic and revulsion as the men who looked to him for … what? Rescue? Salvation? He carried that with him long after the fight, that when the enemy is there, death follows, and it is not clean. That horror had followed him to his command in Kentucky, when he replaced the hero of Fort Sumter, if anyone could deserve that title. But Robert Anderson had held out against Beauregard’s artillery for three days, and so honor had been served, even if the fort was lost, the first great casualty of the war. But Anderson had lost some piece of himself in the effort, had become an aging shell of a man, and though he was assigned to command the increasingly dangerous theater west of the mountains, to Anderson’s credit he knew he required the assistance of the younger, more able rising stars. Sherman’s collapse at Bull Run was one of many collapses, and though Sherman condemned himself for his failures, the army, and Anderson, felt otherwise. Sherman was asked to join Anderson as his second in command, with headquarters in Louisville. But three months after Bull Run, Sherman’s demons returned, and he began to believe that the rebel presence in Kentucky was a far greater threat than anyone above him could comprehend.
Calling for as many as three hundred thousand reinforcements, Sherman’s panic became an unpleasant distraction, but when the newspapers latched on to the story, the distraction became Sherman himself. In the fall of 1861, he was granted a leave of absence by Henry Halleck, a generous move considering Sherman’s loud and indiscreet claims of Southern military superiority. Though George McClellan was making much of the same show closer to Washington, Sherman’s behavior was singled out by one newspaper in particular as a manifestation of insanity. Even with Halleck’s supporting claims to the contrary, the story began to spread, and what could generously be described as Sherman’s bouts with a deep moodiness, and a tendency to exaggerate the peril of his troops, now became far more dangerous to his career. But Halleck continued to support him, claiming that Sherman was more than fit for command of troops in the field, and Washington, so far removed from the increasing crises in the West, had no choice but to take Halleck’s word for it. There was, after all, a desperate need for qualified commanders, West Pointers in particular, and so, after
And then, they met the enemy.
On both sides there had been an utter lack of what General Smith would call sophistication, disorder of the highest order . There was very little to make a West Pointer proud, nothing that resembled the well-ordered display of soldiers, of army . To most of the generals, the battle had been fought by two great rabbles, driving into each other like hordes of savages. When the smoke and the noise began, the amazing eruption of artillery and musket fire, a great many of those men in blue who had marched to the battle with the proud air of soldiers had done what Sherman himself had done. There had been a fight, no doubt, but there had also been a collapse into panic and desperation.
It was the sounds that came first, and the smell of smoke, the sudden bursts of fire that ripped the air around them. And then came the worst surprise of all. The men who had been oh so proud of their uniforms were suddenly washed by the horror of splashing blood, the guts and brains of a friend, screams and dismembered corpses. As the battle joined in earnest, the horrors only grew worse, and those who found the will to fight stepped through smoke and stink and pieces of men, only to find that the men in the glorious blue uniforms had been driven away by the screaming hordes of rebels.
Sherman had been in command of a brigade, hundreds of men, but he could not lead them, had succumbed to the same panic and revulsion as the men who looked to him for … what? Rescue? Salvation? He carried that with him long after the fight, that when the enemy is there, death follows, and it is not clean. That horror had followed him to his command in Kentucky, when he replaced the hero of Fort Sumter, if anyone could deserve that title. But Robert Anderson had held out against Beauregard’s artillery for three days, and so honor had been served, even if the fort was lost, the first great casualty of the war. But Anderson had lost some piece of himself in the effort, had become an aging shell of a man, and though he was assigned to command the increasingly dangerous theater west of the mountains, to Anderson’s credit he knew he required the assistance of the younger, more able rising stars. Sherman’s collapse at Bull Run was one of many collapses, and though Sherman condemned himself for his failures, the army, and Anderson, felt otherwise. Sherman was asked to join Anderson as his second in command, with headquarters in Louisville. But three months after Bull Run, Sherman’s demons returned, and he began to believe that the rebel presence in Kentucky was a far greater threat than anyone above him could comprehend.
Calling for as many as three hundred thousand reinforcements, Sherman’s panic became an unpleasant distraction, but when the newspapers latched on to the story, the distraction became Sherman himself. In the fall of 1861, he was granted a leave of absence by Henry Halleck, a generous move considering Sherman’s loud and indiscreet claims of Southern military superiority. Though George McClellan was making much of the same show closer to Washington, Sherman’s behavior was singled out by one newspaper in particular as a manifestation of insanity. Even with Halleck’s supporting claims to the contrary, the story began to spread, and what could generously be described as Sherman’s bouts with a deep moodiness, and a tendency to exaggerate the peril of his troops, now became far more dangerous to his career. But Halleck continued to support him, claiming that Sherman was more than fit for command of troops in the field, and Washington, so far removed from the increasing crises in the West, had no choice but to take Halleck’s word for it. There was, after all, a desperate need for qualified commanders, West Pointers in particular, and so, after
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