in the first place, and without consideration for the possibility that the Yankees would come with huge ironclad vessels of war capable of carrying large-caliber, long-range cannons.) Johnston received many messagesconveying the sorry state of affairs at Fort Henry. Gen. Lloyd Tilghman, a West Pointer, wrote that it was placed in a location “without one redeeming feature,” and, he concluded in abject disgust, “The history of military engineering records no parallel in this case.”
All through the autumn of 1861 Johnston served up orders to various officers concerning the river forts. On October 17, for instance, the bishop general Polk was warned to “Keep a vigilant eye on the Tennessee River … Fortify opposite to Fort Henry. No time should be lost.” Again on October 31 he warned that the rivers “require incessant watching … The Cumberland and Tennessee Rivers afford lines of transportation by which an [enemy] army may turn your right with ease and rapidity.” To Tilghman, who had been assigned command of Fort Henry on November 17, Johnston wrote, “The utmost vigilance is enjoined, as there has been gross negligence in this respect … You will push forward the completion of the works and armament with the utmost activity.” And on January 18: “Occupy and
intrench
the heights opposite Fort Henry. Do not lose a moment. Work all night.” But in the end it came to no avail.
However much he realized it, Johnston had taken on a stupendous assignment. Certainly he must have begun to appreciate the gravity of it when he reached his headquarters and compared the scope of what he was supposed to accomplish with the personnel and materials on hand. His army was outnumbered by the Federal forces more than two to one, and many of his troops carried only their personal shotguns or hunting rifles—or else they had been armed with old flintlock weapons left over from the War of 1812. Uniforms, in many units, were a matter of personal taste, but as a general rule soldiers in the ranks wore an outfit of homespun cloth in a brown shade known as butternut.
Worse, the strategy that Jefferson Davis had decreed for the defense of the West was fatally flawed. He had drawn an imaginary line—below which no Yankee was to set foot—from the Cumberland Gap in the Appalachians all the way through Tennessee and across the Mississippi River into Arkansas and Oklahoma until, after more than a thousand miles, it “trickled out somewhere in the desert sands of Arizona.” In other words, Davis intended to fight for every inch of Southern soil, a notion that was attributed to his forlorn hope for European intervention. 3 It might have worked in a small area, such as Virginia, but strategically, in the vastness of the West, it became a practical impossibility.
Furthermore, the Confederacy was monstrously unprepared at this stage of the war. Soon after he had arrived in Kentucky, Johnston sent a subordinate to Richmond to protest that he desperately needed arms and men. “My God!” Davis told the startled emissary. “Why did General Johnston send you to me for arms and reinforcements, when he must know that I have neither?”
When this unpleasant news reached Johnston’s ears he was ensconced with his army of about 27,000 at Bowling Green, Kentucky, keeping a sharp eye on the Yankee general Buell at Louisville, who was beginning to inch toward him with an army of his own. And that was not to mention Ulysses Grant, who had his eye on Bowling Green as well.
It’s worth lingering a few moments to focus on the terrible and conflicting civilian drama spawned by the war. Nowhere, perhaps, is it exposed so nakedly as in the diary of Josie Underwood, a 20-year-old daughter of a wealthy family of Kentucky slaveholders who were also staunch Unionists. Until the threat of secession sheared their lives, the Underwoods had led a nearly idyllic life in Bowling Green. Then came the storm of war, and General Johnston marched his
All through the autumn of 1861 Johnston served up orders to various officers concerning the river forts. On October 17, for instance, the bishop general Polk was warned to “Keep a vigilant eye on the Tennessee River … Fortify opposite to Fort Henry. No time should be lost.” Again on October 31 he warned that the rivers “require incessant watching … The Cumberland and Tennessee Rivers afford lines of transportation by which an [enemy] army may turn your right with ease and rapidity.” To Tilghman, who had been assigned command of Fort Henry on November 17, Johnston wrote, “The utmost vigilance is enjoined, as there has been gross negligence in this respect … You will push forward the completion of the works and armament with the utmost activity.” And on January 18: “Occupy and
intrench
the heights opposite Fort Henry. Do not lose a moment. Work all night.” But in the end it came to no avail.
However much he realized it, Johnston had taken on a stupendous assignment. Certainly he must have begun to appreciate the gravity of it when he reached his headquarters and compared the scope of what he was supposed to accomplish with the personnel and materials on hand. His army was outnumbered by the Federal forces more than two to one, and many of his troops carried only their personal shotguns or hunting rifles—or else they had been armed with old flintlock weapons left over from the War of 1812. Uniforms, in many units, were a matter of personal taste, but as a general rule soldiers in the ranks wore an outfit of homespun cloth in a brown shade known as butternut.
Worse, the strategy that Jefferson Davis had decreed for the defense of the West was fatally flawed. He had drawn an imaginary line—below which no Yankee was to set foot—from the Cumberland Gap in the Appalachians all the way through Tennessee and across the Mississippi River into Arkansas and Oklahoma until, after more than a thousand miles, it “trickled out somewhere in the desert sands of Arizona.” In other words, Davis intended to fight for every inch of Southern soil, a notion that was attributed to his forlorn hope for European intervention. 3 It might have worked in a small area, such as Virginia, but strategically, in the vastness of the West, it became a practical impossibility.
Furthermore, the Confederacy was monstrously unprepared at this stage of the war. Soon after he had arrived in Kentucky, Johnston sent a subordinate to Richmond to protest that he desperately needed arms and men. “My God!” Davis told the startled emissary. “Why did General Johnston send you to me for arms and reinforcements, when he must know that I have neither?”
When this unpleasant news reached Johnston’s ears he was ensconced with his army of about 27,000 at Bowling Green, Kentucky, keeping a sharp eye on the Yankee general Buell at Louisville, who was beginning to inch toward him with an army of his own. And that was not to mention Ulysses Grant, who had his eye on Bowling Green as well.
It’s worth lingering a few moments to focus on the terrible and conflicting civilian drama spawned by the war. Nowhere, perhaps, is it exposed so nakedly as in the diary of Josie Underwood, a 20-year-old daughter of a wealthy family of Kentucky slaveholders who were also staunch Unionists. Until the threat of secession sheared their lives, the Underwoods had led a nearly idyllic life in Bowling Green. Then came the storm of war, and General Johnston marched his
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