Civil Warrior

I have a new hero: Ulysses S. Grant.

That's a surprising choice for a born-and-bred Southerner, a proud graduate of Washington and Lee University, and a man whose truncated armed forces career consisted of two weeks at the Great Lakes Naval Training Center in Chicago, Illinois, and two weeks aboard a destroyer that never left its berth in Jacksonville, Florida.

Not long after that stillborn voyage -- which marked the completion of a year-long reserve training course -- my Commanding Officer at the Naval Reserve Center in Lynchburg summoned me to his office, informed me that the Navy had a surfeit (my word, not his) of recruits, and offered me a voluntary discharge, ostensibly because my college degree overqualifed me for two year's active duty as an enlisted man, but most likely because my total ineptitude in all the requisite skills of seamanship (like swabbing the deck, painting the hull while suspended overboard on a scaffold, and swearing with unrelenting frequency) was painfully evident. By a stroke of good fortune, my original motive for enlisting -- to avoid the draft and a tour in Vietnam -- was no longer operative, the Selective Service having instituted in the intervening period a lottery system and consequently having assigned me a number which made the likelihood of induction extremely remote. After a pregnant moment of serious reflection, I thanked the Navy profusely and jumped ship.

That forgettable episode was a rude awakening to a fellow whose notion of military affairs was circumscribed by a youthful fascination with the Civil War -- an interest that was shared by several of my peers but which I have failed to observe in the current generation, at least in those in my family circle: sons, daughters, nieces, nephews. Granted, one's affinity for any particular subject is a matter of personal taste, but I suspect that historical studies as an avocation -- for all us non-athletes, that is, who had plenty of time for such diversions -- has fallen prey to stiff competition from a myriad of technological leisure time options -- like computers, cell phones, and Wii games. I would also argue, counterintuitively, that the popularity some years ago of Ken Burns's documentary was more an indication of a curiosity and lack of knowledge about the Civil War than a reflection of some widely-held, deep-seated enthusiasm.

In today's environment of political correctness, the classroom discussion of Southern Secession and the War is no doubt a sensitive subject. Intellectual honesty requires that teachers freely acknowledge slavery and its politics as their root causes and firmly reject the coded euphemisms of my segregated era, which defined the irrepressible conflict as a clash between industrial and agrarian societies, protectionists and free-traders, and federalist and states-rights advocates -- and minimized, if not ignored, slavery as the critical factor.

This benign neglect of the Peculiar Institution, coupled with a cavalier indifference towards the War's appalling devastation and loss of life (630,00 dead, 2% of the nation's population, equivalent to 6 million today), allowed students like me to invest it with a naive romanticism. With all the horror and inhumanity bleached out, the Civil War was reduced to an exercise of identifying obscure villages on a map (many of which were located in my own Virginia backyard), moving army units around like pieces on a chessboard, assigning politicians and generals their proper roles as heroes or villains, and imagining glorious might-have-beens in the service of a Lost Cause.

I remember a seventh-grade chronicle composed of handwritten text and cut-out illustrations painstakingly pasted on blue construction papers neatly tied together; one year later, a scholarly exposition of the crucial three-day struggle at Gettysburg, complete with my own crudely-traced maps, typed by my father's secretary, and bound in a green folder; a board game of the same name, its piece de resistance a large-scale rendering of the battlefield, on which my friends and I spent many hours maneuvering miniature brigades in imaginary contests of strategy and tactics; laboring over, at the insistence of another precocious military expert, the impenetrable but authoritative tome, "Campaigns of the Army of the Potomac," penned in 1866 by one William Swinton, a journalist who, I recently read, barely escaped execution after he was discovered eavesdropping outside General Grant's tent one night; and devouring the much more accessible "Stillness at Appomattox," by Bruce Catton, my youthful introduction to the joys of finely crafted narrative history.

Is there any doubt that the lens through which my fellow devotees and I peered into the past was clouded by a Southern (and Eastern) bias? Our demigods were the saintly patrician, Robert E. Lee, and his eccentric but brilliant lieutenant, Stonewall Jackson; their foils a series of incompetent Union commanders against whom the two teamed up to inflict one ignominious defeat after another: McClellan at Mechanicsville, Pope at Second Manassas, Burnside at Fredericksburg, Hooker at Chancellorsville, McDowell, Banks, and Fremont in the Valley. Even the draws -- Antietam and Gettysburg -- were moral victories; the Confederacy would not succumb until the brutal, remorseless Ulysses S. Grant, flush with his success in the western theater (although achieved against generals hardly comparable to Robert E. Lee) , came east in 1864, poured thousands of soldiers into the crucible of the Overland Campaign, and eventually subdued his invincible -- and more astute and humane -- opponent only through the sheer force of numbers. Or so went the myth.

A few years ago I picked up another book by Bruce Catton, this one entitled "Grant Moves South." After reading a few pages, in a sudden, apocalyptic correction of my juvenile myopia, I realized that, while I, a Virginian (like Robert E. Lee), had always thought of my home as the battleground state, upon whose sacred soil this War would be won or lost, there was another furious conflict raging 800 miles to the west, where the North was shredding the Confederacy with a number of stunning victories and where, inexorably, Ulysses S. Grant was moving South. I began to acquire a new respect for the man.

Grant was a man of the West -- he was born in Ohio and later moved to Illinois -- but he was also a man for the Union. His persona, fostered by those who knew and wrote about him and cultivated by himself in his "Memoirs," is that of an iconic Western (and, by extrapolation, American) hero (as described in Jean Edwards Smith's "Grant" and Catton's "Grant Moves South): quiet; careless of style, formality, and show; slouching, unmilitary, very ordinary; yet possessed of a good deal of common sense; and of whom it was said that, when he came around, things started to happen.

In some mysterious way, he embodied what Catton terms, dialectically, (in "U.S. Grant and the American Military Tradition") the lofty idealism and gross materialism of the Western pioneer, who saw his destiny as limitless, embracing the whole continent, and who was prepared to react with violence and energy against anything (read secession) which "threatened the unity and continuity of the American experiment."

Initially, Grant was not an Abolitionist, but he came to believe that the War was precipitated by the unwillingness of the "intelligent, well-to-do, and non-slave-holding free state population to secure, police, and protect the South's favorite institution." As John Keegan writes in "The Mask of Command," he understood that "American propriety required humility to the sovereignty of the people," that the majority must triumph over the minority for the two disparate Americas -- North and South -- to become one; afterward, he yearned for their citizens to commingle in peace and harmony.

A British journalist, quoted in Smith's biography, called Grant a "genuine commoner, a commander of a democratic army from a democratic people." According to Keegan, Grant grasped what many of his fellow generals did not: this was an ideological war fought by volunteers; men of "social standing, competence, wealth, and independence of character" were risking their lives for a principle. Instinctively, he came to employ the populist touch that made him master of the people's war, commanding by consent rather than by diktat -- "the great majority favored discipline," he later wrote -- and instilling the value of military routine by experience (marching, fighting) rather than by precept.

Grant's reputation as a "butcher" was initiated by early apologists for the "Lost Cause" and bolstered by Southern memoiralists and Northern historians disgusted by the scandals of his Presidency and angered by his Administration's efforts to protect the rights of freed blacks and to resolve ongoing hostilities with Native Americans. Recent scholarship has shown that Grant suffered no greater casualties -- proportionately or in real numbers -- than other generals on both sides, and, in many cases, fewer. For the entire war, Grant imposed 190,000 casualties on his foes while incurring 154,000. Grant had 18.1% of his men killed or wounded while killing or wounding 20.7% of the enemy; Lee had 20.2% of troops killed or wounded while killing or wounding 15.4% of the enemy. (Granted, Lee's forces were usually outnumbered.) Lee lost more soldiers than any other general in the war. "If a general could be called a butcher, Lee is probably more of one than Grant," says historian Gordon Rhea.

Major-General J.F.C. Fuller characterizes Grant as the "Master of Predicaments," and convincingly argues that therein lies his genius. When everything was right and orderly, in peacetime and prosperity, "he shrank into his shell of mediocrity," and managed to lose everything he had. When all was chaos, or when the occasion demanded desperate action, he emerged from anonymity, and "nothing would induce him to withdraw into it until normality had been re-established."

"He loved pitting his will against seeming impossibilities -- taming a buck-jumping circus pony, leaping over a battery of six guns in succession, fighting the bayous around Vicksburg, creating order out of confusion at Chattanooga, and pursuing Lee all over the bottomless road to Appomattox."

It was this theme I seized upon when I addressed my seven hundred employees at a company sales meeting on January 31st. In full regalia, of course.

It's not every one who gets to impersonate his hero -- and in front of an audience. Two years ago, on the same occasion, I had donned my all-white, all-bright Elvis Presley outfit and lip-synched "Blue Suede Shoes," but an encore performance seemed derivative and shallow.

I thought the story of Ulysses S. Grant's metamorphosis and unflinching resolve in moments of crisis could be a meaningful message in these uncertain economic times. The company had just suffered through its worst sales month since January 2001. It was the tenth consecutive month of sales declines on a comparable basis from the previous year. I was already engaged in a research project on Grant. And my corporate sales manger was insisting that I get out in front with some well-chosen words of motivation (or just make a fool of myself).

Although I have spoken many times before large groups and so no longer face them with fear, trembling, and perspiration, I believe that whatever lingering inhibitions one might secretly harbor magically evaporate beneath the transformative masque. Thus it was with a studied confidence that I strode out on the naked stage at the Roanoke Civic Center, in step with the patriotic beat of the "Battle Hymn of the Republic," disguised in an authentic borrowed Union soldier's uniform, complete with gloves, boots, and sidearm belt, sporting a scruffy pasted-on black beard, cowboy hat, and unlit cigar, and spoke these memorized and mesmerizing (in my humble opinion) words:

"Mr. Schewel asked me to speak to you this morning because he believes that the lives of famous people can inspire us to excellence.

"My name is Ulysses S. Grant. Some say I was the greatest general of the Civil War. Some say I was the greatest general in U.S. military history. While others will have to judge the validity of those claims, certain facts speak for themselves: in four years, I never lost a battle, and I received the surrender of three Confederate armies.

"My childhood was unremarkable, although there were precursers of my future greatness.

"My father owned a tannery and a livery stable. I became an expert horseman and often drove horse-drawn wagons carrying trade and travelers to distant places. During these journeys, I developed a peculiar habit: if I accidentally went past my destination, I would take any kind of out-of-the-way detour to get back to it, even at a considerable inconvenience. I detested, even feared, retracing my steps; in other words, I hated to retreat.

"Because my father wanted me to get a good education, he secured an appointment for me to attend West Point. I doubted my ability to complete the course of study and couldn't bear the thought of failing. When I told my father that I wouldn't go, he said, after a brief pause, that he thought I would go, after which I said, after a brief pause, that I thought I would go, too. Which proves that, in order to be successful, a person must often do things he does not want to do or thinks himself incapable of doing.

"After graduating from West Point, I went off to war, the Mexican War, where I served under a general who made a lasting impression on me, Zachary Taylor. Known as Old Rough and Ready, he disliked military formality. He wore blue jeans, a linen duster, and a straw hat, and he lounged around headquarters like a backwoods farmer. But he was a fighter, and showed that, beneath all the glitter and brass, what really mattered was how you performed under pressure. And there must be some truth to that, because when Robert E. Lee surrendered to me at Appomattox, he was decked out in his finest dress grays, while I, swordless, was wearing a private's shirt and mud-stained boots and pants.

"When Taylor took his army on a 250-mile march through Central Mexico, I was appointed regimental quartermaster -- much to my disappointment, because I preferred to be on the front lines. I was responsible for collecting and organizing vast quantities of food, clothing, forage, and ammunition and transporting it by wagon train and pack mule -- a task which taught me that no matter how grand were the forces one had at hand and no matter how masterful was one's planning, success on the field depended on the logistics and equipment backing them up.

"After the Mexican War, I was sent to California. It was too far away. I missed my wife and sons so much that I resigned my commission and moved back to Ohio -- where, for seven lean years, I failed at one venture after another: farming, peddling, selling real estate, collecting rents, collecting taxes. If the Civil War had not broken out, I would have lived out my days as an unassuming clerk in my father's dry goods store. In 1861, the Governor of Illinois appointed me a colonel in charge of a regiment; a few months later, I was promoted to Brigadier General and given command of three divisions.

"Early on, I discovered that I possessed an unusual talent for reading maps and understanding topography. I perceived that the key to dominating the states of Kentucky and Tennessee was gaining control of two parallel rivers in northern Tennessee, the Tennessee River and the Cumberland River. In February 1862, with the help of a gunboat bombardment, I captured Fort Henry on the Tennessee River. I then marched my 15,000 men ten miles east and invested Fort Donelson on the Cumberland River.

"Those Confederates would not give up easily, however. They attacked the right end of our line and were near to breaking the siege and fleeing to safety, when, seven miles away, I mounted my horse and raced to the sound of gunfire. I saw that many Confederate soldiers had abandoned full knapsacks, and I realized that they were more demoralized than my own men and had fled the field in panic. 'The one who attacks now will be victorious,' I told General McClernand. Riding to the other end of the Union line, I informed General Smith: 'All has failed on the Union right; you must take Fort Donelson!' He led his men in a gallant bayonet charge; they drove the Confederates back into the fort -- and my terms of unconditional surrender were accepted two days later. We had turned a grievous defeat into the greatest Union victory in the war.

"Two months later I found myself in command of 35,000 troops encamped one hundred miles upriver at a place called Shiloh. I was overconfident and hardly expected what happened at daybreak on Sunday, April 6th: 40,000 Confederates launched a massive surprise attack. A savage battle ensued all morning; Union forces gave ground inch by inch, at a tremendous loss of life. I arrived on the scene at 8:30 and rode from one end of the line to the other, trying to stem the tide and maintain order in the midst of horrific destruction. In one area, known forever after as the Hornet's Nest, Union soldiers repulsed twelve separate attacks before giving way. By the close of the day, the Confederates had occupied our camps and driven us back almost into the river.

"At ten o'clock that night, General McClernand reported to me that one-third of our army was out of action and the rest downcast and disheartened. 'What do you propose to do?' he asked, 'Retreat?' 'No,' I responded, 'I propose to attack the enemy at daylight and whip them.'

"The next day was a mirror image of the previous one, only in reverse. Fortified by the timely arrival of reinforcements, we struck at dawn, caught the Confederates off guard, and fought them to exhaustion for six hours. This time they withdrew, and we reclaimed our former campsites. It was another victory snatched from the jaws of defeat but a costly one; both sides were learning that this war would be long and deadly.

"One year later I was again facing a daunting situation. My objective was the town of Vicksburg, perched high atop bluffs overlooking the Mississippi River, its gun batteries preventing free passage of the river from Ohio to New Orleans. Seven times I tried to master the defenses of Vicksburg and seven times I failed. I tried a head-on attack from the north up the face of the bluffs. I tried digging a canal to divert the Mississippi and bypass the town. I tried to create a circuitous waterway through the Louisiana swamps and emerge below the town. I tried riding the Yazoo River flood waters up close to the Confederate defenses but was blocked by a sunken steamer. I tried bringing troop-laden gunboats through the swollen ship channels but was driven off by sharpshooters.

"Finally, after studying my maps long and hard in the solitude of my tent, I devised a daring campaign that even my most trusted associates questioned but which would later be acknowledged as one of the most brilliant in military history. Twice, in the dead of night, I floated transports and steamers past the Vicksburg defenses. I marched my troops on a roundabout course fifty miles south of the town, used the transports to cross the river, cut loose from my supply base, and moved inland. During the next three weeks, my three corps fought and won five separate battles, defeated two enemy armies, occupied the capital of Mississippi, fed themselves from local farms, and eventually drove the remaining Confederates back into Vicksburg. After a one-month siege, that army became the second to accept my terms of unconditional surrender.

"In 1864, President Lincoln summoned me east to take command of all Union forces, but particularly the Army of the Potomac, which, after three years of combat against Robert E. Lee, was no further along than when it had first left the environs of Washington. We crossed the Rapidan River, stepped cautiously into the Virginia Wilderness, and on May 5th locked horns with the Army of Northern Virginia. It was a fierce two-day battle, fought amidst a dense, tangled undergrowth that impeded movement and visibility. At various times, each side appeared on the verge of a smashing victory (or disastrous defeat) only to be reversed by the arrival of reinforcements, a counterattack, or the missteps of a confused commander. Overnight fires burned alive hundreds of wounded soldiers lying helpless in the darkness. When the smoke dissipated, I had lost 17,000 men, Lee, 11,000.

"My soldiers were expecting retreat. After all, had not that been the all-too-familiar pattern of behavior in all their previous encounters with Robert E. Lee? That night I told a reporter on his way back to Washington to convey this message to President Lincoln: 'Whatever happens, there will be no turning back.' At 6:30 the next morning, I gave the order to march south. My men were astonished, then elated. They cheered, clapped, swung their arms, and tossed their hats into the air. They had been whipped to a draw -- yet they were moving forward, and would not rest until, eleven months later, Lee surrendered.

"In 1868, I was elected the eighteenth President of the United States. But I was no politician. Those qualities which had served me so well in wartime -- simplicity, candor, modesty, and magnanimity -- were of little value in the White House. I was undermined by greedy robber barons, jealous legislators, corrupt administrators, and the intractable problem of the freed slaves. When I retired eight years later, it was with a sense of relief.

"I had one more battle to fight. In 1880, I went into business with a man named Ferdinand Ward. I invested all my capital and encouraged others to follow suit, which many did, trusting in my reputation and good name. But Ward was a con artist and a swindler; the firm failed in 1884 and I was broke.

"My friend Mark Twain came to me and suggested that I write my Memoirs, my story of the great war in which I had risen to prominence and led the Union to victory. At first I was reluctant; who would want to read my writings, I thought. When Mr.Twain convinced me that it would be a way to make some money, I acquiesced.

"Late that summer I was sitting on my porch, making some notes, when I bit into a peach. I felt a sharp pain in my throat. When I rinsed my throat with water, it burned like liquid fire. My doctor diagnosed me with incurable throat cancer, and, suddenly, writing my Memoirs became a race against time and a last chance to leave something to my beloved wife and family.

"Only the courage, determination, and will power that had made me a great general enabled me to complete the task. I persisted through excruciating pain, debilitating weakness, and grogginess brought on by medication. Twice I almost died. When I became too weak to write, I would dictate to a secretary, and when it became too painful for me to speak, I would take up my pen again. Miraculously, I finished the work one week before my death on July 23rd, 1885. The sales of my Memoirs exceeded those of any previously-published book and earned a remarkable $450,000.

"I stand before you this morning as an ordinary man who performed extraordinary deeds -- by never giving up. Remember: when you are perplexed by an insurmountable predicament, when failure is staring you in the face, when all your efforts seem futile -- this is when true heroes rise to the occasion, and turn adversity into prosperity, defeat into triumph.

"But it's not easy. It requires the proper application of courage, determination, and will power, planning, preparation, and execution.

"Now, is the Schewel army ready to reverse the tide of ill fortune that has plagued it these past few months? Is the Schewel army ready to claim victory in the furniture and mattress wars? Is the Schewel army ready for its biggest HCP contest and biggest three-day sale ever?

"As I depart this stage to return forever to Grant's Tomb, let me leave with you one final message -- my formula for success. Like me, it's simple and straightforward. If you're a Civil Warrior, you take these words literally. But if you're a Pseudo-Warrior like Mr. Schewel here -- who has never fired a weapon -- you are to take these words metaphorically and apply them to the appropriate personal or business situation.

"Find out where your enemy is. Get at him as soon as you can. Strike him as hard as you can and as often as you can and keep moving on."