I like this Woodworth. He’s a big right-wing Christian, an orientation undetectable in this book but for the genteel censorship of quoted correspondence (“We had one h--- of a battle.” “That --- McClernand!”) and the quiet recurrence of “providentially” as a shyly favored adverb. Still, the man can write. He has a command of the foot solider diaries that repose, by the thousands, in our historical societies; the book has a novelistic texture, a density of memorable stories--also, quite a few magnificent set-pieces (the running of the guns at Vicksburg by unarmed riverboats, the drunken carnival-torching of Columbia, SC). Large-unit movements, a challenge to the historian who would write pictorially, trouble Woodworth not at all: whenever you read “Logan’s corps moved into position for the attack,” you always know Woodworth has a few guys down front, privates whose letters and diaries he’s memorized; the thrust of an abstract arrow across a map thus becomes the communal thrill and athletic rush of the attackers, and their fear and confusion and blood. Woodworth is funny too, casting a cold apothegmatic eye on high politics and on the psychologies of successful and would-be warlords.
The Army of the Tennessee was, as Woodworth says, the victorious field army in the decisive theaters of the war, the trans-Mississippi Valley and Georgia breadbasket of the Confederacy, where under Grant and Sherman it gutted the slaveholders’ revolt. The army was called after the Tennessee River: Grant’s force was water-supplied and frequently water-borne, using troop-carrying steamboats and squat, broad-bottomed ironclads called “mud turtles” to blast apart Rebel river bastions and force a way into the heart of the Deep South. Grant honed this mass of Midwestern regiments from Ohio, Illinois, Indiana, Nebraska, Missouri, Iowa, Michigan, Wisconsin and Minnesota into a superb fighting force; it was a tad rougher than the spit-and-polish but hard-luck eastern armies, whose French-style kepi was crowed over as a “little cap” by Grant’s men, who wore broad-brimmed headgear we would think of as cowboy hats. When Grant went east to face Robert E. Lee, the army, in somewhat reduced form, passed to Sherman, who employed it as his hard marching, hard fighting “whiplash” on the Atlanta Campaign and on the March to the Sea. Sherman then turned his men north into South Carolina and scourged a path through the birthplace of secession to North Carolina, where he received the surrender of the last remaining rebel field army.
The army’s major campaigns in the Mississippi Delta and the mountainous country of northern Georgia were long and difficult, presenting every kind of physical and managerial challenge; how fortunate (how providential, Woodworth coughs) that among the superb topographers, bridge-builders, logisticians, railroad makers and breakers pumped out by West Point there were a few like Grant and Sherman, engineers with a vengeance as Melville's whaleship captains are "Quakers with a vengeance," men who possessed both the brains and the aggression needed to harness the country’s industrial power as a weapon. As Sherman wrote a secessionist colleague at war's commence: "You are rushing into war with one of the most powerful, ingeniously mechanical and determined people on earth--right at your doors. You will fail."
Woodworth loves Grant; and I fail see how he is short of the greatest Americans; and lo, the merciless Nast-style lampoon of Grant in The Education of Henry Adams, though superbly written (Adams is only interesting when talking about others) and politically understandable (Grant’s presidential administration was spectacularly corrupt), becomes yet another reason for me to grimace whenever I handle a copy of that insufferable, piss-damp blanket of a book. I never went on a high school trip to Washington DC, so I only just got around to visiting the city a couple years ago. I like that the Civil War monuments are so dominant. I was especially impressed by the equestrian Grant statue positioned Savior-of-the-Republic-style right in front of the Capitol, the supposed temple to the popular will whose giant imperial dome Lincoln continued work on during the War, as a national morale booster. It’s appropriate that the hatted, ponchoed Grant effigy isn’t rearing like a cavalier or cantering into Valhalla (for that, see Sherman in Central Park), but looks as if he could be perched in the saddle at a muddy Mississippi cross-roads, a cold cigar butt clamped at one side of his beard-trimmed mouth, muttering encouragement to passing troops under a cold rain. Grant’s homely grandeur, his common-man personal carriage throughout the conflict (except when performing Mongol feats of horsemanship), seem truly captured. From the Personal Memoirs his friend Mark Twain urged him to write:
General Lee was dressed in a full uniform which was entirely new, and was wearing a sword of considerable value, very likely the sword which had been presented by the State of Virginia; at all events, it was an entirely different sword from the one that would ordinarily be worn in the field. In my rough traveling suit, the uniform of a private with the straps of a lieutenant-general, I must have contrasted very strangely with a man so handsomely dressed, six feet high and of faultless form. But this was not a matter that I thought of until afterwards.