Storm Over The Land: A Profile of the Civil War
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Taken mainly from Abraham Lincoln: The War Years. 60 halftones from photographs; 98 drawings, maps, and sketches.
Assistant Engineer on General Warren’s Staff, Fifth Corps, Army of the Potomac. Reed’s signatures appeared frequently, and I have used them with salutations to a good man who had both a love of fun and a loving understanding of the rank-and-file trooper. The remaining few drawings are from A Pictorial History of the Civil War by Benson J. Lossing (1866–68) and Battles and Leaders, the distinguished four-volume series issued by the Century Company in 1887–88. There never was, and probably never
Bedford Forrest, Davis had not so much of a quarrel, though he refused to agree with those who held Forrest the full equal of Stonewall Jackson in daring, mobility, strategy—the Forrest who, Sherman admitted, gave him more trouble than any Confederate commander on the horizon. A host of personal matters such as the foregoing were covered in a Charleston Mercury editorial of January 10, 1865, drawing a deadly parallel between Davis and Lincoln. The contrast was appalling, sickening, noted the
feeble for his sixty years, proud of Sherman and saying of the man whose strategy had again brought Fort Sumter into Federal control, “He is one of my boys”—Robert Anderson on the retired list was to go to Charleston for the flag-raising over the ramparts where he had seen his flag shot away. Down in North Carolina that week Sherman said: “I’m going up to see Grant for five minutes and have it all chalked out for me and then come back and pitch in. I only want to see him for five minutes and
cotton warehouses. Every now and then a powder magazine went into the air, a fountain of white smoke shooting to the sky, followed in an instant by a deafening roar and a quaking of the ground on which Richmond stood, in another instant hundreds of shells exploding in high air and sending down an iron spray—with a little aftermath of stores of ignited cartridges rattling with low thunder the same as volley fire of musketry on the battlefield. The theory was that the Confederacy must shoot these
the clean air pungent with the rot and stink of conquest. Now they had their war, was Sherman’s thought, the war they had asked for. Until now the Border States had taken the punishment. Now it had come to the doorsills of the Deep South. Now sometimes you couldn’t see the roses and the magnolia trees for the depot and warehouse smoke, for the dust of marching columns and rumbling wagons. Until now hereabouts the war had been fairly polite and far off. Here was reality. An argument began. It